Author: Various
Date: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00
Description: The last issue of Past Masters for 2023. Several authors fall into the life+70 public domain on Jan 1, so there will be some new names. This issue, as usual around 100,000 words, includes one or two long stories. H P Blavatsky, best known as founder of Theosophy, was also a fantasy and weird writer, so i have included an example. 1: "At $32 Per" / Albert Payson Terhune 2: The Devil and the Deep Sea / Richard Dehan 3: John Charrington's Wedding / Edith Nesbit 4: The House in the Mist / Anna Katharine Green 5: The Luminous Shield / H. P. Blavatsky 6: More Than a Story / Lynn D. Follett 7: The Tr

PAST MASTERS 148

Produced and Edited by Terry Walker from short stories in magazines, newspapers and other sources, and all in the Life + 70 years public domain.

28 Dec 2023

Contents

1: "At $32 Per" / Albert Payson Terhune

2: The Devil and the Deep Sea / Richard Dehan

3: John Charrington's Wedding / Edith Nesbit

4: The House in the Mist / Anna Katharine Green

5: The Luminous Shield / H. P. Blavatsky

6: More Than a Story / Lynn D. Follett

7: The Trodden Path / Mabel Quiller-Couch

8: Exhibit Number Two / Frederick Trevor Hill

9: "Napoleon the Scoundrel" / Pierre Mille

10: By Wireless / Fred M. White

11: My Terminal Moraine / Frank R. Stockton

12: The Tree of Heaven / Robert W. Chambers

13: Home for Christmas / Sumner Locke

14: Branch Line to Benceston / Andrew Caldecott

15: The Confession of Charles Linkworth / E. F. Benson

16: Soft Blows the Breeze From Hell / Arthur Leo Zagat

17: The Inn of the Two Witches / Joseph Conrad

__________________

1: "At $32 Per"

Albert Payson Terhune

1872-1942

Blue Book Feb 1915

THE only fluffy things about Amy French were her name and her hair. Apart from these drawbacks, she was one hundred percent business woman for nine-twenty-fourths of six days of fifty weeks of every year— holidays deducted.

Hers was a career such as elderly failures love to write about in "Success and Efficiency" periodicals. It had been very edifying, this career. It had served as an example to many a fellow toiler. Here are its high spots in a mere mouthful of words:

Amy's father had been a patrolman. He died just as Amy had entered the Normal College. The three hundred dollar yearly pension, plus his life insurance annuity, had been just enough to keep his widow in comfort; and had left, over and above, nothing that Amy had cared to waste on her own support.

So the girl had switched from the first of her four proposed Normal College years to one double-time year at a business school, and had thence slipped into the battle-line of work-seeking stenographers. Her first job, as a "sub" in the stenographic corps of the big mercantile house of Beardsley & Company, had netted her seven dollars and fifty cents a week.

On this sum she existed, until she could earn enough to live. And as she was a glutton for work and had a socalled "man's brain" for business detail, she rose rapidly.

Now, at twenty-five, she was the envy of every one of Beardsley & Company's three hundred and twelve girl employees. For she was secretary to the junior partner. And her salary was thirty-two dollars a week.

To a man with a fifteen-thousand dollar income, thirty-two dollars a week is insignificant. To a five-hundred-dollar-a-year worker, it is affluence. As there are more five-hundred-dollar people than fifteen-thousand-dollar folk in the world (and none of the latter in Amy French's world), thirty-two dollars a week is affluence to the majority —especially when it is earned by an unencumbered girl, in a business realm where women's salaries seldom go above twenty dollars.

Amy's world knew of one or two women— buyers, millionaires' private secretaries, and so on— who earned more. But they were of a certain age and most of them were supporting somebody. To have that salary at an age when life runs at its fullest, and to have no one to take care of, with it— this was well nigh unheard of. Beauty, youth, infinite capacity for a good time, and almost infinite money to gratify that capacity— what more could mortal girl want? Wherefore, of her own set, Amy was the plutocrat and the Favored of the Gods.

She had a glorious time in life. She had all the money she really needed, and almost as much as she wanted. She could— and she did— dress well, eat well, lodge well. She had spending money, for theater, for vacation, for anything else. She even had money, occasionally, to swell her account in the Aaron Burr Savings Bank.

THERE was a man. He was on the clerical force of Beardsley & Company. His name was Karl Hunt. His salary was twenty-five dollars a week. He was in love with Amy. And Amy tried harder and harder every day not to be in love with him.

Even as she had conquered business obstacles, she conquered in this new fight, though it was harder than any other she had waged. She had clearlydefined ideas and ideals. And these she lived up to. Hunt's fervid love-making left her outwardly cold. He approached a proposal from every possible angle, dozens of times, during three months of ardent courtship—only to meet on every side a blank wall of discouragement that killed the love words, unborn, on his lips.

And so matters went on— Amy remaining persistently friendly, Hunt hopelessly ardent— until at last, one day in the early spring, courage overcame discouragement, and he spoke.

It was on a Sunday afternoon. He and Amy had been for a walk in the park. And when they returned to the big, airy flat she shared with her mother, they found Mrs. French had gone to see a neighbor. The coast was clear, the time perfect. Some of the languor of the springtime seemed to have got into Amy's ice-clear brain, dulling its usual vigilance. For she failed for once to note the preliminary warnings and to guard against their result.

On their way from the park they had been talking of a rumored reorganization of an unknown nature in Beardsley & Company— one of those rumors, sometimes absurd, sometimes amazingly accurate, that rise no one knows how, and run, like grippe germs, through a storeful of workers.

Hunt had heard the vague gossip and he had spoken to Amy about it. He knew no details. And Amy, better versed than he with the workings of the executive departments, was busy weighing what he had said and trying to decide whether or not a grain of truth might be sifted from the story.

So busy was she with this problem, as she laid aside her hat, on coming into the apartment's living room with Hunt, that she fell silent. Indeed, she failed to catch the drift of several things her guest was saying. All at once she found herself looking at him in blank bewilderment, as her mind belatedly repeated to her the words he had just spoken. Something in their intonation had roused her from her reverie.

"I wont be held off any longer," he was saying, half-defiantly. "I love you and you know I love you, and you've known it all along. A woman always knows, they say. You knew, anyhow. And you've kept me from telling you. a you can't, any longer. I love you. And—"

AMY sat down somewhat suddenly in the nearest chair and looked at him with an expression of frank chagrin that checked his impulsive step toward er.

"There!" she exclaimed in despair. "You've done it now! How I happened to let you, I don't know. You've gone and spoiled everything. Oh, dear!"—

There was a disappointment in her words and in the interjection that ended them— a disappointment such as one might voice for tearing a new dress or letting the steak burn. It puzzled Hunt.

"What have I spoiled?" he demanded. "T don't understand you at all, Amy. I told you I loved you. How has that 'spoiled' anything? I love—"

"It's spoiled everything!" she retorted. "Everything. All our friendship and the good times we've had together, and—"

" 'Spoiled' them?" he broke in. "Yes, it's 'spoiled' them the way a bar of gold is spoiled when it's fashioned into a crown. Friendship is mighty well 'spoiled,' when it changes to love. And oh, girl, dear, I do love you so! I've been so crazy to tell you, and you'd never give me a chance, till now. Say you care a little bit. Say it, sweetheart! I—"

"Oh, don't!" she begged, in honest distress. "Don't make it worse, Karl."

"Worse?" he babbled, dumfounded.

"Yes, worse— if it could be worse. Can't you see how it smashes our friendship? Can't you forget what you've just said and let us be— as— as we were?"

"Never in ten thousand years!" he declared. "And ten thousand nevers besides that. I've been in misery. And— and now you know I love you. I've been able to say it at last. 'Forget' it? I couldn't if I wanted to. And it's the very last thing I'd want. I can't understand you, dear. Is it so unpleasant to you to be loved the way I love you? Why do you want us to 'forget' it? Can't you care for me at all?"

"Yes," she made answer, meeting with level eyes the eager tenseness of. appeal in his. "Yes, I can— only too easily. But"— as he started forward, with a half-uttered cry of joy— "I am not going to. I won't let myself. That's why I asked you to forget it and just be friends again."

"You— you say you can learn to care for me? I—"

"And I also say I won't. That is final, Karl."

"Final? It isn't even the beginning."

"It's the end. And of the friendship, too, I'm afraid!" she said, a strain of sadness underlying the usual clear crispness of. her voice. "I see that, now. We can't go back to where we were. You'd never be content with it. And Pd always be remembering and be on my guard. No. It will have to be the end of your, coming here. And— and I'm so sorry!"

"I don't understand you," he protested in dire perplexity, "I don't understand anything about it. It doesn't make sense. I've told you I loved you. If you didn't want me, it would be simple enough to account for the way you've been talking. But you confess you could learn to care— 'only too easily,' you said; so please explain it, wont you?"

THE boyish incoherence of his appeal sent a swift mist across her steady eyes. Then, at once, she was her coolheaded self again.

"Will you be patient and listen to me?" she asked. "I'll try to explain it. I didn't want to explain. Because I know how hard and heartless it must sound. Common sense always does. And it is common sense. Will you listen to me, Karl?"

Dumbly, still dizzy with perplexity, he nodded.

"What is your salary?" she asked.

"Twenty-five a week," he answered, dashed by her curt tone.

"Good !" she approved, "—not the salary, but your telling the truth about it. Every man I ever knew, from the errand boy on up to the general manager, lies about the amount of his pay. It seems to be as much a masculine trait as snoring or hating to shave."

"What's that got to do with—?"

"With my not marrying you? It has a great deal to do with it. It is why I wont let myself care. We pay thirtyfive dollars a month for this flat, Mother and I. Could you and I afford as nice a flat in as good a neighborhood on twenty-five dollars a week?"

He stared, dazedly, at her, without reply.

"Our grocery and butcher bills last week," she went on, "were eleven dollars and seventeen cents; and it was a light week. Could you afford to pay those bills every week— besides gas and carfare and clothes (this dress cost thirty dollars)— on your salary of twenty-five dollars? Could you take me to the theater every Saturday night— as Mother and I go— and buy me supper afterward? Could you? Could I go to the Islands for two weeks, as I went last year? In short, could I have half the spending money, the clothes, the amusements, the home comforts, the luxuries that I have now? Of course, Mother's pension and the insurance money eke out the expenses of the flat now. But they couldn't, if I were married. What have you to offer in exchange for all I'd have to give up?"

"Myself," he answered unsteadily. "That's all. I'm sorry it isn't enough."

"It isn't enough, Karl! I don't mean to be unkind or nasty, but it isn't enough. And I haven't spoken about the chief thing Pd be sacrificing."

She opened a tiny trunk-shaped vanity box that she had laid on the table alongside her hat, and produced from it a brass key.

"That," she said simply.

"That?" he stuttered. "That's just a measly latch-key."

"No," she denied. "Its Independence."

"Oh, I don't understand you at all!" he groaned. "It's like some nightmare. You talk as if you had no heart."

"No," she corrected, gently, "only as if I had a brain, too. And I have."

"You have no heart!" he accused. "I offer you all a man can offer— my love, my future— everything. And you calmly say it isn't enough and that you prefer to keep your own luxuries. Luxuries! I'd work my hands to the bone to get for you. Oh, you're heartless. You are utterly selfish!"

SHE bent her head a little, as though the whirlwind of his invective was a tempest that beat against her. But instantly she rallied.

"I think there is nothing more to be said," she responded, as he paused for breath. "I can't blame you for feeling as you do. And you are right— according to your own ideas."

"No!" he contradicted. "I was wrong. All wrong, dear. It can't be true. It can't. I've known you for months and months. You're white and honest, and clever— not the kind of woman who can mean such things as you've just said. You don't mean them."

"I'm afraid I do," she sighed. "And I'm in the right. That's just the trouble, Karl. I started to explain to you, a few minutes ago. But somehow we got switched away from it. Do you care to listen while I try again?"

Taking assent for granted, she went on: "From the beginning of the world, it used to be Woman's one aim in life to get a husband. Marriage was her great goal. Everything was bent toward that one end. For it, she made herself pretty and attractive. For it, shé learned to cook and wash and sew—all to catch a husband, to find some one who would permit her to be a general house-servant and a nurse, for the rest of her days, at no wages. It was a gorgeous ambition, wasn't it?"

He made some inarticulate protest. She continued:

"Women used to leave the ease of their well-to-do parents' homes to starve with some worthless man. Women who didn't make legalized slaves of themselves were sneered at as 'old maids.' A man could pick and choose. All a woman asked was the privilege of being his chattel and of drudging for his welfare, till the day of her death. All the payment she asked was one cheap gold ring for her third finger. Women were so afraid the price might drop or the marriage market slump, that they banded together to crucify every woman who dared to undersell their rates and to pt oe right of the wedding ring."

"Amy!"

"That's right! Look shocked. Thirty years ago, any unmarried girl who said that would be iooked on with horror. For, innocence (that's a polite word for ignorance) was part of the pitiful stockin-trade set forth to catch a husband— part of the allurement a girl offered to induce some man to accept her as an unsalaried drudge."

"This is the crazy feminist screech we read about in the papers!" growled Hunt in crass contempt. "I never thought that you'd sink to it."

"I haven't; I've risen to it. I am earning thirty-two dollars a week. My mother has about fourteen dollars more. On that, we live beautifully. We lack for nothing. I earn every dollar I get. And I'm entitled to all the pleasure I can get out of every dollar I earn. I suppose," she added, as an afterthought, "you wouldn't expect me to keep on working at Beardsley's after we were married?"

"You know I wouldn't!" he blazed. "I'm no—"

"Yes," she assented, "I knew you wouldn't. So instead of having a reinforced income of thirty-two dollars per, and my freedom and all that both those things mean, I'd have to live on a share of twenty-five dollars a week. I would have to keep house. I'd have to cook and dust and sweep and mend. We couldn't keep a maid, of course. And everything but the washing and the scrubbing would have to be done by me. We'd have money for mighty few amusements. I'd have to make one dress last as long as I make three last, now. I'd have to be at your beck and call. I'd have to save and scrimp and go without things and lie awake nights planning how to make one dollar do the duty of five.

"I've had to work hard to get up to where I am now. And I'm entitled to every atom of fun I can wring out of life. Not one girl in a thousand has such a salary as mine. Why should I throw away that salary and all it brings me? Why should I become a servant, a drudge, and, later, a nurse? Why should I make myself poor and a slave?"

"For love," he answered very simply, all his perplexity and wrath gone. "For love, and to fulfill your destiny."

"Old fashioned drivel!" she scoffed.

"Girl, dear, this hasn't been you talking. It has been the mass of feminist stuff you've swallowed and can't digest. The real you is a true woman, to the very soul—not a calculating human machine who uses money and not heart as a measure of life. You don't mean what you say. You may think you do, but you don't. What has been right and natural, since the days of Eve, will keep on being right and natural to the end of the chapter. What has gone on for six thousand years is not likely to stop short and change itself, in a single quarter century. Nothing in nature has ever done that."

"Woman has—"

"Woman has been let into the industrial world, during the last few years. She has not 'invaded' that world, as she likes to think she has. She has been invited into it by Man; because a million industries have suddenly expanded and branched out in such a way that more workers are needed. And women have been called on to fill that need."

"Nonsense! The—"

"The old-time store had from one to six clerks. And those clerks were generally men. Then came the department store. It hired hundreds of clerks. And, because the proprietors wanted bigger profits and because women would work more cheaply than men, women were invited to take the jobs. It has been the same in factories; in business offices; in public schools; in every line of endeavor. There was need of more workers at low pay. And women were allowed to fill that need. So, pretty soon they took to declaring that a Woman's Era had dawned. And they shouted— a lot of 'em— that Woman was coming into her heritage at last and that Man's day of supremacy was over. The possession of wages drove them crazy. As it's driven you crazy."

"NO," She denied, hotly, "it has driven us sane! When men held the purse strings, and doled out the pennies to us, we were their slaves— as I should be yours, if I were fool enough to marry you. When we learned to earn our own living, we became free, for the first time in all history. I, for one, mean to stay so, until I can be made as comfortable by marrying."

"Free? No. There is no freedom except in happiness. And the woman who tries to strangle her own heart and to slap Mother Nature in the face is never happy. You think you're happy. You're not. You're only having a good time. That isn't being happy— any more than a shiny new penny is a gold dollar. You will find out the difference when night comes— when the first jolly feeling is gone and you're just a middle-aged, tired, bored, single woman with a nice salary and nothing else. Have you ever seen the look such women give, on the sly, to some poor mother who passes them on the street, with a youngster hanging on to each of her arms and a stupid-faced husband plodding contentedly beside her? Well, I've seen it. And it's brought a lump to my throat."

"That is all sentimental slush!"

"It is the sort of sentimental slush that hardens into a strong enough mortar to hold the whole fabric of the world together. Dear girl of mine, you can't buck against Nature any more than you can hold out against God."

"It—"

"Drop it! I love you. You say you can easily learn to care for me. That means you do love me, but that you wont confess it for fear of being poor for a while. It isn't worthy of you, darling. You're turning your back on the most wonderful, God-given happiness in all life. You're doing it, just for the sake of a chance to spend more money than you need to and for an independence that is only another word for uselessness. You're swapping the substance for the shadow. I'm not worthy of a girl like you. I don't pretend to be. And I'm only earning twenty-five dollars per,—as you so carefully remind me,—twenty-five per cent less than your own salary. But I sha'n't always be earning so little. With you to work for—"

"You wont be hampered by having me to work for," she raged. "If you were a billionaire and the last man on earth, do you suppose for an instant that I'd marry you?"

"But you said—"

"That was before I knew how you regarded women. I've tried to listen patiently to your ranting, ignorant arraignment of us. And I've fought back the things I wanted to say. But now that I have had a glimpse of your real self, now that I see how you look on us all— how you sneer at our gallant fight for emancipation—" `

"Emancipation from what?"

"From the tyranny of the ages."

"The tyranny that has always made a decent man protect a woman with his own life? The tyranny that makes a woman's unsupported word, in court, outweigh all the evidence a man can bring forward? (If you doubt that, ask yourself if in all the history of law there was ever a women who brought a breach of promise suit, who didn't win her case, no matter how flimsy that case was.) Do you mean the tyranny of laws that make a man responsible for all his wife's debts and that forbid him to disinherit her and that won't even let him sell a dollar's worth of his own property without her signature? Do you mean the tyranny that almost invariably refuses to punish a murderess? The tyranny that says: 'When the majority of women want the vote they will be welcome to it?' Do you?"

"Oh," she interposed, dazedly, "it's useless to try to make you understand! It is enough for me to know that you look down on women, as—"

"Stop!" he ordered. "I can't let you go on getting a wrong idea of me. Women, as women, are the most perfect part of this dreary old world. Every man knows it. Look at the men who are slaving their lives out. Are they doing it for their own pleasure? You know they aren't. It's always for some woman. And they glory in doing it. At the end of the day or at the end of the battle or at the end of the world, there's always a woman waiting. Next to God, it is she we worship. It is she who makes life worth while. It is you who are some day going to make my life worth while, dear heart. It wont be to-day. It won't be to-morrow. But some day the dollar will be spent and all the candy eaten. And then you'll come home— to me. And I'll be waiting— waiting, if it's a whole life-time. I won't bother you again till then. Good-by, little girl."

IT TOOK an entire week for Amy French's righteous rage against Hunt to simmer into sulkiness; and another whole week for sulkiness to merge into a pathetic grievance. And by the end of a month she found herself—to her own keen disgust— missing him terribly.

For, since the Sunday when a perfectly good love scene had distorted itself into a furious sex-argument and arraignment, she had not once set eyes on Karl. He called no more at the flat. Hitherto, Karl had made pretexts to pass through her department at Beardsley's, pausing for a chat; now he kept to his own part of the building.

Amy sought to buoy up her sinking balloon of anger by recalling all the abominable things Hunt had said about herself and her fellow-warriors in the Emancipation conflict. But gradually she found it harder and harder to bring back to memory the exact wording of those unforgivable slurs. And at last, all of his tirade she.could remember were the phrases: "Sweetheart," "Dear girl of mine," and "I love you."

She was heartily ashamed of herself, but she had a way of being honest— even with herself. And in time she took herself in hand and forced herself to look fairly and squarely into her own heart. And there she read that she loved Karl Hunt, and that the world, without him, was growing to be a very unprofitable and tiresome place— even at thirtytwo dollars per.

Because her thoughts were, for the first time in eight years, centered upon something other than her work, Amy missed many minor signs of coming storm, in the office— signs that in former days would have set her to conjecturing. As it was, she went through her days' routine, mechanically, then hurried home at the first possible moment and into her prettiest clothes in the shamed hope that Karl Hunt might call. But he did not.

And then, one morning, she quite lost her last ragged remnant of self-respect. On reaching her desk she scrawled a note and sent it to Hunt by an office boy. She wrote it in a rush and held herself tightly in her chair to keep from hurrying out of the room to call back the messenger. And yet the missive held nothing more incriminating or degrading than the scribbled words:

"Dear Karl: What has become of you? A.F."

THAT day, the world came to an end— at least, Amy French's professional world. At ten o'clock the first whisper of an immediate change swept through the employees' ranks. At eleven it was confirmed to Amy by a letter she took at the junior partner's dictation.

Beardsley & Company had not been "reorganized." It had been "taken over," Both partners were retiring, and the whole concern had been bought by the rival firm of Durling & Mickens.

At noon, the story of the long-pending deal was made public.

At one o'clock, the junior partner tactfully told Amy that he "was informed the new proprietors ard department chiefs were already supplied with an ample force of secretaries;" and that she might, if she chose, accept two weeks' pay in lieu of a fortnight's notice to quit.

He was very nice about it; and he added something consoling in the form of a hint that this was the slack season and that he hoped Amy had laid by enough money to tide her over, as no job such as she had been occupying seemed to be vacant just then. And he patted her hand—thus invoking a gust of indignation which dried her unshed tears.

Amy French had left home that morning, one of the best paid women workers in the city. She went home that night a working girl out of a job.

She knew that positions such as hers are seldom "filled from the outside." Employees work up to them. A high priced secretary who has lost her job in one business house stands scant chance of receiving the same position in another, without climbing once more the greater part of the steep ladder.

Luckily, her mother was dining with some friends that night. So Amy was able to face the situation alone, unhampered by well-meant sympathy. And so busy was she in the wretched task of readjusting her plans to this cataclysm, that the bell rang twice before she so much as noticed it.

Then, listlessly, she answered the summons. And she opened the flat door, to discover Karl Hunt on the mat. For a moment she gazed at him in stark wonder, wholly forgetting the summons she had sent him. So much had happened that day, she had not yet tried to "place" Karl in the new scheme of things; and all day she had remembered him only subconsciously— as she had of late been doing, unwittingly, day and night. His advent, just now, took her at a'grossly unfair disadvantage.

Amy tried to say something. So did he. Neither succeeded. Then Amy tried once more. What she intended to say, she could never remember. It was something that was polite without sounding too cordial. To her horror, she heard her treacherous voice murmuring, through no volition of her own, the following idiotic words:

"The— the dollar's all spent. And I— I— oh, I want to come home!"

______________

2: The Devil and the Deep Sea

Richard Dehan

Clotilde Graves, 1863-1932

In: Off Sandy Hook and Other Stories, 1915

Clotilde Augusta Inez Mary Graves

" 'LET US BE consistent,' " said Lady Pomphrey, her three saddle-bag chins quivering with emotion, " 'or let us die'— that is what I have always said. Here is my only niece, Wendoleth Caer-Brydglingbury, goes— actually goes— and marries a Liberal Member of Parliament in a red necktie— who makes speeches in townhalls and tents, and things, to masses of people, all about pulling down the House of Lords and abolishing the Peerage, and absolutely declines to allow his wife to drop her title. To you— so intimate a friend, don't you know?— I may say in confidence I am sickened. I cannot imagine what the world is coming to. I could wish to die and leave it, were it not that Jane and Charlotte are still unmarried, and I have promised to present three of the sweetest girls— well-bred Americans of the best type, without a trace of accent— at the first Drawing-room of the Winter Season. And the family diamonds are being reset in view of Rustleton's approaching marriage— a union satisfactory from every point of view, especially a mother's."

Lady Pomphrey paused for breath, and the intimate friend-they had met at Bad Smellstein a fortnight previously while taking little early morning walks, and drinking little glasses of excessively nauseous waters warranted to correct the most aristocratic acidity— the intimate friend murmured something sympathetic.

"Of course, I might have known one could look to you for comprehension and all that sort of thing," said Lady Pomphrey, graciously bending her head, which was enveloped in a large mushroom hat of blue straw tied down all round with a drab silk veil, and patting the intimate friend upon the knee with the stick of her celebrated green silk sunshade. "One of those delightful literary creatures-was it Algernon Meredith or George Swinburne?— has termed friendship 'the marriage of true minds.' Ever since the Hambridge-Osts introduced us— in a thunderstorm— at the firework display in the Park in honor of the Grand Duke's birthday— and being Sunday, I will own that the nerve-shattering meteorological demonstrations that drove us to shelter in that extremely leaky Chinese pavilion seemed to me but a judgment upon German Sabbath-breakers— ours has been such a union. Cemented by your helpfulness in the matter of sandbags for a rattling window— Lord Pomphrey is completely impervious to all such nerve-shattering tortures, and will sleep happily in his cabin on the yacht in Cowes Roads through a Royal Naval Review— and your timely ministrations with soda-mint lozenges when acute indigestion virtually prostrated me after a homicidal plat of eels with cranberry-sauce, of which I foolishly partook at the table d'hôte. The mysteriousness of it allured me. I wished for once to feel like a German. Now I feel assured their extraordinary diet accounts for much that is abstruse and metaphysical in the national character. For you cannot possibly be normal if you are fed upon abnormal things. And I am grateful that Rustleton has never shown himself in the least susceptible to the attractions of their women. I know— almost quite intimately— a Grand Duchess who has brought up every one of her nine young daughters upon red-cabbage soup, with sausage-meat balls and dumplings; and somehow it is suggested in the girls' complexions and figures— especially the dumplings."

The friend tittered. Lady Pomphrey placed upon the seat beside her a straw handbag containing a Tauchnitz edition of the last new Mudie novel, a black fan, a large bottle of frightfully strong salts, several spare pocket-handkerchiefs, several indelible-ink pencils, and a quantity of obsolete railway tickets, and became more confidential than ever.

"Had I been consulted by destiny when the arrangement of Rustleton's matrimonial future came sur le tapis I could not— with my expiring breath I would repeat this— could not be more completely satisfied. It began by his hating her.... She hit him on the nose with a diabolo in June at Ranelagh, and, 'Mother,' he said afterwards to me— his upper lip perfectly rigid with wounded dignity— 'I should have greatly preferred to have been born in the days of "Coningsby," or "Lothair." Muscular young women create in me a feeling of positive aversion!' He found her agitating even at that early stage of affairs? How subtle of you to see that!"

The flattered friend murmured an interrogation.

"Who is she?" repeated Lady Pomphrey. "But surely the newspapers?... You suffer too acutely from dancing spots in the field of vision ever to read when undergoing a cure?... Poor dear, I can feel for you. She is the Hon. Céline Twissing— will be Baroness Twissing of Hopsacks in her own right when old Lord Twissing dies. He insisted upon that arrangement in the interests of his only child; when the intimation was conveyed from a Certain Quarter that the Jubilee Baronetcy he already enjoyed would be changed into a Peerage did he encourage the idea. Quite a bluff old English type, and I must say in hospitality Imperial. 'Twissing's Bonded Breweries.'... A colossal fortune, and that sweet girl is to inherit nearly the whole. Shall I say that my heart went out to her from the first instant I saw her? As a mother yourself, you will understand! Here comes the young woman with the tray for our glasses. Ja, bitte, Ich danke Sie.... You don't mean to tell me the creature is a Cockney?... How distressing! I may be fanciful, possibly I am," said Lady Pomphrey, "but I do prefer my surroundings to be congruous and in tone. I'm sure you feel what I convey? You do? How nice that is!..."

The friend smiled and inaudibly murmured something.

"Of course," cried Lady Pomphrey, "you're on thorns to hear all about Rustleton's love-match. As I told you, Céline Twissing— the Christian name has been Gallicized from Selina— and why on earth not? Céline is an expert at diabolo. It's a knack, sending these little black and red demons as high as a house, or into your neighbor's eye; and she is a talented as well as a charming girl. With three languages, several sciences, a system of physical-culture exercises, golf, tennis, and the laws of hockey at her finger-ends, she would have gone far in these days of violent recreations and brusque manners, even without a dot. Masculine? Oh dear no! Perhaps deficient in reverence for what we were taught to believe in as the superior sex. Perhaps lacking in feminine finesse. I have heard it said that the girl of the twentieth century cannot cajole, and is ignorant how to be alluring. Perhaps it is a pity. The woman who has a gift of managing difficult people, smoothing absurd people down, and being perfectly amiable to the absolutely objectionable is practically priceless as a greaser of the social cog-wheels. Now Céline calls that sort of woman, plumply and plainly, a hypocrite.... But is it not a woman's duty to be a hypocrite, if telling the truth to everybody makes the world a place of gnashing?" demanded Lady Pomphrey, making her eyebrows climb up out of sight under the shadow of her mushroom hat.

The compliant friend assented.

"You understand, then, how dissonant was the chord Céline Twissing struck in Rustleton. With his Plantagenet dash in the blood, his hereditary intolerance of anything smacking of vulgarity, his medieval attitude of chivalry towards Woman, his Early Victorian dislike of the outré and the bizarre, he frankly found her intolerable. 'In a drawing-room,' he said to me in confidence, 'that girl reminds me of a Polar bear in a hothouse.' Where the boy could have seen one I cannot imagine— probably it was only a young man's daring figure of speech. Shall we walk about a little? I think I felt a twinge."

The friend agreed, and, gently ambling up and down the Kreuzbrunnen Promenade, Lady Pomphrey continued her narrative.

"Rustleton said she was a New Girl of the worst type. Then came the diabolo affair, which, considering Céline's remarkable knack, I cannot think accidental. The bridge of Rustleton's nose was seriously contused, and his monocle was shattered— fortunately without danger to the eye. He took no revenge beyond an epigram, quite worthy of La Rochefou— what's his name?... She is keen on dancing, unlike other muscular girls; and said so in my boy's near vicinity. 'Why not? She has hops in her blood,' he uttered. Of course, a little bird carried it to her ear.... How d'ye do, Lady Frederica? How d'ye do, Count Pyffer? I quite agree with you.... Piercing winds, varied by muggy airlessness and a distressingly relaxing warmth, have made the last eight days intolerable.... My dear, where was I when I left off?" The suffering friend indicated the point. Lady Pomphrey continued:

"And after all they have come together. Quite a romance. If a mother's prayers have any influence, ... and I am old-fashioned enough to believe they have.... But I knew Rustleton too well to breathe a hint of my hopes. I did not stoop to intrigue, as some mothers would, to bring the young people together. But dearest Jane, who is always my right hand, conceived a devoted friendship for Céline just at the psychological moment, and owing to that she and Rustleton were constantly thrown in each other's way. Céline quite exerted herself to be overwhelmingly unpleasant. Jane says that during a bicycling excursion in the neighborhood of our place at Cluckham-Pomphrey, she offered to help him to lift his machine over a stile, and would have done it unaided and alone if Rustleton had not peremptorily seized the frame-bar, gripping both her hands in his. On Jane's authority, she crimsoned to the hat, throwing him off like a feather, and, mounting her machine, was out of sight in an instant. He was icily sarcastic on the subject of muscular young women all the way home, and limited his dinner to clear soup and a single cutlet with dry toast, while Céline went through all the courses in her usual thoroughgoing way. They are not in the least ashamed to eat, do you notice?— these golfing, hockey-playing, open-air young people.... Now you and I can recall placing a solid barrier of five o'clock cake and muffins between undue appetite and the eight o'clock dinner, at which we merely toyed with our knives and forks, trusting to our maids to have a tray of cold eatables ready in the bedroom for consumption while our hair was being brushed. Of course! 'but these girls devour at tea, wolf at dinner'— I quote Rustleton— 'and probably stodge sandwiches and cold chicken and chocolate-wafers before they plunge into their beds. When there, how they must snore!'

"His eye gleamed with such feverish malignancy as he said this, that I involuntarily dropped a quantity of stitches in the silk necktie I was knitting for him— a soothing neutral shade not calculated to call attention to the tinge of bile in his complexion— and exclaimed, 'Good Heavens!' He immediately begged my pardon and bade me 'good-night,' whispering that he had arranged to shoot over the lower sixty acres with Stubbins, the head keeper— purely as a filial duty, Pomphrey not feeling robust enough to undertake it this year....

"Whether it was my having breathed a hint of this to Jane— who is, as a rule, a grave for chance confidence— or whether Miss Twissing had overheard, how can I say? But she and Stubbins were waiting for my boy on the following morning, Stubbins— who loathes sporting women— in a state of complacency that only a five-pound note could have brought about. Her beautiful Bond-street self-ejecting breechloader, her cap, tweeds, and gaiters were the dernier cri, and with the coolest self-possession she wiped my poor boy's eye over and over again. Out of thirty brace of birds before luncheon only three and a half fell to his gun, and those were of the red-legged French description, 'bred for duffers to blaze at,' according to Lord Pomphrey. Rustleton went up to town that night, charging Jane with all sorts of civil messages for Miss Twissing, and slept at his Club, which was being painted and disagreed with him excessively."

The friend sighed sympathy.

"Even with every door and window open and a flat dish full of milk upon the washstand," said Lady Pomphrey, taking the friend's arm and emphasizing her utterances with the green sunshade, "white paint permeates my whole being in a way that is perfectly indescribable. My son inherits my receptiveness— perhaps my weakness-indeed, he came into the world at Cluckham-Pomphrey during an early visit of ours, subsequent to spring-cleaning, where, owing to an unhappy facility possessed by Lord Pomphrey of being easily persuaded by self-interested persons, the hall screen, grand staircase, and all the Jacobean paneling had been covered by the local decorator with a creamy-hued, turpentiny and glutinous mixture known as 'Eggster's Exquisite Enamel.' It cost a fortune to get off again, and some of it still lingers in the crevices of the carving. My basket.... It is a little cumbrous, but I really couldn't think of letting you.... Well then, dear friend, if you insist.... Now for the really remarkable ending of my boy's story.

"He flew to his cousin for consolation. Now, Wendoleth Caer-Brydglingbury is extremely sympathetic. Only for the color of her hair-a violent Boadicean red, almost purple in some lights— Rustleton and she— but I am devoutly thankful things have turned out as they have.

"'A sea cruise,' said Wendoleth promptly, 'will get the white paint out of your system quicker than anything I know; and your morbid feeling of vexation with this girl, impatience of her persistency in continuing to exist, and so forth, will vanish with other things. Mr. Mudge,'— the person she has since married,— 'has kindly asked Papa and myself to join his party on board the steam-yacht Fifi for a trip to Lisbon, Madeira, and the Canaries; join us. I assure you a complete welcome and at least half a cabin.' Rustleton recognized the cousinly kindness in Wendoleth's proposal, accepted, and went with her and Todmoxen— the Earl is still robust, but not what he was in the 'seventies, nor is it to be expected— down to Southampton to join the Fifi. Mudge is Liberal member for the North Clogger Division of Mudderpool. But for a crimson necktie— the Party badge— and a habit of hanging on to his own coat-lapels when conversing, he is almost quite presentable, and, like all those people who begin by not having twopence, he is astonishingly rich. His welcome to Rustleton was cordial in the extreme. But when Rustleton found Lord Twissing and his daughter already on board, discovered that he was to share Twissing's cabin, and that Céline slept in the one next door, he was dismayed. He would have excused himself and left the Fifi only that she was already on her way. Fate, like one of those curious jelly-like creatures which wave their tentacles to attract their prey and then clutch it and gradually absorb it, had wrapped its feelers around my poor boy. He is now resigned, calm, content, even happy; but when I think how he must have suffered.... My salts. In the basket. So kind of you, and so reviving."

Lady Pomphrey inhaled with drooping eyelids and sniffed at the salts-flagon from time to time as she embarked once more upon her narrative way.

"The Fifi anchored for the night, which promised to be squally, in Southampton Water, about a quarter of a mile from Hythe Pier. Depressed and discouraged, my boy retired to his cabin, leaving the entire party screaming over 'Bridge' at a number of little tables in the saloon. He had just put on his nightalines,— pink with a green stripe, the jacket ornamented with green braid in loops, to match— and was attending to his teeth with a palm-stick, when, with a terrific crash, all the electric lights went out and the Fifi was plunged in darkness. I shudder when I realize the awfulness of all that. Don't you?"

The friend supplied a shudder expressly manufactured for the purpose.

"A Welsh collier steamer, the Rattletrap, from Penwryg, had run down Mr. Mudge's yacht, becoming firmly embedded in the hull of the craft— the details are graven on my memory," said Lady Pomphrey impressively— "immediately forward of the engine-room. The crew turned out— not into the sea, but out of their hammocks— the 'Bridge' players rushed in confusion upon deck. In their evening dresses, without being even able to save a bag from below, Mr. Mudge's party were dragged over the grimy bows of the collier. The crew scrambled after. The captain of the Rattletrap, having ascertained that the Fifi was rapidly filling, and that all her passengers, as he thought, were safe on board his vessel, was about to give the signal from the bridge to reverse engines when, with an appalling scream a lithe young girl in a crêpe de Chine evening wrap embroidered with roses and turtle-doves— quite symbolic when you think of it— leaped back upon the deck of the Fifi and disappeared below. Guess who she was, and whither she had gone? You can? You do? What romance in real life, isn't it? Céline Twissing had missed Rustleton, and, knowing that he occupied the cabin next to her own, had rushed below to save him.

"He had rung for his man and was waiting calmly to be dressed, when she burst in the door with her shoulder— have you ever noticed her shoulders?— and shrieked to him to come on deck and be saved. Wrapped in a Scotch plaid which he had hastily thrown over his pyjamas at the moment of her entrance, he defied her, rebuked her immodesty in entering a gentleman's dressing-room unannounced, ordered her to quit the cabin and go back to her father. When properly attired to appear before ladies, my boy, ever chivalrous and delicate-minded, said he would board the Rattletrap. 'Don't you feel that this yacht is water-logged?' screamed Céline Twissing. 'Don't you know she'll sink under our feet in another minute? Come on deck at once, you duffing little precisian, unless you want me to carry you!' He retorted with contempt. She instantly seized him in her muscular arms— have you ever noticed her arms?— threw him, Scotch plaid and all, over her shoulder, carried him up the yacht's companion-ladder, and amidst the cheers of the united crews of the Fifi and the Rattletrap, handed him over the bulwarks to the men of the collier. Then she followed, the captain gave the order to go astern, the collier reversed her engines, the water rushed into the yacht, and she sank instantly. All that can be seen of her to-day is her masts. And Céline Twissing and my boy are to be made one at St. George's, Hanover Square, in the first week of the Winter Season. Céline will be married in white satin and mousseline trimmed with silver embroidery, and she goes away in a gown of putty-colored velvelise— the new stuff. I believe she secretly adored Rustleton from the very beginning, and he, I feel, is reconciled to the inscrutable appointments of Providence. How we have been chattering, haven't we? Time for luncheon now. Oh, I pray, no carp in beer, or eels with currant jelly. But one never knows. Au revoir, dear! Au revoir!"

And Lady Pomphrey put up her green sunshade and sailed away.

_________________

3: John Charrington's Wedding

Edith Nesbit

1858-1924

Temple Bar, Sep 1891

NO ONE ever thought that May Forster would marry John Charrington; but he thought differently, and things which John Charrington intended had a queer way of coming to pass. He asked her to marry him before he went up to Oxford. She laughed and refused him. He asked her again next time he came home. Again she laughed, tossed her dainty blonde head and again refused. A third time he asked her; she said it was becoming a confirmed bad habit, and laughed at him more than ever.

John was not the only man who wanted to marry her: she was the belle of our village coterie, and we were all in love with her more or less; it was a sort of fashion, like heliotrope ties or Inverness capes. Therefore we were as much annoyed as surprised when John Charrington walked into our little local Club— we held it in a loft over the saddler's, I remember— and invited us all to his wedding.

'Your wedding?'

'You don't mean it?'

'Who's the happy pair? When's it to be?'

John Charrington filled his pipe and lighted it before he replied. Then he said:

'I'm sorry to deprive you fellows of your only joke— but Miss Forster and I are to be married in September.'

'You don't mean it?'

'He's got the mitten again, and it's turned his head.'

'No,' I said, rising, 'I see it's true. Lend me a pistol someone— or a first-class fare to the other end of Nowhere. Charrington has bewitched the only pretty girl in our twenty-mile radius. Was it mesmerism, or a love-potion, Jack?'

'Neither, sir, but a gift you'll never have— perseverance— and the best luck a man ever had in this world.'

There was something in his voice that silenced me, and all chaff of the other fellows failed to draw him further.

The queer thing about it was that when we congratulated Miss Forster, she blushed and smiled and dimpled, for all the world as though she were in love with him, and had been in love with him all the time. Upon my word, I think she had. Women are strange creatures.

We were all asked to the wedding. In Brixham everyone who was anybody knew everybody else who was anyone. My sisters were, I truly believe, more interested in the trousseau than the bride herself, and I was to be best man. The coming marriage was much canvassed at afternoon tea-tables, and at our little Club over the saddler's, and the question was always asked, 'Does she care for him?'

I used to ask that question myself in the early days of their engagement, but after a certain evening in August I never asked it again. I was coming home from the Club through the churchyard. Our church is on a thyme-grown hill, and the turf about it is so thick and soft that one's footsteps are noiseless.

I made no sound as I vaulted the low lichened wall, and threaded my way between the tombstones. It was at the same instant that I heard John Charrington's voice, and saw her. May was sitting on a low flat gravestone, her face turned towards the full splendour of the western sun. Its expression ended, at once and for ever, any question of love for him; it was transfigured to a beauty I should not have believed possible, even to that beautiful little face.

John lay at her feet, and it was his voice that broke the stillness of the golden August evening.

'My dear, my dear, I believe I should come back from the dead if you wanted me!'

I coughed at once to indicate my presence, and passed on into the shadow fully enlightened.

The wedding was to be early in September. Two days before I had to run up to town on business. The train was late, of course, for we are on the South-Eastern, and as I stood grumbling with my watch in my hand, whom should I see but John Charrington and May Forster. They were walking up and down the unfrequented end of the platform, arm in arm, looking into each other's eyes, careless of the sympathetic interest of the porters.

Of course I knew better than to hesitate a moment before burying myself in the booking— office, and it was not till the train drew up at the platform, that I obtrusively passed the pair with my Gladstone, and took the corner in a first-class smoking-carriage. I did this with as good an air of not seeing them as I could assume. I pride myself on my discretion, but if John were travelling alone I wanted his company. I had it.

'Hullo, old man,' came his cheery voice as he swung his bag into my carriage; 'here's luck; I was expecting a dull journey!'

'Where are you off to?' I asked, discretion still bidding me turn my eyes away, though I saw, without looking, that hers were red-rimmed.

'To old Branbridge's,' he answered, shutting the door and leaning out for a last word with his sweetheart.

'Oh, I wish you wouldn't go, John,' she was saying in a low, earnest voice. 'I feel certain something will happen.'

'Do you think I should let anything happen to keep me, and the day after tomorrow our wedding day?'

'Don't go,' she answered, with a pleading intensity which would have sent my Gladstone onto the platform and me after it. But she wasn't speaking to me. John Charrington was made differently: he rarely changed his opinions, never his resolutions.

He only stroked the little ungloved hands that lay on the carriage door.

'I must, May. The old boy's been awfully good to me, and now he's dying I must go and see him, but I shall come home in time for— -' the rest of the parting was lost in a whisper and in the rattling lurch of the starting train.

'You're sure to come?' she spoke as the train moved.

'Nothing shall keep me,' he answered; and we steamed out. After he had seen the last of the little figure on the platform he leaned back in his corner and kept silence for a minute.

When he spoke it was to explain to me that his godfather, whose heir he was, lay dying at Peasmarsh Place, some fifty miles away, and had sent for John, and John had felt bound to go.

'I shall be surely back tomorrow,' he said, 'or, if not, the day after, in heaps of time. Thank heaven, one hasn't to get up in the middle of the night to get married nowadays!'

'And suppose Mr Branbridge dies?'

'Alive or dead I mean to be married on Thursday!' John answered, lighting a cigar and unfolding The Times.

At Peasmarsh station we said 'goodbye', and he got out, and I saw him ride off; I went on to London, where I stayed the night.

When I got home the next afternoon, a very wet one, by the way, my sister greeted me with:

'Where's Mr Charrington?'

'Goodness knows,' I answered testily. Every man, since Cain, has resented that kind of question.

'I thought you might have heard from him,' she went on, 'as you're to give him away tomorrow.'

'Isn't he back?' I asked, for I had confidently expected to find him at home.

'No, Geoffrey,' my sister Fanny always had a way of jumping to conclusions, especially such conclusions as were least favourable to her fellow-creatures— 'he has not returned, and, what is more, you may depend upon it he won't. You mark my words, there'll be no wedding tomorrow.'

My sister Fanny has a power of annoying me which no other human being possesses.

'You mark my words,' I retorted with asperity, 'you had better give up making such a thundering idiot of yourself. There'll be more wedding tomorrow than ever you'll take the first part in.' A prophecy which, by the way, came true.

But though I could snarl confidently to my sister, I did not feel so comfortable when late that night, I, standing on the doorstep of John's house, heard that he had not returned. I went home gloomily through the rain. Next morning brought a brilliant blue sky, gold sun, and all such softness of air and beauty of cloud as go to make up a perfect day. I woke with a vague feeling of having gone to bed anxious, and of being rather averse to facing that anxiety in the light of full wakefulness.

But with my shaving-water came a note from John which relieved my mind and sent me up to the Forsters with a light heart.

May was in the garden. I saw her blue gown through the hollyhocks as the lodge gates swung to behind me. So I did not go up to the house, but turned aside down the turfed path.

'He's written to you too,' she said, without preliminary greeting, when I reached her side.

'Yes, I'm to meet him at the station at three, and come straight on to the church.'

Her face looked pale, but there was a brightness in her eyes, and a tender quiver about the mouth that spoke of renewed happiness.

'Mr Branbridge begged him so to stay another night that he had not the heart to refuse,' she went on. 'He is so kind, but I wish he hadn't stayed.'

I was at the station at half past two. I felt rather annoyed with John. It seemed a sort of slight to the beautiful girl who loved him, that he should come as it were out of breath, and with the dust of travel upon him, to take her hand, which some of us would have given the best years of our lives to take.

But when the three' o'clock train glided in, and glided out again having brought no passengers to our little station, I was more than annoyed. There was no other train for thirty-five minutes; I calculated that, with much hurry, we might just get to the church in time for the ceremony; but, oh, what a fool to miss that first train! What other man could have done it?

That thirty-five minutes seemed a year, as I wandered round the station reading the advertisements and the timetables, and the company's bye-laws, and getting more and more angry with John Charrington. This confidence in his own power of getting everything he wanted the minute he wanted it was leading him too far. I hate waiting. Everyone does, but I believe I hate it more than anyone else. The three thirty-five was late, of course.

'Drive to the church!' I said, as someone shut the door. 'Mr Charrington hasn't come by this train.'

I ground my pipe between my teeth and stamped with impatience as I watched the signals. Click. The signal went down. Five minutes later I flung myself into the carriage that I had brought for John.

Anxiety now replaced anger. What had become of the man? Could he have been taken suddenly ill? I had never known him have a day's illness in his life. And even so he might have telegraphed. Some awful accident must have happened to him. The thought that he had played her false never— no, not for a moment— entered my head. Yes, some thing terrible had happened to him, and on me lay the task of telling his bride. I almost wished the carriage would upset and break my head so that someone else might tell her, not I, who— but that's nothing to do with this story.

It was five minutes to four as we drew up at the churchyard gate. A double row of eager onlookers lined the path from lychgate to porch. I sprang from the carriage and passed up between them. Our gardener had a good front place near the door. I stopped.

'Are they waiting still, Byles?' I asked, simply to gain time, for of course I knew they were by the waiting crowd's attentive attitude.

'Waiting, sir? No, no, sir; why, it must be over by now.'

'Over! Then Mr Charrington's come?'

To the minute, sir; must have missed you somehow, and I say, sir,' lowering his voice, 'I never see Mr John the least bit so afore, but my opinion is he's been drinking pretty free. His clothes was all dusty and his face like a sheet. I tell you I didn't like the looks of him at all, and the folks inside are saying all sorts of things. You'll see, something's gone very wrong with Mr John, and he's tried liquor. He looked like a ghost, and in he went with his eyes straight before him, with never a look or a word for none of us: him that was always such a gentleman!'

I had never heard Byles make so long a speech. The crowd in the churchyard were talking in whispers and getting ready rice and slippers to throw at the bride and bridegroom. The ringers were ready with their hands on the ropes to ring out the merry peal as the bride and bride-groom should come out.

A murmur from the church announced them; out they came. Byles was right. John Charrington did not look himself. There was dust on his coat, his hair was disarranged. He seemed to have been in some row, for there was a black mark above his eyebrow. He was deathly pale. But his pallor was not greater than that of the bride, who might have been carved in ivory— dress, veil, orange blossoms, face and all.

As they passed out the ringers stooped— there were six of them— and then, on the ears expecting the gay wedding peal, came the slow tolling of the passing bell.

A thrill of horror at so foolish a jest from the ringers passed through us all. But the ringers themselves dropped the ropes and fled like rabbits out into the sunlight. The bride shuddered, and grey shadows came about her mouth, but the bridegroom led her on down the path where the people stood with the handfuls of rice; but the handfuls were never thrown, and the wedding bells never rang. In vain the ringers were urged to remedy their mistake: they protested with many whispered expletives that they would see themselves further first.

In a hush like the hush in the chamber of death the bridal pair passed into their carriage and its door slammed behind them.

Then the tongues were loosed. A babel of anger, wonder, conjecture from the guests and the spectators.

'If I'd seen his condition, sir,' said old Forster to me as we drove off, 'I would have stretched him on the floor of the church, sir, by heaven I would, before I'd have let him marry my daughter!'

Then he put his head out of the window.

'Drive like hell,' he cried to the coachman; 'don't spare the horses.'

He was obeyed. We passed the bride's carriage. I forbore to look at it, and old Forster turned his head away and swore. We reached home before it.

We stood in the doorway, in the blazing afternoon sun, and in about half a minute we heard wheels crunching the gravel. When the carriage stopped in front of the steps old Forster and I ran down.

'Great heaven, the carriage is empty! And yet— -'

I had the door open in a minute, and this is what I saw...

No sign of John Charrington; and of May, his wife, only a huddled heap of white satin lying half on the floor of the carriage and half on the seat.

'I drove straight here, sir,' said the coachman, as the bride's father lifted her out; 'and I'll swear no one got out of the carriage.'

We carried her into the house in her bridal dress and drew back her veil. I saw her face. Shall I ever forget it? White, white and drawn with agony and horror, bearing such a look of terror as I have never seen since except in dreams. And her hair, her radiant blonde hair, I tell you it was white like snow.

As we stood, her father and I, half mad with the horror and mystery of it, a boy came up the avenue— a telegraph boy. They brought the orange envelope to me. I tore it open.

Mr Charrington was thrown from the dogcart on his way to the station at half past one. Killed on the spot!

And he was married to May Forster in our parish church at half past three, in presence of half the parish.

'I shall be married, dead, or alive!'

What had passed in that carriage on the homeward drive? No one knows— no one will ever know. Oh, May! oh, my dear!

Before a week was over they laid her beside her husband in our little churchyard on the thyme-covered hill— the churchyard where they had kept their love-trysts.

Thus was accomplished John Charrington's wedding.

__________________

4: The House in the Mist

Anna Katharine Green

1846-1935

The Novel Magazine, Sep 1905

1: An Open Door

IT WAS A NIGHT to drive any man indoors. Not only was the darkness impenetrable, but the raw mist enveloping hill and valley made the open road anything but desirable to a belated wayfarer like myself.

Being young, untrammelled, and naturally indifferent to danger, I was not averse to adventure; and having my fortune to make, was always on the lookout for El Dorado, which to ardent souls lies ever beyond the next turning. Consequently, when I saw a light shimmering through the mist at my right, I resolved to make for it and the shelter it so opportunely offered.

But I did not realise then, as I do now, that shelter does not necessarily imply refuge, or I might not have undertaken this adventure with so light a heart. Yet who knows? The impulses of an unfettered spirit lean toward daring, and youth, as I have said, seeks the strange, the unknown, and sometimes the terrible.

My path towards this light was by no means an easy one. After confused wanderings through tangled hedges, and a struggle with obstacles of whose nature I received the most curious impression in the surrounding murk, I arrived in front of a long, low building, which, to my astonishment, I found standing with doors and windows open to the pervading mist, save for one square casement, through which the light shone from a row of candles placed on a long mahogany table.

The quiet and seeming emptiness of this odd and picturesque building made me pause. I am not much affected by visible danger, but this silent room, with its air of sinister expectancy, struck me most unpleasantly, and I was about to reconsider my first impulse and withdraw again to the road, when a second look thrown back upon the comfortable interior I was leaving convinced me of my folly, and sent me straight toward the door which stood so invitingly open.

But half-way up the path my progress was again stayed by the sight of a man issuing from the house I had so rashly looked upon as devoid of all human presence. He seemed in haste, and at the moment my eye first fell on him was engaged in replacing his watch in his pocket.

But he did not shut the door behind him, which I thought odd, especially as his final glance had been a backward one, and seemed to take in all the appointments of the place he was so hurriedly leaving.

As we met he raised his hat. This likewise struck me as peculiar, for the deference he displayed was more marked than that usually bestowed on strangers, while his lack of surprise at an encounter more or less startling in such a mist, was calculated to puzzle an ordinary man like myself. Indeed, he was so little impressed by my presence there that he was for passing me without a word or any other hint of good-fellowship save the bow of which I have spoken. But this did not suit me. I was hungry, cold, and eager for creature comforts, and the house before me gave forth, not only heat, but a savoury odour which in itself was an invitation hard to ignore. I therefore accosted the man.

"Will bed and supper be provided for me here?" I asked. "I am tired out with a long tramp over the hills, and hungry enough to pay anything in reason—"

I stopped, for the man had disappeared. He had not paused at my appeal, and the mist had swallowed him. But at the break in my sentence his voice came back in good-natured tones, and I heard:

"Supper will be ready at nine, and there are beds for all. Enter, sir; you are the first to arrive, but the others cannot be far behind."

A queer greeting certainly. But when I strove to question him as to its meaning, his voice returned to me from such a distance that I doubted if my words had reached him any more than his answer had reached me.

"Well," thought I, "it isn't as if a lodging had been denied me. He invited me to enter, and enter I will."

The house, to which I now naturally directed a glance of much more careful scrutiny than before, was no ordinary farm-building, but a rambling old mansion, made conspicuously larger here and there by jutting porches and more than one convenient lean-to. Though furnished, warmed, and lighted with candles, as I have previously described, it had about it an air of disuse which made me feel myself an intruder, in spite of the welcome I had received. But I was not in a position to stand upon ceremony, and ere long I found myself inside the great room and before the blazing logs whose glow had lighted up the doorway and added its own attraction to the other allurements of the inviting place.

Though the open door made a draught which was anything but pleasant, I did not feel like closing it, and was astonished to observe the effect of the mist through the square thus left open to the night. It was not an agreeable one, and, instinctively turning my back upon that quarter of the room, I let my eyes roam over the wainscoted walls and the odd pieces of furniture which gave such an air of old-fashioned richness to the place. As nothing of the kind had ever fallen under my eyes before, I would have thoroughly enjoyed this opportunity of gratifying my taste for the curious and the beautiful, if the quaint old chairs I saw standing about me on every side had not all been empty. But the solitude of the place, so much more oppressive than the solitude of the road I had left, struck cold to my heart, and I missed the cheer rightfully belonging to such attractive surroundings. Suddenly I bethought me of the many other apartments likely to be found in so spacious a dwelling, and, going to the nearest door, I opened it and called out for the master of the house. But only an echo came back, and returning to the fire, I sat down before the cheering blaze, in quiet acceptance of a situation too lonely for comfort, yet not without a certain piquant interest for a man of free mind and adventurous disposition like myself.

After all, if supper was to be served at nine, some one must be expected to eat it; I should surely not be left much longer without companions.

Meanwhile ample amusement awaited me in the contemplation of a picture which, next to the large fireplace, was the most prominent object in the room. This picture was a portrait, and a remarkable one. The countenance it portrayed was both characteristic and forcible, and so interested me that in studying it I quite forgot both hunger and weariness. Indeed its effect upon me was such that, after gazing at it uninterruptedly for a few minutes, I discovered that its various features— the narrow eyes in which a hint of craft gave a strange gleam to their native intelligence; the steadfast chin, strong as the rock of the hills I had wearily tramped all day; the cunning wrinkles which yet did not interfere with a latent great-heartedness that made the face as attractive as it was puzzling— had so established themselves in my mind that I continued to see them before me whichever way I turned, and even found it impossible to shake off their influence after I had resolutely set my mind in another direction by endeavouring to recall what I knew of the town into which I had strayed.

I had come from Scranton, and was now, according to my best judgment, in one of those rural districts of Western Pennsylvania which breed such strange and sturdy characters. But of this special neighbourhood, its inhabitants, and its industries, I knew nothing, nor was I likely to become acquainted with it so long as I remained in the solitude I have described.

But these impressions and these thoughts— if thoughts they were— presently received a check. A loud "Halloo!" rose from somewhere in the mist, followed by a string of muttered imprecations, which convinced me that the person now attempting to approach the house was encountering some of the many difficulties which had beset me in the same undertaking a few minutes before.

I therefore raised my voice and shouted out, "Here! This way!" after which I sat still and awaited developments.

There was a huge clock in one of the corners, whose loud tick filled up every interval of silence. By this clock it was just ten minutes to eight when two gentlemen— I should say men, and coarse men at that— crossed the open threshold and entered the house.

Their appearance was more or less noteworthy— unpleasantly so, I am obliged to add. One was red-faced and obese; the other was tall, thin, and wiry, and showed as many seams in his face as a blighted apple. Neither of the two had anything to recommend him either in appearance or address, save a certain veneer of polite assumption as transparent as it was offensive. As I listened to the forced sallies of the one and the hollow laugh of the other, I was glad that I was large of frame and strong of arm, and used to all kinds of men and— brutes.

As these two newcomers seemed no more astonished at my presence than the man I had met at the gate, I checked the question which instinctively rose to my lips, and with a simple bow— responded to by a more or less familiar nod from either— accepted the situation with all the sang-froid the occasion seemed to demand. Perhaps this was wise, perhaps it was not; there was little opportunity to judge, for the start they both gave as they encountered the eyes of the picture before mentioned drew my attention to a consideration of the different ways in which men, however similar in other respects, express sudden and unlooked-for emotion. The big man simply allowed his astonishment, dread, or whatever the feeling was which moved him, to ooze forth in a cold and deathly perspiration which robbed his cheeks of colour, and cast a bluish shadow over his narrow and retreating temples; while the thin and waspish man, caught in the same trap (for trap I saw it was), shouted aloud in his ill-timed mirth, the false and cruel character of which would have made me shudder, if all expression of feeling on my part had not been held in check by the interest I immediately experienced in the display of open bravado with which, in another moment, these two tried to carry off their mutual embarrassment.

"Good likeness, eh?" laughed the seamy-faced man. "Quite an idea that! Makes him one of us again! Well, he's welcome— in oils. Can't say much to us from canvas, eh?" And the rafters above him vibrated, as his violent efforts at joviality went up in loud and louder assertion from his thin throat.

A nudge from the other's elbow stopped him, and I saw them both cast half-lowering, half-inquisitive glances in my direction.

"One of the Witherspoon boys?" queried one.

"Perhaps," snarled the other. "I never saw but one of them. There are five, aren't there? Eustace believed in marrying off his gals young."

"Damn him, yes! And he'd have married them off younger if he had known how numbers were going to count some day among the Westonhaughs." And he laughed again in a way I should certainly have felt it my business to resent if my indignation, as well as the ill-timed allusions which had called it forth, had not been put to an end by a fresh arrival through the veiling mist which hung like a shroud at the doorway.

This time it was for me to experience a shock of something like fear. Yet the personage who called up this unlooked-for sensation in my naturally hardy nature was old, and to all appearance harmless from disability, if not from good-will. His form was bent over upon itself like a bow; and only from the glances he shot from his upturned eyes was the fact made evident that a redoubtable nature, full of force and malignity, had just brought its quota of evil into a room already overflowing with dangerous and menacing passions.

As this old wretch, either from the feebleness of age or from the infirmity I have mentioned, had great difficulty in walking, he had brought with him a small boy, whose business it was to direct his tottering steps as best he could.

But once settled in his chair, he drove away this boy with his pointed oak stick, and with some harsh words about caring for the horse and being in time in the morning, he sent him out into the mist. As this little shivering and pathetic figure vanished, the old man drew with gasp and haw a number of deep breaths, which shook his bent back, and did their share, no doubt, in restoring his own disturbed circulation. Then, with a sinister twist which brought his pointed chin and twinkling eyes again into view, he remarked:

"Haven't ye a word for kinsman Luke, you two? It isn't often I get out among ye. Shakee, nephew! Shakee, Hector! And now, who's the boy in the window? My eyes aren't what they used to be, but he don't seem to favour the Westonhaughs overmuch. One of Salmon's four grandchildren, think 'e? Or a shoot from Eustace's gnarled old trunk? His gals all married Americans, and one of them, I've been told, was a yellow-haired giant like this fellow."

At this description, pointed directly toward me, I was about to venture a response on my own account, when my attention, as well as theirs, was freshly attracted by a loud "Whoa!" at the gate, followed by the hasty but assured entrance of a dapper, wizen, but perfectly preserved little old gentleman with a bag in his hand.

Looking askance with eyes that were like two beads, first at the two men, who were now elbowing each other for the best place before the fire, and next at the revolting figure in the chair, he bestowed his greeting, which consisted of an elaborate bow, not on them, but upon the picture hanging so conspicuously on the open wall before him; and then, taking me within the scope of his quick, circling glance, cried out with an assumption of great cordiality:

"Good-evening, gentlemen; good-evening one, good-evening all. Nothing like being on the tick. I'm sorry the night has turned out so badly. Some may find it too thick for travel. That would be bad, eh? very bad— for them."

As none of the men he openly addressed saw fit to answer, save by the hitch of a shoulder or a leer quickly suppressed, I kept silent also. But this reticence, marked as it was, did not seem to offend the newcomer. Shaking the wet from the umbrella he held, he stood the dripping article up in a corner, and then came and placed his feet on the fender. To do this he had to crowd between the two men already occupying the best part of the hearth. But he showed no concern at incommoding them, and bore their cross looks and threatening gestures with professional equanimity.

"You know me?" he now unexpectedly snapped, bestowing another look over his shoulder at that oppressive figure in the chair. (Did I say that I had risen when the latter sat?) "I'm no Westonhaugh, I; nor yet a Witherspoon nor a Clapsaddle. I'm only Smead, the lawyer— Mr. Anthony Westonhaugh's lawyer," he repeated, with another glance of recognition in the direction of the picture. "I drew up his last will and testament, and, until all of his wishes have been duly carried out, am entitled by the terms of that will to be regarded both legally and socially as his representative. This you all know, but it is my way to make everything clear as I proceed. A lawyer's trick, no doubt. I do not pretend to be entirely exempt from such."

A grumble from the large man, who seemed to have been disturbed in some absorbing calculation he was carrying on, mingled with a few muttered words of forced acknowledgment from the restless old sinner in the chair, made it unnecessary for me to reply, even if the last comer had given me the opportunity.

"It's getting late!" he cried, with an easy garrulity rather amusing under the circumstances. "Two more trains came in as I left the depot. If old Phil was on hand with his waggon, several more members of this interesting family may be here before the clock strikes; if not, the assemblage is like to be small. Too small," I heard him grumble a minute after, under his breath.

"I wish it were a matter of one," spoke up the big man, striking his breast in a way to make it perfectly apparent whom he meant by that word one. And having (if I may judge by the mingled laugh and growl of his companions) thus shown his hand both figuratively and literally, he relapsed into the calculation which seemed to absorb all of his unoccupied moments.

"Generous, very!" commented the lawyer in a murmur which was more than audible. "Pity that sentiments of such broad benevolence should go unrewarded."

This, because at that very instant wheels were heard in front, also a jangle of voices, in some controversy about fares, which promised anything but a pleasing addition to the already none too desirable company.

"I suppose that's Sister Janet," snarled out the one addressed as Hector. There was no love in his voice, despite the relationship hinted at, and I awaited the entrance of this woman with some curiosity.

But her appearance, heralded by many a puff and pant which the damp air exaggerated in a prodigious way, did not seem to warrant the interest I had shown in it. As she stepped into the room I saw only a big frowsy woman, who had attempted to make a show with a new silk dress and a hat in the latest fashion, but who had lamentably failed owing to the slouchiness of her figure and some misadventure, by which her hat had been set awry on her head and her usual complacency destroyed. Later, I noted that her down-looking eyes had a false twinkle in them, and that, commonplace as she looked, she was one to steer clear of in times of necessity and distress.

She, too, evidently expected to find the door open and people assembled, but she had not anticipated being confronted by the portrait on the wall, and cringed in an unpleasant way as she stumbled by it into one of the ill-lighted corners.

The old man, who had doubtless caught the rustle of her dress as she passed him, emitted one short sentence.

"Almost late," said he.

Her answer was a sputter of words.

"It's the fault of that driver," she complained. "If he had taken one drop more at the half-way house I might really not have got here at all. That would not have inconvenienced you. But oh! what a grudge I would have owed that skinflint brother of ours"— here she shook her fist at the picture— "for making our good luck depend upon our arrival within two short strokes of the clock!"

"There are several to come yet," blandly observed the lawyer. But before the words were well out of his mouth we all became aware of a new presence— a woman, whose sombre grace and quiet bearing gave distinction to her unobtrusive entrance, and caused a feeling of something like awe to follow the first sight of her cold features and deep, heavily-fringed eyes. But this soon passed in the more human sentiment awakened by the soft pleading which infused her gaze with a touching femininity. She wore a long loose garment, which fell without a fold from chin to foot, and in her arms she seemed to carry something.

Never before had I seen so beautiful a woman. As I was contemplating her, with respect but yet with a masculine intentness I could not quite suppress, two or three other persons came in. And now I began to notice that the eyes of all these people turned mainly one way, and that was toward the clock. Another small circumstance likewise drew my attention. Whenever any one entered— and there were one or two additional arrivals during the five minutes preceding the striking of the hour— a frown settled for an instant on every brow, giving to each and all a similar look, for the interpretation of which I lacked the key. Yet not on every brow either. There was one which remained undisturbed, and showed only a grand patience.

As the hands of the big clock neared the point of eight a furtive smile appeared on more than one face; and when the hour rang out a sigh of satisfaction swept through the room, to which the little old lawyer responded with a worldly-wise grunt as he moved from his place and proceeded to the door.

This he had scarcely shut when a chorus of voices rose from without. Three or four lingerers had pushed their way as far as the gate, only to see the door of the house shut in their faces.

"Too late!" growled old man Luke from between the locks of his long beard.

"Too late!" shrieked the woman who had come so near being late herself.

"Too late!" smoothly acquiesced the lawyer, locking and bolting the door with a deft and assured hand.

But the four or five persons who thus found themselves barred out did not accept without a struggle the decision of the more fortunate ones assembled within. More than one hand began pounding on the door, and we could hear cries of: "The train was behind time!" "Your clock is fast!" "You are cheating us; you want it all for yourselves!" "We will have the law on you!" and other bitter adjurations unintelligible to me from my ignorance of the circumstances which called them forth.

But the wary old lawyer simply shook his head and answered nothing; whereat a murmur of gratification rose from within, and a howl of almost frenzied dismay from without, which latter presently received point from a startling vision which now appeared at the casement where the lights burned. A man's face looked in, and behind it, that of a woman, so wild and maddened by some sort of heart-break that I found my sympathies aroused in spite of the glare of evil passions which made both of these countenances something less than human.

But the lawyer met the stare of these four eyes with a quiet chuckle, which found its echo in the ill-advised mirth of those about him; and moving over to the window where they still peered in, he drew together the two heavy shutters which hitherto had stood back against the wall, and, fastening them with a bar, shut out the sight of this despair, if he could not shut out the protests which ever and anon were shouted through the keyhole.

Meanwhile, one form had sat through this whole incident without a gesture; and on the quiet brow, from which I could not keep my eyes, no shadows appeared save the perpetual one of native melancholy, which was at once the source of its attraction and the secret of its power.

Into what sort of gathering had I stumbled? And why did I prefer to await developments rather than ask the simplest question of any one about me?

Meantime the lawyer had proceeded to make certain preparations. With the help of one or two willing hands he had drawn the great table into the middle of the room, and, having seen the candles restored to their places, began to open his small bag and take from it a roll of paper and several flat documents. Laying the latter in the centre of the table and slowly unrolling the former, he consulted, with his foxy eyes, the faces surrounding him, and smiled with secret malevolence, as he noted that every chair and every form was turned away from the picture before which he had bent with such obvious courtesy on entering. I alone stood erect, and this possibly was why a gleam of curiosity was noticeable in his glance, as he ended his scrutiny of my countenance and bent his gaze again upon the paper he held.

"Heavens!" thought I. "What shall I answer this man if he asks me why I continued to remain in a spot where I have so little business?"

The impulse came to go. But such was the effect of this strange convocation of persons, at night and in a mist which was itself a nightmare, that I failed to take action and remained riveted to my place, while Mr. Smead consulted his roll and finally asked in a business-like tone, quite unlike his previous sarcastic speech, the names of those whom he had the pleasure of seeing before him.

The old man in the chair spoke up first.

"Luke Westonhaugh," he announced.

"Very good!" responded the lawyer.

"Hector Westonhaugh," came from the thin man.

A nod and a look toward the next.

"John Westonhaugh."

"Nephew?" asked the lawyer.

"Yes."

"Go on, and be quick; supper will be ready at nine."

"Eunice Westonhaugh," spoke up a soft voice.

I felt my heart bound as if some inner echo responded to that name.

"Daughter of whom?"

"Hudson Westonhaugh," she gently faltered. "My father is dead— died last night. I am his only heir."

A grumble of dissatisfaction and a glint of unrelieved hate came from the doubled-up figure, whose malevolence had so revolted me.

But the lawyer was not to be shaken.

"Very good! It is fortunate you trusted your feet rather than the train. And now you? What is your name?"

He was looking, not at me, as I had at first feared, but at the man next to me, a slim but slippery youth, whose small red eyes made me shudder.

"William Witherspoon."

"Barbara's son?"

"Yes."

"Where are your brothers?"

"One of them, I think, is outside"— here he laughed— "the other is— sick."

The way he uttered this word made me set him down as one to be especially wary of when he smiled. But then, I had already passed judgment on him at my first view.

"And you, madam?"— this to the large, dowdy woman with the uncertain eye, a contrast to the young and melancholy Eunice.

"Janet Clapsaddle," she replied, waddling hungrily forward and getting unpleasantly near the speaker, for he moved off as she approached, and took his stand in the clear space at the head of the table.

"Very well, Mistress Clapsaddle. You were a Westonhaugh, I believe?"

"You believe, sneak-faced hypocrite that you are!" she blurted out. "I don't understand your lawyer ways. I like plain speaking myself. Don't you know me, and Luke and Hector, and— and most of us, indeed, except that puny, white-faced girl yonder, whom, having been brought up on the other side of the Ridge, we have none of us seen since she was a screaming baby in Hildegarde's arms. And the young gentleman over there"— here she indicated me— "who shows so little likeness to the rest of the family, he will have to make his connection to us pretty plain before we shall feel like acknowledging him, either as the son of one of Eustace's girls, or a chip from Brother Salmon's hard old block."

As this caused all eyes to turn upon me, even hers, I smiled as I stepped forward. The lawyer did not return that smile.

"What is your name?" he asked shortly and sharply, as if he distrusted me.

"Hugh Austin," was my quiet reply.

"There is no such name on the list," snapped old Smead, with an authoritative gesture toward those who seemed anxious to enter a protest.

"Probably not," I returned, "for I am not a Witherspoon, a Westonhaugh, nor yet a Clapsaddle. I am merely a chance wayfarer passing through the town on my way West. I thought this house was a tavern, or at least a place I could lodge in. The man I met in the doorway told me as much, and so I am here. If my company is not agreeable, or if you wish this room to yourselves, let me go into the kitchen. I promise not to meddle with the supper, hungry as I am. Or perhaps you wish me to join the crowd outside; it seems to be increasing."

"No, no," came from all parts of the room. "Don't let the door be opened. Nothing could keep Lemuel and his crowd out if they once got foot over the threshold."

The lawyer rubbed his chin. He seemed to be in some sort of quandary. First he scrutinised me from under his shaggy brows with a sharp gleam of suspicion; then his features softened, and, with a side-glance at the young woman who called herself Eunice (perhaps, because she was worth looking at, perhaps because she had partly risen at my words), he slipped toward a door I had before observed in the wainscoting on the left of the mantelpiece, and softly opened it upon what looked like a narrow staircase.

"We cannot let you go out," said he; "and we cannot let you have a finger in our viands before the hour comes for serving them; so if you will be so good as to follow this staircase to the top, you will find it ends in a room comfortable enough for the wayfarer you call yourself. In that room you can rest till the way is clear for you to continue your travels. Better we cannot do for you. This house is not a tavern, but the somewhat valuable property of—" He turned with a bow and smile, as every one there drew a deep breath; but no one ventured to end that sentence.

I would have given all my future prospects (which, by the way, were not very great) to remain in that room. The oddity of the situation; the mystery of the occurrence; the suspense I saw in every face; the eagerness of the cries I heard redoubled from time to time outside; the malevolence but poorly disguised in the old lawyer's countenance; and, above all, the presence of that noble-looking woman, which was the one off-set to the general tone of villainy with which the room was charged, filled me with curiosity, if I might call it by no other name, that made my acquiescence in the demand thus made upon me positively heroic. But there seemed no other course for me to follow, and with a last lingering glance at the genial fire and a quick look about me, which, happily, encountered hers, I stooped my head to suit the low and narrow doorway opened for my accommodation, and instantly found myself in darkness. The door had been immediately closed by the lawyer's impatient hand.

2: With My Ear to the Wainscoting

NO MOVE more unwise could have been made by the old lawyer— that is, if his intention had been to rid himself of an unwelcome witness. For, finding myself thrust thus suddenly from the scene, I naturally stood still instead of mounting the stairs, and, by standing still, discovered that though shut from sight, I was not from sound. Distinctly through the panel of the door, which was much thinner, no doubt, than the old fox imagined, I heard one of the men present shout out:

"Well, that makes the number less by one!"

The murmur which followed this remark came plainly to my ears, and, greatly rejoicing over what I considered my good luck, I settled myself on the lowest step of the stairs in the hope of catching some word which would reveal to me the mystery of this scene.

It was not long in coming. Old Smead had now his audience before him in good shape, and his next words were of a character to make evident the purpose of this meeting.

"Heirs of Anthony Westonhaugh, deceased," he began in a sing-song voice strangely unmusical, "I congratulate you upon your good fortune at being at this especial moment on the inner rather than outer side of your amiable relative's front-door. His will, which you have assembled to hear read, is well known to you. By it his whole property— not so large as some of you might wish, but yet a goodly property for farmers like yourselves— is to be divided this night, share and share alike, among such of his relatives as have found it convenient to be present here between the strokes of half-past seven and eight. If some of our friends have failed us through sloth, sickness, or the misfortune of mistaking the road, they have our sympathy, but they cannot have his dollars."

"Cannot have his dollars!" echoed a rasping voice which from its smothered sound probably came from the bearded lips of the old reprobate in the chair.

The lawyer waited for one or two other repetitions of this phrase (a phrase which, for some unimaginable reason, seemed to give him an odd sort of pleasure), then he went on with greater distinctness and a certain sly emphasis, chilling in effect, but very professional:

"Ladies and gentlemen, shall I read this will?"

"No, no! The division! the division! Tell us what we are to have!" rose in a shout about him.

There was a pause. I could imagine the sharp eyes of the lawyer travelling from face to face as each thus gave voice to his cupidity, and the thin curl of his lips as he remarked in a low, tantalising way:

"There was more in the old man's clutches than you think."

A gasp of greed shook the partition against which my ear was pressed. Some one must have backed up against the wainscoting since my departure from the room. I found myself wondering which of them it was. Meantime old Smead was having his say, with the smoothness of a man who perfectly understands what is required of him.

"Mr. Westonhaugh would not have put you to so much trouble or had you wait so long if he had not expected to reward you amply. There are shares in this bag which are worth thousands instead of hundreds. Now, now stop that! Hands off! hands off! There are calculations to make first. How many of you are there? Count yourselves up."

"Nine!" called out a voice with such rapacious eagerness that the word was almost unintelligible.

"Nine." How slowly the old knave spoke! What pleasure he seemed to take in the suspense he purposely made as exasperating as possible!

"Well, if each one gets his share, he may count himself richer by two hundred thousand dollars than when he came in here to-night."

Two hundred thousand dollars! They had expected no more than thirty. Surprise made them speechless— that is, for a moment; then a pandemonium of hurrahs, shrieks, and loud-voiced enthusiasm made the room ring till wonder seized them again, and a sudden silence fell, through which I caught a far-off wail of grief from the disappointed ones without, which, heard in the dark and narrow place in which I was confined, had a peculiarly weird and desolate effect.

Perhaps it likewise was heard by some of the fortunate ones within! Perhaps one head, to mark which, in this moment of universal elation, I would have given a year from my life, turned toward the dark without, in recognition of the despair thus piteously voiced; but if so, no token of the same came to me, and I could but hope that she had shown by some such movement the natural sympathy of her sex.

Meanwhile the lawyer was addressing the company in his smoothest and most sarcastic tones.

"Mr. Westonhaugh was a wise man— a very wise man," he droned. "He foresaw what your pleasure would be, and left a letter for you. But before I read it, before I invite you to the board he ordered to be spread for you in honour of this happy occasion, there is one appeal he bade me make to those I should find assembled here. As you know, he was not personally acquainted with all the children and grandchildren of his many brothers and sisters. Salmon's sons, for instance, were perfect strangers to him, and all those boys and girls of the Evans's branch have never been long enough this side of the mountains for him to know their names, much less their temper or their lives. Yet his heirs— or such was his wish, his great wish— must be honest men, righteous in their dealings, and of stainless lives. If, therefore, any one among you feels that, for reasons he need not state, he has no right to accept his share of Anthony Westonhaugh's bounty, then that person is requested to withdraw before this letter to his heirs is read."

Withdraw? Was the man a fool? Withdraw? These cormorants! these suckers of blood! these harpies and vultures! I laughed as I imagined sneaking Hector, malicious Luke, or brutal John responding to this naïve appeal, and then found myself wondering why no echo of my mirth came from the men themselves. They must have seen much more plainly than I did the ludicrousness of their weak old kinsman's demand; yet Luke was still, Hector was still, and even John and the three or four others I have mentioned gave forth no audible token of disdain or surprise. I was asking myself what sentiment of awe or fear restrained these selfish souls, when I became conscious of a movement within, which presently resolved itself into a departing footstep.

Some conscience there had been awakened. Some one was crossing the floor toward the door. Who? I waited in anxious expectancy for the word which was to enlighten me. Happily it came soon, and from the old lawyer's lips.

"You do not feel yourself worthy?" he queried, in tones I had not heard from him before. "Why? What have you done that you should forego an inheritance to which these others feel themselves honestly entitled?"

The voice which answered gave both my mind and heart a shock. It was she who had risen at this call— she, the only true-faced person there!

Anxiously I listened for her reply. Alas! it was one of action rather than speech. As I afterwards heard, she simply opened her long cloak and showed a little infant slumbering in her arms.

"This is my reason," said she. "I have sinned in the eyes of the world, therefore I cannot take my share of Uncle Anthony's money. I did not know he exacted an unblemished record from those he expected to enrich, or I would not have come."

The sob which followed these last words showed at what a cost she thus renounced a fortune of which she, of all present, perhaps, stood in the greatest need; but there was no lingering in her step, and to me, who understood her fault only through the faint sound of infantile wailing which accompanied her departure, there was a nobility in her action which raised her in an instant to an almost ideal height of unselfish virtue.

Perhaps they felt this, too. Perhaps even these hardened men and the more than hardened woman whose presence was in itself a blight, recognised heroism when they saw it; for when the lawyer, with a certain obvious reluctance, laid his hand on the bolts of the door with the remark, "This is not my work, you know; I am but following out instructions very minutely given me," the smothered growls and grunts which rose in reply lacked the venom which had been infused into all their previous comments.

"I think our friends out there are far enough withdrawn by this time for us to hazard the opening of the door," the lawyer now remarked. "Madam, I hope you will speedily find your way to some comfortable shelter."

Then the door opened, and after a moment closed again in a silence which at least was respectful. Yet I warrant there was not a soul remaining who had not already figured in his mind to what extent his own fortune had been increased by the failure of one of their number to inherit.

As for me, my whole interest in the affair was at an end, and I was only anxious to find my way to where this desolate woman faced the mist with her unfed baby in her arms.

3: A Life Drama

BUT, to reach this wanderer, it was first necessary for me to escape from the house. This proved simple enough. The upstairs room toward which I rushed had a window overlooking one of the many lean-tos already mentioned. The window was fastened, but I had little difficulty in unlocking it or in finding my way to the ground from the top of the lean-to. But once again on terra-firma, I discovered that the mist was now so thick that it had all the effect of a fog at sea. It was icy cold as well, and clung to me so closely that I presently began to shudder most violently, and, strong man though I was, wish myself back in the little attic bedroom from which I had climbed in search of one in more unhappy case than myself.

But these feelings did not cause me to return. If I found the night cold, she must find it biting. If desolation oppressed my naturally hopeful spirit, must it not be more overwhelming yet to one whose memories were sad and whose future was doubtful? And the child! What infant could live in an air like this? Edging away from the house, I called out her name, but no answer came back. The persons whom we had heard flitting in restless longing about the house a few moments before had left in rage, and she, possibly, with them. Yet I could not imagine her joining herself to people of their stamp. There had been a solitariness in her aspect which seemed to forbid any such companionship. Whatever her story, at least she had nothing in common with the two ill-favoured persons whose faces I had seen looking in at the casement. No; I should find her alone, but where? Certainly the ring of mist, surrounding me at that moment, offered me little prospect of finding her anywhere, either easily or soon.

Again I raised my voice, and again I failed to meet with response. Then, fearing to leave the house lest I should be quite lost amid the fences and brush lying between it and the road, I began to feel my way along the walls, calling softly now, instead of loudly, so anxious was I not to miss any chance of carrying comfort, if not succour, to the woman I was seeking. But the night gave back no sound, and when I came to the open door of a shed I welcomed the refuge it offered, and stepped in. I was, of course, confronted by darkness— a different darkness from that without, blanket-like and impenetrable. But when after a moment of intense listening I heard a soft sound as of weariful breathing, I was seized anew by hope, and, feeling in my pocket for my matchbox, I made a light and looked around.

My intuitions had not deceived me: she was there. Sitting on the floor with her cheek pressed against the wall, she revealed to my eager scrutiny only the outlines of her pure, pale profile; but in those outlines and on those pure, pale features I saw such an abandonment of hope, mingled with such quiet endurance, that my whole soul melted before it, and it was with difficulty I managed to say:

"Pardon! I do not wish to intrude; but I am shut out of the house also, and the night is raw and cold. Can I do nothing for your comfort or for— for the child's?"

She turned toward me, and I saw the faintest gleam of pleasure tremble in the sombre stillness of her face, and then the match went out in my hand, and we were again in complete darkness. But the little wail, which at the same instant rose from between her arms, filled up the pause as her sweet "Hush!" filled my heart.

"I am used to the cold," came in another moment from the place where she crouched. "It is the child— she is hungry; and I— I walked here— feeling, hoping that, as my father's heir, I might partake in some slight measure of Uncle Anthony's money. Though my father cast me out before he died, and I have neither home nor money, I do not complain. I forfeited all when—" Another wail, another gentle "Hush!" then silence.

I lit another match. "Look in my face!" I prayed. "I am a stranger, and you would be showing only proper prudence not to trust me. But I overheard your words when you withdrew from the room where your fortune lay; and I honour you, madam. If food can be got for your little one, I will get it."

I caught sight of the convulsive clasp with which she drew to her breast the tiny bundle she held; then darkness fell again.

"A little bread," she entreated; "a little milk— ah, baby, baby, hush!"

"But where can I get it?" I cried. "They are at table inside. I hear them shouting over their good cheer. But perhaps there are neighbours near by. Do you know?"

"There are no neighbours," she replied. "What is got must be got here. I know a way to the kitchen; I used to visit Uncle Anthony when a little child. If you have the courage—"

I laughed. This token of confidence seemed to reassure her. I heard her move; possibly she stood up.

"In the further corner of this shed," said she, "there used to be a trap, connecting this floor with an underground passage-way. A ladder stood against the trap, and the small cellar at the foot communicated by means of an iron-bound door with the large one under the house. Eighteen years ago the wood of that door was old; now it should be rotten. If you have the strength—"

"I will make the effort and see," said I. "But when I am in the cellar, what then?"

"Follow the wall to the right; you will come to a stone staircase. As this staircase has no railing, be careful in ascending it. At the top you will find a door; it leads into a pantry adjoining the kitchen. Some one will be in that pantry. Some one will give you a bite for the child, and when she is quieted and the sun has risen I will go away. It is my duty to do so. My uncle was always upright, if cold. He was perfectly justified in exacting rectitude in his heirs."

I might have rejoined by asking if she detected rectitude in the faces of the greedy throng she had left behind her with the guardian of this estate, but I did not; I was too intent upon following out her directions. Lighting another match, I sought the trap. Alas! it was burdened with a pile of sticks and rubbish which looked as if they had lain there for years. As these had to be removed in total darkness, it took me some time. But once this débris had been scattered and thrown aside, I had no difficulty in finding the trap, and, as the ladder was still there, I was soon on the cellar-bottom. When, by the reassuring shout I gave, she knew that I had advanced thus far, she spoke, and her voice had a soft and thrilling sound.

"Don't forget your own needs," she said. "We two are not so hungry that we cannot wait for you to take a mouthful. I will sing to the baby. Good-bye."

These ten minutes we had spent together had made us friends. The warmth, the strength which this discovery brought, gave to my arm a force that made that old oak door go down before me in three vigorous pushes.

Had the eight fortunate ones above not been indulging in a noisy celebration of their good luck, they must have heard the clatter of this door when it fell. But good eating, good drink, and the prospect of an immediate fortune far beyond their wildest dreams, made all ears deaf, and no pause occurred in the shouts of laughter and the hum of good-fellowship which sifted down between the beams supporting the house above my head. Consequently, little or no courage was required for the completion of my adventure; and before long I came upon the staircase and the door leading from its top into the pantry. The next minute I was in front of that door.

But here a surprise awaited me. The noise, which had hitherto been loud, now became deafening, and I realised that, contrary to Eunice Westonhaugh's expectation, the supper had been spread in the kitchen, and that I was likely to run amuck of the whole despicable crowd in any effort I might make to get a bite for the famished baby.

I therefore naturally hesitated to push open the door, fearing to draw attention to myself; and when I did succeed in lifting the latch and making a small crack, I was so astonished by the sudden lull in the general babble that I drew hastily back and was for descending the stairs in sudden retreat.

But I was prevented from carrying out this cowardly impulse by catching the sound of the lawyer's voice, addressing the assembled guests.

"You have eaten and you have drunk," he was saying; "you are therefore ready for the final toast. Brothers, nephews— heirs all of Anthony Westonhaugh, I rise to propose the name of your generous benefactor, who, if spirits walk this earth, must certainly be with us to-night."

A grumble from more than one throat and an uneasy hitch from such shoulders as I could see through my narrow vantage-hole testified to the rather doubtful pleasure with which this suggestion was received. But the lawyer's tones lost none of their animation, as he went on to say:

"The bottle, from which your glasses are to be replenished for this final draught, he has himself provided. So anxious was he that it should be of the very best and altogether worthy of the occasion it is to celebrate, that he gave into my charge, almost with his dying breath, this key, telling me that it would unlock a cupboard here in which he had placed a bottle of wine of the very rarest vintage. This is the key, and yonder, if I do not mistake, is the cupboard."

They had already quaffed a dozen toasts. Perhaps this was why they accepted this proposition in a sort of panting silence, which remained unbroken while the lawyer crossed the floor, unlocked the cupboard, and brought out before them a bottle which he held up before their eyes with a simulated glee almost saturnine.

"Isn't that a bottle to make your eyes dance? The very cobwebs on it are eloquent. And see! look at this label. Tokay, friends— real Tokay! Mow many of you ever had the opportunity of drinking real Tokay before?"

A long deep sigh from a half-dozen throats, in which some strong but hitherto repressed passion, totally incomprehensible to me, found sudden vent, rose in one simultaneous sound from about that table, and I heard one jocular voice sing out:

"Pass it around, Smead! I'll drink to Uncle Anthony out of that bottle till there isn't a drop left to tell what was in it!"

But the lawyer was in no hurry.

"You have forgotten the letter, for the hearing of which you are called together. Mr. Anthony Westonhaugh left behind him a letter. The time is now come for reading it."

As I heard these words, and realised that the final toast was to be delayed, and that some few moments must yet elapse before the room would be cleared and an opportunity given me for obtaining what I needed for the famishing mother and child, I felt such impatience with the fact, and so much anxiety as to the condition of those I had left behind me, that I questioned whether it would not be better for me to return to them empty-handed than to leave them so long without the comfort of my presence, when the fascination of the scene again seized me, and I found myself lingering to mark its conclusion with an avidity which can only be explained by my sudden and intense consciousness of what it all might mean to her whose witness I had thus inadvertently become.

The careful lawyer began by quoting the injunction with which this letter had been put in his hands. " 'When they are warm with food and wine, but not too warm'— thus his adjuration ran— 'then let them hear my first and only words to them.' I know you are eager for these words. Folk so honest, so convinced of their own purity and uprightness that they can stand unmoved while the youngest and most helpless among them withdraws her claim to wealth and independence rather than share an unmerited bounty— such folk, I say, must be eager, must be anxious, to know why they have been made the legatees of so great a fortune under the easy conditions and amid such slight restrictions as have been imposed upon them by their munificent kinsman."

"I had rather go on drinking toasts," babbled one thick voice.

"I had rather finish my figuring," growled another, in whose grating tones no echo remained of Hector Westonhaugh's formerly honeyed voice. "I am making out a list of stock—"

"Blast your stock— that is, if you mean horses and cows!" screamed a third. "I'm going in for city life. With less money than we have got, Andreas Amsberger got to be Alderman—"

"Alderman!" sneered the whole pack; and the tumult became general. "If more of us had been sick," called out one, "or if Uncle Luke, say, had tripped into the ditch instead of on the edge of it, the fellows who came safe through might have had anything they wanted, even to the governorship of the State, or— or—"

"Silence!" came in commanding tones from the lawyer, who had begun to let his disgust appear, perhaps because he held under his thumb the bottle upon which all eyes were now lovingly centred— so lovingly, indeed, that I ventured to increase in the smallest perceptible degree the crack by means of which I was myself an interested, if unseen, participator in this scene.

A sight of Smead, and a partial glimpse of old Luke's covetous profile, rewarded this small act of daring on my part. The lawyer was standing; all the rest were sitting. Perhaps he alone retained sufficient steadiness to stand, for I observed by the control he exercised over this herd of self-seekers that he had not touched the cup which had so freely gone about among the others. The woman was hidden from me, but the change in her voice, when by any chance I heard it, convinced me that she had not disdained the toasts drunk by her brothers and nephews.

"Silence!" the lawyer reiterated, "or I will smash this bottle on the hearth!" He raised it in one threatening hand, and every man there seemed to tremble, while old Luke put out his long fingers with an entreaty that ill became them. "You want to hear the letter?" old Smead called out. "I thought so."

Putting the bottle down again, but still keeping one hand upon it, he drew a folded paper from his breast. "This," said he, "contains the final injunctions of Anthony Westonhaugh. You will listen, all of you— listen till I am done— or I will not only smash this bottle before your eyes, but I will keep forever buried in my breast the whereabouts of certain drafts and bonds in which, as his heirs, you possess the greatest interest. Nobody but myself knows where these papers can be found."

Whether this was so, or whether the threat was an empty one, thrown out by this subtle old schemer for the purpose of safeguarding his life from their possible hate and impatience, it answered his end with these semi-intoxicated men, and secured him the silence he demanded. Breaking open the seal of the envelope he held, he showed them the folded sheet which it contained with the remark:

"I have had nothing to do with the writing of this letter. It is in Mr. Westonhaugh's own hand, and he was not even so good as to communicate to me the nature of its contents. I was bidden to read it to such as should be here assembled under the provisos mentioned in his will; and as you are now in a condition to listen, I will proceed with my task as required."

This was my time for leaving, but a certain brooding terror, latent in the air, held me chained to the spot, listening with my ears, but receiving the full sense of what was read from the expression of old Luke's face, which was probably more plainly visible to me than to those who sat beside him. For, being bent almost into a bow, as I have said, his forehead came within an inch of touching his plate, and one had to look under his arms, as I did, to catch the workings of his evil mouth, as old Smead gave forth, in his professional sing-song, the following words from his departed client:

" 'Brothers, nephews, and heirs! Though the earth has lain upon my breast a month, I am with you here to-night.' "

A snort from old Luke's snarling lips, and a stir— not a comfortable one— in the jostling crowd, whose shaking arms and clawing hands I could see projecting here and there over the board.

" 'My presence at this feast— a presence which, if unseen, cannot be unfelt, may bring you more pain than pleasure. But if so, it matters little. You are my natural heirs, and I have left you my money. Why, when so little love has characterised our intercourse, must be evident to such of my brothers as can recall their youth and the promise our father exacted from us on the day we set foot in this new land.

" 'There were nine of us in those days— Luke, Salmon, Barbara, Hector, Eustace, Janet, Hudson, William, and myself— and all save one were promising, in appearance at least. But our father knew his offspring, and when we stood, an alien and miserable band in front of Castle Garden, at the foot of the great city whose immensity struck terror to our hearts, he drew all our hands together and made us swear by the soul of our mother, whose body we had left in the sea, that we would keep the bond of brotherhood intact, and share with mutual confidence whatever good fortune this untried country might hold in store for us. You were strong, and your voices rang out loudly. Mine was faint, for I was weak— so weak that my hand had to be held in place by my sister Barbara. But my oath has never lost its hold upon my heart, while yours— answer how you have kept it, Luke; or you, Janet; or you, Hector, of the smooth tongue and vicious heart; or you, or you, who, from one stock, recognise but one law— the law of cold-blooded selfishness, which seeks its own in face of all oaths and at the cost of another man's heart-break.

" 'This I say to such as know my story. But lest there be one amongst you who has not heard from parent or uncle the true tale of him who has brought you all under one roof to-night, I will repeat it here in words, that no man may fail to understand why I remembered my oath through life and beyond death, yet stand above you an accusing spirit while you quaff me toasts and count the gains my justice divides among you.

" 'I, as you all remember, was the weak one— the ne'er-do-weel. When all of you were grown and had homes of your own, I still remained under the family roof-tree, fed by our father's bounty and looking to our father's justice for that share of his savings which he had promised to all alike. When he died it came to me as it came to you; but I had married before that day— married, not, like the rest of you, for what a wife could bring, but for sentiment and true passion. This, in my case, meant a loving wife, but a frail one; and while we lived a little while on the patrimony left us, it was far too small to support us long without some aid from our own hands; and our hands were feeble and could not work. And so we fell into debt for rent and, ere long, for the commonest necessities of life. In vain I struggled to redeem myself; the time of my prosperity had not come, and I only sank deeper and deeper into debt, and finally into indigence. A baby came. Our landlord was kind, and allowed us to stay for two weeks under the roof for whose protection we could not pay; but at the end of that time we were asked to leave, and I found myself on the road with a dying wife, a wailing infant, no money in my purse, and no power in my arm to earn any. Then, when heart and hope were both failing, I recalled that ancient oath and the six prosperous homes scattered up and down the very highway on which I stood. I could not leave my wife; the fever was in her veins, and she could not bear me out of her sight; so I put her on a horse, which a kind old neighbour was willing to lend me, and holding her up with one hand, guided the horse with the other to the home of my brother Luke. He was a straight enough fellow in those days— physically, I mean— and he looked able and strong that morning, as he stood in the open doorway of his house, gazing down at us as we halted before him in the roadway. But his temper had grown greedy with the accumulation of a few dollars, and he shook his head as he closed his door, saying he remembered no oath, and that spenders must expect to be beggars.

" 'Struck to the heart by a rebuff which meant prolongation of the suffering I saw in my dear wife's eyes, I stretched up and kissed her where she sat half fainting on the horse; then I moved on. I came to Barbara's home next. She had been a little mother to me once— that is, she had fed and dressed me, and doled out blows and caresses, and taught me to read and sing. But Barbara in her father's home and without fortune was not the Barbara I saw on the threshold of the little cottage she called her own. She heard my story; looked in the face of my wife, and turned her back. She had no place for idle folk in her little house; if we would work she would feed us; but we must earn our supper or go hungry to bed. I felt the trembling of my wife's frame where she leaned against my arm, and kissing her again, led her on to Salmon's. Luke, Hector, Janet, have you heard him tell of that vision at his gateway, twenty-five years ago? He is not amongst you. For twelve years he has lain beside our father in the churchyard, but his sons may be here, for they were ever alert when gold was in sight or a full glass to be drained. Ask them, ask John, whom I saw skulking behind his cousins at the garden fence that day, what it was they saw as I drew rein under the great tree which shadowed their father's doorstep.

" 'The sunshine had been pitiless that morning, and the head, for whose rest in some loving shelter I would have bartered soul and body, had fallen sidewise till it lay on my arm. Pressed to her breast was our infant, whose little wail struck in pitifully as Salmon called out, "What's to do here to-day?" Do you remember it, lads? Or how you all laughed, little and great, when I asked for a few weeks' stay under my brother's roof till we could all get well and go about our tasks again? I remember. I, who am writing these words from the very mouth of the tomb, I remember; but I did not curse you. I only rode on to the next. The way ran uphill now; and the sun which, since our last stop, had been under a cloud, came out and blistered my wife's cheeks, already burning red with fever. But I pressed my lips upon them, and led her on. With each rebuff I gave her a kiss; and her smile, as her head pressed harder and harder upon my arm, now exerting all its strength to support her, grew almost divine. But it vanished at my nephew Lemuel's.

" 'He was shearing sheep, and could give no time to company; and when late in the day I drew rein at Janet's, and she said she was going to have a dance, and could not look after sick folk, the pallid lips failed to return my despairing embrace; and in the terror which this brought me I went down in the gathering twilight into the deep valley where William raised his sheep, and reckoned day by day the increase among his pigs. Oh, the chill of that descent! Oh, the gloom of the gathering shadows! As we neared the bottom, and I heard a far-off voice shout out a hoarse command, some instinct made me reach up for the last time and bestow that faithful kiss, which was at once her consolation and my prayer. My lips were cold with the terror of my soul, but they were not so cold as the cheek they touched, and, shrieking in my misery and need, I fell before William where he halted by the horse-trough and— He was always a hard man, was William, and it was a shock to him, no doubt, to see us standing in our anguish and necessity before him; but he raised the whip in his hand, and when it fell my arm fell with it, and she slipped from my grasp to the ground and lay in a heap in the roadway.

" 'He was ashamed next minute, and pointed to the house nearby. But I did not carry her in, and she died in the roadway. Do you remember it, Luke? Do you remember it, Lemuel?

" 'But it is not of this that I complain at this hour, nor is it for this I ask you to drink the toast I have prepared for you.' "

The looks, the writhings of old Luke and such others as I could now see through the widening crack my hands unconsciously made in the doorway, told me that the rack was at work in this room so lately given up to revelry. Yet the mutterings, which from time to time came to my ears from one sullen lip or another, did not rise into frightened imprecation or even into any assertion of sorrow or contrition. It seemed as if some suspense common to all held them speechless, if not dumbly apprehensive; and while the lawyer said nothing in recognition of this, he could not have been quite blind to it, for he bestowed one curious glance around the table before he proceeded with old Anthony's words.

Those words had now become short, sharp, and accusatory.

" 'My child lived, and what remained to me of human passion and longing centred in his frail existence. I managed to earn enough for his eating and housing, and in time I was almost happy again. This was while our existence was a struggle; but when, with the discovery of latent powers in my own mind, I began to find my place in the world and to earn money, then your sudden interest in my boy taught me a new lesson in human selfishness, but not as yet new fears. My nature was not one to grasp ideas of evil, and the remembrance of that oath still remained to make me lenient toward you.

" 'I let him see you; not much, not often, but yet often enough for him to realise that he had uncles and cousins, or, if you like it better, kindred. And how did you repay this confidence on my part? What hand had ye in the removal of this small barrier to the fortune my own poor health warranted you in looking upon even in those early days as your own? To others' eyes it may appear none; to mine, ye are one and all his murderers as certainly as all of you were the murderers of the good physician hastening to his aid. For his illness was not a mortal one. He would have been saved if the doctor had reached him; but a precipice swallowed that good Samaritan, and only I of all who looked upon the footprints which harrowed up the road at this dangerous point knew whose shoes would fit those marks. God's providence, it was called, and I let it pass for such; but it was a providence which cost me my boy and made you my heirs.' "

Silence, as sullen in character as the men who found themselves thus openly impeached, had for some minutes now replaced the muttered complaints which had accompanied the first portion of this denunciatory letter. As the lawyer stopped to cast them another of those strange looks, a gleam from old Luke's sidewise eyes startled the man next him, who, shrugging a shoulder, passed the underhanded look on, till it had circled the board and stopped with the man sitting opposite the crooked sinner who had started it.

I began to have a wholesome dread of them all, and was astonished to see the lawyer drop his hand from the bottle, which to some degree offered itself as a possible weapon. But he knew his audience better than I did. Though the bottle was now free for any man's taking, not a hand trembled toward it, nor was a single glass held out.

The lawyer, with an evil smile, went on with his relentless client's story.

" 'Ye had killed my wife; ye had killed my son; but this was not enough. Being lonesome in my great house, which was as much too large for me as my fortune was, I had taken a child to replace the boy I had lost. Remembering the cold blood running in the veins of those nearest me, I chose a boy from alien stock, and for a while knew contentment again. But as he developed and my affections strengthened, the possibility of all my money going his way roused my brothers and sisters from the complacency they had enjoyed since their road to fortune had been secured by my son's death, and one day— can you recall it, Hudson? Can you recall it, Lemuel?— the boy was brought in from the mill, and laid at my feet dead! He had stumbled amongst the great belts, but whose was the voice which, with the loud "Halloo!" had startled him? Can you say, Luke? Can you say, John? I can say, in whose ear it was whispered that three, if not more of you were seen moving among the machinery that fatal morning.

" 'Again God's providence was said to have visited my house; and again ye were my heirs.' "

"Stop there!" broke in the harsh voice of Luke, who was gradually growing livid under his long grey locks.

"Lies! lies!" shrieked Hector, gathering courage from his brother.

"Cut it all and give us the drink!" snarled one of the younger men, who was less under the effect of liquor than the rest.

But a trembling voice muttered "Hush!" and the lawyer, whose eye had grown steely under these comments, took advantage of the sudden silence which had followed this last objurgation, and went steadily on:

" 'Some men would have made a will and denounced you. I made a will, but did not denounce you. I am no breaker of oaths. More than this, I learned a new trick. I, who hated all subtlety, and looked upon craft as the favourite weapon of the devil, learned to smile with my lips while my heart was burning with hatred. Perhaps this was why you all began to smile, too, and joke me about certain losses I had sustained, by which you meant the gains which had come to me. That these gains were many times greater than you realised added to the sting of this good-fellowship, but I held my peace, and you began to have confidence in a good-nature which nothing could shake. You even gave me a supper.' "

A supper!

What was there in these words to cause every man there to stop in whatever movement he was making, and stare with wide-open eyes intently at the reader? He had spoken quietly; he had not even looked up; but the silence which for some minutes back had begun to reign over that tumultuous gathering now became breathless, and the seams in Hector's cheeks deepened to a bluish criss-cross.

" 'You remember that supper?' "

As the word rang out again I threw wide the door. I might have stalked openly into their circle; not a man there would have noticed me.

" 'It was a memorable occasion,' " the lawyer read on, with stoical impassiveness. " 'There was not a brother lacking. Luke, and Hudson, and William, and Hector, and Eustace's boys, as well as Eustace himself; Janet too, and Salmon's Lemuel, and Barbara's son, who, even if his mother had gone the way of all flesh, had so trained her black brood in the love of the things of this world that I scarcely missed her when I looked about among you all for the eight sturdy brothers and sisters who had joined in one clasp and one oath under the eye of a true-hearted immigrant, our father. What I did miss was one true eye lifted to my glance; but I did not show that I missed it. And so our peace was made, and we separated, you to wait for your inheritance, and I for the death which was to secure it to you. For when the cup passed round that night you each dropped into it a tear of repentance, and tears make bitter drinking. I sickened as I quaffed, and was never myself again, as you know. Do you understand me, you cruel, crafty ones?' "

Did they not! Heads quaking, throats gasping, teeth chattering— no longer sitting— all risen, all looking with wild eyes for the door— was it not apparent that they understood, and only waited for one more word to break away and flee the accursed house?

But that word lingered. Old Smead had now grown pale himself, and read with difficulty the lines which were to end this frightful scene. As I saw the red gleam of terror shine out from his small eyes, I wondered if he had been but the blind tool of his implacable client, and was as ignorant as those before him of what was to follow this heavy arraignment. The dread with which he finally proceeded was too marked for me to doubt the truth of this surmise. This is what he found himself forced to read:

" 'There was a bottle reserved for me. It had a green label on it— ' "

A shriek from every one there and a hurried look up and down at the bottles standing on the table.

" 'A green label,' " the lawyer repeated, " 'and it made a goodly appearance as it was set down before me. But you had no liking for wine with a green label on the bottle. One by one you refused it, and when I rose to quaff my final glass alone, every eye before me fell and did not lift again until the glass was drained. I did not notice this then, but I see it all now, just as I hear again the excuses you gave for not filling your glasses as the bottle went round. One had drunk enough; one suffered from qualms brought on by an unaccustomed indulgence in oysters; one felt that wine good enough for me was too good for him, and so on, and so on. Not one to show frank eyes and drink with me as I was ready to drink with him! Why? Because one and all of you knew what was in that cup, and would not risk an inheritance so nearly within your grasp.' "

"Lies! lies!" again shrieked the raucous voice of Luke, smothered by terror; while oaths, shouts, imprecations, rang out in horrid tumult from one end of the table to the other, till the lawyer's face, over which a startling change was rapidly passing, drew the whole crowd forward again in awful fascination, till they clung, speechless, arm in arm, shoulder propping shoulder, while he gasped out in dismay equal to their own these last fatal words:

" 'That was at your board, my brothers; now you are at mine. You have eaten my viands, drunk of my cup; and now, through the mouth of the one man who has been true to me because therein lies his advantage, I offer you a final glass. Will you drink it? I drank yours. By that old-time oath which binds us to share each other's fortune, I ask you to share this cup with me. You will not?' "

"No, no, no!" shouted one after another.

" 'Then,' " the inexorable voice went on, a voice which to these miserable souls was no longer that of the lawyer, but an issue from the grave they had themselves dug for Anthony Westonhaugh, " 'know that your abstinence comes too late; that you have already drunk the toast destined to end your lives. The bottle which you must have missed from that board of yours has been offered you again. A label is easily changed, and— Luke, John, Hector, I know you all so well— that bottle has been greedily emptied by you; and while I, who sipped sparingly, lived three weeks, you, who have drunk deep, have not three hours before you, possibly not three minutes.' "

Oh, the wail of those lost souls as this last sentence issued in a final pant of horror from the lawyer's quaking lips! Shrieks— howls— prayers for mercy— groans deep enough to make the hair rise— and curses, at sound of which I shut my ears in horror, only to open them again in dread, as, with one simultaneous impulse, they flung themselves upon the lawyer, who, foreseeing this rush, had backed up against the wall.

He tried to stem the tide.

"I knew nothing of the poisoning," he protested. "That was not my reason for declining to drink. I wished to preserve my senses— to carry out my client's wishes. As God lives, I did not know he meant to carry his revenge so far. Mercy! mer—"

But the hands which clutched him were the hands of murderers, and the lawyer's puny figure could not stand up against the avalanche of human terror, relentless fury, and mad vengeance which now rolled in upon it. As I bounded to his relief he turned his ghastly face upon me. But the way between us was blocked, and I was preparing myself to see him sink before my eyes when an unearthly shriek rose from behind us, and every living soul in that mass of struggling humanity paused, set and staring, with stiffened limbs and eyes fixed, not on him, not on me, but on one of their own number— the only woman amongst them, Janet Clapsaddle— who, with clutching hands clawing her breast, was reeling in solitary agony in her place beside the board. As they looked she fell, and lay with upturned face and staring eyes, in whose glassy depths the ill-fated ones who watched her could see mirrored their own impending doom.

It was an awful moment. A groan, in which was concentrated the despair of seven miserable souls, rose from that petrified band; then, man by man, they separated and fell back, showing on each weak or wicked face the particular passion which had driven them into crime and made them the victims of this wholesale revenge. There had been some sort of bond between them till the vision of death rose before each shrinking soul. Shoulder to shoulder in crime, they fell apart as their doom approached, and rushing, shrieking, each man for himself, they one and all sought to escape by doors, windows, or any outlet which promised release from this fatal spot. One rushed by me— I do not know which one— and I felt as if a flame from hell had licked me, his breath was so hot and the moans he uttered so like the curses we imagine to blister the lips of the lost. None of them saw me; they did not even detect the sliding form of the lawyer crawling away before them to some place of egress of which they had no knowledge; and, convinced that in this scene of death I could play no part worthy of her who awaited me, I too rushed away, and, seeking my old path through the cellar, sought her side, where she still crouched in patient waiting against the dismal wall.

4: The Final Shock

HER BABY had fallen asleep. I knew this by the faint, low sweetness of her croon; and, shuddering with the horrors I had witnessed— horrors which acquired a double force from the contrast presented by the peace of this quiet spot and the hallowing influence of the sleeping infant— I threw myself down in the darkness at her feet, gasping out:

"Oh, thank God and your uncle's seeming harshness that you have escaped the doom which has overtaken those others! You and your babe are still alive; while they—"

"What of them? What has happened to them? You are breathless, trembling; you have brought no bread—"

"No, no. Food in this house means death. Your relatives gave food and wine to your uncle at a supper; he, though now in his grave, has returned the same to them. There was a bottle—"

I stopped, appalled. A shriek, muffled by distance but quivering with the same note of death I had heard before, had gone up again from the other side of the wall against which we were leaning.

"Oh!" she gasped, "and my father was at that supper! my father, who died last night cursing the day he was born! We are an accursed race! I have known it all my life. Perhaps that was why I mistook passion for love. And my baby— O God, have mercy! God, have mercy!"

The plaintiveness of that cry, the awesomeness of what I had seen— of what was going on at that moment almost within the reach of our arms— the darkness, the desolation of our two souls, affected me as I had never been affected in my whole life before. In the concentrated experience of the last two hours I seemed to have lived years under this woman's eyes; to know her as I did my own heart; to love her as I did my own soul. No growth of feeling ever brought the ecstasy of that moment's inspiration. With no sense of doing anything strange, with no fear of being misunderstood, I reached out my hand, and, touching hers where it lay clasped about her infant, I said:

"We are two poor wayfarers. A rough road loses half its difficulties when trodden by two. Shall we, then, fare on together— you, I, and the little child?"

She gave a sob; there was sorrow, longing, grief, hope in its thrilling, low sound. As I recognised the latter emotion I drew her to my breast. The child did not separate us.

"We shall be happy," I murmured, and her sigh seemed to answer a delicious "Yes," when suddenly there came a shock to the partition against which we leaned, and, starting from my clasp, she cried:

"Our duty is in there. Shall we think of ourselves, or even of each other, while these men, all relatives of mine, are dying on the other side of this wall?"

Seizing my hand, she dragged me to the trap; but here I took the lead and helped her down the ladder. When I had her safely on the floor at the foot she passed in front of me again; but once up the steps and in front of the kitchen door I thrust her behind me, for one glance into the room beyond had convinced me it was no place for her.

But she would not be held back. She crowded forward beside me, and together we looked upon the wreck within. It was a never-to-be-forgotten scene. The demon that was in those men had driven them to demolish furniture, dishes, everything. In one heap lay what, an hour before, had been an inviting board surrounded by rollicking and greedy guests. But it was not upon this overthrow we stopped to look. It was upon something that mingled with it, dominated it, and made of this chaos only a setting to awful death. Janet's face, in all its natural hideousness and depravity, looked up from the floor beside this heap; and farther on, lay the twisted figure of him they called Hector, with something more than the seams of greedy longing round his wide-staring eyes and icy temples. Two in this room! and on the threshold of the one beyond a moaning third, who sank into eternal silence as we approached; and before the fireplace in the great room a horrible crescent that had once been aged Luke, upon whom we had no sooner turned our backs than we caught glimpses here and there of other prostrate forms which moved once under our eyes and then moved no more.

One only still stood upright, and he was the man whose obtrusive figure and sordid expression had so revolted me in the beginning. There was no colour now in his flabby and heavily fallen cheeks. The eyes, in whose false sheen I had seen so much of evil, were glazed now, and his big and burly frame shook the door it pressed against. He was staring at a small slip of paper he held, and, from his anxious looks, appeared to miss something which neither of us had power to supply. It was a spectacle to make devils rejoice and mortals fly aghast. But Eunice had a spirit like an angel, and, drawing near him, she said:

"Is there anything I can do for you, Cousin John?"

He started, looked at her with the same blank gaze he had hitherto cast at the wall, then some words formed on his working lips, and we heard:

"I cannot reckon; I was never good at figures. But if Luke is gone, and William, and Hector, and Barbara's boy, and Janet, how much does that leave for me?"

He was answered almost the moment he spoke, but it was by other tongues, and in another world than this. As his body fell forward I tore open the door before which he had been standing, and, lifting the almost fainting Eunice in my arms, I carried her out into the night. As I did so I caught a final glimpse of the pictured face I had found it so hard to understand a couple of hours before. I understood it now.

A surprise awaited us as we turned toward the gate. The mist had lifted, and a keen but not unpleasant wind was driving from the north. Borne on it we heard voices. The village had emptied itself, probably at the alarm given by the lawyer, and it was these good men and women whose approach we heard. As we had nothing to fear from them we went forward to meet them. As we did so three crouching figures rose from some bushes we passed and ran scurrying before us through the gateway. They were the late-comers who had shown such despair at being shut out from this fatal house, and who probably were not yet acquainted with the doom they had escaped.

THERE WERE lanterns in the hands of some of the men who now approached. As we stopped before them these lanterns were held up, and by the light they gave we saw, first, the lawyer's frightened face, then the visages of two men who seemed to be persons of some authority.

"What news?" faltered the lawyer, seeing by our faces that we knew the worst.

"Bad," I returned; "the poison had lost none of its virulence by being mixed so long with the wine."

"How many?" asked the man on his right anxiously.

"Eight," was my solemn reply.

"There were but eight," faltered the lawyer; "that means, then, all?"

"All," I repeated.

A murmur of horror rose, swelled, then died out in tumult as the crowd swept on past us.

For a moment we stood watching these people; saw them pause before the door we had left open behind us, then rush in, leaving a wail of terror on the shuddering midnight air. When all was quiet again, Eunice laid her hand upon my arm.

"Where shall we go?" she asked despairingly. "I do not know of a house that will open to me."

The answer to her question came from other lips than mine.

"I do not know one that will not," spoke up a voice behind our backs. "Your withdrawal from the circle of heirs did not take from you your rightful claim to an inheritance which, according to your uncle's will, could be forfeited only by a failure to arrive at the place of distribution within the hour set by the testator. As I see the matter now, this appeal to the honesty of the persons so collected was a test by which my unhappy client strove to save from the general fate such members of his miserable family as fully recognised their sin and were truly repentant."

It was Lawyer Smead. He had lingered behind the others to tell her this. She was, then, no outcast, but rich, very rich; how rich I dared not acknowledge to myself, lest a remembrance of the man who was the last to perish in that house of death should return to make this calculation hateful. It was a blow which struck deep— deeper than any either of us had sustained that night. As we came to realise it, I stepped slowly back, leaving her standing erect and tall in the middle of the roadway, with her baby in her arms. But not for long; soon she was close at my side murmuring softly:

"Two wayfarers still! Only, the road will be more difficult and the need of companionship greater. Shall we fare on together, you, I— and the little child?"

_____________

5: The Luminous Shield

H. P. Blavatsky

1831-1891

In: Nightmare Tales, 1892

Helena Petrovna Blavatsky

WE were a small and select party of lighthearted travellers. We had arrived at Constantinople a week before from Greece, and had devoted fourteen hours a day ever since to toiling up and down the steep heights of Pera, visiting bazaars, climbing to the tops of minarets and fighting our way through armies of hungry dogs, the traditional masters of the streets of Stamboul. Nomadic life is infectious, they say, and no civilization is strong enough to destroy the charm of unrestrained freedom when it has once been tasted. The gipsy cannot be tempted from his tent, and even the common tramp finds a fascination in his comfortless and precarious existence, that prevents him taking to any fixed abode and occupation. To guard my spaniel Ralph from falling a victim to this infection, and joining the canine Bedouins that infested the streets, was my chief care during our stay in Constantinople. He was a fine fellow, my constant companion and cherished friend. Afraid of losing him, I kept a strict watch over his movements; for the first three days, however, he behaved like a tolerably well-educated quadruped, and remained faithfully at my heels. At every impudent attack from his Mahomedan cousins, whether intended as a hostile demonstration or an overture of friendship, his only reply would be to draw in his tail between his legs, and with an air of dignified modesty seek protection under the wing of one or other of our party.

As he had thus from the first shown so decided an aversion to bad company, I began to feel assured of his discretion, and by the end of the third day I had considerably relaxed my vigilance. This carelessness on my part, however, was soon punished, and I was made to regret my misplaced confidence. In an unguarded moment he listened to the voice of some four-footed syren, and the last I saw of him was the end of his bushy tail, vanishing round the corner of a dirty, winding little back street.

Greatly annoyed, I passed the remainder of the day in a vain search after my dumb companion. I offered twenty, thirty, forty francs reward for him. About as many vagabond Maltese began a regular chase, and towards evening we were invaded in our hotel by the whole troop, every man of them with a more or less mangy cur in his arms, which he tried to persuade me was my lost dog. The more I denied, the more solemnly they insisted, one of them actually going down on his knees, snatching from his bosom an old corroded metal image of the Virgin, and swearing a solemn oath that the Queen of Heaven herself had kindly appeared to him to point out the right animal. The tumult had increased to such an extent that it looked as if Ralph’s disappearance was going to be the cause of a small riot, and finally our landlord had to send for a couple of Kavasses from the nearest police station, and have this regiment of bipeds and quadrupeds expelled by main force. I began to be convinced that I should never see my dog again, and I was the more despondent since the porter of the hotel, a semi-respectable old brigand, who, to judge by appearances, had not passed more than half-a-dozen years at the galleys, gravely assured me that all my pains were useless, as my spaniel was undoubtedly dead and devoured too by this time, the Turkish dogs being very fond of their more toothsome English brothers.

All this discussion had taken place in the street at the door of the hotel, and I was about to give up the search for that night at least, and enter the hotel, when an old Greek lady, a Phanariote who had been hearing the fracas from the steps of a door close by, approached our disconsolate group and suggested to Miss H—, one of our party, that we should enquire of the dervishes concerning the fate of Ralph.

“And what can the dervishes know about my dog?” said I, in no mood to joke, ridiculous as the proposition appeared.

“The holy men know all, Kyrea (Madam),” said she, somewhat mysteriously. “Last week I was robbed of my new satin pelisse, that my son had just brought me from Broussa, and, as you all see, I have recovered it and have it on my back now.”

“Indeed? Then the holy men have also managed to metamorphose your new pelisse into an old one by all appearances,” said one of the gentlemen who accompanied us, pointing as he spoke to a large rent in the back, which had been clumsily repaired with pins.

“And that is just the most wonderful part of the whole story,” quietly answered the Phanariote, not in the least disconcerted. “They showed me in the shining circle the quarter of the town, the house, and even the room in which the Jew who had stolen my pelisse was just about to rip it up and cut it into pieces. My son and I had barely time to run over to the Kalindjikoulosek quarter, and to save my property. We caught the thief in the very act, and we both recognized him as the man shown to us by the dervishes in the magic moon. He confessed the theft and is now in prison.”

Although none of us had the least comprehension of what she meant by the magic moon and the shining circle, and were all thoroughly mystified by her account of the divining powers of the “ holy men,” we still felt somehow satisfied from her manner that the story was not altogether a fabrication, and since she had at all events apparently succeeded in recovering her property through being somehow assisted by the dervishes, we determined to go the following morning and see for ourselves, for what had helped her might help us likewise.

The monotonous cry of the Muezzins from the tops of the minarets had just proclaimed the hour of noon as we, descending from the heights of Pera to the port of Galata, with difficulty managed to elbow our way through the unsavoury crowds of the commercial quarter of the town. Before we reached the docks we had been half deafened by the shouts and incessant ear-piercing cries and the Babel-like confusion of tongues. In this part of the city it is useless to expect to be guided by either house numbers, or names of streets. The location of any desired place is indicated by its proximity to some other more conspicuous building, such as a mosque, bath or European shop; for the rest, one has to trust to Allah and his prophet.

It was with the greatest difficulty, therefore, that we finally discovered the British ship-chandler’s store, at the rear of which we were to find the place of our destination. Our hotel guide was as ignorant of the dervishes’ abode as we were ourselves; but at last a small Greek, in all the simplicity of primitive undress, consented for a modest copper backsheesh to lead us to the dancers.

When wc arrived we were shown into a vast and gloomy hall that looked like a deserted stable. It was long and narrow, the floor was thickly strewn with sand as in a riding school, and it was lighted only by small windows placed at some height from the ground. The dervishes had finished their morning performances, and were evidently resting from their exhausting labours. They looked completely prostrated, some lying about in corners, others sitting on their heels staring vacantly into space, engaged, as we were informed, in meditation on their invisible deity. They appeared to have lost all power of sight and hearing, for none of them responded to our questions until a great gaunt figure, wearing a tall cap that made him look at least seven feet high, emerged from an obscure corner. Informing us that he was their chief, the giant gave us to understand that the saintly brethren, being in the habit of receiving orders for additional ceremonies from Allah himself, must on no account be disturbed. But when our interpreter had explained to him the object of our visit, which concerned himself alone, as he was the sole custodian of the “ divining rod,” his objections vanished and he extended his hand for alms. Upon being gratified, he intimated that only two of our party could be admitted at one time into the confidence of the future, and led the way, followed by Miss H— and myself.

Plunging after him into what seemed to be a half subterranean passage, we were led to the foot of a tall ladder leading to a chamber under the roof. We scrambled up after our guide, and at the top we found ourselves in a wretched garret of moderate size, with bare walls and destitute of furniture. The floor was carpeted with a thick layer of dust, and cobwebs festooned the walls in neglected confusion. In the corner we saw something that I at first mistook for a bundle of old rags; but the heap presently moved and got on its legs, advanced to the middle of the room and stood before us, the most extraordinary looking creature that I ever beheld. Its sex was female, but whether she was a woman or child it was impossible to decide. She was a hideous-looking dwarf, with an enormous head, the shoulders of a grenadier, with a waist in proportion; the whole supported by two short, lean, spider-like legs that seemed unequal to the task of bearing the weight of the monstrous body. She had a grinning countenance like the face of a satyr, and it was ornamented with letters and signs from the Koran painted in bright yellow. On her forehead was a blood-red crescent; her head was crowned with a dusty tarbouche, or fez; her legs were arrayed in large Turkish trousers, and some dirty white muslin wrapped round her body barely sufficed to conceal its hideous deformities. This creature rather let herself drop than sat down in the middle of the floor, and as her weight descended on the rickety boards it sent up a cloud of dust that set us coughing and sneezing. This was the famous Tatmos known as the Damascus oracle!

Without losing time in idle talk, the dervish produced a piece of chalk, and traced around the girl a circle about six feet in diameter. Fetching from behind the door twelve small copper lamps which he filled with some dark liquid from a small bottle which he drew from his bosom, he placed them symmetrically around the magic circle. He then broke a chip of wood from a panel of the half ruined door, which bore the marks of many a similar depredation, and, holding the chip between his thumb and finger he began blowing on it at regular intervals, alternating the blowing with mutterings of some kind of weird incantation, till suddenly, and without any apparent cause for its ignition, there appeared a spark on the chip and it blazed up like a dry match. The dervish then lit the twelve lamps at this self-generated flame.

During this process, Tatmos, who had sat till then altogether unconcerned and motionless, removed her yellow slippers from her naked feet, and throwing them into a corner, disclosed as an additional beauty, a sixth toe on each deformed foot. The dervish now reached over into the circle and seizing the dwarf’s ankles gave her a jerk, as if he had been lifting a bag of corn, and raised her clear off the ground, then, stepping back a pace, held her head downward. He shook her as one might a sack to pack its contents, the motion being regular and easy. He then swung her to and fro like a pendulum until the necessary momentum was acquired, when letting go one foot, and seizing the other with both hands, he made a powerful muscular effort and whirled her round in the air as if she had been an Indian club.

My companion had shrunk back in alarm to the farthest corner. Round and round the dervish swung his living burden, she remaining perfectly passive. The motion increased in rapidity until the eye could hardly follow the body in its circuit. This continued for perhaps two or three minutes, until, gradually slackening the motion, he at length stopped it altogether, and in an instant had landed the girl on her knees in the middle of the lamp-lit circle. Such was the Eastern mode of mesmerization as practised among the dervishes.

And now the dwarf seemed entirely oblivious of external objects and in a deep trance. Her head and jaw dropped on her chest, her eyes were glazed and staring, and altogether her appearance was even more hideous than before. The dervish then carefully closed the shutters of the only window, and we should have been in total obscurity, but that there was a hole bored in it, through which entered a bright ray of sunlight that shot through the darkened room and shone upon the girl. He arranged her drooping head so that the ray should fall upon the crown, after which, motioning us to remain silent, he folded his arms upon his bosom, and, fixing his gaze upon the bright spot, became as motionless as a stone image. I, too, riveted my eyes on the same spot, wondering what was to happen next, and how all this strange ceremony was to help me to find Ralph. By degrees, the bright patch, as if it had drawn through the sunbeam a greater splendour from without and condensed it within its own area, shaped itself into a brilliant star, sending out rays in every direction as from a focus.

A curious optical effect then occurred: the room, which had been previously partially lighted by the sunbeam, grew darker and darker as the star increased in radiance, until we found ourselves in an Egyptian gloom. The star twinkled, trembled and turned, at first with a slow gyratory motion, then faster and faster, increasing its circumference at every rotation until it formed a brilliant disk, and we no longer saw the dwarf, who seemed absorbed into its light. Having gradually attained an extremely rapid velocity, as the girl had done when whirled by the dervish, the motion began to decrease and finally merged into a feeble vibration, like the shimmer of moonbeams on rippling water. Then it flickered for a moment longer, emitted a few last flashes, and assuming the density and iridescence of an immense opal, it remained motionless. The disk now radiated a moon-like lustre, soft and silvery, but instead of illuminating the garret, it seemed only to intensify the darkness. The edge of the circle was not penumbrous, but on the contrary sharply defined like that of a silver shield.

All being now ready, the dervish without uttering a word, or removing his gaze from the disk, stretched out a hand, and taking hold of mine, he drew me to his side and pointed to the luminous shield. Looking at the place indicated, we saw large patches appear like those on the moon. These gradually formed themselves into figures that began moving about in high relief in their natural colours. They neither appeared like a photograph nor an engraving; still less like the reflection of images on a mirror, but as if the disk were a cameo, and they were raised above its surface and then endowed with life and motion. To my astonishment and my friend’s consternation, we recognized the bridge leading from Galata to Stamboul spanning the Golden Horn from the new to the old city. There were the people hurrying to and fro, steamers and gay caiques gliding on the blue Bosphorus, the many coloured buildings, villas and palaces reflected in the water; and the whole picture illuminated by the noon-day sun. It passed like a panorama, but so vivid was the impression that we could not tell whether it or ourselves were in motion. All was bustle and life, but not a sound broke the oppressive stillness. It was noiseless as a dream. It was a phantom picture. Street after street and quarter after quarter succeeded one another; there was the bazaar, with its narrow, roofed passages, the small shops on either side, the coffee houses with gravely smoking Turks; and as either they glided past us or we past them, one of the smokers upset the narghile and coffee of another, and a volley of soundless invectives caused us great amusement. So we travelled with the picture until we came to a large building that I recognized as the palace of the Minister of Finance. In a ditch behind the house, and close to a mosque, lying in a pool of mud with his silken coat all bedraggled, lay my poor Ralph! Panting and crouching down as if exhausted, he seemed to be in a dying condition; and near him were gathered some sorry-looking curs who lay blinking in the sun and snapping at the flies!

I had seen all that I desired, although I had not breathed a word about the dog to the dervish, and had come more out of curiosity than with the idea of any success. I was impatient to leave at once and recover Ralph, but as my companion besought me to remain a little while longer, I reluctantly consented. The scene faded away and Miss H placed herself in turn by the side of the dervish.

“I will think of him,” she whispered in my ear with the eager tone that young ladies generally assume when talking of the worshipped him. There is a long stretch of sand and a blue sea with white waves dancing in the sun, and a great steamer is ploughing her way along past a desolate shore, leaving a milky track behind her. The deck is full of life, the men are busy forward, the cook with white cap and apron is coming out of the galley, uniformed officers are moving about, passengers fill the quarter-deck, lounging, flirting or reading, and a young man we both recognize comes forward and leans over the taffrail. It is— him.

Miss H— gives a little gasp, blushes and smiles, and concentrates her thoughts again. The picture of the steamer vanishes; the magic moon remains for a few moments blank. But new spots appear on its luminous face, we see a library slowly emerging from its depths— a library with green carpet and hangings, and book-shelves round the sides of the room. Seated in an arm-chair at a table under a hanging lamp, is an old gentleman writing. His gray hair is brushed back from his forehead, his face is smooth-shaven and his countenance has an expression of benignity.

The dervish made a hasty motion to enjoin silence; the light on the disk quivers, but resumes its steady brilliancy, and again its surface is imageless for a second.

We are back in Constantinople now and out of the pearly depths of the shield forms our own apartment in the hotel. There are our papers and books on the bureau, my friend’s travelling hat in a corner, her ribbons hanging on the glass, and lying on the bed the very dress she had changed when starting out on our expedition. No detail was lacking to make the identification complete; and as if to prove that we were not seeing something conjured up in our own imagination, there lay upon the dressing-table two unopened letters, the handwriting on which was clearly recognized by my friend. They were from a very dear relative of hers, from whom she had expected to hear when in Athens, but had been disappointed. The scene faded away and we now saw her brother’s room with himself lying upon the lounge, and a servant bathing his head, whence, to our horror, blood was trickling. We had left the boy in perfect health but an hour before; and upon seeing this picture my companion uttered a cry of alarm, and seizing me by the hand dragged me to the door. We rejoined our guide and friends in the long hall and hurried back to the hotel.

Young H— had fallen downstairs and cut his forehead rather badly; in our room, on the dressing-table were the two letters which had arrived in our absence. They had been forwarded from Athens. Ordering a carriage, I at once drove to the Ministry of Finance, and alighting with the guide, hurriedly made for the ditch I had seen for the first time in the shining disk!

In the middle of the pool, badly mangled, half-famished, but still alive, lay my beautiful spaniel Ralph, and near him were the blinking curs, unconcernedly snapping at the flies.

______________

6: More Than a Story

Lynn D. Follett
fl. 1904-6

Leslie’s Monthly Magazine July 1904

World's News (Sydney) 27 Aug 1904

THE TELEGRAPH editor sat in his little coop on the third floor of the News Building. There was the constant click of the telegraph instruments at either side of him, where sat the Associated Press and special wire operators so near that when the sheets came out of the typewriters he could reach over and take them.

Messenger boys kept running in, sometimes three in a bunch, sometimes ten minutes apart, threw down yellow envelopes on his desk, and unceremoniously shoved their books on top of his copy with the peremptory adjuration

"Sign."

To one unused to the place it would have seemed a mild pandemonium, forbidding concentration of effort, but the telegraph editor sat there totally unaffected by the turmoil, sorting out the stories as they came over the two wires or were brought in by messenger, discarding, cutting, and editing. A green man would have been utterly distracted by the way copy piled up on that desk, all in the course of the night to be jammed into thirteen columns of print, but it was routine to him. It didn't even keep him busy all the time. He occasionally sat back in his chair for a moment's relaxation, and the pleasant way in which he swore at the cockroaches as they climbed in and out of his paste-pot told the operators old Ben was in a pleasant mood that night.

"Got anything you can force for a slug single, Ben? Something that will stand page one?"

It was Carroll, the news editor, who had charge of the make-up of the paper. "I'm shy one first page flash and the first edition goes in twenty minutes," he added.

"Bulletin here; wreck on the B.L. and W. near Anderson; passenger train; several people reported killed. That's not much though, and you know what usually happens to those bulletins."

"Yes, I know," answered Carroll, "but if it doesn't stand up we can kill it in the next edition. Force a head on it now, anyhow."

Carroll started for the composing-room to make up for the first, and old Ben, with the four line bulletin before him, wrote a five- deck head with the celerity born of long practice, pasted the little bulletin on a sheet of paper, drew the two lines through it that mean "double lead," put head and story in the copy pipe, and it was in the composing-room almost as soon as Carroll.

It was one o'clock in the morning now, and the best of the news was in. Messenger boys were fifteen or twenty minutes apart, the special wire worked only at intervals, and while the A.P. operator kept pounding along as industriously as he bad at seven in the evening, the stuff that came out of his typewriter was mostly the kind the telegraph editor looked at and threw on the floor. When the last form of the first edition had gone into the stereotyping room Carroll came back upstairs.

"Anything doing with that wreck?" he asked.

"No; but there's time yet," replied Ben. "We can wait till two o'clock, and if it doesn't make good then I'll raise on one of those Washington stories."

It would probably be slack with Carroll for half an hour now, and he sat down, on one end of the telegraph editor's desk.

"How does it seem to be a single man again, Ben?" he asked.

"It doesn't seem, and, thank God, this is the end of it. The wife and the babies will be home to-morrow."

"Ben, I believe yours is a case of real domestication, and five years ago I wouldn't have thought it possible."

Old Ben reached back in his desk, back of the paste-pot, and took out a photograph. He handed it to Carroll.

"They're pretty kids," commented the news editor. "How old is, the biggest one now, Ben?"

"He's almost four and the little chap's two years and three months. I want to tell you Carroll," and the telegraph editor banged his fist on the desk for emphasis, "that when you go home and meet gents like these it makes a man of you. It it wasn't for these fellows and their mother I wouldn't even be respectable!"

Carroll got down off the desk and handed back the picture. The A.P. man pulled a new sheet out of his typewriter. Ben picked it up.

"Guess that slug single can stand," he said. "New bulletin says make the first one regular and make the number of deaths read 16; story coming."

"Story's coming now," called the operator. Carroll went over by the operator and watched the story as it turned up line by line out of the typewriter.

"This is the best story of the night, Ben," he cried, enthusiastically, when a dozen lines had come into view. "Train jumps the track, catches fire—"

"Lots of trains do that, Carroll. If a train should stay on the track, catch fire and burn while running forty miles an hour, now that would be a story."

"Yes, but listen," interrupted Carroll, and he read:—

" 'In the third coach the rescuers came upon the burned body of a woman. She was lying prone in the aisle of the car, and when they lifted the body up two little children were found beneath her. They were dead, but evidently from suffocation. Their bodies had been protected from the flames by that of the mother, who had given their own life in the futile endeavor to save her children.' "

"It's a good feature," admitted Ben. "Sort of braces up the yarn."

"It's human interest," returned Carroll, and that always makes a good story. "Feed the thing out as fast as you get it and raise the head to a double-column. Play the feature.

Something on the 'Gave Her Life for Her Children's Sake' idea."

Carroll had got as far as the door of the telegraph coop, then he stopped and suddenly turned around.

"Say, Ben," he said, "did you ever think that this story, and every one of them, means something to somebody? Means more than just something they read in the paper?"

Ben looked up from the first sheet of the substitute story which the A.P. man had handed him.

"Don't know that it ever struck me just that way," he said, "but everybody's got to die some time, and leave relatives to mourn, and this is a rattling good story."

Without any further comment Carroll went out. The story ran for another sheet and part of a third. Ben kept dropping it down the pipe almost in paragraphs.

"Now ask those ignoramuses on the other end of that wire for the death list," said Ben to the operator when the story had come. "Tell them I can dream those nice little human interest details, but I can't dream the names. Tell them it's after 2 o'clock in the morning, and ask them if they think this is a weekly," he added, with considerable heat.

Having thus stirred up the sending end of the press wire, he wrote on a sheet of paper, "Turn rule after first paragraph Anderson wreck for list of dead to come," and sent it down the pipe.

It was a waiting game now. The telegraph instrument still clicked and there was the steady pound of the typewriter, but nothing came over the wire but digests of department reports from Washington and other stuff similarly dead.

"Ben!" It was Carroll yelling up the copy pipe from the composing-room three floors below.

"Tell the A.P. we've got to have that death list. Quick, too!"

The renewed demand for the death list had hardly been made over the wire when the operator announced, "They're going to start it now."

It doesn't take long to get 16 names, even with a partial list of addresses and a catalogue of injuries. The instant he got the last name the operator tore the sheet from the machine, threw it to Ben, then put a new sheet in his typewriter, and was ready when the telegraph instrument began clicking off dry rot from Washington, beginning right in the middle of a sentence, where it had left off when the break was made to send the death list.

Ben seized the sheet as it fell on his desk, wrote the head line, "Death list, insert Anderson wreck," and so quickly you could hardly see the pencil travel, put in the paragraph marks at the head of the first three names on the list, and drew the two lines under them, indicating that the names were to be set in caps.

He put in the fourth paragraph mark just as quickly, then the pencil dropped, his hand paused on the sheet of copy before him, and when it convulsively contracted there was a wrinkled piece of paper in his grasp. His head fell forward on the table.

"Ben! Ben!" It was Carroll again at the pipe. "Where is that death list? Only four minutes to go. I've got to have it!"

No answer.

"Ben!" The operator turned around now. He saw Ben forward on his desk, his head in his arms. The telegraph editor breathed, but for that be might be dead. The operator went to the pipe.

"Mr. Carroll," he called. "That list is here, but something's the matter with Ben. You'd better come up."

Up the stairs came Carroll, three at a bound, and burst into the telegraph room. He gave just one glance at Ben.

"Where's that list?" he cried to the operator. "He's got it."

Carroll pulled the crumpled sheet from the now relaxed fingers. Where the fourth paragraph sign was marked, he read:

"MRS BENJAMIN SAUNDERS and two children—"

He didn't need to read the rest, and he didn't stop to, but, with the death list in his hand, bolted for the stairs.

_______________

7: The Trodden Path

Mabel Quiller-Couch

1865-1924

World's News (Sydney) 22 Nov 1919

Younger sister of Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch. Noted for her children's books, although she wrote non-fiction as well as general fiction.

ALL day the July sun had blazed down fiercely on a parched and panting world. The hens in the yard had crept away, almost silent, to their homes, or the orchard; the birds in the hedges bad ceased to sing, and even the butterflies fluttered languidly; ever the old house, which stood in the midst of the orchards and fields, a haze seemed to rise and scintillate in the sun's rays; every window was as wide as it could be. Presently a door opened on the side of the house facing the sun-baked yard, and a girl looked out.

"Oh!" she gasped, as a wave of heat greeted her, "this is awful, but I've got to face it. I must find some more eggs somewhere. I do hope the hens have laid, but one couldn't blame them if they gave up laying altogether in this heat." Unfurling an old red sunshade, she stepped boldly into the flare. "It's just as well there is no paint left on the doors," she murmured complacently; "if there was any it would all be ruined."

As she plunged into the hen-house, the hens, unaccustomed to scarlet sunshades, darted out, fiery-eyed and indignant, waking the echoes with their cries.

"Don't be silly," said Zibah scornfully, "you couldn't make more noise if you had laid two eggs each,'' and when she came out empty-handed, and thrust her sunshade in their faces in her wrath, the hens yelled again.

On one side of the yard stood a wall, with a gate in it leading into an orchard, where a number of hens lay basking, but here also Zibah pursued her search fruitlessly.

The sight of the lazy birds rolling in the warm sun but roused her to real wrath, "l do think you are the most ungrateful crea-tures I ever met in my life," she cried indig-nantly. "I have to feed you, no matter how hot it is; yet you won't take the trouble to lay even one egg between you to oblige me! Well, we'll see how you like being cooked!— and you've only yourselves to thank!" and, once more unfurling her scarlet sunshade in their faces, she pursued her way.

"What am I to do!" She sank back into the hedge, glancing about her as though for in-spiration. Above her apples hung thickly on the trees. "I— I simply cannot make tarts on a day like this, and if I asked Emily to, her temper would be beyond bearing! Why can't people be content to eat fruit as it grows, instead of wanting it mashed and sugared, and covered with pastry! If I lived alone I'd live on apples and bread and butter—"

"Oh, no, you wouldn't! You'd want mayon-naised salmon, chicken, cream and raspberry ices, at the least."

A young man coming along the lane had caught the glow of the red sunshade through the beeches, and stepped up on the bank to greet its owner.

"No, I should not," contradicted Zibah; "that is to say, not unless I had servants to prepare it all—"

"As you might have, ,if you—"

"Larry," she interrupted, "have your hens laid?"

"I— don't know, they haven't confided in me. "Why? Do you want some eggs?"

Zibah nodded. "Dreadfully! I promised Joan and Humphrey pancakes for supper— we've nothing else in the house— and now Emily tells me there are no eggs! That's so like Emily, she never has anything to make things of, and Joan and Humphrey will be so mad if I don't keep my promise."

"Don't worry," urged Carry, consolingly, as he clambered further up the hedge. "May l come in, Zibah?"

"Oh, yes. I am too tired to stop you, and I don't suppose the hens will mind."

"Don't worry child," he repeated as he jumped down and stood beside her, I'll get you eggs, hats full; and, Zibah, if I bring enough may I have a pancake, too?"

"If you want to. It rests with you whether there'll be any or not. But, Larry," with sudden compunction, "I can't send you back in this awful heat; Emily must do the best she can— as long as the others hare enough, I don't want any."

"Don't be silly "

"I am not silly."

"But you are."

"Well," dejectedly, with a deep sigh of despair, "well, it doesn't matter, I shall be soon, anyway." Then, turning to him a pair of large grey eyes brimming over with woe, ''Cousin Hepzibah is coming to stay," she added tragically.

Larry Rose gave a long, low whistle pregnant with meaning. "My eye! that's a facer." But why— how— whatever made you invite her?"

"We didn't; she didn't wait for an invitation.''

"She has learnt wisdom by experience, I expect."

"We should have invited her some day, probably," protested Zibah; "we always meant to."

"Perhaps she did not realise your hospitable intentions, or thought she'd like to get in her visit before she was too old to travel."

The grey eyes smiled at him understandingly. "We have sometimes talked of inviting her— but you see the house is so shabby, and she is so rich, and particular, and— and we are neither."

"Poor Zibah!"

"You must call me Hepzibah when she is here— no, you will have to say 'Miss Pomeroy,' and I'll have to call you 'Mr. Rose.' "

Larry groaned hopelessly. "I shall never remember!"

"I don't suppose you will have many opportunities," responded Zibah heartlessly; "you must not come often, Cousin Hepzibah doesn't like young men."

"What does she like?" bitterly.

"Herself— and Tiny. Tiny is her dog."

"So I imagined— and when do Hepzibah and Tiny come to grace this benighted spot?"

"I did not say you might call her Hep-zibah! She comes when we fix a day, if it suits her."

"Well, don't fix one: let the matter slide." "Slide!" tragically; "you little know Cousin Hepzibah," she would come down on us with out warning, and when I was as untidy as I am now," glancing down over her crumpled muslin frock.

"Well, she won't stay more than a week or two; we can stick that—"

"A week or two!" Zibah's whole body seemed to collapse with despair, her hands fell limply to her side. "She is coming to teach me how to keep house properly, and will stay until she has brought about some semblance of order and neatness, as she politely puts it. So she is here for life, and when she dies it will be in our spare room. She will die a disappointed woman, and I shall never like the room again, though now I love it!"

"I shall love it, then," murmured Larry. "Look here Zibah, why not spike the old girl's guns! Have everything in apple-pie order, be perfect models for a time, give her no excuse for staying!"

"She'd find one. She would want to settle Joan and me, see us married, you know—"

"I'll help her there," said Larry promptly. "And then," ignoring his remark, "she would turn her attention to poor daddy!"

The gloom which had for a moment settled in Larry's eyes gave place to a new hope, but he kept his own counsel.

"Daddy says," remarked Zibah irreverently, "that he is sure she will leave me an annuity to recompense me for my name— she asked that I might be called after her— but if she once comes and sees how badly I manage, she will alter her will and leave me nothing— unless it's a book on household management."

"I love your name," declared Larry stoutly. "Oh, Larry— you can't— possibly!"

"I do. One connects a name so entirely with a person that if one likes the person—"

Zibah scrambled to her feet. "I'll tell Cousin Hepzibah what you say," she said gravely. "She will be so pleased— and since you are not going to get me those eggs, I'll say good-bye!"

Larry rose and made for the hedge. "I'll be up at the Grange with a basketful before you have your hat off," he promised desper-ately.

Zibah looked after him wistfully. "Poor old Larry," she said softly, as she turned and hurried homewards, "he is a dear— and, oh the relief it is to have someone one can talk openly to without being caught up or misunderstood!"

As she stepped into the yard, and shut the orchard gate behind her, her ears were greeted by an unusual noise. Outside, apparently in the lane, a motor was snorting furiously. Zibah's eyes turned to the doors which gave entrance to the yard. Over the top of them appeared the roof of a cab and a mountain of boxes.

"She has come!" With a cry of dismay the truth broke on her, her knees shook so, she cculd scarcely drag herself along. "Oh, the horror of it, we've no room ready! No dinner! No— anything!" Despair swept over her, then anger. How dare she treat one so— the best of housekeepers were not always prepared— one must eat up scraps sometimes—"

In her indignation Zibah walked straight through the yard and into the house, ignoring the frantically signalling driver, the yap-ping of Tiny, and her cousin's peremptory voice. They might have been larks singing in the sky for all the heed she paid them.

In the hall she met Emily. "I was going to ask, Miss—"

"Emily— don't ask me anything, or I shall go mad. I am desperate— there's a load of luggage in the lane, and Cousin Hepzibah is somewhere underneath it, I know, and—"

"The Lord help us," groaned Emily piously.

"And her," concluded Zibah, "though she doesn't deserve it. But what can we do? Where can we begin? We must make her up a bed, I s'pose—and there are no sheets aired!"

"Well, I'd challenge any sheet to be damp in this weather," said Emily brusquely. "I wish, though, we'd got a pair that wasn't torn."

Zibah groaned. "And what can we give her to eat! There's nothing in the house!"

Emily had her faults, but she had one vir-tue which made up for all. The greater the emergency, the better she rose to it.

"I know what I'll do. Miss Zibah! You keep the old lady busy while I run down—"

"Miss Garland is not an old lady, Emily," Zibah corrected wildly, "and you mustn't speak disrespectfully of her." But Emily was too much excited to heed.

"I'll run down to the 'Mason's Arms,' they've got a club dinner on to-night, and they're certain to have more food than they want. I'll get Mrs. Bevis to let me have a pie or something, and maybe a jelly to follow. That'll be fine!"

Zibah's face grew radiant with relief. "Emily, you are a dear. You have taken a ton weight off my mind, I should never have thought—"

Just above their heads the front door-bell rang furiously. Emily moved slowly forward with a face full of dignified amazement. Zibah stood at the back of the hall, hauteur expressed in every line of her face and figure. Miss Garland's mean ruse still rankled.

"I wondered if you intended to keep me out for ever," snapped a voice, the voice of Cousin Hepzibah.

"I'd have liked to," Zibah murmured to her-self. "

"I thought you were all away, but the young man with the eggs told me he felt sure the maid was at home, and he kindly helped down my luggage. I hope," turning effusively to Larry, "my little dog has not bitten you. Travelling upsets him." She was fumbling in her bag for a sixpenny bit. Zibah saw, and rushed headlong to the rescue.

"Oh, Larry, how kind of you to bring us the eggs. Let me introduce you to Cousin Hep-zibah, and— and you will stay to dinner, won't you?"

At the sight of Larry's bewildered face she nearly burst out laughing— but how was it possible to explain to him how, within half an hour of her despair over an empty larder, she was able to talk airily of dinner.

But Larry was accustomed to the eccen-tricities of the Pomeroy household, and took his cue from the entreaty he read in Zibah's eyes. He accepted her invitation with becoming gravity.

"Don't let her see you are annoyed, and keep her amiable," he entreated, when he and Zibah came together for a moment, and so charming was the attitude of the whole family to the interloper that when she went to bed. She failed to notice the dust on floor and furniture, and forgot to examine the number and thickness of the blankets until she put her toe through the sheet and rent it beyond re-pair.

To entertain an unwelcome guest for one evening is one thing, but to entertain her for a limitless time is quite another, and Zibah's heart was very heavy as she descended the stairs— late, as usual— the next morning. Breakfast, lunch, dinner, all had to be pro-vided, and the next day, the next week, next month, next year, the same old weary puzzle would confront her, and always a critical, dis-approving eye would be upon her.

"I'll give her her breakfast in bed," thought Zibah, with a thrill of relief—but on the in-stant her relief was ended, for through the porch marched in Miss Garland, followed by Mr. Pomeroy.

"Ah, here is dear Hepzibah at last," cried the lady effusively. "We have had a delightful stroll, your father and I, while waiting for you and breakfast, and a most interesting botanical talk— but I own to feeling somewhat exhausted. I am accustomed to breakfasting at eight—"

"How dreadful!" Zibah refrained from saying what was dreadful, or from mentioning that Emily did not, as a rule, get down till half-past seven.

"Joan and Humphrey have gone fishing; they had had an early meat, wise children!"

"Wise indeed!" thought Zibah, but how mean. She felt injured. She alone had all the trials of the house to face, as well as horror of her cousin's company. She had more than half a mind to slip away, too, and leave them all to take care of themselves.

Throughout the meal Mr. Pomeroy and Miss Garland talked continuously. Zibah gladly sat silent.

"Our cousin is a remarkably sensible woman."

The meal ended, Miss Garland had gone off to unpack a box of house linen that she had brought with her, and Mr. Pomeroy and Zibah sat alone.

"Is she? I hate sensible women."

"So do I, as a rule, but Hepzibah is so quietly observant. She has given me a box of compressed meat tablets to carry with me on my botanising expeditions. She saw that I suffered from dyspepsia. I shall find them very sustaining. She carries them herself—"

"I did not know that Cousin Hepzibah was a botanist." Zibah's tone had become suddenly interested. She began to see a ray of hope, of days, at least hours, of freedom.

"Neither did I. It is delightful. Had I done so I'd have invited her here before. I often feel the want of a kindred spirit."

"Um!" said Zibah thoughtfully, and longed to laugh. She longed, too, to have Larry to laugh with.

But for the next few weeks she had to do without Mr. Rose's sympathy. Larry had to pay a round of visits, and dutifully paid them, though his heart was yearning for home and Zibah all the time. True, he brought his visits to an end at the earliest possible mo-ment, but his hosts never guessed his im-patience.

"I'll walk home," he said to the man who met him at the station; "you take all the luggage, and I'll follow."

He did not mean to follow; he meant to cut across the fields to where a little summer house stood in the remotest, most secluded corner of the Pomeroys' land. Zibah had almost promised to be there. He would come upon her quietly, before she expected him, and see if he could surprise a look of gladness in her eyes.

His heart beat very fast as he caught sight of the little house. Ah, yes, there was the red sunshade! She was there! He had to slacken his pace lest a snapping twig should betray him. Nothing must spoil this moment. Without mishap he drew close— so close that he could hear voices! What a disappointment! She was not alone! Perhaps Joan or Humphrey was with her. Larry stood a moment to listen.

It was no childish voice, though, that met his ears, but a man's, deep, resonant, quivering with emotion.

"My dear one, my Hepzibah, you have made me so proud, so happy, and, my dearest, you shall never regret."

Larry forgot the snapping twigs and everything else as he stumbled away; he cursed the undergrowth for tripping him, the birds for singing, the sun for shining in his face. For him sunshine and song were ended. He would go away, now, at once, for ever.

Zibah, hurrying along the narrow trodden path, came upon him lying face downwards in the heather, and nearly fainted with fright.

"Larry! Larry!" she cried, and there was that in her voice which told him more than she would ever have admitted in words.

It was surprising that she grew a little cross as well as embarrassed when her "dead love" sprang to his feet, and turned to her a face radiant with happiness. "Oh Zibah, the shock nearly killed me!"

"You are early, aren't you?" she asked, coldly ignoring his seemingly irrelevant remarks.

For answer he drew her hand through his arm, and hurrried her quickly away. "I— I have something to break to you, dear," he said gently.

Zibah looked at him with eyes half amused, half wistful. "I think I know, Larry. Father— thinks Cousin Hepzibah can take better care of him than I can— he does not need me any longer— I have seen it coming." Her voice faltered and broke, tears came into her eyes. The sight of them drove Larry frantic.

"But, Zibah, my darling, you know who does need you. My home is no home without you— Oh, my dear one, I have waited so long. Do I matter nothing to you, Zibah?"

And the pleading in Larry's eyes, and his strong protecting arms outstretched to her, were more than Zibah could deny. With a little cry of contentment she ran into them and sealed her capitulation with a kiss.

_______________

8: Exhibit Number Two

Frederick Trevor Hill

1866-1930

Everybody’s Magazine, April 1907

World's News (Sydney), 8 June 1907

American lawyer and author; served in World War 1 on General Pershing's staff.

NO one but an advocate could have fully appreciated the beauty of Butterfield's letter to his confederate, Kaltenberg, in the Contractors' National Bank case. It was the prettiest piece of documentary evidence I had ever sees, and it completed the proof against Butterfield with the finality of a spring-lock snapping into place. But the bank had so desire to take the case into court. Its purchase of Butterfield's worthless Terminal bonds did not redound to the directors' credit; and therefore the moment the Kaltenberg letter came to light. I was instructed to use it for the purpose of effecting the quietest possible settlement.

But, though I understood the wisdom of confronting the man with the proof of his fraud and giving him a chance to make restitution to the bank, my professional instincts rebelled against putting such a perfect piece of evidence to such tame uses. It was so overwhelmingly damning, so irresistibly convincing, so dramatically climacteric, that I positively grieved at the thought of offering it on the altar of compromise behind closed doors. My office as-sociates would have complied with the instructions without a pang, but they were out of town, and it thus remained for me— the trial lawyer of the firm— to sacrifice an exhibit that would have carried any jury by storm.

Small wonder then that I dwelt regretfully on the document, as I sandwiched it between two sheets of plate glass, as is usual with exhibits of importance. This done, I despatched a note to Mr. Butterfield, requesting the honor of an immediate interview.

I did not know Rodman Butterfield well, but I had met him once in the heyday of his prosperity at a dinner where he and his wife were the guests of honor, and though he impressed me at the time as an offensively aggressive and over-confident individual, I had no reason to question his integrity. His manners were not refined, but he had a certain amount of personal magnetism, and his face was kindly rather than shrewd or intellectual. Physically, he was a giant. His great breadth of shoulders, his massive body and limbs suggested an athlete, but an athlete coarsened and gone to seed— the beauty of his brawn transformed to mere bulk. Doubtless, he had once been handsome, and his wife left me in no doubt as to his past athletic prowess, several stories of which she recounted with evident pride.

Mrs. Butterfield was the exact opposite of her husband in almost every particular. She was delicate, refined, and altogether delightful, and her handsome, patrician face, which was always animated, became positively radiant when her eyes met Butterfield's. Obviously she thought her husband not only the strongest and bravest but also the best and most remarkable man in the world, and she showed this in a hundred charming ways which excited my interest and won respect. Of course no man could remain oblivious to such adoration, and I was not at all surprised to observe that Butterfield constantly watched his wife in an effort to live up to her ideal of him. More than once I fancied that he altered certain of his stories in the telling to suit her ears, and otherwise played for her approval, all of which convinced me that he was extremely careful— if not afraid of her. But I liked him the better for this, and knowing that it is easier for a man to be a hero to his valet than a wonder to his wife, I regarded Mrs. Butterfield's unaffected admiration as the stronger of endorsements. I was yet to learn, however, that a consummate actor was lost to the stage when Mr. Rodman Butterfield joined the ranks of the promoters.

It was almost two years after this casual meeting that I called at his office on the Terminal bond business. Except that he was bigger in body and coarser in features he had not changed much in the interval, and I should have known him anywhere, but the expression of his face as he glanced up from my card convinced me that I had a very different person to deal with from the man who played to his wife's piping over the social board.

"I don't seem to know you," he began brusquely. "However, sit down and let's hear your business."

He pointed to an easy-chair beside the desk as he spoke.

I had nothing to gain by recalling myself to his memory, so I waived the question of our having met and introduced myself officially.

"I am the junior partner of Bishop, Watrous and Weston, Mr. Butterfield." I began.

"Lawyers?" he interrupted a trifle impatiently.

"Attorneys for the Contractors' National Bank," I volunteered suggestively.

He frowned as though trying to place the bank in his memory. Then he nodded.

"You have a good client. What can I do for it or you?"

The words were spoken in a patronising tone which I instantly resented.

"You can repurchase the Terminal bonds at par and interest," I responded sharply.

"You mean sell them for the bank on the market," he corrected.

"No— I mean repurchase, Mr. Butterfield; I am here to tender you the so-called securities— and you know why," I added firmly.

The promoter's eyes were fixed searchingly on me, but not a muscle of his face moved.

"It is easy to see you are more accustomed to bullying than you are to banking, Mr. Weston," he observed, with irritating superiority. ''Kindly inform your client that its lawyers can do business with mine, but not with me."

He shoved my card toward me as he spoke. I took it and placed it in the side pocket of my coat, and as I did so my hand came in contact with a small, nickel-plated bicycle wrench, which I happened to be carrying. "So you elect to bluff it out," I thought, as I tipped back my chair. "I wonder how long you'd stand it if I put the screws on?" I slipped my finger into the jaws of the wrench, and instinctively tightened them by way of illustration.

"Just as you please, Mr. Butterfield," I announced aloud. "But remember the bank has given you a fair chance to make restitution without publicly charging you with fraud, and—"

"Get out of this office!"

Butterfield sprang to his feet with a menacing gesture.

"Get out of this office!" he repeated. "Do you think you can sit here and threaten me with blackmail?"

I did not stir from my seat.

"There's no use bluffing, Mr. Butterfield," I observed with perfect calmness. "Our cards are too good."

I laid a typewritten copy of his letter to Kaltenberg on the desk as I woke, at the same time turning the screw of my pocket wrench.

He picked up the paper and stared at it with well-feigned astonishment.

"Who wrote this?" he demanded, after a pause.

The indignant tone was perfect. Certainly the man had himself under admirable control.

"Who wrote it?" I repeated. "Who, but Mr. Rodman Butterfield?"

'"What? I? Oh, somebody has been fooling you, Mr. Weston."

He folded up the letter and offered it to me as he spoke, at the same time resuming his seat.

I let the paper lie, and slowly tightened the wrench in my pocket, until my imprisoned finger felt numb.

"Somebody has certainly been foxing you," he repeated calmly. "I hope you didn't have to pay much for that sheet of typewriting."

I shook my head.

"Because," he resumed, with an easy laugh, "if you paid anything at all you ought to have received something in manuscript— something scrawly and shaky and at least resembling my execrable chirography."

"Oh, we got that," I answered, in the same light tone, giving a final turn to the screw of my pocket wrench.

"Really?" he bantered. "And for nothing? Well, it was worth it"

"It is worth a look." I asserted, suddenly uncovering the glass enclosed original from the folds of a newspaper.

His face betrayed nothing as he stared at the exhibit, and I could not but admire the man's coolness. At last he lifted it from the desk shelf, and then for the first time I noted a sign of weakness. His hands trembled slightly. I watched him closely as he turned the glass and examined the back of the letter, and the longer he studied it the more his hands shook. I had dealt with all sorts and conditions of men in the witness-box, and those trembling hands told me all I wanted to know. The man was hit and hard hit. It only remained for me to name my terms and close the business. I could afford to let him take his own time, and I gazed carelessly out of the side window until his voice recalled me.

"That is a good— a very good forgery."

The glass frame into which he was still closely peering, reflected his masklike face as he spoke. Was it possible that the man meditated further pretence, despite the exhibit wabbling in his tell-tale hands? It was stupid to continue playing after the game was up, and I began to grow impatient with such futile tactics.

"We may not be able to convict the writer of that letter of forgery, Mr. Butterfield," I responded with proper emphasis, "but there can be no doubt of his fraud."

An increased tremor of the shaking hands was his only answer, and I studied him curiously as he held the exhibit up to the light. There was something pitiful in the picture he presented, but when I spoke again there was a note of stern warning in my voice.

"If you've quite finished with that— forgery, Mr. Butterfield—"

I paused suggestively and unfolded my newspaper, but before I could touch the exhibit which he held toward me, it dropped from his hands and was shivered to splinters on the floor.

"I beg your pardon! I beg your pardon!" he apologised, hurriedly stooping as he spoke. I also stooped, and, at the same moment his foot struck the leg of my chair and I was thrown forward, my hands striking the mass of broken glass on the floor, and before I knew what was happening he had seized the letter and the copy, torn them to pieces, and was half-way to the fireplace with the fragments.

For a heart-beat I was paralysed with amazement. Then, on the impulse of the moment, I leaped to my feet, tore the monkey-wrench from my pocket, and levelled it at him like a revolver.

"Stop!" I exclaimed fiercely. "Stop, or you're a dead man!"

He turned as I spoke, and never have I seen such a change in any human face. In a flash it became the picture of craven fear— all the bluff and daring completely wiped out.

"Drop those papers! Drop them, I say! One —two—!"

There was death in my voice, for, like other advocates, I am something of an actor myself.

His hand opened and the minced fragments fluttered to the floor. I took a step forward, and then stopped. If he knew I was unarmed, I could never recover those papers without a struggle. I dared not go near him. If he even raised an alarm the chances were that I should be overpowered and the precious fragments destroyed long before I could explain. I had to hold him somehow. An open closet door directly behind him gave me a desperate suggestion.

"Back!" I commanded menacingly. "Back!" I repeated with a hideous glare.

He obeyed, slowly retreating without taking his eyes from the muzzle of my weapon, and as he crossed the threshold of the closet I sprang forward and slammed the door upon him, locking it as it bit the latch.

"If you speak or raise an outcry I'll shoot through the door!" I muttered fiercely in the keyhold, and then dropped to my knees and be-gan a frenzied search for the scattered bits of paper.

With feverish anxiety I fitted the pieces together on the rug, welcoming each important fragment with a chldish delight, but even when I saw the letter taking shape my relief was tempered by a sickening chagrin. I had not only failed in my mission, but I had almost lost a vital bit of evidence through my bungling attempts to carry a negotiation with the claptrap methods of the court-room. If I had not been absorbed in my theatric fooling, I should have suspected the trick of those tremblings hands. The matter ought to have been settled by any competent attorney inside of five minutes, and yet here I was on my hands and knees, labori-ously picking up what was left of an invaluable document that had been put to no use at all. What would my partners think when they knew the mess I had made of such an easy matter? What would our clients say when they were told that their foolish financiering would have to be aired in court, instead of being quietly corrected by the simple expedient of exchang-ing a letter for a cheque? I flushed with anger and mortification as I realised my plight.

The sound of knocking interrupted my bitter self-reproaches, and, before I could rise or gather up the papers on the floor, the office door opened slightly and Mrs. Butterfield appeared upon the threshold.

"Oh, I beg your pardon," she exclaimed; "I thought Mr. Butterfield was alone."

I stared at her for a moment in silence, and the picture of charming dignity and refinement that she presented was instantly contrasted in my mind with that of the coward cringing behind the closet door. My anger against the man turned to contempt, and I rose to my feet possessed of a new idea.

"Your husband has just stepped out, Mrs. Butterfield," I observed, raising my voice for the benefit of my prisoner. "Won't you sit down?"

I placed a chair as near the closet door as I dared, but Mrs. Butterfield protested that she did not want to interrupt us and could just as well wait outside.

"Not at all." I insisted. "Our business is almost finished, and Mr. Butterfield has not left the building."

She seated herself in the chair I indicated, and, as I swept up the fragments of the letter, by way of introducing myself I mentioned the dinner at which we had previously met, and the conversation, once started, was easily sustained.

"I see you are a lover of order, Mr. Weston," she observed pleasantly, as I searched the floor to make sure of every previous scrap. "Mr. Butterfield's study at home is a perfect litter of rubbish all the time, and I cannot convince him that waste-paper baskets were meant for waste paper."

"I'm afraid I'm much the same," I answered, "and my orderly virtues begin and end with the recovery of these fragments."

"Pray let me help you," she suggested, rising as she spoke.

"I think I have the last bit now," I answered. But the monkey-wrench on the floor had caught her eye and she stooped and picked it up.

"Is this yours?" she inquired. "Yes— thank you," I answered. "That's my bicycle wrench— although it was once mistaken for something else," I added, with a smile.

"Indeed? What else could any one think it?" I pointed it by way of answer at the closet door.

Mrs. Butterfield laughed and nodded comprehendingly.

"It does look like a revolver the way you hold it," she admitted.

"Especially to the person staring down the barrel," I suggested, with a laugh.

"Did any one ever do so?" she inquired smilingly.

I nodded.

"Oh, do tell me about it!" she pleaded, seating herself in the chair again. "It sounds exciting— and funny."

"Yes, it was funny. In fact, it was ridicu-ous," I admitted, and leaning against the edge of the table I began the story of Butterfield's attempt, omitting names and changing the details sufficiently for my purpose.

It was interesting to watch the play of Mrs. Butterfield's face as the tale unfolded. No man could have endured her expression of withering, patrician contempt without flinching, and I fancied that it might be worse than death to an ex-hero who had wounded her self-pride. Small wonder that Butterfield was careful to keep up his wife's illusions. She might be easy to deceive, but it would be fatal to undeceive her, and I almost prayed that the coward in the closet might not compel me to destroy the woman's glorious and uplifting belief in her clay-footed idol.

She laughed as I described the ignominious retreat into the closet, and I knew that every note of her voice penetrated the closet door.

"The ridiculous coward!" she exclaimed. "Was he ever able to face his fellow-men again?"

"Well, the story hasn't become public yet," I answered. "Indeed, I'm half inclined to let the fellow off. Would you?"

"No, indeed," she replied indignantly. "I might forgive the robbery, but not his contemptible cowardice. Such men ought to be made the laughing-stock of their world. Public ridicule is the only proper punishment for them. When is be to be tried? I'd like to come to court and help to shame him."

I watched the expression of her face as she spoke, and something told me that Butterfield saw it in the dark of his hiding-place.

"The trial would certainly be amusing," I ruminated, sitting down at the desk. "I'll let you know if we decide to expose him. Will you excuse me a moment while I write a note?"

She bowed and mentioning something about a telephone message, stepped toward the door. I held it open for her as she passed out, closed it behind her, and then walking quickly to the closet, turned the key and swung open the door.

Butterfield stumbled forward, blinking in the sudden light, and his face had visibly aged since I last saw it.

"You have already examined our Exhibit No. 1, Mr. Butterfield," I began calmly. "Before we close our interview allow me to show you Exhibit No. 2."

I drew the monkey-wrench from my pocket and held it toward him on the flat of my hand. He stood staring at me for a moment and made two or three ineffectual efforts to speak before he succeeded.

"What is the amount of your claim?" he muttered thickly, glancing apprehensively at the door.

I told him as he hurried to the desk and drew his private cheque-book out of the upper drawer with trembling fingers.

"Do you want it certified?" he whispered, as he hastily shoved the cheque into my hand.

The door opened before I could answer. But I looked him straight in the eyes as Mrs. Butterfield entered, her face radiant at sight of him.

"No," I answered quietly. "That cheque is guaranteed."

__________________

9: "Napoleon The Scoundrel."

Pierre Mille

1864-1941

The Grand Magazine May 1907

World's News (Sydney) 15 June 1907

HE walked very stiffly, his head thrown slightly back, one hand resting on the arm of a soldier of the 7th Regiment.

"Lyons is a beautiful place," said the soldier more for the sake of speaking than for any other reason.

"I don't know it," answered his companion, "I am from Romans."

"Do you mean to say you really see nothing, nothing at all? Are you quite blind?"

"Yes," replied the other briefly.

The soldier looked moody and embarrassed, and the two men walked along by the quays without exchanging a word for quite a long time.

"Here is the Military Hospital." said the soldier at last. He breathed freely again now, evidently relieved. When he stopped the other man stopped also. The soldier lost no time in speaking to the gate-keeper, for his com-panion's silence weighed on him.

"Look here," he began, "this man has come by train alone, with a paper signed by the surgeon-major at Romans; at any rate he arrived here by himself. When he heard the porters calling out Lyons he got out of the train, but he just stood in front of the carriages without moving. I have a paper for the Military Hospital here,' he kept repeating. 'It seems you can't see,' said the adjutant on duty, after reading the paper. 'I will send somebody with you to the hospital,' and then, as I was on the platform, the adjutant sent me with him."

"All right," said the gate-keeper; "you may go now."

The other man during this colloquy stood silent and motionless.

"Where's your letter from the surgeon-major?" said the gate-keeper.

The stranger drew some documents from his pocket and held them out towards the gate-keeper.

"So your name is Dieutegard, is it? It's a queer enough name!"

There was no reply.

"It seems that you are not only blind, but dumb into the bargain," the gate-keeper continued sharply. "It wouldn't hurt your eyes if you were to answer me, would it?"

He sent one of the infirmary attendants upstairs with the man, however, and the attendant was gentle enough, thanks to the great pity which nearly everyone feels for those who cannot see.

"Dieutegard— of the 78th," said the surgeon-major. "I have heard of him. My confrere at Romans tells me that the fellow is an anarchist, and that he is only shamming. Bring me the ophthalmoscope."

The surgeon-major was still a young man, with an eager face full of intelligence. He loved his profession, which was as fresh and fascinating to him still as it had been on the first day.

"You were a member of an anarchist club," he said to the man. "A few days before you had to draw lots for the army you did not put in an appearance at your work at the Magna-bos spinning-mill, alleging that you had suddenly become blind. You could see all right one day, and the next day you were blind! I must tell you that it is a most improbable tale. The surgeon-major at Romans has sent you to me because he had no ophthalmoscope. You are believed to be an anarchist who wishes to escape military service by feigning blind-ness. We are now going to find out whether this is the case or not."

He spoke quietly and firmly in an impersonal way, as if he quite admitted that the man had a right to tell a lie if he wished to do so. It was merely a question now of proving to demonstration that the man lied.

"If you had gone in only for partial blindness," the doctor continued, "you might have carried the thing off, but total blindness! How do you say it occurred?"

"I was on the St. Etienne road with some friends," said Dieutegard slowly, "and the sun was blazing down on us. Suddenly I felt dizzy, and it seemed to me as though a thunder-bolt had entered my skull. I fell down on a heap of stones, and I said to my friends 'I can't see anything!' "

Dr. Roger let him talk on, pretending not to notice him, but to be exclusively occupied with arranging the ophthalmoscope. Then, without warning, he suddenly shot out his first and middle fingers like a fork right in front of the man's face, to within an inch of the raised eyelids. This is the classic, the best, and the oldest known method of procedure in such cases.

The man did not even flinch!

"The deuce!" muttered the doctor. "You are well up in your part. Close everything," he continued, speaking to the attendant.

The attendant shut the door, drew down the blinds, and pulled the heavy green curtains over the windows. Artificial darkness being thus obtained, the ophthalmoscope was lighted, and the doctor turned the dazzling rays all at once on to the two pupils. Such reflected beams are of the most trying intensity, as any-one may judge by looking fixedly at the lantern of a locomotive or of an automobile.

Dieutegard did not so much as blink.

"That's very smart," said Dr. Roger jeeringly. "You have practised a long time, have you not? But it is difficult to think of everything. Your pupils react against the light."

When a man has been kept for a few seconds in a room that is almost completely dark, if light suddenly strikes his eyes the pupils re-act. It is as impossible to prevent this as it is impossible to prevent a sensitive plant from curling up its leaves.

"There is nothing in your eyes, nothing at all. Not the shadow of an injury. You are fit enough for military service, my friend."

"It's not my fault if there are ailments that doctors know nothing of," replied Dieutegard, so indifferently that it seemed as though he were speaking for someone else instead of him-self. "I tell you that I cannot see."

"Why do you not tell me that you have no legs? I know that you can see— that's enough sir!"

The soldier, Dieutegard, now definitively incorporated in the regiment, was sent to prison for a month for pretending to have an infirmity that unfitted him for military service. For 30 days and 30 nights he lived in a cell, six feet wide by twelve feet long, where there was nothing but a wooden bed fastened to the wall. Air penetrated into the cell, but no direct sunlight, so that there was never more than a sort of dim twilight. To take one's meals, such meals as they are, in the gloom of military prisons is one of the most unendurable things which those who are locked up in them have to complain of— when they have eyes that see. Dieutegard lost his appetite, but this was not sufficient proof that he was acting a part. Want of exercise was quite sufficient to explain his loathing for food. Certain rather hard tasks are assigned to the prisoners. They have to wheel stones about and to carry heavy loads. Dieutegard persisted that he could not see and, therefore, that he could not work. The non-commissioned officers and those who had to take him out would walk suddenly straight up to him very roughly, to try and throw him off his guard, but he never flinched, allowing them to knock right up against him. His pale, beardless face had procured for him the nickname of Napoleon, though some, on account of the comedy he was supposed to be playing, called him "the scoundrel." Eventually the two nicknames were coupled, though "Napoleon the Scoundrel," whose apathy at last triumphed, was left in comparative peace.

On the 31st day of his imprisonment, however, his cell door was opened, and, accompanied by two soldiers, he was taken to the Lamotte fort.

Holding his head erect and with eyes that seem-ed to see nothing, he walked with his two guardians through the long Faubourg de la Guillotiere. It had rained during the night and the streets were still very muddy. Dieu- tegard walked right into every puddle.

"If you'd look when you're going as other people do you would keep your feet drier," said one of the soldiers.

"How can I when I'm blind?" was the simple answer.

"Look on the ground and you can't help avoiding the holes. Feet and the eye obey each other unconsciously. Bend your head a little, just to see!"

"To see?" Dieutegard repeated ironically.

"Yes, to 'see,' you humbug! Even if you don't do as I suggest now, I should strongly ad-vise you to do it later on. Take the tip from me, my friend; it's for the benefit of your health, I assure you."

The other soldier laughed jeeringly. He knew what was being prepared.

Dieutegard maintained a disdainful silence; it was evident that he was trying to think of other matters. The three men at last came to the end of their long walk.

The Lamotte fort, originally built to protect Lyons against a possible attack from a foreign army, to-day provides accommodation for a comparatively small garrison. Deep moats surround it, rendering the surveillance of the men very simple. A man who may risk scaling an ordinary wall, finds a rampart of 30 feet high quite another matter. Dieutegard passed through the gate without giving the salute. His guards reproached him, with that sort of un- easy timidity characteristic of soldiers afraid of being punished themselves for faults their neighbor commits. The blind man at once put his hand to his cap, with an apology. After the two had traversed the first courtyard, where the barracks of the infantry are, a rather stiff slope confronted them, and up this the blind man stumbled in a perfectly natural manner. At the top Surgeon-Major Roger was awaiting him, talking to a group of officers.

"He plays his part very well, in any case," one of the officers observed.

"I strongly protest against this experiment, you know," said the surgeon-major.

"Protest as much as you please," answered the captain. "The fellow belongs to you no longer. He is enrolled in my regiment. You declared he could see, therefore—"

"And supposing I have made a mistake?" said Roger.

"If you are mistaken, that is your affair. All I have to consider is that a man is sent to me who has had a month's imprisonment for pretending he could not see. Consequently, I have the right to give orders to the soldier Dieutegard. Is everything ready?" asked the captain, breaking off, as he turned to a sergeant.

"Yes, captain. All we have to do now is to take the man by the steps at the back of the canteen up to the glacis and to start him on the path. The path is only about 30ft. long, and at the end of it is the moat, above the north-east casemate."

"Have you taken all your precautions?" asked the surgeon-major, "it's pretty stiff, your experiment, you know."

"Stiff!" echoed the captain. "Are you afraid that he will let any of those confounded journalists know about it?"

"No," answered Roger, "or else I am mistaken in him. He may be an anarchist, he is certainly not a boaster."

"Nor even a chatterer?"

"Nor even a chatterer. If he had cared to, he could already have— well, I may as well tell you, I like the fellow."

Commandant Lecamus, an obese man, much given to literature, and recognised by all his fellow-officers as very intelligent, happened to be present.

"You like an impostor, then?" he said to Roger. "It is clear that if you let him go through with this trial, you must believe him to be an impostor?"

The surgeon-major made no reply. He was loth even to analyse too closely his own thoughts, although, professionally, fully persuaded the man had lied. The man's simple statement: "I cannot see," seemed to mock silence. The various experiments, according to all the manuals and all the authorities on the subject, ought to have sufficed, to confound this malingerer.

Dieutegard was now standing motionless, an indifferent expression on his face. His eyes were bright, too bright under so strong a light. His pale, thin, melancholy visage, knitted brows, dark hair, and imperious, debilitated look, at once tragic and droll, made him a sort of cross between a Bonaparte and a Pierrot.

"Napoleon the Scoundrel is what his comrades call him, is it not?" observed Lecamus. "A suitable name, too." Then, changing the subject, he added: "What a fine view there is from here!"

Scarcely had Lecamus spoken before all those looking on turned pale. They beheld the little bare path, the scant grass on the glacis, the man dressed in his prison clothes, and the two military warders. Suddenly, the rampart fell away and only a wide gap could be seen beyond the edge of red sandstone. Obliquely, the eyes then turned to-wards the moat, the terrifying signification of which the mind realised with a gasp of tragic horror, as it perceived in imagination all its filth and vileness, with the pool of muddy water at the bottom. Over yonder, green meadows stretched away into the distance, red roofs stood out, and small reddish cottages dotted in gar-dens, looking like toy buildings. On the far horizon was the misty Rhone, solemn, heavy, slow, and white, shimmering under the bright sunshine. A fine view, indeed, as Lecamus had remarked. Yet, in spite of its beauty, the mind's eye ever returned to that abominable ditch with its foul grass, its stones, its pool of yellowish water, its filth—

"Dieutegard," ordered the captain, "march straight ahead!"

The man involuntarily turned his head in the direction from which the voice came. His body followed the direction of his head and he moved away from the rampart.

"Straight ahead!"

Straight ahead lay the ditch with its stones, its pool of water and the bro-ken tin boxes, flashing in the sun.

"Straight ahead!"

The two soldiers, who looked pale and were very awkward, led Dieutegard into the centre of the path, and this time he walked forwards— straight ahead. His lips rolled up over his teeth, and, for a second, his face wore a troubled expression. It re-minded one of a portrait suddenly coming to life by some miracle.

Thirty feet is no great distance. It is but 12 or 15 steps, even when the steps are those of a blind man. One, two, three, four— Dieutegard's face, as he ad-vanced, became once more expressionless and blood-less. Five, six, seven, eight, nine— he continued, unhesitatingly, to walk to-wards the precipice. Ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen—

"Enough, enough!" exclaimed Lecamus, breath-less with emotion. "It's idiotic! Stop him!"

Fourteen, fifteen—

The fifteenth step had brought Dieutegard to the top of the precipice, and amid breathless silence he disappeared without a sound.

Everyone rushed for-ward to look over the edge.

"The netting is strong," said the captain to the surgeon-major. "There is nothing to fear."

He, too, however, ran with the others. Some strong netting had been fixed beneath to the casemate, arranged "like a circus," as the sergeant said. There, lying amid the ropes, was Dieutegard, unhurt and tranquil.

A few minutes later Roger and Dieutegard were alone together, face to face, in the surgeon-major's office. The doctor was standing up, almost trembling with the shock to his nerves. He seemed to be even more overcome than his patient, who, his two hands on his hips, and smiling tranquilly, was seated on a chair. Commandant Lecamus had pressed him to take a cordial, "a good glass of rum, or something of the kind." The man had refused politely, but in the level tones of an equal.

"Listen," said the surgeon-major. "You have just been put to a severe test, and you must be aware, from its severity, that it is the last you will have to undergo. I permitted it because I wanted to know the truth. It was my duty to discover it. Now I am going to have you taken before the Commission for your dis-charge. This, however, is a mere formality, as my report will be accepted without discus-sion. You will be discharged under the No. 2 clause; that is, without indemnity, on account of an infirmity contracted before entering the service. This report I have already prepared, and am now signing it before you. I have something to ask you, though. No doubt your treatment has, to you, appeared nothing less than persecution. Will you now believe my word?"

Dieutegard reflected for a moment, and then replied simply:—

"Yes, I will trust you."

"I was sure of that," continued the surgeon- major, with equal simplicity. "I now promise you that, no matter what answers you may make to my questions, nothing shall be changed in my report. In two days from now, at mid-day, you will receive your discharge. What I now want to know is whether science is in the wrong, and whether the symptoms which led me to believe you were feigning blindness, deceived me. Will you answer?"

"Yes," said the man, nodding his head.

"Tell me, then, are you really blind or not?" Dieutegard rose to his feet. He was still smiling, and was visibly proud— victorious, in fact. Advancing towards the table, with a quick, easy motion he picked up a small, blue- covered book which the surgeon-major recognised at a glance. It was the "Theory of the

Home Service for Infantry." Dieutegard opened it and read calmly, without any hesitation, from the first page:—

GENERAL PRINCIPLES WITH REGARD TO SUBORDINATION.

Discipline, being the chief strength of armies, it is necessary that every officer should obtain from his men absolute obedience always; that orders should be executed without hesitation and without murmuring; the authority which gives the orders is responsible for them, and no complaint is to be received from the inferior unless he has first obeyed.

"Enough!" said the surgeon-major.

Every soldier, continued Dieutegard, in all circumstan-ces, day or night, and even outside his regiment, owes respect to his superiors, of no matter what branch of the army or what regiment—

The soi-disant blind man, whose pale face had now a somewhat insolent expression, wished to continue, but the surgeon-major interrupted him, speaking in so dignified a way that the other at once stopped.

"It was not your officer who questioned you," said Roger, "it was a man like yourself, who had promised you that he would sever make use of what you now confess. You should not make my promise too hard for me; because that is— well, it is cowardly."

Dieutegard's eyes filled with tears.

"I beg your pardon," he said in a changed voice, with a ring of sincerity in it. "I cannot stand the idea of being taken for a coward! Just now, the netting might have broken, and you risked that, or allowed others to risk it, as you must own, much less to satisfy your scientific curiosity than for the sake of getting the better of me. But you were almost sure that it would not break. With me it is the same thing. If everyone were to do as I have done in France, without my example being followed in other countries as well, France might be invaded with impunity. Such risk, however, seems to me so improbable that I consider I am justified in taking no notice of it. If I have escaped military servitude, it has been at the peril of my life!"

________________

10: By Wireless

Fred M. White

1859-1935

The Grand Magazine August 1917

Australian Town and Country Journal (Sydney) 19 Dec 1917

Fred Merrick White

ACCORDING to all the rules of the game, the party on board the deck of the yacht Fireflight, lying off Corfu that sunny afternoon, ought to have been at Epsom, for it was Derby Day, and they were all sportsmen to a man. But then, as everybody who is acquainted with him knows, and they are legion, Sir Nicholas Brancaster was a law unto himself, and had been all through that long and somewhat shady career of his. Doubtless he would have been at Epsom but for a little misunderstanding with the Jockey Club over the running of a horse some twenty years ago, after which, in the language of Mr. Robey, he had been informed that his appearance on Newmarket Heath— and elsewhere— was superfluous, and that if he did not abstain from attending classic fixtures in future the consequences might be unpleasant. And Nicholas Brancaster had been wise enough to lay the warning to heart, and though he still took the keenest interest n racing generally, the stewards' enclosure knew him no more.

It had not been exactly an open scandal, for Brancaster was rather too rich and powerful for that, but everybody knew it and nobody minded, least of all Brancaster himself. He was quite an old man now, as years went, a wicked, cynical old heathen without heart or conscience, who lived entirely for his own amusement, a sort of perpetual occupant of the stage box, who was quite prepared to pay handsomely for the privilege of looking on at the comedy of life, and even subsidising the incomes of the actors themselves if he found tnem sufficiently amusing.

He rather gloried in his rascality; and when, on one occasion, a famous diplomat spoke of a certain colleague as the biggest rascal in Europe, Brancaster asked him whimsically enough what was the matter with the reputation of Nicholas Brancaster. There was not much in the story, but it indicates the man.

Therefore Brancaster turned his back on London, as usual, and had gone yachting down the Mediterranean with a selection of choice spirits, which was his usual custom at that time of the year. There were one or two old friends of his, a couple of Guardsmen on leave, a young social aspirant of dubious origin, but vast wealth, called, Clayton-Green, "and," as the playbills say, "Mr. Samuel Kilgobbin."

Not that anybody ever called him anything but Sammy Kilgobbin, the middle-aged Irishman who was known wherever the English language was spoken, from China to Peru. Indeed, there is not a man of any social aspirations at all who does not speak familiarly of Sammy Kilgobbin, even though he only knows that celebrity by sight. Samuel was big and round and fat of face, with the manners of a sporting stockbroker and the morals of a South Sea Islander. He was, perhaps, on the whole, a bigger rascal than Brancaster himself, which is saying a good deal. But there is a well-known axiom to the effect that one man can steal a horse where another can't look over a hedge, and Sammy was one of those fortunate individuals.

What he lived on nobody knew, and no one seemed to care. There was nothing the matter with his pedigree, of course, for he came of a good old Irish family, and from the day he left Eton he had ruffled it with the best of them on an income that represented precisely nothing. But he was always exquisitely turned out, always to be seen in the best company, a popular visitor of the most exclusive country houses, and strange to say, he had the approval of all his tradesmen, whom he made a point of paying regularly. He was a fine shot, a wonderful hand in the schooling of hunters, a golfer on the plus mark, and an amateur comedian in the very front rank. He was noisy and witty, perfectly frank in his views of life, which were luridly predatory, and in fact, was a magnificent specimen of the popular scamp whom every man of the world kept at arm's length, and yet was on the friendliest terms with at the same time.

The great big red-faced and highly amusing Irishman was an exceedingly useful chap' to know, don't you know. If you wanted a yacht he could find you one. If you craved for something especially choice in the way of cigars, Sammy knew where to find them. If you were a promising actor, needed financial backing, Sammy could produce it; and if you wanted a theatre wherein to instal some frivolous favorite of the footlights, then Sammy could arrange that, too. Always at a price, of course, but that was generally understood.

But the backbone of Sam Kilgobbin's income was undoubtedly Sir Nicholas, appropriately called "Old Nick" Brancaster. Something like affection existed between the two men, for they had no illusion on the subject of each other's weaknesses, and, to all practical purposes, Sam was a sort of glorified stage manager who took a considerable salary for arranging the comedy of life for his patron. Not that Sam was paid any regular stipend, but that sort of thing was understood.

It was Sammy who had arranged the present trip, and who had been more or less responsible for the company on deck. For the most part they were cheerful and congenial spirits, with the solitary exception of the somewhat offensive Clayton Green, and even at that moment Sir Nicholas was lying back in his deck-chair contemplating that diminutive bounder under his thick black eyebrows, and wondering why the deuce he had been invited. There would be comedy later on, no doubt, and Brancastet knew the game much too well to spoil it by asking questions.

For the last half-hour or more they had been sitting round the tea-table, and now, they had reached the stage of cigars and whiskies and sodas, and  had fallen to discuss, in a lazy, inconsequent fashion, what might be the result of the classic race, and when they were likely to hear the name of the winner.

"Oh, you'll get that fast enough," Kilgobbin, said in that big, oily voice of his. "Ye'll get it at any moment."

"What's that?" Brancaster asked.

"Ye mean to say ye don't understand," Sammy retorted. "Then perhaps you'll tell me why I went to the trouble of havin' the Fireflight fitted up with wireless."

"I noticed that," Brancaster said. "What did you get out of it, Sammy? Of course, I know I shall have to pay, and I hope you're got a thundering lump in the way of commission."

The little man, Clayton-Green, laughed offensively as he polished his eyeglass. If that mean soul of his was capable of any deep feeling, it was a perfect hatred of the Irishman, who ridiculed him on every possible occasion. And he had never forgotten the time, two years ago, when, by some strange chance, he had found himself the guest of a Scottish duke in his shooting box, and when inquiring of Sammy Kilgobbin what he should lay out in the way of tips to the keepers, had been recommended by Sammy to give them nothing, on the ground that he was never likely to be asked to that shoot again, it had been rather a cruel and offensive remark to make, but there was no doubt in the keen, sardonic hunuor of it, and Clayton-Green was not likely to hear the last of it. He turned to Sammy now, and grinned.

"What do you make out of Brancaster a year, Sammy?" he asked offensively. "He must find your acquaintance expensive."

"And so would ye, ye little divil, if ye was half as generous,'' Kilgobbin retorted, good humoredly. "Bedad, it isn't every one of us whose grandfather made a fortune in the rag trade. What do I cost you a year, Nick, my boy?"

Brancaster smiled and chuckled.

"Upon my word, I never troubled to, inquire, Sammy," he said. "Two or three thousand, I suppose. But you're worth it, my boy. Oh, yes, you're worth it. But what about that wireless. Do you mean to say—"

"I do. I arranged it the day before we sailed. It was one of my happy ideas as I was walking down Bond-street one day. Two or three times they have worried me to equip the Fireflight with wireless, and, thinks I to myself, here's the chance to make a hundred or two in the way of commission, and, bedad, I did. And, thinks I, we'll try it for the first time on Derby Day. And so we shall."

"That's a rattling good notion of- yours, Sammy," one of the guardsmen said. "What you call a paying proposition, eh?"

It was some ten minutes later before the steward came on deck with a sheet of paper In his hand. There has been signs overhead for some little time that something was going on in connection with the wireless, and here was tangible proof that Sammy had not been exaggerating. He took the paper in his hand, and bent his big red face over it.

"Well, here ye are," he said.- "I'll just read it aloud. Uncas first, Machine Gun second, Bon Enfant third. Wait a minute, here's a bit more:— International, Golf Match; Sandwich, four o'clock, Taylor and Vardon, 3 and 1. Braid did 'The maiden' in one stroke. Now I call that nice and friendly on the part of those people in Bond-street, to throw that last bit of information in. Sort of a gift, perhaps. Well, if it isn't, Brancaster will have to pay."

"Brancaster always does," that individual murmured.— "Well, thank God, . I didn't back anything for this year! It was too open a race for my taste. But who in the deuce is Uncas? I never heard of him. He certainly wasn't among the starters when we left Southampton. If I had had to make a choice, I should have said that Bon Enfant was a snip. Anybody on the winner by chance?"

No response came from the little group round the table except from Sammy Kilgobbin, who shook bis head solemnly with the air of a man who declines to be deceived by appearances.

"Oh, it's a drame," he said. "Nothing but. a drame. I refuse to believe it. Shure, such a bit of blazin' luck couldn't happen to me."

"You backed him, Sammy?" Clayton-Green asked.

"I did, my boy, I did," Sammy said, still shaking his head almost sorrowfully. "I did it as you might say by accident. It was three months ago that one of the boys gave me the tip, one of the boys that I done a good turn to. 'Have a century on, Captain,' he said, 'ye'll never, regret it. 'Besides, the horse will sure to come to a short price, an' ye'll get some good hedging.' And, to make a long story short; and havin' a century I didn't quite know what to do with—"

"One of Brancaster's centuries, I suppose," Clayton-Green said pleasantly.

"It was not," the imperturbable Sam, responded, "I won it over a dead certainty betting with a little snipe who was rather like you to look at. But it doesn't matter. I put that money on Uncas and forgot all about it. He never came into the betting at all, and it's any odds that he didn't carry a shilling besides stable money. But it's a drame, I ' tell ye, nothing but a drame. It's a hideous mistake.

"If it isn't I've won ten thousand pounds. And I don't believe that the fates would ever allow me to get away with a litle wad like that. It's wrong, all wrong. The man who sent off that message has made a bloomer, me boys, if he hasn't, he's got the names mixed up.  I never was a lucky man, and never shall be. All the money I ever earned in my life I've got by my own industry and the exercise of the talents that Providence has given me. And that's why I refuse to believe that I'm in over this."

"Oh, monsense, Sammy," Brancaster said encouragingly. "Virtue is rewarded occasionally though it seldom starts favorite. Here, let'shave another round of liquor, up to drink Sammy's good health."

But Kilgobbin still shook his head.

"Did ye ever hear tell of a banshee?" he asked.

"An American drink?" Clayton-Green suggested.

"It is not. It's a female spirit that hovers in times of misfortune, round the houses of the real gentry, and so ye'll not have to worry yourself about it, ye little shrimp. The noight me father, died, and his father before him, the. banshee was heard, for, you see, it's the tradition of my family that death always follows what appears to be a stroke of good fortune. And the night me father died he'd sold a big string of hunters to a bit of a Lieutenant who was buying cavalry horses for the British Government. And, bedad that was his bit of good fortune, but oy the same token he died before morning, rest his soul,  and that was an end of him."

"And what's the moral of it all, Sammy?" Upton of the Guards asked.

"Well, it's loike this, me boy. Here s bit of good fortune come to me, and, bedad, I don't want to die not so long as old. Nick here is alive, and I can make a bit out of him. So I'll just tell ye what I'll do. We'll have a bit of hedging and get the better of the family banshee that way. I'll wager any of ye a cool thousand pounds that those names are all wrong, and that Uncas hasn't won the Derby after all; if he has, then here's a chance for some of ye to make a thousand, and if I am right then I stand on velvet. Now, don't all speak, at once."

They didn't. The idea of Sammy Kilgobbin paying any of them, or anybody else, for that matter, a thousand pounds if he lost struck them all as a peculiarly exquisite piece of humor. For Sammy made it his invariable rule to pay no one, except tradesmen, and therefore there must be a trap somewhere.

It was only Clayton-Green who sat up and began to take notice. From the bottom of his miserable little soul he hated and loathed the big Irishman, and would have paid away a good sum; of the rnoney ho loved so well to get even, with him. But he was not blind to the advantage of keeping on the right side of Kilgobbin. It had been a source of perpetual wonder to him, ever since he had begun to make his way in Society, that these men whom he envied so tolerated the exuberant Sammy at all. They all knew, for instance, what he was, they all knew that he was utterly unscrupulous, that he had not a shilling of his own, and that he made no secret of the fact that he was out to get the best of everybody by any means in his power.

But all the same, Sammy was to be seen everywhere, he belonged to some of the best clubs, mainly because his father had belonged to them before him; he was received in the most exclusive houses, and with Clayton-Green's own eyes he had seen that irrepressible Celt hammering a duke in the region of the liver, and addressing him without reproof as "Toko." And Clayton-Green would have given a thousand pounds, gladly, for the privilege of calling any duke by his nickname in the presence of a mixed company.

He knew too, that Sammy would do anything for money, and he was not blind to the advantage of having Kilgobbin on his own side. Strange as it seemed it meant so much socially. And here was a possible chance of making money and scoring off the Irishman at the same time. And even if he lost. Sammy would be in his debt, and this fact doubtless would render him more civil in the future. He would itake the bet, and even if he won, and Sammy, refused, to pay, then . he would be none the worse off, and the moral advantages would be all on his side.

"I'll take you," he cried eagerly.

"I wasn't talking to you," Kilgolblin said. "I was offering that privilege to me own friends."

"They don't seem anxious," Clayton-Green grinned.

"No; they're not," the second Guardsman observed. "Who would take  advantage of a simple soul like Sammy?"

"Well, he offered the bet," Clayton-Green protested. "But one might have known that he didn't mean it."

"Well, then, I do," Kilgobbin said, with a gleam in his eyes. "Never shall it be said that a Kilgobbin went back on his word. Maybe it's a good thing for you, and maybe it isn't— not that I meant it for you in any case. When I scatter my hard-earned gold I always do it among the right sort. Still, as none of these chaps seem anxious, you can have the bet if you like, and there's an end of it. An even thousand that Uncas has not won the Derby, and another thousand if you like, that Bon Enfant has. It's upside down those names are, and I'm betting big money on it. And I ain't a philanthropist, either. If I'm wrong, I win eight thousand, and if I'm right I'm about fifteen hundred in."

"All right," Clayton-Green drawled.

He took from his pocket an elaborate gold-mounted betting book, and solemnly made an entry. It was characteristic of Kilgobbin that his record of the transaction was made on the back of an old envelope. He did not appear to be in the least elated; on the contrary, he was quite quiet, and for him, almost depressed. It was only Brancaster, lying back in bis deck chair watching the others from under those thick bushy eyebrows of his, who appeared to extract any sort of amusement from the situation. He made one or two sarcastic, remarks to the effect that he would ike to know what Clayton-Green proposed to do with the money when he'd got it, a comment that produced a shout of unfeeling laughter, but which, did not appear to disturb the serenity of Kilgobbin in the least.

"Well, why not find out if you're right or wrong, Sammy?" Brancaster asked. "Wire back to your sporting pal and ask him to repeat the message."

"And what's the good of that?" Sammy retorted. "The- thing is, done now, and there's an end of it. Besides, it's past 6 o'clock, and that place in Bond-street will be closed long before tbe message gets through. We're sure to pick up an English paper this side of Gib."

Brancaster carried the suggestion no further, and presently the party on deck adjourned for dinner. They turned the yacht homewards in the morning, cruising leisurely along the Mediterranean until they fetched up at Gibraltar, at the end of the week, and there took the mail and newspapers on board. It was one of the Guardsmen who first got hold of the "Times" and tore the cover off impatiently. He turned the pages over to tbe sporting columns, and laughed unfeelingly.

"Here you are, Sammy, my boy," he said. "Whatever happens, you always fall on your feet. What will you take for that old family banshee of yours? By gad, I should like to run her permanently as a sporting prophet."

"What are you giving me?" Sammy asked, as he helped himself liberally  to ham and eggs. "What's doin'?"

"Oh, nothing, old boy, except that you are right and our friend Clayton-Green here is wrong. That pal of yours in Bond-street muddled things up just as you said he had, and somehow got the news of the first three in the Derby all wrong."

"Then, bedad, I'm the poorer by £8000," Kilgobbin exclaimed.  "But I knew it all the time. I felt it in my bones. It wasn't to be expected that an unlucky divil like Sammy Kilgobbin would ever pull off a coup like that. If I had I should have been sorry for it. I should have certainly had a visit from the banshee, and probably by this time should have found a watery grave in the Mediterranean. So I suppose that Bon Enfant won after all?"

"He did. He was first and Uncas was third, just as you said they would be. Still, it's hard luck!"

"Bedad, it's nothing of the kind. Ye see, my boy, I should never have lived to enjoy me good fortune, which means that me friend Clayton-Green would never have been paid. As it is, he's got to pay me. Well, I think I deserve it. Shure, a man ought to be paid for a bit of fine foresight like mine. An' I'll trouble ye for that cheque at your earliest convanience. An' it's glad I am ye can afford to part with it."

On the whole, Clayton-Green took it with a fairly good grace. It was absolutely gall and wormwood to him to know that instead of placing Kilgobbin under an obligation, that volatile Irishman had got the better of him, and that, in any case, he was some hundreds of pounds in pocket, over the whole transaction. Still, the chaff and the laughter went deep enough under Clayton-Green's epidermis, and he was glad enough to make an excuse presently that he had letters to write, and retired to think the thing over in the seclusion of his own cabin.

There rankled somewhere in the back of his mind that suspicion that he had been, "had" by the wily Sammy; indeed, he was half-inclined to believe that he had been inveigled on to the yacht for that very purpose, but though he turned the matter over in his mind again and again he could find nothing tangible upon which to act. After all, probably it had been a bit of blind chance on Kilgobbin's part, and by the same perverse fate he had been selected as the victim. Well, it served him right; he had rushed in like a fool where angels, in the shape of the other guests, had feared to tread, and he had paid the penalty. He handed over his cheque later on in the day with an air of simulated cheerfulness. He even attempted to congratulate Kilgobbin.

But there was one man on board the Fireflight who was not quite so satisfied, and that man was Brancaster. Later in the evening he crept into his bunk, where he sat up, a pleasing picture in pink silk pyjamas, smoking a cigarette and regarding Sammy Kilgobbin shrewdly from under those deep eyebrows of his. They were quite alone together in the cabin.

"Now, tell me all about it, Sammy," he said.

"All about what?" Sammy asked innocently.

"My dear chap, you mustn't suppose that I am going to pay for the theatre and the limelights and all the stage essentials without being trusted with the plot of the play. I mean, how did you do it?"

"Nick, old man," Sammy said quite seriously. "Did it ever occur to you that some day I shall be a back number, that some day the bright young spirits in the clubs will shrug their shoulders when my name is mentioned: and speak of me as that confounded old bore, Sammy Kilgobbin? 'Quite a good sort in his day but getting dotty how, don't you know.' And I've got to provide for that time. You may provide for me, on the contrary you may not. Not but what I've done thundering well out of you, but still— So I've saved up a few thousands, and when I get hold of a mug like Clayton-Green, I take out another thousand or two in Government annuities. When I'm fifty-five I reckon I shall have about two thousand a year, which is as much as I shall need then. I don't mind being blackguarded, but I'll be hanged if have to be pitied."

"You old ruffian, I felt sure you were up to one of your tricks when you told me that you had asked Clayton-Green to join us. Now, come, out with it."

"It wasn't so mighty bad, was it?" Sammy grinned. "The idea occurred to me when that agent asked me to get you to fit up the Fireflight with wireless. And when I thought it all out, I picked on Clayton-Green as the most likely ass for my purpose. Mind you, I arranged to have those mames transposed, or, at any rate, placed in wrong order. That little touch about the golf match was a stroke of genius. Hidden underneath it is my code, and in that code I had to have a capital V, and knowing that the international golf match was taking place at Sandwich the same day, I chose that because it gave me the V in question. Besides, it made everything look natural. But, Lord bless ye, me boy, I could have had the whole lot of you, if I'd liked; but Noblesse Oblige, Nick, Noblesse Oblige."

"A very proper sentiment," Brancaster grinned. "Good night, Sammy, old man, and many thanks for the comedy."

___________________

11: My Terminal Moraine

Frank R. Stockton

1834-1902

Once a Week, 26 April 1892

Frank Richard Stockton

A MAN'S birth is generally considered the most important event of his existence, but I truly think that what I am about to relate was more important to me than my entrance into this world; because, had not these things happened, I am of the opinion that my life would have been of no value to me and my birth a misfortune.

My father, Joshua Cuthbert, died soon after I came to my majority, leaving me what he had considered a comfortable property. This consisted of a large house and some forty acres of land, nearly the whole of which lay upon a bluff, which upon three sides descended to a little valley, through which ran a gentle stream. I had no brothers or sisters. My mother died when I was a boy, and I, Walter Cuthbert, was left the sole representative of my immediate family.

My estate had been a comfortable one to my father, because his income from the practice of his profession as a physician enabled him to keep it up and provide satisfactorily for himself and me. I had no profession and but a very small income, the result of a few investments my father had made. Left to myself, I felt no inducement to take up any profession or business. My wants were simple, and for a few years I lived without experiencing any inconvenience from the economies which I was obliged to practice. My books, my dog, my gun and my rod made life pass very pleasantly to me, and the subject of ail increase of income never disturbed my mind.

But as time passed on the paternal home began to present an air of neglect and even dilapidation, which occasionally attracted my attention and caused, as I incidentally discovered, a great deal of unfavorable comment among my neighbors, who thought that I should go to work and at least earn money enough to put the house and grounds in a condition which should not be unworthy the memory of the good Dr. Cuthbert. In fact, I began to be looked upon as a shiftless young man; and, now and then, I found a person old enough and bold enough to tell me so.

But, instead of endeavoring to find some suitable occupation by which I might better my condition and improve my estate, I fell in love, which, in the opinion of my neighbors, was the very worst thing that could have happened to me at this time. I lived in a thrifty region, and for a man who could not support himself to think of taking upon him the support of a wife, especially such a wife as Agnes Havelot would be, was considered more than folly and looked upon as a crime. Everybody knew that I was in love with Miss Havelot, for I went to court her as boldly as I went to fish or shoot. There was a good deal of talk about it, and this finally came to the ears of Mr. Havelot, my lady's father, who, thereupon, promptly ordered her to have no more to do with me.

The Havelot estate, which adjoined mine, was a very large one, containing hundreds and hundreds of acres; and the Havelots were rich, rich enough to frighten any poor young man of marrying intent. But I did not appreciate the fact that I was a poor young man. I had never troubled my head about money as it regarded myself, and I now did not trouble my head about it as it regarded Agnes. I loved her, I hoped she loved me, and all other considerations were thrown aside. Mr. Havelot, however, was a man of a different way of thinking.

It was a little time before I became convinced that the decision of Agnes's father, that there should be no communication between that dear girl and myself, really meant anything. I had never been subjected to restrictions, and I did not understand how people of spirit could submit to them; but I was made to understand it when Mr. Havelot, finding me wandering about his grounds, very forcibly assured me that if I should make my appearance there again, or if he discovered any attempt on my part to communicate with his daughter in any way, he would send her from home. He concluded the very brief interview by stating that if I had any real regard for his daughter's happiness I would cease attentions which would meet with the most decided disapprobation from her only surviving parent and which would result in exiling her from home. I begged for one more interview with Miss Havelot, and if it had been granted I should have assured her of the state of my affections, no matter if there were reasons to suppose that I would never see her again; but her father very sternly forbade anything of the kind, and I went away crushed.

It was a very hard case, for if I played the part of a bold lover and tried to see Agnes without regard to the wicked orders of her father, I should certainly be discovered; and then it would be not only myself, but the poor girl, who would suffer. So I determined that I would submit to the Havelot decree. No matter if I never saw her again, never heard the sound of her voice, it would be better to have her near me, to have her breathe the same air, cast up her eyes at the same sky, listen to the same birds, that I breathed, looked at and listened to, than to have her far away, probably in Kentucky, where I knew she had relatives, and where the grass was blue and the sky probably green, or at any rate would appear so to her if in the least degree she felt as I did in regard to the ties of home and the affinities between the sexes.

I now found myself in a most doleful and even desperate condition of mind. There was nothing in the world which I could have for which I cared. Hunting, fishing, and the rambles through woods and fields that had once been so delightful to me now became tasks which I seldom undertook. The only occupation in which I felt the slightest interest was that of sitting in a tower of my house with a telescope, endeavoring to see my Agnes on some portion of her father's grounds; but, although I diligently directed my glass at the slightest stretch of lawn or bit of path which I could discern through openings in the foliage, I never caught sight of her. I knew, however, by means of daily questions addressed to my cook, whose daughter was a servant in the Havelot house, that Agnes was yet at home. For that reason I remained at home. Otherwise, I should have become a wanderer.

About a month after I had fallen into this most unhappy state an old friend came to see me. We had been school-fellows, but he differed from me in almost every respect. He was full of ambition and energy, and, although he was but a few years older than myself, he had already made a name in the world. He was a geologist, earnest and enthusiastic in his studies and his investigations. He told me frankly that the object of his visit was twofold. In the first place, he wanted to see me, and, secondly, he wanted to make some geological examinations on my grounds, which were situated, as he informed me, upon a terminal moraine, a formation which he had not yet had an opportunity of practically investigating.

I had not known that I lived on a moraine, and now that I knew it, I did not care. But Tom Burton glowed with high spirits and lively zeal as he told me how the great bluff on which my house stood, together with the other hills and wooded terraces which stretched away from it along the side of the valley, had been formed by the minute fragments of rock and soil, which, during ages and ages, had been gradually pushed down from the mountains by a great glacier which once occupied the country to the northeast of my house.

"Why, Walter, my boy," he cried, "if I had not read it all in the books I should have known for myself, as soon as I came here, that there had once been a glacier up there, and as it gradually moved to the southwest it had made this country what it is. Have you a stream down there in that dell which I see lies at right angles with the valley and opens into it ?"

"No," said I; "I wish there were one. The only stream we have flows along the valley and not on my property."

Without waiting for me Tom ran down into my dell, pushed his way through the underbrush to its upper end, and before long came back flushed with heat and enthusiasm.

"Well, sir," he said, "that dell was once the bed of a glacial stream, and you may as well clear it out and plant com there if you want to, for there never will be another stream flowing through it until there is another glacier out in the country beyond. And now I want you to let me dig about here. I want to find out what sort of stuff the glacier brought down from the mountains. I will hire a man and will promise you to fill up all the holes I make."

I had no objection to my friend's digging as much as he pleased, and for three days he busied himself in getting samples of the soil of my estate. Sometimes I went out and looked at him, and gradually a little of his earnest ardor infused itself into me, and with some show of interest I looked into the holes he had made and glanced over the mineral specimens he showed me.

"Well, Walter," said he, when he took leave of me,  "I am very sorry that I did not discover that the glacier had raked out the bed of a gold mine from the mountains up there and brought it down to you, or at any rate, some valuable iron ore. But I am obliged to say it did not do anything of the sort. But I can tell you one thing it brought you, and, although it is not of any great commercial value, I should think you could make good use of it here on your place. You have one of the finest deposits of gravel on this bluff that I have met with, and if you were to take out a lot of it and spread it over your driveways and paths, it would make it a great deal pleasanter for you to go about here in bad weather and would wonderfully improve your property. Good roads always give an idea of thrift and prosperity." And then he went away with a valise nearly full of mineral specimens which he assured me were very interesting.

My interest in geological formations died away as soon as Tom Burton had departed, but what he said about making gravel roads giving the place an air of thrift and prosperity had its effect upon my mind. It struck me that it would be a very good thing if people in the neighborhood, especially the Havelots, were to perceive on my place some evidences of thrift and prosperity. Most palpable evidences of unthrift and impecuniosity had cut me off from Agnes, and why might it not be that some signs of improved circumstances would remove, to a degree at least, the restrictions which had been placed between us? This was but a very little thing upon which to build hopes;  but ever since men and women have loved they have built grand hopes upon very slight foundations. I determined to put my roadways in order.

My efforts in this direction were really evidence of anything but thnftmess, for I could not in the least afford to make my drives and walks resemble the smooth and beautiful roads which wound over the Havelot estate, although to do this was my intention, and I set about the work without loss of time. I took up this occupation with so much earnestness that it seriously interfered with my observations from the tower.

I hired two men and set them to work to dig a gravel-pit. They made excavations at several places, and very soon found what they declared to be a very fine quality of road-gravel. I ordered them to dig on until they had taken out what they believed to be enough to cover all my roads. When this had been done, I would have it properly spread and rolled. As this promised to be a very good job, the men went to work in fine spirits and evidently made up their minds that the improvements I desired would require a vast deal of gravel.

When they had dug a hole so deep that it became difficult to throw up the gravel from the bottom, I suggested that they should dig at some other place. But to this they objected, declaring that the gravel was getting better and better, and it would be well to go on down as long as the quality continued to be so good. So, at last, they put a ladder into the pit, one man carrying the gravel up in a hod, while the other dug it; and when they had gone down so deep that this was no longer practicable, they rigged up a derrick and windlass and drew up the gravel in a bucket.

Had I been of a more practical turn of mind I might have perceived that this method of working made the job a very long and, consequently, to the laborers, a profitable one; but no such idea entered into my head, and not noticing whether they were bringing up sand or gravel I allowed them to proceed.

One morning I went out to the spot where the excavation was being made and found that the men had built a fire on the ground near the opening of the pit, and that one of them was bending over it wanning imself. As the month was July this naturally surprised mt, and I inquired the reason for so strange a performance.

"Upon my soul," said the man, who was rubbing his hands over the blaze, "I do not wonder you are surprised, but it's so cold down at the bottom of that pit that me fingers is almost frosted; and we haven't struck any wather neither, which couldn't be expected, of course, a-diggm' down into the hill like this."

I looked into the hole and found it was very deep. "I think it would be better to stop digging here," said I, "and try some other place."

"I wouldn't do that just now," said the other man, who was preparing to go down in the bucket; "to be sure, it's a good deal more like a well than a gravelpit, but it's bigger at the top than at the bottom, and there's no danger of its cavin' in, and now that we've got everything rigged up all right, it would be a pity to make a change yet awhile."

So I let them go on; but the next day when I went out again I found that they had come to the conclusion that it was time to give up digging in that hole. They both declared that it almost froze their feet to stand on the ground where they worked at the bottom of the excavation. The slow business of drawing up the gravel by means of a bucket and windlass was, therefore, reluctantly given up. The men now went to work to dig outward from this pit toward the edge of the bluff which overlooked my little dell, and gradually made a wide trench, which they deepened until— and I am afraid to say how long they worked before this was done— they could walk to the original pit from the level of the dell. They then deepened the inner end of the trench, wheeling out the gravel in barrows, until they had made an inclined pathway from the dell to the bottom of the pit. The wheeling now became difficult, and the men soon declared that they were sure that they had quite gravel enough.

When they made this announcement, and I had gone into some financial calculations, I found that I would be obliged to put an end to my operations, at least for the present, for my available funds were gone, or would be when I had paid what I owed for the work. The men were very much disappointed by the sudden ending of this good job, but they departed, and I was left to gaze upon a vast amount of gravel, of which, for the present at least, I could not afford to make the slightest use.

The mental despondency which had been somewhat lightened during my excavating operations now returned, and I became rather more gloomy and downcast than before My cook declared that it was of no use to prepare meals which I never ate, and suggested that it would save money if I discharged her. As I had not paid her anything for a long time, I did not see how this would benefit me

Wandering about one day with my hat pulled down over my eyes and my hands thrust deep into my pockets, I strolled into the dell and stood before the wide trench which led to the pit in which I had foolishly sunk the money which should have supported me for months. I entered this dismal passage and walked slowly and carefully down the incline until I reached the bottom of the original pit, where I had never been before. I stood here looking up and around me and wondering how men could bring themselves to dig down into such dreary depths simply for the sake of a few dollars a week, when I involuntarily began to stamp my feet. They were very cold, although I had not been there more than a minute. I wondered at this and took up some of the loose gravel in my hand. It was quite dry, but it chilled my fingers. I did not understand it, and I did not try to, but walked up the trench and around into the dell, thinking of Agnes.

I was very fond of milk, which, indeed, was almost the only food I now cared for, and I was consequently much disappointed at my noonday meal when I found that the milk had soured and was not fit to drink.

"You see, sir," said Susan, "ice is very scarce and dear, and we can not afford to buy much of it There was no freezm' weather last winter, and the price has gone up as high as the thermometer, sir, and so, between the two of 'era, I can't keep things from spoilin'."

The idea now came to me that if Susan would take the milk, and anything else she wished to keep cool in this hot weather, to the bottom of the gravel-pit, she would find the temperature there cold enough to preserve them without ice, and I told her so.

The next morning Susan came to me with a pleased countenance and said, "I put the butter and the milk in that pit last night, and the butter's just as hard and the milk's as sweet as if it had been kept in an ice-house. But the place is as cold as an ice-house, sir, and unless I am mistaken, there's ice in it. Anyway, what do you call that?"

And she took from a little basket a piece of grayish ice as large as my fist.

"When I found it was so cold down there, sir," she said, "I thought I would dig a little myself and see what made it so; and I took a fire-shovel and hatchet, and, when I had scraped away some of the gravel, I came to something hard and chopped off this piece of it, which is real ice, sir, or I know nothing about it Perhaps there used to be an ice-house there, and you might get some of it if you dug, though why anybody should put it down so deep and then cover it up, I'm sure I don't know. But as long as there's any there, I think we should get it out, even if there's only a little of it; for I can not take everything down to that pit, and we might as well have it in the refrigerator."

This seemed to me like very good sense, and if I had had a man I should have ordered him to go down to the pit and dig up any lumps of ice he might find and bring them to the house. But I had no man, and I therefore became impressed with the opinion that if I did not want to drink sour milk for the rest of the summer, it might be a good thing for me to go down there and dig out some of the ice myself. So with pickaxe and shovel I went to the bottom of the pit and set myself to work.

A few inches below the surface I found that my shovel struck something hard, and, clearing away the gravel from this for two or three square feet, I looked down upon a solid mass of ice. It was dirty and begrimed, but it was truly ice. With my pick I detached some large pieces of it. These, with some discomfort, I carried out into the dell where Susan might come with her basket and get them.

For several days Susan and I took out ice from the pit, and then I thought that perhaps Tom Burton might feel some interest in this frozen deposit in my terminal moraine, and so I wrote to him about it. He did not answer my letter, but instead arrived himself the next afternoon.

"Ice at the bottom of a gravel-pit," said he, "is a thing I never heard of. Will you lend me a spade and a pickaxe?"

When Tom came out of that pit— it was too cold a place for me to go with him and watch his proceedings— I saw him come running toward the house.

"Walter," he shouted, "we must hire all the men we can find and dig, dig, dig. If I am not mistaken something has happened on your place that is wonderful almost beyond belief. But we must not stop to talk. We must dig, dig, dig; dig all day and dig all night. Don't think of the cost. I'll attend to that. I'll get the money. What we must do is to find men and set them to work."

"What's the matter?" said I. "What has happened ?"

"I haven't time to talk about it now; besides I don't want to, for fear that I should find that I am mistaken. But get on your hat, my dear fellow, and let's go over to the town for men."

The next day there were eight men working under the direction of my friend Burton, and although they did not work at night as he wished them to do, they labored steadfastly for ten days or more before Tom was ready to announce what it was he had hoped to discover, and whether or not he had found it. For a day or two I watched the workmen from time to time, but after that I kept away, preferring to await the result of my friend's operations. He evidently expected to find something worth having, and whether he was successful or not, it suited me better to know the truth all at once and not by degrees.

On the morning of the eleventh day Tom came into the room where I was reading and sat down near me. His face was pale, his eyes glittering. "Old friend," said he, and as he spoke I noticed that his voice was a little husky, although it was plain enough that his emotion was not occasioned by bad fortune— "my good old friend, I have found out what made the bottom of your gravel-pit so uncomfortably cold. You need not doubt what I am going to tell you, for my excavations have been complete and thorough enough to make me sure of what I say. Don't you remember that I told you that ages ago there was a vast glacier in the country which stretches from here to the mountains? Well, sir, the foot of that glacier must have reached further this way than is generally supposed. At any rate a portion of it did extend in this direction as far as this bit of the world which is now yours. This end or spur of the glacier, nearly a quarter of a mile in width, I should say, and pushing before it a portion of the terminal moraine on which you live, came slowly toward the valley until suddenly it detached itself from the main glacier and disappeared from sight. That is to say, my boy"— and as he spoke Tom sprang to his feet, too excited to sit any longer— "it descended to the bowels of the earth, at least for a considerable distance in that direction. Now you want to know how this happened. Well, I'll tell vou. In this part of the country there are scattered about here and there great caves. Geologists know one or two of them, and it is certain that there are others undiscovered. Well, sir, your glacier spur discovered one of them, and when it had lain over the top of it for an age or two, and had grown bigger and bigger, and heavier and heavier, it at last burst through the rock roof of the cave, snapping itself from the rest of the glacier and falling in one vast mass to the bottom of the subterranean abyss. Walter, it is there now. The rest of the glacier came steadily down; the moraines were forced before it; they covered up this glacier spur, this broken fragment, and by the time the climate changed and the average of temperature rose above that of the glacial period, this vast sunken mass of ice was packed away below the surface of the earth, out of the reach of the action of friction, or heat, or moisture, or anything else which might destroy it. And through all the long procession of centuries that broken end of the glacier has been lying in your terminal moraine. It is there now. It is yours, Walter Cuthbert. It is an ice-mine. It is wealth, and so far as I can make out, it is nearly all upon your land. To you is the possession, but to me is the glory of the discovery. A bit of the glacial period kept in a cave for us! It is too wonderful to believe! Walter, have you any brandy?"

It may well be supposed that by this time I was thoroughly awakened to the importance and the amazing character of my friend's discovery, and I hurried with him to the scene of operations. There he explained everything and showed me how, by digging away a portion of the face of the bluff, he had found that this vast fragment of the glacier, which had been so miraculously preserved, ended in an irregularly perpendicular wall, which extended downward he knew not how far, and the edge of it on its upper side had been touched by my workmen in digging their pit.

"It was the gradual melting of the upper end of this glacier," said Tom, "probably more elevated than the lower end, that made your dell. I wondered why the depression did not extend further up toward the spot where the foot of the glacier was supposed to have been. This end of the fragment, being sunk in deeper and afterward covered up more completely, probably never melted at all."

"It is amazing— astounding," said I; "but what of it, now that we have found it?"

"What of it?" cried Tom, and his whole form trembled as he spoke. "You have here a source of wealth, of opulence which shall endure for the rest of your days. Here at your very door, where it can be taken out and transported with the least possible trouble, is ice enough to supply the town, the county, yes, I might say, the State, for hundreds of years. No, sir, I can not go in to supper. I can not eat. I leave to you the business and practical part of this affair. I go to report upon its scientific features."

"Agnes," I exclaimed, as I walked to the house with my hands clasped and my eyes raised to the sky, "the glacial period has given thee to me!"

This did not immediately follow, although I went that very night to Mr. Havelot and declared to him that I was now rich enough to marry his daughter. He laughed at me in a manner which was very annoying, and made certain remarks which indicated that he thought it probable that it was not the roof of the cave, but my mind, which had given way under the influence of undue pressure. The contemptuous manner in which I had been received aroused within me a very unusual state of mind. While talking to Mr. Havelot I heard not far away in some part of the house a voice singing. It was the voice of Agnes, and I believed she sang so that I could hear her. But as her sweet tones reached my ear there came to me at the same time the harsh, contemptuous words of her father. I left the house determined to crush that man to the earth beneath a superincumbent mass of ice— or the evidence of the results of the ownership of such a mass— which would make him groan and weep as he apologized to me for his scornful and disrespectful utterances and at the same time offered me the hand of his daughter.

When the discovery of the ice-mine, as it grew to be called, became generally known, my grounds were crowded by sightseers, and reporters of newspapers were more plentiful than squirrels. But the latter were referred to Burton, who would gladly talk to them as long as they could afford to listen, and I felt myself at last compelled to shut my gates to the first.

I had offers of capital to develop this novel source of wealth, and I accepted enough of this assistance to enable me to begin operations on a moderate scale. It was considered wise not to uncover any portion of the glacier spur, but to construct an inclined shaft down to its wall-like end and from this tunnel into the great mass. Immediately the leading ice company of the neighboring town contracted with me for all the ice I could furnish, and the flood-gates of affluence began slowly to rise.

The earliest, and certainly one of the greatest, benefits which came to me from this bequest from the unhistoric past was the new energy and vigor with which my mind and body were now infused. My old, careless method of life and my recent melancholy, despairing mood were gone, and I now began to employ myself upon the main object of my life with an energy and enthusiasm almost equal to that of my friend, Tom Burton. This present object of my life was to prepare my home for Agnes.

The great piles of gravel which my men had dug from the well-like pit were spread upon the roadways and rolled smooth and hard; my lawn was mowed; my flower-beds and borders put in order; useless bushes and undergrowth cut out and cleared away; my outbuildings were repaired and the grounds around my house rapidly assumed their old appearance of neatness and beauty.

Ice was very scarce that summer, and, as the wagons wound away from the opening of the shaft which led down to the glacier, carrying their loads to the nearest railway station, so money came to me; not in large sums at first, for preparations had not yet been perfected for taking out the ice in great quantities, but enough to enable me to go on with my work as rapidly as I could plan it. I set about renovating and brightening and newly furnishing my house. Whatever I thought that Agnes would like I bought and put into it. I tried to put myself in her place as I selected the paper-hangings and the materials with which to cover the furniture.

Sometimes, while thus employed selecting ornaments or useful articles for my house, and using as far as was possible the taste and judgment of another instead of my own, the idea came to me that perhaps Agnes had never heard of my miraculous good fortune. Certainly her father would not be likely to inform her, and perhaps she still thought of me, if she thought at all, as the poor young man from whom she had been obliged to part because he was poor.

But whether she knew that I was growing rich, or whether she thought I was becoming poorer and poorer, I thought only of the day when I could go to her father and tell him that I was able to take his daughter and place her in a home as beautiful as that in which she now lived, and maintain her with all the comforts and luxuries which he could give her.

One day I asked my faithful cook, who also acted as my housekeeper and general supervisor, to assist me in making out a list of china which I intended to purchase.

"Are you thinking of buying china, sir?" she asked. "We have now quite as much as we really need."

"Oh, yes," said I, "I shall get complete sets of everything that can be required for a properly furnished household."

Susan gave a little sigh. "You are spends a lot of money, sir, and some of it for things that a single gentleman would be likely not to care very much about; and if you was to take it into your head to travel and stay away for a year or two, there's a good many things you've bought that would look shabby when you come back, no matter how careful I might be in dustin' 'em and keepin' 'em covered."

"But I have no idea of traveling," said I. "There's no place so pleasant as this to me."

Susan was silent for a few moments, and then she said : "I know very well why you are doing all this, and I feel it my bounden duty to say to you that there's a chance of its bein' no use. I do not speak without good reason, and I would not do it if I didn't think that it might make trouble lighter to you when it comes."

"What are you talking about, Susan; what do you mean ?"

"Well, sir, this is what I mean: It was only last night that my daughter Jane was in Mr. Havelot's dining-room after dinner was over, and Mr. Havelot and a friend of his were sitting there, smoking their cigars and drinking their coffee. She went in and come out again as she was busy takin' away the dishes, and they paid no attention to her, but went on talkin' without knowing, most likely, she was there. Mr. Havelot and the gentleman were talkin' about you, and Jane she heard Mr. Havelot say as plain as anything, and she said she couldn't be mistaken, that even if your nonsensical ice-mine proved to be worth anything, he would never let his daughter marry an iceman. He spoke most disrespectful of ice-men, sir, and said that it would make him sick to have a son-in-law whose business it was to sell ice to butchers, and hotels, and grog-shops, and pork-packers, and all that sort of people, and that he would as soon have his daughter marry the man who supplied a hotel with sausages as the one who supplied it with ice to keep those sausages from spoiling. You see, sir, Mr. Havelot lives on his property as his father did before him, and he is a very proud man, with a heart as hard and cold as that ice down under your land; and it's borne in on me very strong, sir, that it would be a bad thing for you to keep on thinkin' that you are gettin' this house all ready to bring Miss Havelot to when you have married her. For if Mr. Havelot keeps on livin', which there's every chance of his doin', it may be many a weary year before you get Miss Agnes, if you ever get her. And havin' said that, sir, I say no more, and I would not have said this much if I hadn't felt it my bounden duty to your father's son to warn him that most likely he was workin' for what he might never get, and so keep him from breakin' his heart when he found out the truth all of a sudden."

With that Susan left me, without offering any assistance in making out a list of china. This was a terrible story; but, after all, it was founded only upon servants' gossip. In this country, even proud, rich men like Mr. Havelot did not have such absurd ideas regarding the source of wealth. Money is money, and whether it is derived from the ordinary products of the earth, from which came much of Mr. Havelot's revenue, or from an extraordinary project such as my glacier spur, it truly could not matter so far as concerned the standing in society of its possessor. What utter absurdity was this which Susan had told me! If I were to go to Mr. Havelot and tell him that I would not marry his daughter because he supplied brewers and bakers with the products of his fields, would he not consider me an idiot? I determined to pay no attention to the idle tale. But alas! determinations of that sort are often of little avail. I did pay attention to it, and my spirits drooped.

The tunnel into the glacier spur had now attained considerable length, and the ice in the interior was found to be of a much finer quality than that first met with, which was of a grayish hue and somewhat inclined to crumble. When the workmen reached a grade of ice as good as they could expect, they began to enlarge the tunnel into a chamber, and from this they proposed to extend tunnels in various directions after the fashion of a coal-mine. The ice was hauled out on sledges through the tunnel and then carried up a wooden railway to the mouth of the shaft.

It was comparatively easy to walk down the shaft and enter the tunnel, and when it happened that the men were not at work I allowed visitors to go down and view this wonderful ice-cavern. The walls of the chamber appeared semi-transparent, and the light of the candles or lanterns gave the whole scene a weird and beautiful aspect. It was almost possible to imagine one's self surrounded by limpid waters, which might at any moment rush upon him and ingulf him.

Every day or two Tom Burton came with a party of scientific visitors, and had I chosen to stop the work of taking out ice, admitted the public and charged a price for admission, I might have made almost as much money as I at that time derived from the sale of the ice. But such a method of profit was repugnant to me.

For several days after Susan's communication to me I worked on in my various operations, endeavoring to banish from my mind the idle nonsense she had spoken of; but one of its effects upon me was to make me feel that I ought not to allow hopes so important to rest upon uncertainties. So I determined that as soon as my house and grounds should be in a condition with which I should for the time be satisfied, I would go boldly to Mr. Havelot, and, casting out of my recollection everything that Susan had said, invite him to visit me and see for himself the results of the discovery of which he had spoken with such derisive contempt. This would be a straightforward and business-like answer to his foolish objections to me, and I believed that in his heart the old gentleman would properly appreciate my action.

ABOUT THIS TIME there came to my place Aaron Boyce, an elderly farmer of the neighborhood, and, finding me outside, he seized the opportunity to have a chat with me.

"I tell you what it is, Mr. Cuthbert," said he, "the people in this neighborhood hasn't give you credit for what's in you. The way you have fixed up this place, and the short time you have took to do it, is enough to show us now what sort of a man you are; and I tell you, sir, we're proud of you for a neighbor. I don't believe there's another gentleman in this county of your age that could have done what you have done in so short a time. I expect now you will be thinking of getting married and startin' housekeepin' in a regular fashion. That comes just as natural as to set hens in the spring. By the way, have you heard that old Mr. Havelot's thinkin' of goin' abroad? I didn't believe he would ever do that again, because he's gettin' pretty well on in years, but old men will do queer things as well as young ones."

"Going abroad!" I cried. "Does he intend to take his daughter with him?"

Mr. Aaron Boyce smiled grimly. He was a great old gossip, and he had already obtained the information he wanted. "Yes," he said, "I've heard it was on her account he's going. She's been kind of weakly lately, they tell me, and hasn't took to her food, and the doctors has said that what she wants is a sea voyage and a change to foreign parts."

Going abroad! Foreign parts! This was more terrible than anything I had imagined. I would go to Mr. Havelot that very evening, the only time which I would be certain to find him at home, and talk to him in a way which would be sure to bring him to his senses, if he had any. And if I should find that he had no sense of propriety or justice, no sense of his duty to his fellow-man and to his offspring, then I would begin a bold fight for Agnes, a fight which I would not give up until, with her own lips, she told me that it would be useless. I would follow her to Kentucky, to Europe, to the uttermost ends of the earth. I could do it now. The frozen deposits in my terminal moraine would furnish me with the means. I walked away and left the old farmer stand- in g grinning. No doubt my improvements and renovations had been the subject of gossip in the neighborhood, and he had come over to see if he could find out anything definite in regard to the object of them. He had succeeded, but he had done more : he had nerved me to instantly begin the conquest of Agnes, whether by diplomacy or war.

I was so anxious to begin this conquest that I could scarcely wait for the evening to come. At the noon hour, when the ice-works were deserted, I walked down the shaft and into the ice-chamber to see what had been done since my last visit. I decided to insist that operations upon a larger scale should be immediately begun, in order that I might have plenty of money with which to carry on my contemplated campaign. Whether it was one of peace or war, I should want all the money I could get.

I took with me a lantern and went around the chamber, which was now twenty-five or thirty feet in diameter, examining the new inroads which had been made upon its walls. There was a tunnel commenced opposite the one by which the chamber was entered, but it had not been opened more than a dozen feet, and it seemed to me that the men had not been working with any very great energy. I wanted to see a continuous stream of ice-blocks from that chamber to the mouth of the shaft.

While grumbling thus I heard behind me a sudden noise like thunder and the crashing of walls, and, turning quickly, I saw that a portion of the roof of the chamber had fallen in. Nor had it ceased to fall. As I gazed, several great masses of ice came down from above and piled themselves upon that which had already fallen.

Startled and frightened, I sprang toward the open, ing of the entrance tunnel; but, alas ! I found that that was the point where the roof had given way, and between me and the outer world was a wall of solid ice through which it would be as impossible for me to break as if it were a barrier of rock. With the quick instinct which comes to men in danger I glanced about to see if the workmen had left their tools; but there were none. They had been taken outside. Then I stood and gazed stupidly at the mass of fallen ice, which, even as I looked upon it, was cracking and snapping, pressed down by the weight above it, and forming itself into an impervious barrier without crevice or open seam.

Then I madly shouted. But of what avail were shouts down there in the depths of the earth? I soon ceased this useless expenditure of strength, and, with my lantern in my hand, began to walk around the chamber, throwing the light upon the walls and the roof. I became impressed with the fear that the whole cavity might cave in at once and bury me here in a tomb of ice. But I saw no cracks, nor any sign of further disaster. But why think of anything more? Was not this enough? For, before that ice-barrier could be cleared away, would I not freeze to death?

I now continued to walk, not because I expected to find anything or do anything, but simply to keep myself warm by action. As long as I could move about I believed that there was no immediate danger of succumbing to the intense cold; for, when a young man, traveling in Switzerland, I had been in the cave of a glacier, and it was not cold enough to prevent some old women from sitting there to play the zither for the sake of a few coppers from visitors. I could not expect to be able to continue walking until I should be rescued, and if I sat down, or by chance slept from exhaustion, I must perish.

The more I thought of it, the more sure I became that in any case I must perish. A man in a block of ice could have no chance of life. And Agnes! Oh, Heavens! what demon of the ice had leagued with old Havelot to shut me up in this frozen prison? For a long time I continued to walk, beat my body with my arms and stamp my feet. The instinct of life was strong within me. I would live as long as I could, and think of Agnes. When I should be frozen I could not think of her.

Sometimes I stopped and listened. I was sure I could hear noises, but I could not tell whether they were above me or not. In the centre of the ice-barrier, about four feet from the ground, was a vast block of the frozen substance which was unusually clear and seemed to have nothing on the other side of it; for through it I could see flickers of light, as though people were going about with lanterns. It was quite certain that the accident had been discovered; for, had not the thundering noise been heard by persons outside, the workmen would have seen what had hap- pened as soon as they came into the tunnel to begin their afternoon operations.

At first I wondered why they did not set to work with a will and cut away this barrier and let me out But there suddenly came to my mind a reason for this lack of energy which was more chilling than the g listening walls around me : Why should they suppose that I was in the ice-chamber? I was not in the habit of coming here very often, but I was in the habit of wandering off by myself at all hours of the day. This thought made me feel that I might as well lie down on the floor of this awful cave and die at once. The workmen might think it unsafe to mine any further in this part of the glacier, and begin operations at some other point. I did sit down for a moment, and then I rose involuntarily and began my weary round. Suddenly I thought of looking at my watch. It was nearly five o'clock. I had been more than four hours in that dreadful place, and I did not believe that I could continue to exercise my limbs very much longer. The lights I had seen had ceased. It was quite plain that the workmen had no idea that any one was imprisoned in the cave.

But soon after I had come to this conclusion I saw through the clear block of ice a speck of light, and it became stronger and stronger, until I believed it to be close to the other side of the block. There it remained stationary; but there seemed to be other points of light which moved about in a strange way, and near it. Now I stood by the block watching. When my feet became very cold, I stamped them; but there I stood fascinated, for what I saw was truly surprising. A large coal of fire appeared on the other side of the block; then it suddenly vanished and was succeeded by another coal. This disappeared, and another took its place, each one seeming to come nearer and nearer to me. Again and again did these coals appear. They reached the centre of the block; they approached my side of it. At last one was so near to me that I thought it was about to break through, but it vanished. Then there came a few quick thuds and the end of a piece of iron protruded from the block. This was withdrawn, and through the aperture there came a voice which said: "Mr. Cuthbert, are you in there?"

It was the voice of Agnes!

Weak and cold as I was, fire and energy rushed through me at these words.

"Yes!" I exclaimed, my mouth to the hole; "Agnes, is that you?"

"Wait a minute," came from the other side of the aperture. "I must make it bigger. I must keep it from closing up."

Again came the coals of fire, running backward and forward through the long hole in the block of ice. I could see now what they were. They were irons used by plumbers for melting solder and that sort of thing, and Agnes was probably heating them in a little furnace outside, and withdrawing them as fast as they cooled. It was not long before the aperture was very much enlarged; and then there came grating through it a long tin tube nearly two inches in diameter, which almost, but not quite, reached my side of the block. Now came again the voice of Agnes: "Oh, Mr, Cuthbert, are you truly there? Are you crushed? Are you wounded? Are you nearly frozen? Are you starved? Tell me quickly if you are yet safe."

Had I stood in a palace padded with the softest silk and filled with spicy odors from a thousand rose gardens, I could not have been better satisfied with my surroundings than I was at that moment. Agnes was not two feet away ! She was telling me that she cared for me! In a very few words I assured her that I was uninjured. Then I was on the point of telling her I loved her, for I believed that not a moment should be lost in making this avowal. I could not die without her knowing that. But the appearance of a mass of paper at the other end of the tube prevented the expression of my sentiments. This was slowly pushed on until I could reach it. Then there came the words:

"Mr. Cuthbert, these are sandwiches. Eat them immediately and walk about while you are doing it. You must keep yourself warm until the men get to you."

Obedient to the slightest wish of this dear creature, I went twice around the cave, devouring the sandwiches as I walked. They were the most delicious food that I had ever tasted. They were given to me by Agnes. I came back to the opening. I could not immediately begin my avowal. I must ask a question first.

"Can they get to me?" I inquired. "Is anybody trying to do that? Are they working there by you? I do not hear them at all."

"Oh, no," she answered; "they are not working here. They are on top of the bluff, trying to dig down to you. They were afraid to meddle with the ice here for fear that more of it might come down and crush you and the men, too. Oh, there has been a dreadful excitement since it was found that you were in there!"

"How could they know I was here?" I asked.

"It was your old Susan who first thought of it. She saw you walking toward the shaft about noon, and then she remembered that she had not seen you again; and when they came into the tunnel here they found one of the lanterns gone and the big stick you generally carry lying where the lantern had been. Then it was known that you must be inside. Oh, then there was an awful time! The foreman of the ice-men examined everything, and said they must dig down to you from above. He put his men to work; but they could do very little, for they had hardly any spades. Then they sent into town for help and over to the new park for the Italians working there. From the way these men set to work you might have thought that they would dig away the whole bluff in about five minutes; but they didn't. Nobody seemed to know what to do, or how to get to work; and the hole they made when they did begin was filled up with men almost as fast as they threw out the stones and gravel. I don't believe anything would have been done properly if your friend, Mr. Burton, hadn't happened to come with two scientific gentlemen, and since that he has been directing everything. You can't think what a splendid fellow he is! I fairly adored him when I saw him giving his orders and making everybody skip around in the right way."

"Tom is a very good man," said I; "but it is his business to direct that sort of work, and it is not surprising that he knows how to do it. But, Agnes, they may never get down to me, and we do not know that this roof may not cave in upon me at any moment; and before this or anything else happens I want to tell you—"

"Mr. Cuthbert," said Agnes, "is there plenty of oil in your lantern? It would be dreadful if it were to go out and leave you there in the dark. I thought of that and brought you a little bottle of kerosene so that you can fill it. I am going to push the bottle through now, if you please." And with this a large phial, cork end foremost, came slowly through the tube, propelled by one of the soldering irons. Then came Agnes's voice: "Please fill your lantern immediately, because if it goes out you can not find it in the dark; and then walk several times around the cave, for you have been standing still too long already."

I obeyed these injunctions, but in two or three minues was again at the end of the tube.

"Agnes," said I, "how did you happen to come here? Did you contrive in your own mind this method of communicating with me ?"

"Oh, yes; I did," she said. "Everybody said that this mass of ice must not be meddled with, but I knew very well it would not hurt it to make a hole through it."

"But how did you happen to be here ?" I asked.

"Oh, I ran over as soon as I heard of the accident Everybody ran here. The whole neighborhood is on top of the bluff; but nobody wanted to come into the tunnel, because they were afraid that more of it might fall in. So I was able to work here all by myself, and I am very glad of it. I saw the soldering iron and the little furnace outside of your house where the plumbers had been using them, and I brought them here myself. Then I thought that a simple hole through the ice might soon freeze up again, and if you were alive inside I could not do anything to help you; and so I ran home and got my diploma case, that had had one end melted out of it, and I brought that to stick in the hole. I'm so glad that it is long enough, or almost."

"Oh, Agnes," I cried, "you thought of all this for me?"

"Why, of course, Mr. Cuthbert," she answered, before I had a chance to say anything more. "You were in great danger of perishing before the men got to you, and nobody seemed to think of any way to give you immediate relief. And don't you think that a collegiate education is a good thing for girls— at least, that it was for me ?"

"Agnes," I exclaimed, "please let me speak. I want to tell you, I must tell you—"

But the voice of Agnes was clearer than mine and it overpowered my words. "Mr. Cuthbert," she said, "we can not both speak through this tube at the same time in opposite directions. I have here a bottle of water for you, but I am very much afraid it will not go through the diploma case."

"Oh, I don't want any water," I said. "I can cat ice if I am thirsty. What I want is to tell you—"

"Mr. Cuthbert," said she, "you must not eat that ice. Water that was frozen countless ages ago may be very different from the water of modern times, and might not agree with you. Don't touch it, please. I am going to push the bottle through if I can. I tried to think of everything that you might need and brought them all at once; because, if I could not keep the hole open, I wanted to get them to you without losing a minute."

Now the bottle came slowly through. It was a small beer-bottle, I think, and several times I was afraid it was going to stick fast and cut off communication between' me and the outer world— that is to say, between me and Agnes. But at last the cork and the neck appeared, and I pulled it through. I did not drink any of it, but immediately applied my mouth to the tube.

"Agnes," I said, "my dear Agnes, really you must not prevent me from speaking. I can not delay another minute. This is an awful position for me to be in, and as you don't seem to realize—"

"But I do realize, Mr. Cuthbert, that if you don't walk about you will certainly freeze before you can be rescued. Between every two or three words you want to take at least one turn around that place. How dreadful it would be if you were suddenly to become benumbed and stiff! Everybody is thinking of that. The best diggers that Mr. Burton had were three col- ored men; but after they had gone down nothing like as deep as a well, they came up frightened and said they would not dig another shovelful for the whole world. Perhaps you don't know it, but there's a story about the neighborhood that the negro hell is under your property. You know many of the colored people expect to be everlastingly punished with ice and not with fire—"

"Agnes," I interrupted, "I am punished with ice and fire both. Please let me tell you—"

"I was going on to say, Mr. Cuthbert," she interrupted, "that when the Italians heard why the colored men had come out of the hole they would not go in either, for they are just as afraid of everlasting ice as the negroes are, and were sure that if the bottom came out of that hole they would fall into a frozen lower world. So there was nothing to do but to send for paupers, and they are working now. You know paupers have to do what they are told without regard to their beliefs. They got a dozen of them from the poorhouse. Somebody said they just threw them into the hole. Now I must stop talking, for it is time for you to walk around again. Would you like another sandwich ?"

"Agnes," said I, endeavoring to speak calmly, "all I want it to be able to tell you—"

"And when you walk, Mr. Cuthbert, you had better keep around the edge of the chamber, for there is no knowing when they may come through. Mr. Burton and the foreman of the ice-men measured the bluff so that they say the hole they are making is exactly over the middle of the chamber you are in, and if you walk around the edge the pieces may not fall on you."

"If you don't listen to me, Agnes," I said, "I'll go and sit anywhere, everywhere, where death may come to me quickest. Your coldness is worse than the coldness of the cave. I can not bear it."

"But, Mr. Cuthbert," said Agnes, speaking, I thought, with some agitation, "I have been listening to you, and what more can you possibly have to say? If there is anything you want, let me know. I will run and get it for you."

"There is no need that you should go away to get what I want," I said. "It is there with you. It is you."

"Mr. Cuthbert," said Agnes, in a very low voice, but so distinctly that I could hear every word, "don't you think it would be better for you to give your whole mind to keeping yourself warm and strong? For if you let yourself get benumbed you may sink down and freeze."

"Agnes," I said, "I will not move from this little hole until I have told you that I love you, that I have no reason to care for life or rescue unless you return my love, unless you are willing to be mine. Speak quickly to me, Agnes, because I may not be rescued and may never know whether my love for you is returned or not."

At this moment there was a tremendous crash behind me, and, turning, I saw a mass of broken ice upon the floor of the cave, with a cloud of dust and smaller fragments still falling. And then with a great scratching and scraping, and a howl loud enough to waken the echoes of all the lower regions, down came a red-headed, drunken shoemaker. I can not say that he was drunk at that moment, but I knew the man the moment I saw his carroty poll, and it was drink which had sent him to the poorhouse.

But the sprawling and howling cobbler did not reach the floor. A rope had been fastened around his waist to prevent a fall in case the bottom of the pit should suddenly give way, and he hung dangling in mid air with white face and distended eyes, cursing and swearing and vociferously entreating to be pulled up. But before he received any answer from above, or I could speak to him, there came through the hole in the roof of the cave a shower of stones and gravel, and with them a frantic Italian, his legs and arms outspread, his face wild with terror.

Just as he appeared in view he grasped the rope of the cobbler, and, though in a moment he came down heavily upon the floor of the chamber, this broke his fall, and he did not appear to be hurt. Instantly he crouched low and almost upon all fours, and began to run around the chamber, keeping close to the walls add screaming, I suppose to his saints, to preserve him from the torments of the frozen damned.

In the midst of this hubbub came the voice of Agnes through the hole:

"Oh, Mr. Cuthbert, what has happened? Are you alive?"

I was so disappointed by the appearance of these wretched interlopers at the moment it was about to be decided whether my life — should it last for years, or but for a few minutes — was to be black or bright, and I was so shaken and startled by the manner of their entry upon the scene, that I could not immediately shape the words necessary to inform Agnes what had happened. But, collecting my faculties, I was about to speak, when suddenly, with the force of the hind leg of a mule, I was pushed away from the aperture, and the demoniac Italian clapped his great mouth to the end of the tube and roared through it a volume of oaths and supplications. I attempted to thrust aside the wretched being, but I might as well have tried to move the ice barrier itself. He had perceived that some one outside was talking to me, and in his frenzy he was imploring that some one should let him out.

While still endeavoring to move the man, I was seized by the arm, and turning, beheld the pallid face of the shoemaker. They had let him down so that he reached the floor. He tried to fall on his knees before me, but the rope was so short that he was able to go only part of the way down, and presented a most ludicrous appearance, with his toes scraping the icy floor anc^his arms thrown out as if he were paddling like a tadpole. "Oh, have mercy upon me, sir," he said, "and help me get out of this dreadful place. If you go to the hole and call up it's you, they will pull me up; but if they get you out first they will never think of me. I am a poor pauper, sir, but I never did nothin' to be packed in ice before I am dead."

Noticing that the Italian had left the end of the aperture in the block of ice, and that he was now shouting up the open shaft, I ran to the channel of communication which my Agnes had opened for me, and called through it; but the dear girl had gone.

The end of a ladder now appeared at the opening in the roof, and this was let down until it reached the floor. I started toward it, but before I had gone half the distance the frightened shoemaker and the maniac Italian sprang upon it, and, with shrieks and oaths, began a maddening fight for possession of the ladder. They might quickly have gone up one after the other, but each had no thought but to be first; and as one seized the rounds he was pulled away by the other, until I feared the ladder would be torn to pieces. The shoemaker finally pushed his way up a little distance, when the Italian sprang upon his back, endeavoring to climb over him; and so on they went up the shaft, fighting, swearing, kicking, scratching, shaking and wrenching the ladder, which had been tied to another one in order to increase its length, so that it was in danger of breaking, and tearing at each other in a fashion which made it wonderful that they did not both tumble headlong downward. They went on up, so completely filling the shaft with their struggling forms and their wild cries that I could not see or hear anything, and was afraid, in fact, to look up toward the outer air.

As I was afterward informed, the Italian, who had slipped into the hole by accident, ran away like a frightened hare the moment he got his feet on firm gTound, and the shoemaker sat down and swooned. By this performance he obtained from a benevolent bystander a drink of whiskey, the first he had had since he was committed to the poorhouse. But a voice soon came down the shaft calling to me. I recognized it as that of Tom Burton, and replied that I was safe, and that I was coming up the ladder. But in my attempt to climb, I found that I was unable to do so. Chilled and stiffened by the cold and weakened by fatigue and excitement, I believe I never should have been able to leave that ice chamber if my faithful friend had not come down the ladder and vigorously assisted me to reach the outer air.

Seated on the ground, my back against a great oak tree, I was quickly surrounded by a crowd of my neighbors, the workmen and the people who had been drawn to the spot by the news of the strange accident, to gaze at me as if I were some unknown being excavated from the bowels of the earth. I was sipping some brandy and water which Burton had handed me, when Aaron Boyce pushed himself in front of me.

"Well, sir," he said, "I am mighty glad you got out of that scrape. I'm bound to say I didn't expect you would. I have been sure all along that it wasn't right to meddle with things that go agin Nature, and I haven't any doubt that you'll see that for yourself and fill up all them tunnels and shafts you've made. The ice that comes on ponds and rivers was good enough for our forefathers, and it ought to be good enough for us. And as for this cold stuff you find in your gravel-pit, I don't believe it's ice at all; and if it is, like as not it's made of some sort of pizen stuff that freezes easier than water. For everybody knows that water don't freeze in a well, and if it don't do that, why should it do it in any kind of a hole in the ground? So perhaps it's just as well that you did git shut up there, sir, and find out for yourself what a dangerous thing it is to fool with Nature and try to git ice from the bottom of the ground instead of the top of the water."

This speech made me angry, for I knew that old Boyce was a man who was always glad to get hold of anything which had gone wrong and try to make it worse; but I was too weak to answer him.

This, however, would not have been necessary, for Tom Burton turned upon him.

"Idiot," said he, "if that is your way of thinking you might as well say that if a well caves in you should never again dig for water, or that nobody should have a cellar under his house for fear that the house should fall into it. There's no more danger of the ice beneath us ever giving way again than there is that this bluff should crumble under our feet. That break in the roof of the ice tunnel was caused by my digging away the face of the bluff very near that spot. The high temperature of the outer air weakened the ice, and it fell. But down here, under this ground and secure from the influences of the heat of the outer air, the mass of ice is more solid than rock. We will build a brick arch over the place where the accident happened, and then there will not be a safer mine on this continent than this icemine will be."

This was a wise and diplomatic speech from Burton, and it proved to be of great service to me; for the men who had been taking out ice had been a good deal frightened by the fall of the tunnel, and when it was  proved that what Burton had said in regard to the cause of the weakening of the ice was entirely correct, they became willing to go to work again.

I now began to feel stronger and better, and, rising to my feet, I glanced here and there into the crowd, hoping to catch a sight of Agnes. But I was not very much surprised at not seeing her, because she would naturally shrink from forcing herself into the midst of this motley company; but I felt that I must go and look for her without the loss of a minute, for if she should return to her father's house I might not be able to see her again.

On the outskirts of the crowd I met Susan, who was almost overpowered with joy at seeing me safe again. I shook her by the hand, but, without replying to her warm-hearted protestations of thankfulness and delight, I asked her if she had seen Miss Havelot.

"Miss Agnes!" she exclaimed. "Why, no, sir; I expect she's at home; and if she did come here with the rest of the neighbors I didn't see her; for when I found out what had happened, sir, I was so weak that I sat down in the kitchen all of a lump, and have just had strength enough to come out."

"Oh, I know she was here," I cried; "I am sure of that, and I do hope she's not gone home again."

"Know she was here!" exclaimed Susan. "Why, how on earth could you know that?"

I did not reply that it was not on the earth but under it, that I became aware of the fact, but hurried toward the Havelot house, hoping to overtake Agnes if she had gone that way. But I did not see her, and suddenly a startling idea struck me, and I turned and ran home as fast as I could go. When I reached my grounds I went directly to the mouth of the shaft. There was nobody there, for the crowd was collected into a solid mass on the top of the bluff, listening to a lecture from Tom Burton, who deemed it well to promote the growth of interest and healthy opinion in regard to his wonderful discovery and my valuable possession. I hurried down the shaft, and near the end of it, just before it joined the ice tunnel, I beheld Agnes sitting upon the wooden track. She was not unconscious, for as I approached she slightly turned her head. I sprang toward her; I kneeled beside her; I took her in my arms.

"Oh, Agnes, dearest Agnes," I cried, "what is the matter? What has happened to you? Has a piece of ice fallen upon you? Have you slipped and hurt yourself?"

She turned her beautiful eyes up toward me and for a moment did not speak. Then she said: "And they got you out? And you are in your right mind?"

"Right mind!" I exclaimed. "I have never been out of my mind. What are you thinking of?"

"Oh, you must have been," she said, "when you screamed at me in that horrible way. I was so frightened that I fell back, and I must have fainted."

Tremulous as I was with love and anxiety, I could not help laughing.

"Oh, my dear Agnes, I did not scream at you. That was a crazed Italian who fell through the hole that they dug." Then I told her what had happened.

She heaved a gentle sigh. "I am so glad to hear that," she said. "There was one thing that I was thinking about just before you came and which gave me a little bit of comfort; the words and yells I heard were dreadfully oniony, and somehow or other I could not connect that sort of thing with you."

It now struck me that during this conversation I had been holding my dear girl in my arms, and she had not shown the slightest sign of resistance or disapprobation. This made my heart beat high.

"Oh, Agnes," I said, "I truly believe you love me or you would not have been here, you would not have done for me all that you did. Why did you not answer me when I spoke to you through that wall of ice, through the hole your dear love had made in it? Why, when I was in such a terrible situation, not knowing whether I was to die or live, did you not comfort my heart with one sweet word?"

"Oh, Walter," she answered, "it wasn't at all necessary for you to say all that you did say, for I had suspected it before, and as soon as you began to call me Agnes I knew, of course, how you felt about it. And, besides, it really was necessary that you should move about to keep yourself from freezing. But the great reason for my not encouraging you to go on talking in that way was that I was afraid people might come into the tunnel, and as, of course, you would not know that they were there, you would go on making love to me through my diploma case, and you know I should have perished with shame if I had had to stand there with that old Mr, Boyce, and I don't know who else, listening to your words, which were very sweet to me, Walter, but which would have sounded awfully funny to them."

When she said that my words had been sweet to her I dropped the consideration of all other subjects.

When, about ten minutes afterward, we came out of the shaft we were met by Susan.

"Bless my soul and body, Mr. Cuthbert!" she exclaimed. "Did you find that young lady down there in the centre of the earth? It seems to me as if everything that you want comes to you out of the ground. But I have been looking for you to tell you that Mr. Havelot has been here after his daughter, and I'm sure if he had known where she was, he would have been scared out of his wits."

"Father here!" exclaimed Agnes. "Where is he now?"

"I think he has gone home, miss. Indeed I'm sure of it; for my daughter Jennie, who was over here the same as all the other people in the county, I truly believe told him— and I was proud she had the spirit to speak up that way to him— that your heart was almost broke when you heard about Mr. Cuthbert being shut up in the ice, and that most likely you was in your own room a-cryin' your eyes out. When he heard that he stood lookin' all around the place, and he asked me if he might go in the house; and when I told him he was most welcome, he went in. I offered to show him about, which he said was no use, that he had been there often enough; and he went everywhere, I truly believe, except in the garret and the cellar. And after he got through with that he went out to the barn and then walked home."

"I must go to him immediately," said Agnes.

"But not alone," said I. And together we walked through the woods, over the little field and across the Havelot lawn to the house. We were told that the old gentleman was in his library, and together we entered the room.

Mr. Havelot was sitting by a table on which were lying several open volu nes of an encyclopedia. When he turned and saw us, he closed his book, pushed back his chair and took off his spectacles.

"Upon my word, sir," he cried; "and so the first thing you do after they pull you out of the earth is to come here and break my commands."

"I came on the invitation of your daughter, sir."

"And what right has she to invite you, I'd like to know ?"

"She has every right, for to her I owe my existence."

"What rabid nonsense!" exclaimed the old gentleman. "People don't owe their existence to the silly creatures they fall in love with."

"I assure you I am correct, sir." And then I related to him what his daughter had done, and how through her angelic agency my rescuers had found me a living being instead of a frozen corpse.

"Stuff!" said Mr. Havelot. "People can live in a temperature of thirty-two degrees above zero all winter. Out in Minnesota they think that's hot. And you gave him victuals and drink through your diploma case! Well, miss, I told you that if you tried to roast chestnuts in that diploma case the bottom would come out—"

"But you see, father," said Agnes, earnestly, "the reason I did that was because when I roasted them in anything shallow they popped into the fire, but they could not jump out of the diploma case."

"Well, something else seems to have jumped out of it," said the old gentleman "and something with which I am not satisfied. I have been looking over these books, sir, and have read the articles on ice, glaciers and caves, and I find no record of anything in the whole history of the world which in the least resembles the cock-and-bull story I am told about the butt-end of a glacier which tumbled into a cave in your ground, and has been lying there through all the geological ages, and the eras of formation, and periods of animate existence down to the days of Noah, and Moses, and Methuselah, and Rameses II, and Alexander the Great, and Martin Luther, and John Wesley, to this day, for you to dig out and sell to the Williamstown Ice Company."

"But that's what happened, sir," said I.

"And besides, father," added Agnes, "the gold and silver that people take out of mines may have been in the ground as long as that ice has been."

"Bosh!" said Mr. Havelot. "The cases are not af all similar. It is simply impossible that a piece of a glacier should have fallen into a cave and been preserved in that way. The temperature of caves is al ways above the freezing-point, and that ice would have melted a million years before you were born."

"But, father," said Agnes, "the temperature of caves filled with ice must be very much lower than that of common caves."

"And apart from that," I added, "the ice is still there, sir."

"That doesn't make the slightest difference," he replied. "It's against all reason and common-sense that such a thing could have happened. Even if there ever was a glacier in this part of the country and if the lower portion of it did stick out over an immense hole in the ground, that protruding end would never have broken off and tumbled in. Glaciers are too thick and massive for that."

"But the glacier is there, sir," said I, "in spite of your own reasoning."

"And then again," continued the old gentleman, "if there had been a cave and a projecting spur the ice would have gradually melted and dripped into the cave, and we would have had a lake and not an ice mine. It is a perfect absurdity."

"But it's there, notwithstanding," said I.

"And you can not subvert facts, you know, father," added Agnes.

"Confound facts!" he cried. "I base my arguments on sober, cool-headed reason; and there's nothing that can withstand reason. The thing's impossible and, therefore it has never happened. I went over to your place, sir, when I heard of the accident, for the misfortunes of my neighbors interest me, no matter what may be my opinion of them, and when I found that you had been extricated from your ridiculous predicament, I went through your house, and I was pleased to find it in as good or better condition than I had known it in the days of your respected father. I was glad to see the improvement in your circumstances; but when I am told, sir, that your apparent prosperity rests upon such an absurdity as a glacier in a gravel hill, I can but smile with contempt, sir."

I was getting a little tired of this. "But the glacier is there, sir," I said, "and I am taking out ice every day, and have reason to believe that I can continue to take it out for the rest of my life. With such facts as these before me, I am bound to say, sir, that I don't care in the least about reason."

"And I am here, father," said Agnes, coming close to me, "and here I want to continue for the rest of my days."

The old gentleman looked at her.

"And, I suppose," he said, "that you, too, don't in the least care about reason?"

"Not a bit," said Agnes.

"Well," said Mr. Havelot, rising, "I have done all I can to make you two listen to reason, and I can do no more. I despair of making sensible human beings of you, and so you might as well go on acting like a couple of ninny-hammers."

"Do ninny-hammers marry and settle on the property adjoining yours, sir?" I asked.

"Yes, I suppose they do," he said. "And when the aboriginal ice-house, or whatever the ridiculous thing is that they have discovered, gives out, I suppose that they can come to a reasonable man and ask him for a little money to buy bread and butter."

TWO YEARS have passed, and Agnes and the glacier are still mine; great blocks of ice now flow in almost a continuous stream from the mine to the railroad station, and in a smaller but quite as continuous stream an income flows in upon Agnes and me; and from one of the experimental excavations made by Tom Burton on the bluff comes a stream of ice-cold water running in a sparkling brook a-down my dell. On fine mornings before I am up, I am credibly informed that Aaron Boyce may generally be found, in season and out of season, endeavoring to catch the trout with which I am trying to stock that ice-cold stream. The diploma case, which I caused to be carefully removed from the ice-barrier which had imprisoned me, now hangs in my study and holds our marriage certificate.

Near the line-fence which separates his property from mine, Mr. Havelot has sunk a wide shaft.

"If the glacier spur under your land was a quarter of a mile wide," he says to me, "it was probably at least a half a mile long; and if that were the case, the upper end of it extends into my place, and I may be able to strike it." He has a good deal of money, this worthy Mr. Havelot, but he would be very glad to increase his riches, whether they are based upon sound reason or ridiculous facts. As for Agnes and myself, no facts or any reason could make us happier than our ardent love and our frigid fortune.

________________

12: The Tree of Heaven

Robert W. Chambers

1865-1933

Harper’s Weekly 10 Dec 1904

TIME, and the funeral of Time, alas!— and the Old Year's passing-bell! Whistles from city and river, deep horns sounding from the foggy docks; and under my window a voice and a song; ah! that young voice in the street below calling me through the falling snow!

If it be true that Time makes all hurts well, I do not know; and a thousand years in Thy sight is but as yesterday when it is passed, and as a watch in the night; a thousand years! And this is also true; the flames of love make hot the furnace of Abaddon.

We were in the gallery as usual, Geraldine and I— the gallery where the carpets of the East were hung along the shadowy walls. For lately it was my pleasure to acquire rare rugs, and it was my profession to furnish expert opinion upon the age and origin of Oriental carpets, and to read and interpret the histories of forgotten emperors and the mysteries of long-forgotten gods from the colors and intricate flowery labyrinths tied in silk or wool to the warps of some dead sultan's lustrous tapestry.

Here in the long sky-gallery hung my own rugs against the arabesque incrusted-ivory panels— Tabriz, Shiraz, Sehna, and Saruk— a sombre blaze of color shot with fire— all rare, some priceless; Turkish Kulah, softly silky as a golden lion’s hide; Persian Sehna, shimmering with rose and violet lights; fiercely brilliant rugs from Samarkand, superbly flowered, secreting deep in every floral thicket traceries of the ancient Mongol conqueror; Feraghans glowing like jewelsewn velvets set with the Herati and the lotus— symbols of Egypt or of China, as you please to interpret the oldest pattern in the world.

Far in the gallery’s amber-tinted gloom the red of Ispahan dominated, subduing fiery vistas to smouldering harmony through which, like a vast sapphire set in opals, glimmered the superb lost Persian blue.

There was one other rug, an Eighur, the famous so-called “Babilu,” or “Carpet of Belshazzar”; but it hung alone in imperial magnificence behind the locked doors of a marble room, which it seemed to fill with a soft lustre of its own, radiating from the mystic “Tree of Heaven” woven in its centre.

We were, as I say, in this gallery; Geraldine poring over an illuminated volume on cuneiform inscriptions, I, with pad and pencil, idly shifting and reshifting the Kufic key to the ancient cipher, which always left me stranded where I had begun with the stately repetition:

“King of Kings—

King of Kings—

King of Kings—”

As for Westover, my cousin, he was, as usual, in the laboratory fussing with his venomous extracts— an occupation which, to my dismay, he had taken up within the year, working, as he explained, on the theory that every poison has its antidote. Yet it seemed to me that he was more anxious# to invent some new and subtle toxic than to devise the remedy.

From where I sat I could not see him, but the crystalline tinkle of his glass retorts and bottles distracted my attention from the penciled calculations. Without moving my head, I glanced across the room at Geraldine. She looked up immediately, raising her level eyebrows in mute inquiry as though I had moved or spoken; then, realizing that I had not, she bent above the book once more, the warm color stealing to her cheeks.

Within the year a wordless intimacy had grown up between us; we never understood it, never acknowledged it, and at times it disconcerted us.

I sat silent, tracing with my pencil series after series of futile Kufic combinations with the cuneiforms, but; ever the first turn of the ancient key creaked in my ears,

“King of Kings—

King of Kings—”

until the triverbal reiteration wore on my nerves.

Geraldine leaned back abruptly, closing her book.

“I’m tired and nervous,” she said. “You may wear out your eyes and temper if you choose— and you’re doing the latter, for I’m as restless as an eel. Besides, I’m lonely, and I’m going back to the East— if you’ll come too.”

I laughed, understanding what she meant by the “East.”

“Will you come with me?” she insisted.

“Yes,” I said, “whenever you are ready.”

She sprang to her feet, scattering the illuminated pages over the floor, and stood an instant facing me, tall, dark-eyed, smiling, brushing back the lustrous hair from her cheeks.

“Where is Jim?” she asked— although we both knew.

"In the laboratory,” I replied, mechanically.

Still busy with her hair, she regarded me dreamily out of those dark, sweet eyes of hers.

“It would be wonderful,” she mused, “if Jim should find an antidote to death; but I wish it were not necessary to kill so many little helpless creatures. Did you hear that pitiful sound in there yesterday? Was it something he was killing?”

“I don’t know,” I said. And after a silence, “What are you going to do?”

She shook her head vaguely and leaned against the window, looking out into the rain.

“Shall we go back to our inscriptions?” I suggested.

She shook her head again. After a while she turned away from the window, stifling a dainty yawn, and stretched out, languidly straightening up to the full height of her young body.

“I feel stupid,” she said; “I’m tired of cryptograms and the pages of dusty books. I’m tired of the rain, too. The languor of April is in me. I’m homesick for lands I never knew. So come back to the East with me, Dick.”

She held out her hand to me with a confident little smile; and knowing what she meant, I acquiesced in her caprice, and conducted her solemnly to the piano, leaving her before it.

She stood there for a space, musing, her lovely head bent; then, still standing, she struck a sequence of chords— chords pulsating with color; and through them flashed strange little trills like threads of tinsel.

“This is an Eighur carpet I am dreaming of,” she murmured, as the music swelled, glowing as tints and hues glow in the old dyes of the East.

Wave on wave of color seemed to spread from the keys under her fingers; she looked back at me over her shoulder with a warning nod.

“I shall begin to weave very soon. Khiounnou horsemen may appear and frighten me for a moment— but I shall finish. Listen! I am at the loom.”

Seating herself, she developed out of the flowing, sombre harmony a monotonous minor theme, suddenly checked by a distant rattle like the clatter of nomad lances on painted stirrups; then she picked up the thread of the melody again, dropped it, breathless for a moment’s quivering silence, resumed it, twisting it into delicate arabesques, threading it across the dull, rich harmonies, at first slowly, then faster, faster, swift ks the flying fingers of a nomad maid tying fretted silver in a Ghiordes knot. The whirring tempo was the cadence of the loom; soft feathery notes flew like carded wool; thicker, duller, softer grew the fabric, dense, silky, heavily lustrous.

Suddenly she broke the thread off short, the whole fabric falling with a muffled shock.

“Why did you do that?” I demanded, wrathfully.

“The rug is woven; the weaver is dead,” she said.

“Oh, go on, Geraldine,” I insisted; “don’t stop halfway in a thing like that. It’s the East— it’s the real East, I tell you. How you do it— you who have never seen the East— Heaven only knows.”

“U Allah Aalem,” she murmured; it’s in me.” Then she looked back at me, laughing. “Centuries ago you and I heard that music along the Arax— or I sang it among the Tcherkess roses for you, perhaps— perhaps in the gardens of Trebizond.”

“That might explain it,” I said, gravely. Lately she had found pleasure in a fancy that she and I had lived together in the East, centuries since, and that we were soon to return forever.

“You and I,” she mused, touching the keys lightly— “and Jim, of course,” she added.

“Of course,” I said.

She dropped her head, striking chord on chord with nervous precision; and hanging in the wake of every ringing harmony a frail melody floated like the Chinese cloud-band in a Kirman tapestry.

“What’s that air?” I asked, fascinated.

“I don’t know; it sounds pagan, doesn’t it?— like the wicked beauty of Babylon. Do you hear how it beats on and on like the rhythm of naked feet— little delicate naked feet ablaze with gems— the feet of Herodiade perhaps— thud— thud— tching!— don’t you hear them, Dick? And now listen to those silky, flowery trills! They’re Asiatic; ancient Cathay is awaking— camel bells in the bazaar of the Golden Emperor! Hark!— now you hear trumpets, don’t you? Well, of course that must be the Mongols mashing with the Prince of the Vanguard. Hark! How savagely the brutal Afghan theme breaks in with its fierce trampling and the staccato echo of Tekke drums! It’s frightening me out of the East. I think we had better come home, Dick,” she added, mischievously running into the latest popular street Song.

“How on earth could you do that!” I exclaimed, wrathfully. “You are a futile mixture of featherbrain and genius!”

But where was the genius hidden under that laughing and exquisite mask confronting me? Suddenly the delicate mask became grave.

“Let me laugh when I can, Dick,” she said. “It is not often I laugh.”

I was silent.

“Of course you may be horrid if you choose,” she observed, with a shrug, running a brilliantly inane series of trills from end to end of the keyboard. “But it’s no use scolding, for I won’t study, I won’t compose, I won’t try to do something, and I won’t be serious. I’m shallow, I’m frivolous, I’ve the soul of a Trebizond dancing-girl, and I like it. Now what are you going to do?”

“I’m going out,” I said, ungraciously.

“Oh— alone?”

“Not if you’ll come. It’s stopped raining. Will you come? Oh, get your hat, Geraldine, and stop that torment of idiotic trills !”

“If Jim doesn’t mind, I think I’ll go and sit in the laboratory with him,” she observed, carelessly.

I looked at her without comment.

“I have a curious idea,” she continued, “that he might like to have me around to-day while he is working.”

I stared at her, but there was no bitterness in her tranquil smile as she leaned forward, resting her elbows on the polished rosewood case.

“So I won’t go with you, Dick,” she said, slowly.

One of those intervals of restless silence which within the year we had learned to dread, menaced us now. Mute, motionless, I watched the soft color deepening in her face, then, impatient, roused myself and walked over to the laboratory. Westover looked up as I pushed aside the screen.

“Will you drive with us?” I asked. “The sun’s out.”

He declined, peering at me through his glass mask.

“Come on, Jim,” I urged. “You’ve inhaled enough poison for one day. Take off your mask and wash your hands and drive us out to High Bridge. I’ll telephone to the stable if you say the word, and they’ll hook up the new four. Is it a go?”

“No,” he said, coldly, and turned on his heel, lifting a test tube to the light He was more taciturn and a trifle uglier than usual. I watched him for a moment warming the test tube over a burner, then without further parley replaced the screen, closed the double glass doors, and walked back to Geraldine.

"Doesn’t Jim care to come?” she asfced.

I said that her husband appeared to be absorbed in his work.

"Very well,” she said, with airy composure; "trot along, Dicky— and if you see a bunch of jonquils growing on Fifth Avenue, you may pick them for me— or for that pretty girl you met at Lakewood—”

"I’ll send you a bunch as big as a bushel.”

"A bushel of flowers is as compromising as a declaration,” she said. “Send them to her.”

"There’s only one way to settle it,” I said; “I’ll send them to the loveliest girl in the world— shall I?”

She assented, laughing uncertainly.

"I think I’ll pay Jim a little call,” she said, rising from the piano and walking slowly toward the laboratory.

A few minutes later as I passed down the broad stairway I heard Westover’s penetrating voice: "Let that glass tube alone, Geraldine! Why the devil can’t you keep your hands off things when you come in here?”

I lingered for a while in the hallway, thinking that she might change her mind and come down, for she had left the laboratory to her husband, and I heard her moving about in her own apartment. She did not come, and after a little while I left the house, a sense of apprehension depressing me.

THE ASPHALT OF Fifth Avenue was still wet with the first warm rain of April, but the sun glittered on window and pavement and flashed along the polished panels of carriages crowding the avenue from curb to curb. A breath of spring had set the sparrows chattering and chirking; the movement of the throng, the bright gowns, the fresh faces of young girls, and the endless facades of glass reflecting it all were pleasant to me— a man sensitive to impressions.

And so in the pale sunshine I sauntered on through the throng, now idling curiously by some shop window whither a display of jewels or curios attracted me, now strolling on again content with the soft color in sky and sunlight.

I found a florist whose shop windows were filled with thickets of fragrant, fragile spring flowers; and every little scented blossom that I touched, choosing the freshest, nodded to the voiceless cadence of a name repeated— and: “Geraldine! Geraldine!” they nodded, so confidently, so sweetly, that what was I to do but send them to her?

And so I sauntered on again, threading the throng, half minded to turn back, yet ever tempted on by idleness, until above me the twin spires of the cathedral glimmered, all silvered in the shimmering blue.

Halting, undecided, I presently became aware of an old man, his withered hands crossed before him, standing quite patiently under the cathedral terrace. Beore him on the sidewalk rested a basket draped with a brilliant rug or two and heaped with tawdry rubbish— scarlet fezzes, slippers of spangled leather, tasseled charms of gilt, flimsy striped fabrics— all the worthless flummery known as “Oriental” to the good people of the West. ,

Few stopped to look; no one bought. As I passed him his dimmed gaze met mine; all the wistfulness of the very poor, all the mystery of the very, very old, was in his eyes. Moved by impulse, perhaps, I spoke to him in a low voice, using the Turkish language.

A dull animation came into his misty eyes.

“Allahou Ekber,” he muttered, in a trembling voice; “it is sweet to hear your words, my son.”

“Mussulman,” I said, “who are you who recite the Tekbir here under the spires of a Roman church ?”

“Is there harm in bearing witness to the glory of God here under the minarets of your cathedral?” he asked, humbly.

“Spire and minaret are one to Him,” I said. “Who are you, Mussulman?”

“My name is Khassar,” he said; “my nation Eighur; my Iort is the Issig-Kul; Baïon-Aoul my clan. I am an Eighur Turk, a Khodja; and I am able to write the Turkish language in Arabic and in Eighur-Mongol characters.”

“Reverend father,” I said, full of astonishment and pity, “how should a Khodja of the Baïon-Aoul come to this? Even the Tekrin horseman halts at the sea.”

"It is written,” he said, feebly, “that we belong to God and we return to Him.”

Troubled, I stood there on the sidewalk, oblivious of the knot of idlers around us, curious to hear two men so different conversing in a common tongue.

I wished to give him something, yet did not venture to humiliate him without pretence of buying.

“Here is my card,” I said, “on which is written my name and where I live. Bring me these rugs tonight, ata. I wish to buy.”

“You do not desire them,” he said, shaking his head. “You know the East; you understand these rugs; you know they are worthless, acid-washed, singed, rubbed with pumice, smoked— every vile Armenian practice used! You know the dyes are aniline; that they are loosely tied, hastily and flimsily woven by Armenian dogs and sons of dogs. You mean kindness; you have done me enough by speaking to me.”

He passed his trembling hand over his ragged beard.

“You who know carpets and love them,” he quavered, “listen attentively. I have a strip to show— not here— but I could bring it.”

“Bring it,” I said gently.

He fumbled in the pocket of his tattered coat and presently brought to light a scrap of paper on which was scrawled some Persian characters.

“It is such a carpet as I have never seen,” he said; “there is nothing in our history or our traditions to teach us the meaning of this carpet— nothing save that it is an Eighur rug inscribed in Persian and in an unknown script. I have traced the characters in a single cartouche. Read, my son.”

And I read, translating freely :

“Ten thousand thousand stars shine down on Babylon. The desert well reflects but one.”

“I will bring the carpet,” he said, after a silence. “I do not know its value; it has no beauty any longer; only the ghost of ancient splendor remains in the thin knots clinging to warp and weft. And it is old, my son, older than tradition. Upon it there is not one sign to teach us the mystery of its meaning.”

He peered at me with his old, sad eyes, earnestly.

“I will bring it,” he said. “Go with Ali, thou fair comrade of Hassan.”

“May the Blessed Companions intervene for you,” I said.

And so we parted, gravely and with circumstance, I to stroll homeward, touched, musing curiously upon this carpet of which a nomad Mussulman could make nothing. The Persian verse from the cartouche interested me too, the refrain lingering persistently in my memory:

“Ten thousand thousand stars shine down on Babylon. The desert well reflects but one.”

Never before, save on the imperial carpet known as Belshazzar’s Rug, had I encountered any inscription mentioning Babylon. So, at the first glance, the nomad’s rug should have some value. But speculation was futile— surely I ought to have learned that if unnumbered disappointments could teach me anything.

Thinking of these things, I passed along the noble avenue, retracing my steps to the big dusky house standing alone, with two old trees to guard it— relics, like the mansion, of the great city’s infancy— the last old dwelling left marooned amid the arid wastes of commerce,. Here my cousin and his wife lived with me in winter; I with them at their Lenox home in summer.

A brougham or two at the curb before the house warned me of clients waiting or of visitors for Geraldine— doubtless the latter, for it was now past five.

Under the circumstances I went in to second Geraldine— for Westover never troubled himself to be civil to her friends.

There were people there, and tea— and a pretty wordless welcome from Geraldine.

The violet-tinted April dusk brought candle-light; people went away and others came; then, one by one, they left, and we were alone, Geraldine and I— and the new moon shining through the frail curtains. ‘ For a long time we talked together, aimlessly, of this and that which mattered nothing to anybody. A maid entered to draw the curtains. When she left, Geraldine laughed and picked up a cluster of yellow jonquils.

“Your courage failed you, after all,” she said; “the loveliest woman in the world must go without my flowers to-night.

“She has them,” I retorted.

“Do you mean me, Dick?” she said, under her breath.

“Did you doubt it?”

She bowed her head. Silence, ever waiting to ensnare us, crept like a shadow in between us. And I would not have it.

“An old man is to bring a rug to-night,” I said, abruptly.

Geraldine stirred in her armchair, repeating in a low voice:

“Ten thousand, thousand stars shine down on Babylon: The desert well reflects but one. Abaddon none.”

Bolt upright in my chair I listened, incredulous of my own ears.

“Where on earth did you hear that?” I demanded.

“I read it on Belshazzar’s Rug in cuneiform with the Kufic key,” she answered, watching me.

“You— all alone— interpreted that?” I asked, astounded.

“Yes. It is the cuneiform inscription in the gold cartouche.”

Profound astonishment left me silent. She lay back in her chair with a little laugh of pure excitement.

“After you went out,” she said, “I was horribly lonely, and I thought of you, and then I thought about the work you loved— the cuneiforms— and— as Jim did not seem to need me in the laboratory— I thought to myself: ‘Suppose— suppose by luck I could unravel the inscription on the gold cartouche! Dick would be the happiest man in the world. And then— your— your flowers came, and I sat for a while alone with them. Then, on impulse, I jumped up and took the Kufic tables and all the combinations that you and I had tried together, and I slipped upstairs to the marble room and knelt down before Belshazzar’s Rug. Oh, Dick! the Tree of Heaven seemed to quiver in every jeweled branch and leaf!— it was only the draught from the closing door that moved the rug, but the mystic tree swayed there as the folds of the carpet moved, and I seemed to feel the mystery of the Prophet’s Paradise stealing into me, penetrating me like the incense of forbidden wine— and I— I felt very Eastern and very pagan, kneeling there.

“It was strange, too; the intricate Kufic key seemed to be falling into place of its own impulse, symbol after symbol promising a linked symmetry of sense, until almost before I was conscious of the miracle, it had been wrought there in the marble room; and my eyes were opened; and I, kneeling before the Tree of Heaven, read quite clearly what is written in the gold cartouche on the great carpet of Belshazzar. Dick, I prayed so hard that I might read it. And I have read it— for you!”

In the eloquence of her emotion she had risen, holding out both hands to me; I caught them, crushing them to my lips.

Ominous pulsating silence grew between us; her fingers relaxed and her hands fell from my lips. The stillness, intense, absolute, became a tension, a growing, resistless force pressing us apart, slowly, inexorably driving me back step by step against the silkhung wall, which I reached for, groping, steadying myself.

Never before had we been so swayed, so thrilled; never before had we been so reckless of the peril. Over us a magic snare had fallen, and we had evaded it; an unseen and delicate web, enmeshing us, drawing us together limb to limb, body to body, soul to soul, there on the kindling edges of destruction.

SHE SANK BACK into the deep seat by j:he window, her white hands tightening on the gilded foliation of the chair’s carved arms. And I saw how pale her face was and how her dark eyes were fixed steadily upon the floor as though destruction was a pit whose edge lay at her feet.

Presently I became aware that the world outside the curtained windows was moving still— had perhaps never halted on its way to wail upon our fate. And, crossing the room, I raised the shade and saw the new moon, low in the sky, kneeling amid the watching stars. Yellow rays from a street lamp illuminated the old tree’s foliage, edging with palest fire the tracery of new-born leaves, tufting each stem and twig, exquisite, delicately formal as the leafy labyrinths of the Tree of Heaven spreading above the flowery field of Belshazzar’s Rug.

KHASSAR THE NOMAD had come and gone, and his rug hung in the marble room, pale as the tinted shadow cast by the great carpet of Belshazzar.

The nomad’s rug was clean but very ancient, and so worn, so time-eaten to the very warp, that the Kherdeh was all but obliterated in the metnih. But outside of that, between the outside band and the ara, or central line, there were traces of ancient glory and dimmed outlines of design; and I saw the twelve cartouches inscribed alternately in Persian and in cuneiform characters. There, too, were the worn remains of floral thickets haunted of beast and bird, intricate allegories, chronicles in color and symbol, every leaf, every blossom, every creature fraught with mystic meaning; and there also, still faintly to be made out, the shadowy foliage of the Tree of Heaven.

“How much did you pay for that ghost of a rug?” demanded Westover, who had followed me upstairs after dressing for dinner.

When I told him he shrugged his shoulders, but made no comment. A moment later Geraldine entered, and his small eyes, no longer furtive, became fixed and dull.

"They say in the East,” I remarked, “that when all color is gone from an Eighur rug a lost soul takes it for its abode. Eighur women are supposed to have souls occasionally, and to lose them now and then.”

“There are plenty of lost souls in town,” observed Westover; “no doubt you'll have your choice of tenants for your carpet; or,” he added, staring at space, “if you like I’ll provide you.”

I did not understand his remark, but it left a vaguely sinister impression. Geraldine, standing between us, her white fingers linked behind her, looked up at me very gravely.

“Do you know,” she said, “that I am convinced that I wove that rug some centuries ago?”

“I have no doubt of it,” I replied, smiling.

“Do you doubt it, Jim?” she asked, gayly.

He did not reply.

“As a matter of fact,” I said, “it was always believed that a young girl who dared to weave the Tree of Heaven into an Eighur carpet died when her task was ended— her entire physical and spiritual vitality entering into the sacred tree and infusing, it with mystic splendor.”

“Oh, I died as you say,” observed Geraldine, gravely.

“I don’t see that you infused much physical or spiritual splendor into that rug,” observed Westover.

“I must die again, you know, Jim, and bring its vanished beauty back,” she said, gayly. “Shall I, Dick?— and leave you a priceless carpet as my bequest and monument?”

Westover turned on his heel, fidgeting with his collar. Recently his neck had grown fat behind the ears.

A few moments later dinner was announced.

We lingered late over dinner, I remember; Jim drank heavily— a habit which both Geraldine and I had long since left unnoticed, she shrinking from the sullen rebuff certain to follow even a playful protest, I understanding the utter hopelessness of interference. His mind, already shaken, would one day shatter, and the dreadful price be paid.

As he sat sousing walnuts in port, in his altered features and swollen hands I seemed to divine something malicious and patient and powerful— that indescribable physical menace one feels in the inert brooding eye of the mentally and spiritually crippled.

When Geraldine rose he stood up unsteadily. After she had gone he lighted a cigar and turned his bloodshot eyes on me.

“Is that wine expensive?” he demanded, pointing to Geraldine’s half-empty glass.

“Rather,” I said.

He picked up the glass, examined it, sniffing at the contents.

“It’s poor claret,” he said. “Taste it. It’s pure poison, I tell you.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, indifferently.

Again he sniffed it. “Faugh!” he sneered, and threw it into the fireplace behind him. Then he got on his feet, heavily, muttering to himself, and stumbled off through the drawing-room.

For a while I sat there amid the shaded candles, staring at space. But I could not read the future pictured there amid the empty chairs and flowers, already drooping in each crystal vase.

When at length I roused myself and went up-stairs, passing her apartment, I heard her singing to herself, and I wondered that she could.

I paused on the gallery stairway to listen; and she could not have heard my footsteps on the thick deep carpeting, yet she came to the door and opened it, looking up at me where I stood.

“You are going to the marble room. May I come and help you?” she asked sweetly. And as I was silent, she said again: “Let me be happy, won't you, Dick? Let me be where you are.”

“Have I ever avoided you, Geraldine?”

I descended the steps, she laid her hand lightly on my arm, and together we mounted the stairway toward the gallery.

“I was singing a Hillah tent-song when you passed,” she said, “partly because I was lonely, and partly”— she hesitated, looking around at me— “partly because I’ve come to the conclusion, Dick, that I was once at Belshazzar’s feast in Cadimirra— for there’s a great deal of wickedness in me— you’d never believe it, would you?”

She smiled at me so innocently, so adorably, that I laughed outright.

“I’ve heard that the maids of Babilu-Ki had a bowing acquaintance with the devil,” I said. “Even an Eighur girl nodded pleasantly to Erlik now and then— according to the chronicles of the Terkins.”

“Oh, they surely did,” she said. And, “Thank you, Dick,” she added, as we reached the gallery; “when J am an old woman you must help me up the steep places.”

“It is you who help me,” I said, lightly.

She stood, resting her arm on the table while I gathered up the mass of papers containing our cuneiform combinations and the Kufic key.

“All that is useless,” she said, suddenly. Her manner and smile had altered.

I looked up in surprise, and at the same instant she pushed the papers from beneath my hands.

“The memory of things forgotten centuries ago has returned to me,” she said, feverishly. “I am a pagan again. It was Istar who first taught my hands to weave and my fingers to tie the Sehna knot. I wove that carpet; what I have woven there I can read. Why do you laugh? Will you believe me if I translate the mystery of each inscription as easily as I read the gold cartouche? Come; we shall never need those papers again.”

What new caprice was this? She was smiling, almost fixedly, and I thought that there was something in her over-flushed face and in the starlike brilliancy of her eyes not quite normal. At the same moment the electric lights in the laboratory went out. Westover was evidently in there. I waited, expecting him to appear, but he did not. Again I reached for the papers, but Geraldine scattered them with a quick sweep of her hand.

“Won’t you believe me? Won’t you let me try?” she repeated, almost impatiently.

With a quick movement she bent forward past me and shut off the lights in the gallery where we stood. Another second, and the lights in the marble room broke out fiercely; and there, full in the dazzling glory, I saw the great carpet of Belshazzar hanging, and beside it the Eighur rug— a pallid shadow on the wall.

Geraldine, hands clasped to her scarlet mouth, dark eyes fixed, moved forward slowly, opalescent tints flashing on her smooth bare arms and shoulders, her head a delicate silhouette against the glare.

I followed, pausing at her side, and we stood silently before the miracle, the great folds gently stirring in some unfelt current; and I saw the upper branches of the Tree of Heaven sway, and a thousand leaves, all glistening, quiver and subside.

“One can almost hear the rustling of the leaves, ” I whispered.

“I hear more than that,” she murmured. “I hear my soul bidding me good-by.”

She smiled dreamily, turning to the faded Eighur carpet, and stepping back one pace, dropped her left arm, clasping my hand in hers.

“It was I who wove that carpet— I, maid of the Issig-Kul— and it was you, beloved of Hassan, who inspired it.”

“What are you saying, Geraldine?” I began, uneasily; “where did you ever hear my name linked with the name of Hassan?”

Her palm was burning hot, her eyes, too, bright. The fever of caprice possessed her, and her imagination was running riot.

There was a silence, through which a distant sound penetrated— the faint ring of glass somewhere in the laboratory. Westover was tying on his crystal mask.

She heard it, too, and she turned, looking me full in the eyes.

“Dick,” she said, “he has slain my body. My soul is bidding me good-by.”

“It is my own that he is dragging to destruction, not yours,” I muttered.

But she only clasped my hand tighter, the fixed smile stamped on her lips.

“Listen,” she whispered, raising her arm. “This is what is written in the rose cartouche on the Eighur carpet that I made:

“ ‘Roses of Babylon; Ashes of Roses in Abaddon.’

“Love and its awful penalty, Dick— and the warning I wove, coffined in cryptogram! Listen again. The cartouche below was once topaz— for I wove it— I!

“ ‘All Paradise the cost:

Warp and weft for souls so lost.’

—Mine, Dick, mine!— lost in loving as I loved, centuries since. I have no soul; I have never had any since I lost it then. It is there, tenanting the phantom of an Eighur carpet. Do you not understand ? There is my faded monument and refuge— that magic-woven sanctuary— that hiding-place from hell!”

Her little feverish fingers tightened convulsively in mine; the color flamed in her cheeks. Suddenly she crushed our clasped hands to her heart, and I felt it leaping madly.

“Geraldine,” I stammered, “what is all this ghastly nonsense? Are you ill?”

“Listen! Listen!” she whispered; “the next cartouche was blue— the lost Persian blue! I know; why should I not know— I who wove it centuries ago? And thus it reads, O thou whom I loved to my destruction— thou whom I love:

“ 'Time and the Guest

Shall meet me twice,— once East, once West.’

“Ah, prophetess was I by Istar’s favor— seeing I died for love. Do you not understand, Dick? Time and the Guest !— the Guest is Death— the Guest we all must entertain one day— and I twice— once in the East, once here in the West— here, now!”

“Geraldine, are you mad?” I whispered; “look at me!— turn and look at me, I say!”

But she shivered in my arms, whispering that she was ransoming her soul and mine. A distant sound broke from the laboratory, and we listened.

“Hush, beloved,” she said, breathlessly; “the last cartouche is black! And this is written there:

“ ‘Soul, lotus-sealed,

Receive— thy— Paradise—’ ”

Her voice died out; a terrible pallor struck her face; she swayed where she stood, the smile frozen on her bloodless lips.

As I caught her to me, her head fell straight back and her body sank a dead weight in my arms. Then a dreadful thing occurred; the faded ancient tapestry glowed out like a live ember, kindling from end to end, brighter, fiercer, flaming into living fire; and the phantom Tree of Heaven, flashing, superbly jeweled, burst into magnificent florescence.

Blinded, almost stupefied, I staggered back, but the straining cry died in my throat as a voice is strangled in dreadful dreams. Again I strove to shout. The rug, glowing like a living cinder, slowly faded before my eyes. Suddenly the last spark went out in a shower of whitening ashes.

Again I strove to cry out: “Jim! Jim!” but my lips stiffened with horror as I listened. For he was somewhere there in the darkness, laughing.

“It was in her wine,” he chuckled— “and I saw her kiss the glass and look at you! and you, there, staring at nothing! Stare at it now!”

And again: “Do you think I have never watched her?— and you? Now she's in Hell, and we’ll race for her on even terms once more.”

Silence; a low, insane laugh, cut by a report and the crash of glass as he fell, shattering his masked face upon the floor.

After a long while I spoke, listening intently. Then I took up my burden.

And there was no sound save the soft stirring of her silken gown as I bore her through the darkness, my cold lips pressed to hers.

_________________

13: Home for Christmas

Sumner Locke

1881-1917

Weekly Times (Melbourne) 17 Dec 1910

Sumner Locke

Australian author and playwright; died giving birth to her son,

Sumner Locke Elliott (1917–1991), Australian-American author and playwright

A TIRED old tramp untied the narrow gate in the yard of "Barrawindy" station, and came shuffling through the dust to the kitchen door. A woman watched him from the verandah, and grew somewhat bad tempered. She hated the tramps at Christmas. They were a bother, and there were so many, and the boss had made allowances for them because of the fact of it being Christmas.

The old tramp dropped his roll on the ground, and bent his back very slowly to pat the retriever dog, who was too hot and lazy to even bark at him.

"Old dog.... Old Mascot," he said over and over again, and the women shouted loudly:

"He ain't Mascot; he's Brown John."

The man looked startled— stared at her, and then unbent his back as though in heavy pain.

"You tell me that ain't Mascot? I know her anyway."

"Know nothin', then," snapped the woman. "You been here before, eh? I  don't remember you."

"You haven't known me, old woman," said the tramp, "but that old dog— old Mascot...."

"Ain't Mascot," screamed the woman. "I been here for thirty years. I know!"

Then the tramp stared harder.

"Maybe," he said wearily. "I'm a bit dazed with time. 'Spose old Mascot reached the terminus a while ago. I muster been gone for sixty years—"

"Sixty years!" The woman gasped, and then came out further on to the verandah.

"Yes, an' things have changed. I see you've painted the kitchen and made a bath-room by the well."

"Did you know the boss?" came in a thick way from the woman.

"What boss? Yer mean Mr John Winter? I know him as the boss—"

"That's him," said the woman, "but he's not likely to remember you. He ain't that old himself."

Then the tramp tried to remember. His head was perpetually moving in a 'mandarin' sort of fashion, and he tried to steady his memory.

"He ought to be nigh on a century— the boss I'm talkin' of— Mr John P. Winter, of 'Barrawindy.' This is it, eh? I'm not wandering, old woman, am I?"

"Yer a bit out, I'm thinking," she said with a sensation of distrust about her. "Mr John P. Winter is on'y over the bar of thirty, as I knows rightly."

Then she went back to the kitchen.

"Better come in and get yer feed if yer ready," she called presently.  "Christmas dinner is too busy a time for me to stand yappin to a road man."

The old man sat on the step. "I wrote I was coming," he said, looking afar into the distance of timbered country and scrubby land.

"Did yer now?" The woman began to laugh at this mad old man. She gave over all ideas of his sanity, and was putting up a parcel of tucker in a fashion notable for its size and suitable to the Christmas season.

"I wrote I was coming," he said again, "but it was a long way to come. Why, my legs is that tired and my eyes could hardly find the way."

Then the woman laughed again.

"Must have got lost in the post," she said softly, "or the gig would have gone down to meet you."

But the old man shook his head more violently.

"Wasn't lost," he said, "wasn't lost. I got an answer, 'Come home,' and I've come."

Then the woman shrugged her shoulders and left the kitchen. A man came round the verandah, and the tramp got on to his feet.

"Hullo, boy," he shouted; "hullo, did you come home too?"

The man stood transfixed. He was a large-sized, antiquated specimen of the road, dirty with travel, and with eyes glowing with tears, swaying before him and waving his arms.

"Did you come home for Christmas?" he said shakily.

Then Mr John P. Winter, of Barrawindy Station, got his hand crushed in the palm of the tramp.

"Hullo, mate," he said kindly. "You're first off the road to-day, eh ?"

"First off the road, an' home in time for Christmas. I said I'd come; I wrote I'd come."

Then the boss of Barrawindy saw a crazed mind before him, and he led the old man inside and through to the hall.

"Come in! Come in!" he said. "The children are at breakfast, and there's space for another yet."

But the tramp stopped dead.

"No," he said, nodding at the man who held his arm; "I never thought much of a dining-room when the kitchen was good enough."

"Then we'll go back to the kitchen," said Winter, "and cook shall give you a set out and a cup of coffee."

Again the tramp opposed.

"No no. Some water in the billy and a handful of dry tea. It's what I'm used to, and it's good for a dry throat." He sat down at the table, and Winter stood near.

"A slice of bacon from the grill," he said, as the woman came back and stood staring.

"A slice of bread and some of Martha's butter," said the tramp, slapping the table with his hand to enforce his objection to the bacon.

"Martha's butter?" Winter looked at the cook, and they smiled in one understanding. "Martha's butter. You mind, John used to say, 'No marryin' for Martha when there's butter to be made.' Did you see John when you came home?"

The boss of "Barrawindy" looked muddled. He was John, his father was John, and his boy was John. Then a light of something becoming clearer shot into his eyes.

"You're a friend of my father, I expect," he said softly. "Do you remember John P. Winter?"

Then the tramp showed a toothless gum in a grin of satisfaction. "Your father? You mean the owner of this place?"

"He was the owner," said Winter, "I'm the boss here now."

"You're the boss?" The old man set his eyes firm on Winter, and then got slowly to his feet.

"I'm John P. Winter," said the younger man near the table. But the tramp stood amazed.

"Can't make it out at all," he said, "you're John— and you're— my father?"

A roar of laughter shook the black rafters of the kitchen. "He's certain mad," said the woman, staring from the fire where she swung a swivel kettle into place.

"Can't make it out," he said, again. Winter put out a hand and pushed the old man to his chair.

"I'll tell you over again," he said; "but first let us hear about yourself. Who are you?"

"Me?" The tramp showed signs of disappointment. "Didn't I write I was coming home? Coming home for Christmas."

"Yes— yes," said Winter; but if this is home, who are you? What's your name?"

"It's hard to be forgotten, but it's my own fault," said the tramp. "I'm the boy that wandered outward; Mr William, son to John P. Winter, of 'Barrawindy' station. But I said I would come home."

Then the younger man breathed quickly.

"You're William— William— son to John— and— my father's brother—"

But the tramp was talking again. "There was little John— my brother— he ought to be in by now. He's got a craze for cattle and ridin' round the place. Ain't he home for Christmas?"

Then Winter, dropping a big sigh for a big discovery, came nearer to the tramp.

"Listen to me," he said quietly. "We've got to go back a bit. You remember John, your brother— your younger brother— eh?"

"My younger brother. I was fifteen. He was ten."

"You remember your father?"

The tramp began to tremble and to stand again. "I've come home to see him. Didn't I tell you I wrote?"

"That's all gone," said Winter; "you're too late."

Then the tramp stared dumbly.

"You're years ahead now, uncle," said the younger man kindly. "There is no brother for you, and your father went before."

Still the tramp stared. "You see, I'm the only John P. Winter. I'm the son of your young brother. I took on things when he died."

"You're the son of—" Then the tramp got to his feet. "Where's me hat?" he shouted. "Where's me hat? I'll go back again... it's no good comin' home too late."

But the younger man detained him by the hand.

"I've heard a lot about you. You're the brother that— that— got lost?"

"Got lost!" The old man trembled again. "I never got lost in my life. Don't I know every track in Queensland... Don't I live in the world of trees?"

"Well, you went away when you were fifteen, and— and you forgot to come home again."

"No— I didn't forget. I was comin'. But it's been a long way, an' I had to walk. But I said I'd come home at Christmas—"

"And you are home after all."

But the old tramp's spirit had broken. He couldn't get right at all as to how things had shaped with the years. Winter, with a new look of horror in his face, touched him again.

"Did you ever know how this place was left— I mean by your father?"

The tramp frowned.

"Did he leave it, too?"

"I mean," said Winter, "how it was willed by him before he died?"

"He died," repeated the tramp, just as a child who is taught a lesson.

"Just after you went away," said Winter. "And the will had been made out previous, leaving most things to you. Do you understand me— old man— leaving most things here to you?"

Winter was agitated, and the tramp just shook his head.

"You're the rightful— lawful— owner," said Winter. "Now you're home again, you see. You're the boss of Barrawindy, and my children—"

"Children?" The tramp stepped forward. "Little children... here at home?"

Then he listened and walked forward. The voices in the dining room were mixed in noisy play. He stepped with even measure to the door, and Winter followed heavy at heart. The children shouted louder, and a woman ran about and made herself conspicuous in the fun at Christmas time. When she saw the tramp she screamed, and the children gathered round her, and a deadly silence came.

"Children... children!" said the old man. "There were never children here before."

Then Winter pushed in front of him, and reassured them then.

"Come in," he said quite calmly, but the tramp stayed at the door.

"It's a very merry Christmas, little faces, I can see," he said smiling on them though his eyes were tearful, and the dust on his face frightened them so. "There's... something wrong... about me... an I'm not goin to come in. You're the family... and the boss... an I'm sorter out of place... but I did come home for Christmas— cos, of course, I wrote I would." He stood there just a moment, and then in an ambling, shuffling movement went away down the hall.

When Winter caught him up, he was picking up his swag. His hat was crushed on to his head, and the black billy stood ready near the gate.

"You're to come back," said Winter; "it's all yours, you know— all yours."

But the old tramp, with a new light in his face, was steadily looking at him.

"I only came for Christmas... and... I'm going on again... there's a stretch of God's good country waitin' way out there for... me... but... you tell them..." Here he waved toward the children who watched him from the door "...Tell them darlin' faces... I didn't bring no presents where I came from... not knowing they was here... but they can keep it all for Christmas... keep it all... an' welcome, too."

He picked up the billycan and opened the gate.

"Won't you come back?" said Winter, feeling deeply the things that were. But the old tramp shook his head resolutely.

"I can't wait," he said. "I've rested, and I'm still a bit behind... I promised 'home' for Christmas, and they're waiting there for me. I wrote I'd come at Christmas... so I must go on, you see."

And John P. Winter could only stand wondering as he passed through the gate.

THEY found him shortly after with the sunshine and the trees. He had gone home for Christmas with his face up to the blue.

_____________

14: Branch Line to Benceston

Andrew Caldecott

1884-1951

In: Not Exactly Ghosts, 1947

Colonial Office civil servant, former governor of Hong Kong and Ceylon.  Formally, Sir Andrew Caldecott, GCMG CBE KStJ FRAS FRSA.  Published two volumes of supernatural short stories, Not Exactly Ghosts, 1947, and Fires Burn Blue, 1948, which do not appear to have been previously published in magazines.

ALTHOUGH to know Adrian Frent was not necessarily to like him, he interested me from the very first. If his life contained much of the ordinary, the manner of his death was very far out of it; the biographical portion of these notes is therefore by way of preface to the mystery of his end.

I had lived at Brensham for two years before the Garden City Company showed any intention of extending Ruskin Road. So long as it remained a cul-de-sac the peace of my bachelor homestead would remain undisturbed, for beyond it lay only a wilderness of weed and bramble between the road's end and the Bren river. I watched therefore with misgiving a gradual clearing by the Company's roadmen of this barren strip and the construction by them of a gravel track down its centre. But I need not have worried, for a bridging of the Bren on a purely residential thoroughfare was quite beyond the Company's financial resources, and the sole purpose of the extension was to afford access to a vacant building lot on the side opposite to me and nearer to the river. On this quickly arose 'Brenside' and into it as first tenant moved Adrian Frent.

My first glimpse of him was during a reconnaissance made by me along the river bank for that very purpose. What would be the looks of a man whom I might have to live next to for long years naturally aroused my curiosity. Nor was my first impression unfavourable. I saw a man of nearly six feet, clean-shaven, oval-faced, dark-haired, well-knit and smartly tailored. Without hesitation I made up my mind to call as soon as he was comfortably settled in.

I did so some ten days later and found him very pleased to be doing host in his new house. Brenside had been wisely planned to provide one really large room, on the window side of which stood an Erard grand piano on glass castors. In front lay a large Persian rug, on whose beautiful and expensive expanse none of the surrounding leathered chairs were allowed to impinge. The pictures on the walls were all of religious subjects, though not pertaining to the same religion. They included a coloured print of the Sistine Madonna, a silver-point drawing of the Hermes of Praxiteles, a rather wishy-washy sketch in water colour of the Buddha, and an enlarged photograph of Hindu frescoes in the Ajanta Caves. There were two large bookcases, one containing books whose titles I could not see from the chair into which Frent beckoned me, and the other largely filled by bound volumes of the Railway Magazine. Immediately above them was a scale model of a locomotive protected by an oblong glass frame.

This miniature engine and the magazines offended my aesthetic sensibility by their incongruity with the other furnishings, and made me curious to ascertain the nature of the books in the other case. Finding excuse in a draught from the window I soon transferred myself to a nearer seat whence my eye fell on a representative and well-bound collection of English classics, both in prose and poetry. The only exceptions were gathered on a shelf to themselves and might be categorised under the title borne by the largest of them, which was Herbs, Simples, Drugs and Poisons.

Frent caught my inquisitive glance. 'One of my many hobbies,' he explained. 'I grow them, you know. That's why I've chosen a place by the river. I lost a lot of valuable stuff last year at Tenford during the August drought. I'm going to make the garden here a herbalist's paradise; you must drop in occasionally and see how it's getting on. I've got my eye on the small greenhouse as a future laboratory. I not only grow the plants but I make them into medicines. I always make my own insecticides and the vermifuges for my dogs. They're in the kennel now, under treatment; come along and see them.' Leading me out by a side door he introduced me to two liver-coloured dachshunds in one of the outhouses. They were almost offensively affectionate, after the nature of their breed. 'I adore dogs,' he said. I was glad that he did not see me wince, but I hate men to use the word 'adore': it is woman's property.

Business men on their daily trek from Brensham to the City have a choice of three trains. The 8.47 runs you through to Cripplegate and is uncomfortably crowded. The 8.59 has a slightly superior clientèle but lands you at St Euston's Cross, midway between east and west, whence it is necessary to proceed by Underground. The 9.15, similarly bound, is patronised only by such as are in positions to determine for themselves their times of arrival and departure. It was in this third train that I met Frent next morning, and thereby placed him in the category of employer rather than of employee. Nor was my inference at fault, as I learned from his conversation on the way up. He was a partner in the firm of Frent, Frent & Saxon Limited, Music Publishers of 23 Great Penchester Street. His father, who had died last year, had left him in joint managership with Paul Saxon; whom indeed I remembered, somewhat indistinctly, as a fellow member of the Junior Camisis before its absorption by the older University Clubs.

It did not take me long, listening to Frent's talk, to realise that here was a case of a business house being very much divided against itself. To put the matter in a nutshell, Adrian was musically a severe classicist while Saxon was crazy on jazz. Each had, I gathered, in his own line brought grist to the common mill. Frent had at the unlimited expense of an aunt of the composer, who contributed also a frontispiece, published in album form Julian Grinley's 'Twelve Dream Pieces for Pianoforte'. Saxon undoubtedly struck a good bargain when he acquired publishing rights over a Jazz series which included such astonishing 'hits' as 'Gioconda' and 'Bendigo'. The pity of it was that each, while sharing in it, grudged the other his success.

Daily travelling in the same compartment Frent and I soon found ourselves on terms of acquaintance that bordered on intimacy. This was because I was glad to find him interesting and he glad to find someone whom he interested. I derived entertainment even from his knowledge of locomotives and running schedules and, acquiring the jargon of the initiate, was soon speaking of the permanent way as 'the road' and of signals being 'on' or 'off instead of up and down. His tales of railway history especially appealed to me, and (after he had pointed out the gas works siding which leaves the main line just north of Ponsden Priory as being all that now remains of an aborted London, Middlehampton and East Coast Railway) I often found my eyes straying from my evening paper, as we jerked over the junction points, towards the heavy gates that closed the siding against the main line of which it had been intended to form a most important branch. In moments of despondency the tale of this siding would appear to me as an allegory of what had happened to so many pet projects of my own scheming!

ii

I FORGET the exact date of Frent's coming to Brenside, but it was at the beginning of March. On the 17th April poor old Miss Lurgashall of Rosedene, Hesseltine Road, was trapped in her bedroom and burned to death when the house took fire from defects in the electrical insulation. Rosedene and Brenside had been designed by the same architect and in both plans the front and back stairs occupied respectively the fore and rear of the middle section of the building. This arrangement, comparing it to a central flue, the coroner described as a death-trap. A criticism so characteristic of a Coroner's obiter dicta naturally passed unheeded by hundreds of people whose houses were on a similar plan: but not by Adrian Frent.

'What are you going to do about your stairs?' he asked me.

'Nothing,' I replied, 'and you?'

'I'm having a fire escape put in from the box room next to my bedroom.'

'That'll cost you something!'

'Oh! not much. All one needs is a trap-door and a length of rope. We used to have several of them at my prep. school. In case of emergency one lifts the trap, throws down the rope and swarms down it hand over hand. Cheap and easy! I'm a bit of a carpenter, as you know, and I cut the trap-door yesterday. Now all that remains to do is to get a rope.'

'You'll need a staple to fix it to,' I pointed out; 'and that means a hole through the wall and a plate.'

'Oh! I know of an odd job man who'll fix that up for me in no time and at very small charge. I strongly advise you to follow my example.'

I have recorded the above conversation for the reason (as well as for another which will appear later) that it well illustrates a basic defect in Frent's character. He was always starting things without consideration of their full implications and dropping them when he ran up against difficulties. In the present instance the example which he bade me follow was never set, for neither staple nor rope eventuated. He just forgot about them. It was the same story with his piano playing: he had excellent taste and touch, but I have seldom known him to play a piece right through. As soon as he came to a tricky passage he would break off with a 'sorry, I'm out of practice!' I suspected, however, that he had never been in practice, for he hated drudgery and all his activities lacked perseverance and system. Take, for instance, the death of his dachshunds, the cause of which he never revealed to me. The Vet., however, did. They had been poisoned by draughts out of a wrong bottle! How a man who prided himself on concocting his own insecticides and vermifuges could have been so careless passed my comprehension. Nor did the loss of these pets cause him any observable sorrow. I sometimes wondered in fact whether he did not derive a greater pleasure from the artistic little headstones that he had placed over their graves than any that the dogs ever afforded him while alive.

As these sentences flow from my pen I am conscious that they become increasingly critical of Adrian Frent. This is not from any desire on my part to play the role of dissecting moralist, but because my portrait of the man cannot be rendered faithful or lifelike without painting in the shadows. He certainly suffered no qualms himself about personal criticisms, for his daily conversations with me became more and more charged with venom against 'the Klaxon' as he now insisted on calling his partner. His outbursts would indeed have been wearisome but for the many amusing turns of phrase and fancy with which he embellished them. Nevertheless, my conscience would sometimes accuse me of abetting slander; and by way of appeasing it I argued to myself that, by allowing Frent to blow off steam, I was preventing the accrual to his animosity of any explosive quality that might be generated by enforced repression.

As the summer wore on we dropped in frequently at each other's houses, and I was privileged to see the burgeoning of the Herbalist's Paradise. These were his words, not mine; for a meaner collection of disreputable weeds could be hardly imagined: The only lasting memory of my inspection of it is of his telling me that what I still continue to call 'Deadly Nightshade' is neither Nightshade nor deadly. The so-called laboratory in the little greenhouse was equally unimpressive; indeed it reminded me of nothing so much as the pitiful messes that children will make out of leaves and berries to serve as 'pretence food' in their toy dinner services. I could not but remember the sad end of those two dachshunds and found myself viewing the disarray of bottles, tins and saucers with mounting distaste. Frent perhaps discerned these thoughts. 'Come along indoors,' he said, 'and I will play you the March Funèbre out of that Beethoven Sonata.' The movement contains no really difficult passages and he did it justice. It little occurred to me that it was the last thing that I should hear him play.

iii

SEPTEMBER the fourteenth is my birthday, and I am able to set that date with certainty against the events that follow. I had lunched at his club with my brother Gerald and, taking the afternoon off, made to catch the three-thirty at St Euston's Cross. I had hardly settled down in a corner seat before, to my surprise, in got Frent. I had never known him take so early a train before, and the fuss that he was in made me ask the reason.

'I'm through for good with Saxon,' he explained, 'and we shall have to dissolve partnership. I just hate him and all his works; and he knows it and trades on it. All our publications are now on his side of the show. I simply have to agree to everything he demands in order to get him out of my room. He knows how I loathe whistling and humming, but he hums or whistles his filthy jazz the whole working day, blast him! He rubs it in too about my daily bread being buttered with croon and swing. That "Lulu on the Lilo" tune is the rottenest stuff the house has ever published; and yet it's netted us some three hundred quid already. Tainted money I call it!'

At this point Frent thumped his despatch case into the luggage rack, and stood over me while he continued: 'and now this morning he comes and leans over my desk, breathing his beastly 'flu into my very nostrils. He knows well enough how prone I am to colds and how careful I have to be to avoid infection. And then to cap it all, he asks me to lend him my quack sniffle cure, as he thinks it funny to call it: Well, he asked for it and he's got it: I hope it chokes him!'

'As your worm mixture did the dachshunds,' I laughingly interposed.

Frent slowly sat down and scowled at me. It was the first time that I had made him angry. 'Can't you let me forget those damned dogs?' he snapped; and then added self-pityingly, 'what I need is a rest and a change of scene. Saxon's put all my nerves on edge.'

As the train glided out of the gloom of the roofed terminus into unimpeded daylight I was shocked to see Frent's face. It was lined, drawn and grey: an ugly yellow-grey. The man was patently unwell.

'I'm sorry, old man,' I said sympathetically. 'If I were you I would take a long week-end and run down to the seaside.'

'That's a good idea,' he muttered, and for the next quarter of an hour made a show of reading the evening paper, though his attention appeared far from concentrated on it.

The rolling-stock used on the three-thirty consists chiefly of old six-wheelers, and progress became bumpy as we gained speed. After rattling through Ponsden Priory station the carriage gave a bigger jolt than usual over the siding junction and something fell tinkling on to the floor. Frent's pince-nez, always precariously perched, had been jerked off his nose and I waited for him to pick them up. He remained however stock still with fingers outspread on his knees, staring down at the paper which had fallen over his feet. He looked so dazed and helpless that stooping forward myself I picked up the pince-nez and handed them up to him. After regarding them curiously for a few moments he lifted his eyes questioningly to mine and said, 'Thank you, sir: but are you sure they're mine'

'They were on your nose a moment ago!'

'Ah! Were they? I had forgotten. You must excuse me, but everything seems suddenly to have gone out of my head. It's quite extraordinary. For instance, your face seems familiar to me and I feel sure that we must have met each other before: but at the moment I've entirely forgotten your name. I'm so sorry.'

Not only Frent's face but the impersonal note in his voice, as though he were repeating a lesson, startled and distressed me. I felt relieved somehow that there was no third person in the compartment to overhear his conversation. He was undoubtedly seized by some sudden illness and consequent abnormality, and it must devolve on me to get him home to Brenside safely and without incident. It is strange how in emergency one sometimes finds the policeman element in one's character taking charge and directing operations. It was so now; for I heard myself addressing Frent in a calm and custodial manner that surprised me.

'My name is Johnson and yours is Frent,' I said. 'We live next to each other in Ruskin Road, Brensham, which is the next stop. You have been working too hard and worrying too much, and as a result your brain has gone temporarily on strike. But don't you bother about that. Go on reading your paper' (I picked it up for him) 'and when we reach Brensham I'll see you home and call in the doctor. He'll soon put you right again.'

Frent received my remarks with a passive and childlike acceptance and, save that I experienced an uncomfortable sensation of walking with a somnambulist, we reached Brenside without trouble. Having explained to the parlourmaid that her master had been taken ill I got him to lie down on a sofa and rang up Dr Jameson.

The latter was round within five minutes, and having looked at Frent and taken his pulse, he peremptorily and monosyllabically enjoined 'bed'. A telephone enquiry of the Brensham District Nursing Guild elicited that Nurse Margison was immediately available, and in less than half an hour she had Frent and Brenside in her charge.

'Let's drop in at your place, and I'll prescribe for you too,' said Jameson as we walked away. 'You must have had an anxious time getting that fellow home.'

He joined with me in taking his own prescription: it was 'a stiff one'.

iv

FRENT lay in bed five days before recovery. He was described by Miss Margison as an ideal patient; which meant that he slept most of the time, asked no questions and did whatever she told him.

It was on the second or third day that I read in my morning paper of Paul Saxon's death from influenza. The attack, a severe one, had been aggravated by acute gastric complications and had terminated, fatally, in pneumonia. Frent's fulminations against his partner had led me to envisage a Philistine of the Philistines. I was surprised therefore to read in the obituary notice of a distinguished academic career and of his identity with Publics' in the Bi-monthly Review, whose articles on art and literature I always enjoyed and admired.

I was permitted to visit Frent at the very outset of his recovery. His first request was indeed that he might see me. Considering that he might be said to have lost his self for several days I found him almost incongruously self-possessed. Before him lay a letter from Lyster, his Company's manager, reporting the circumstances of Saxon's death.

'How extremely annoying of him,' Frent complained, 'to die just when the doctor orders me a holiday. I simply must clear up the mess he will have left and it will take several weeks. All the same I shall have to run down to Benceston for a few days before long.'

'Benceston?' I queried.

Frent's face suddenly showed again (it may have been due to a reflection of sunset glow on the ceiling) the same deep lines and yellow-grey colour that had worried me in the train.

'I don't know what made me say Benceston,' he continued; 'any seaside resort would do; but I feel that I must get a whiff of the sea. By the way Saxon's funeral was this afternoon: I hope they didn't jazz the Dead March.'

The last words were those of a cad but, in consideration for Frent's state, I let them pass and the conversation slipped into generalities. For some reason, however, he gave me the impression of trying to drag our talk round to some subject from which, as soon as he had manoeuvred it into proximity, he veered away in distaste. It was an unpleasant sensation, and after half an hour or so I made as though to take my departure by asking whether I might send him over anything to read.

'Have you by any chance got a book called The Bad Lands?' he replied.

'I'm afraid not: but I remember reading a short story under that name: by John Metcalfe, I think.'

Frent seemed quite excited.

'Was it about a fellow being in two places at the same time, and doing something criminal in one of them while he thought he was doing something good in the other?'

'I don't think,' I protested, 'that the author would appreciate such a crude summary! The tale was extraordinarily well and carefully written.'

'And, in the light of modern conceptions of space and time, very likely a true one!'

'What on earth do you mean, Frent?'

'I mean that space can get kinks and double back over and under itself. Of course you know all that.'

'I most certainly do not, and I'm perfectly certain that you don't either. You must have been reading some such tosh as Einstein Without Tears or Brainfood for the Brainless. You had far better stick to your old Railway Magazines.'

'I know far more, Johnson, than you guess and than I wish. Some day, perhaps, I'll try to explain: but not now. Au revoir! and many thanks for coming round.'

I had recently purchased in five large volumes a series of maps of the counties of Great Britain with combined index. On reaching my house I went straight to the study and, taking down the index from its shelf, looked up 'Benceston'. My suspicions were not relieved. There was no such place.

v

I NEVER met Frent again in the train after his recovery. This was because he changed his route and travelled from Wentlow, for East Brensham, to King's Pancras. This involved him in a mile and a half walk morning and evening; which, as being conducive to his good health, he gave as a reason for the change. His looks however belied the explanation. His condition indeed caused Dr Jameson and myself increasing anxiety; and my uneasiness was aggravated by his point blank refusal to consult Jameson professionally or to call in any other doctor. It was reassuring therefore when he informed us that a cousin, Gilbert Frent-Sutton, was coming to live with him.

This cousin, he told us, was a Fellow of All Saints and a recognised authority on the Middle Ages. He did not tell us, but we soon found out, that his cousin was also to be identified with Frent-Sutton the old Camford rugger blue. From the moment he arrived we recognised in him a man who would stand no nonsense; and we therefore felt happier about Frent, who was already in visible danger of going all to pieces unless he had somebody to help to keep him together.

A week or so after Frent-Sutton's arrival the doctor and I were invited by telephone to drop in together at Brenside and have a drink. At the gate we were met by Frent-Sutton.

'Before we go in,' he said, 'I owe you both an explanation. Adrian refuses, Doctor, to call you in professionally; but I got him to ask you round (using you, Johnson, as a sort of decoy) for a drink. The important thing is that, having attended him after his collapse, you should see him now and observe his present condition. It needs tackling at once. He has never told you yet about his delusions, though he suspects Johnson of having inferred their peculiar nature. Tonight he has promised to make a clean breast of them, and I fancy that you will find them important from the medical standpoint.'

We went in and, sitting in a half-circle round the fire, began our drinks over the usual small talk. Frent-Sutton was, however, a believer in getting to grips with a job quickly and broke in early with a request that Adrian would tell us all about his Benceston business. 'Tell us everything, old man: right from the very beginning when your father and old Saxon held the stage.'

'I'll try,' responded Frent, not at all averse to becoming the centre of our interest, 'and I'll make it as short as I can. Our firm's name, you know, is Frent, Frent and Saxon; and that is because when my father turned the show into a limited liability company he kept a third share for himself and reserved a second third for me (against the day when I should have grown up and proved my business capacity), while he allowed his manager, old Saxon, to take up the remaining third share.

'Old Saxon's boy and myself were unfortunately of the same age, and wherever my father sent me— to Heathcote, Winchingham and Oxbridge— old Saxon must needs send Paul. He dogged my footsteps everywhere and at both schools, and later at the Varsity, he excelled me both in games and work. My parents took shame from my inferiority and perpetually upbraided me with letting them down. As a result I grew to hate Paul and detested him the more for a desire on his part to fraternise.

'Finally we entered into the firm's business simultaneously; I to be my father's greatest disappointment and Paul to be his right-hand man and, at old Saxon's death, his energetic partner. Paul also inherited money from an aunt, and my father, in appreciation of his work, allowed him 'to purchase the share in the business which he had earmarked for me. On my father's death, therefore, I had only the one-third share in the business which I inherited from him against Paul's two. Frent, Frent and Saxon had become in reality Saxon, Saxon and Frent. I was permanently number two to my life's enemy; and during every day and hour of our partnership my hatred for him proliferated. It possessed my whole being.

'I don't very often go to church, but I had done so on the Sunday preceding my collapse in the train; and it was the parson's sermon that brought home to me the full significance of my hatred. He was preaching on sins of intention and quoted that text about a man committing fornication in his heart if he looks upon a woman lasciviously. The same logic, the parson pointed out, applies to the other commandments. Many people might regard themselves as pretty safe against a breach of the sixth; but we must remember that anybody who allowed his imagination to dwell on how much nicer things would be if only so-and-so were out of the way had already committed murder in his heart. I at once realised this to be true. I was murdering Paul daily: and, quite clearly, it was my duty both to him and myself that I should cut adrift from our partnership.

'Nevertheless, I delayed doing it, fearing the explanation which Saxon would demand and the loss of employment in which it must land me. This delay added further fuel to my hate. You will remember, Johnson, how, in the train that day, you joked about the possibility of the cold cure which I had lent to Saxon proving as deadly as the dose that killed my dogs. That jest of yours brought me, with a jerk, bang up against the actuality that I had, in passing the bottle to Saxon, thought how easy and pleasant it would have been to hand over some poisonous mixture, if any such had been to hand. I tried to keep my mind off this memory by reading the paper, but without success, and then endeavoured to concentrate on other thoughts. Johnson knows my fondness for railway history and I had told him how an important railway project had ended ignominiously in a gasworks siding. I forced myself now to imagine what would have been the route of the abortive London, Middlehampton and East Coast Railway and what might have been the livery of its rolling stock. While my thoughts were being directed along these lines, we rattled through Ponsden Priory and, to my momentary surprise, I felt the train, instead of carrying straight on over the points, swing right-handed towards the siding. I say "momentary surprise" because, within a few seconds, it seemed perfectly right and natural to me that we should be travelling eastwards. I noticed the monogram, L.M. & E.C.R. on the antimacassars opposite and, above them, two pictures of Bencestonon-Sea and one of Bellringers Cliff. The scenery through which we were passing was also familiar, and I knew that before reaching Benceston the train would stop at Latteridge Junction to pick up passengers.

'I also had a certain foreboding that among the passengers we should pick up would be Paul Saxon. And so it turned out. As the train glided in, I spotted him out of the corner of my eye and surreptitiously watched him enter a compartment three doors off from mine.

'At Benceston West he got out, and I heard him tell a uniformed porter from Fotheringham Hotel to take up his suitcase.

'That gave me my cue. I journeyed on to the East Station and took up my quarters at the Porchester. Paul and I, therefore, had a good three miles between us and ample space in which to avoid each other.

'This, however, was not to be. Walking, next day, along the summit of Bellringers Cliff, I suddenly heard a whistling of that filthy tune, "Lulu on the Lilo", followed by a loathesomely hearty "By Jove! How are we? Fancy meeting you up here! I say, what a magnificent view of the sea one gets!" He stood at the edge of the cliff, gazing seaward. I took a hurried look to right and left. We were alone. Striking him from behind, on both shoulder blades, I caused him to overbalance and fall forward. I was alone. My heart thumped with the joy of quick decision and prompt execution. Glancing at my wrist watch, I saw that it was a quarter to three. I started singing, and was just about to peer over the edge, in order to see if Saxon's body had fallen on the rocks above or below tide-level, when a a large hand grabbed me by the arm and swung me round so that I faced inshore. My aggressor was a man of over six feet and broad in proportion.

'"I will see you to the Police Station," he said, "and, mind you, no tricks! Give me your right hand." I suppose that I fainted, for everything seemed to go misty and black, and the next thing of which I became conscious was lying in bed, here in this house.

'Now you three persons listening to my story have doubtless relegated this Benceston part of it to the realm of dreamland; and that was my intention also. In order to prevent any recurrence of the stimuli that led to the nightmare I gave up travelling to London via Ponsden and used the other line to King's Pancras. In doing so I forgot that I had returned from Benceston not by train, but in a faint or swoon; and I soon learned to my horror that this process was reversable. During the past few weeks I have re-visited Benceston many times in trance or swoon. I have stood my trial there for murder and heard sentence of death pronounced on me. The Governor of Benceston Prison has told me that my execution takes place tomorrow morning at eight. Give me a brandy, Gilbert.

'Thank you; that's better. Now I want all three of you to be here at that time tomorrow morning to protect me, and I will tell you why. I have noticed that things which happen at Benceston can simultaneously take place here, if in a different manner. For example, Saxon died from pneumonia at the same instant as I thrust him over Bell-ringers Cliff. The exact time of his death is one of the first things I ascertained after my return to work. Lyster had been at the deathbed. I have no doubt that punctually tomorrow morning, as the clock strikes eight, whatever it is that corresponds to me in Benceston will be hanged. Therefore you must agree to be here with me at that hour. I can see that you think me mad: but if you will do what I ask, I promise you that at five minutes past eight tomorrow you will find me sane and sensible beyond all doubt. Whatever it be at Benceston that shares my identity and usurps my consciousness will have been killed by then and myself set free. Do promise, therefore, to come without fail.'

Frent directed a beseeching look at each of us in turn, and each nodded his assent.

On our way home Jameson was, for him, unusually communicative.

'I shall have to get Hasterton on to this case. Frent may think that tomorrow morning will see the end of his delusions; but he is wrong. I know these symptoms, and there cannot be a sudden end to them.'

Nevertheless, there was.

vi

THE DOCTOR called for me next morning, and at ten minutes to eight we walked across to Brenside.

On entering the hall, I was surprised to see the hands of the large chiming clock registering seven fifty-five.

'That clock's fast,' I said to Frent-Sutton as he came out of the drawing-room, followed by his cousin, to meet us.

'Oh, no! it can't be. Adrian's been on to the Exchange twice this morning. That's Greenwich time all right.'

For a man who, in his own apprehension, stood in danger of imminent death, Frent struck me as unexpectedly calm and collected. He bade us take chairs facing the clock, and we must have looked a strange group as we sat watching the dial. The tick of the pendulum acquired unusual sonority owing to our silence: a silence dictated for three of us by our consciousness of the fatuity of the whole proceeding.

A click and a cluck, followed by a whirring of small wheels, heralded the chimes, and I saw Frent dig his fingers into the leathered arm of his chair. The interval between the chimes and the hour gong seemed interminable; but, at last, the eight strokes droned out— and, as we had foreseen, nothing whatever happened.

'And now you chaps must celebrate my release! Thanks ever so much for seeing me through. We can't very well have whisky at this hour though! Gilbert, tell Ada to bring coffee quickly, while I dash upstairs and get a handkerchief.'

Both cousins had thus left the room when Jameson exclaimed suddenly: 'What's that?'

'What's what?'

'Listen!'

The morning breeze made them faint; but we heard unmistakably the chimes of Brensham parish church; and then the distant boom of the great hour bell.

Simultaneously, there came from almost above our heads a noise of rending, a cry, a crash, and, nearer to us still, a dull, heavy thud.

We rushed down the back passage, where we ran into Frent-Sutton as he hurried out from the pantry. In the wooden ceiling above us gaped a yard-square hole, and immediately below lay the ruin of a trap-door, with hinges torn from the supporting joist. It was Frent's fire-escape. Over what was close beside it the Doctor now leaned, and, having lifted one end, laid it gently back.

'Finish!' he said; 'broken neck.' And then, looking on the broken door beside him and up at the hole above, he added: 'Amateur carpentry and unseasoned wood! A fatal combination.'

'But why on earth,' I interjected, 'should he have gone into the box room?'

'And why,' murmured Frent-Sutton, 'should be have set that clock fast? He insisted on ringing up for the time and doing it himself!'

'Possibly,' Dr Jameson rose from his examination, 'they may know the answers to those questions in Benceston!'

Possibly.

_______________

15: The Confession of Charles Linkworth

E. F. Benson

1867-1940

The Cavalier and the Scrap Book, 13 Jan 1912

Edward Frederick Benson

DR TEESDALE had occasion to attend the condemned man once or twice during the week before his execution, and found him, as is often the case, when his last hope of life has vanished, quiet and perfectly resigned to his fate, and not seeming to look forward with any dread to the morning that each hour that passed brought nearer and nearer. The bitterness of death appeared to be over for him: it was done with when he was told that his appeal was refused. But for those days while hope was not yet quite abandoned, the wretched man had drank of death daily. In all his experience the doctor had never seen a man so wildly and passionately tenacious of life, nor one so strongly knit to this material world by the sheer animal lust of living. Then the news that hope could no longer be entertained was told him, and his spirit passed out of the grip of that agony of torture and suspense, and accepted the inevitable with indifference. Yet the change was so extraordinary that it seemed to the doctor rather that the news had completely stunned his powers of feeling, and he was below the numbed surface, still knit into material things as strongly as ever. He had fainted when the result was told him, and Dr Teesdale had been called in to attend him. But the fit was but transient, and he came out of it into full consciousness of what had happened.

The murder had been a deed of peculiar horror, and there was nothing of sympathy in the mind of the public towards the perpetrator. Charles Linkworth, who now lay under capital sentence, was the keeper of a small stationery store in Sheffield, and there lived with him his wife and mother. The latter was the victim of his atrocious crime; the motive of it being to get possession of the sum of five hundred pounds, which was this woman's property. Linkworth, as came out at the trial, was in debt to the extent of a hundred pounds at the time, and during his wife's absence from home, on a visit to relations, he strangled his mother, and during the night buried the body in the small back-garden of his house. On his wife's return, he had a sufficiently plausible tale to account for the elder Mrs Linkworth's disappearance, for there had been constant jarrings and bickerings between him and his mother for the last year or two, and she had more than once threatened to withdraw herself and the eight shillings a week which she contributed to household expenses, and purchase an annuity with her money. It was true, also, that during the younger Mrs Linkworth's absence from home, mother and son had had a violent quarrel arising originally from some trivial point in household management, and that in consequence of this, she had actually drawn her money out of the bank, intending to leave Sheffield next day and settle in London where she had friends. That evening she told him this, and during the night he killed her.

His next step, before his wife's return, was logical and sound. He packed up all his mother's possessions and took them to the station, from which he saw them despatched to town by passenger train, and in the evening he asked several friends in to supper, and told them of his mother's departure. He did not (logically also, and in accordance with what they probably already knew) feign regret, but said that he and she had never got on well together, and that the cause of peace and quietness was furthered by her going. He told the same story to his wife on her return, identical in every detail, adding, however, that the quarrel had been a violent one, and that his mother had not even left him her address. This again was wisely thought of: it would prevent his wife from writing to her. She appeared to accept his story completely: indeed there was nothing strange or suspicious about it.

For a while he behaved with the composure and astuteness which most criminals possess up to a certain point, the lack of which, after that, is generally the cause of their detection. He did not, for instance, immediately pay off his debts, but took into his house a young man as lodger, who occupied his mother's room, and he dismissed the assistant in his shop, and did the entire serving himself. This gave the impression of economy, and at the same time he openly spoke of the great improvement in his trade, and not till a month had passed did he cash any of the bank-notes which he had found in a locked drawer in his mother's room. Then he changed two notes of fifty pounds and paid off his creditors.

At that point his astuteness and composure failed him. He opened a deposit account at a local bank with four more fifty-pound notes, instead of being patient, and increasing his balance at the savings bank pound by pound, and he got uneasy about that which he had buried deep enough for security in the back garden. Thinking to render himself safer in this regard, he ordered a cartload of slag and stone fragments and with the help of his lodger employed the summer evenings when work was over, in building a sort of rockery over the spot. Then came the chance circumstance which really set match to this dangerous train. There was a fire in the lost luggage office at King's Cross Station (from which he ought to have claimed his mother's property) and one of the two boxes was partially burned. The company was liable for compensation, and his mother's name on her linen, and a letter with the Sheffield address on it, led to the arrival of a purely official and formal notice, stating that the company were prepared to consider claims. It was directed to Mrs Linkworth, and Charles Linkworth's wife received and read it.

It seemed a sufficiently harmless document, but it was endorsed with his death-warrant. For he could give no explanation at all of the fact of the boxes still lying at King's Cross Station, beyond suggesting that some accident had happened to his mother. Clearly he had to put the matter in the hands of the police, with a view to tracing her movements, and if it proved that she was dead, claiming her property, which she had already drawn out of the bank. Such at least was the course urged on him by his wife and lodger, in whose presence the communication from the railway officials was read out, and it was impossible to refuse to take it. Then the silent, uncreaking machinery of justice, characteristic of England, began to move forward. Quiet men lounged about Smith Street, visited banks, observed the supposed increase in trade, and from a house near by looked into the garden where ferns were already flourishing on the rockery. Then came the arrest and the trial, which did not last very long, and on a certain Saturday night the verdict. Smart women in large hats had made the court bright with colour, and in all the crowd there was not one who felt any sympathy with the young athletic-looking man who was condemned. Many of the audience were elderly and respectable mothers, and the crime had been an outrage on motherhood, and they listened to the unfolding of the flawless evidence with strong approval. They thrilled a little when the judge put on the awful and ludicrous little black cap, and spoke the sentence appointed by God.

Linkworth went to pay the penalty for the atrocious deed, which no one who had heard the evidence could possibly doubt that he had done, with the same indifference as had marked his entire demeanour since he knew his appeal had failed. The prison chaplain who had attended him had done his utmost to get him to confess, but his efforts had been quite ineffectual, and to the last he asserted, though without protestation, his innocence. On a bright September morning, when the sun shone warm on the terrible little procession that crossed the prison yard to the shed where was erected the apparatus of death, justice was done, and Dr Teesdale was satisfied that life was immediately extinct. He had been present on the scaffold, had watched the bolt drawn, and the hooded and pinioned figure drop into the pit. He had heard the chunk and creak of the rope as the sudden weight came on to it, and looking down he had seen the queer twitchings of the hanged body. They had lasted but a second or two; the execution had been perfectly satisfactory.{68}

An hour later he made the post-mortem examination, and found that his view had been correct: the vertebrae of the spine had been broken at the neck, and death must have been absolutely instantaneous. It was hardly necessary even to make that little piece of dissection that proved this, but for the sake of form he did so. And at that moment he had a very curious and vivid mental impression that the spirit of the dead man was close beside him, as if it still dwelt in the broken habitation of its body. But there was no question at all that the body was dead: it had been dead an hour. Then followed another little circumstance that at the first seemed insignificant though curious also. One of the warders entered, and asked if the rope which had been used an hour ago, and was the hangman's perquisite, had by mistake been brought into the mortuary with the body. But there was no trace of it, and it seemed to have vanished altogether though it was a singular thing to be lost: it was not here; it was not on the scaffold. And though the disappearance was of no particular moment, it was quite inexplicable.

Dr Teesdale was a bachelor and a man of independent means, and lived in a tall-windowed and commodious house in Bedford Square, where a plain cook of surpassing excellence looked after his food, and her husband his person. There was no need for him to practise a profession at all, and he performed his work at the prison for the sake of the study of the minds of criminals. Most crime— the transgression, that is, of the rule of conduct which the human race has framed for the sake of its own preservation— he held to be either the result of some abnormality of the brain, or of starvation. Crimes of theft, for instance, he would by no means refer to one head; often it is true they were the result of actual want, but more often dictated by some obscure disease of the brain. In marked cases it was labelled as kleptomania, but he was convinced there were many others which did not fall directly under the dictation of physical need. More especially was this the case where the crime in question involved also some deed of violence, and he mentally placed underneath this heading, as he went home that evening, the criminal at whose last moments he had been present that morning. The crime had been abominable, the need of money not so very pressing, and the very abomination and unnaturalness of the murder inclined him to consider the murderer as lunatic rather than criminal. He had been, as far as was known, a man of quiet and kindly disposition, a good husband, a sociable neighbour. And then he had committed a crime, just one, which put him outside all pales. So monstrous a deed, whether perpetrated by a sane man or a mad one, was intolerable; there was no use for the doer of it on this planet at all. But somehow the doctor felt that he would have been more at one with the execution of justice, if the dead man had confessed. It was morally certain that he was guilty, but he wished that when there was no longer any hope for him, he had endorsed the verdict himself.

He dined alone that evening, and after dinner sat in his study which adjoined the dining-room, and feeling disinclined to read, sat in his great red chair opposite the fireplace, and let his mind graze where it would. At once almost, it went back to the curious sensation he had experienced that morning, of feeling that the spirit of Linkworth was present in the mortuary, though life had been extinct for an hour. It was not the first time, especially in cases of sudden death, that he had felt a similar conviction, though perhaps it had never been quite so unmistakable as it had been to-day. Yet the feeling, to his mind, was quite probably formed on a natural and psychical truth. The spirit— it may be remarked that he was a believer in the doctrine of future life, and the non-extinction of the soul with the death of the body— was very likely unable or unwilling to quit at once and altogether the earthly habitation, very likely it lingered there, earth-bound, for a while. In his leisure hours Dr Teesdale was a considerable student of the occult, for like most advanced and proficient physicians, he clearly recognised how narrow was the boundary of separation between soul and body, how tremendous the influence of the intangible was over material things, and it presented no difficulty to his mind that a disembodied spirit should be able to communicate directly with those who still were bounded by the finite and material.

His meditations, which were beginning to group themselves into definite sequence, were interrupted at this moment. On his desk near at hand stood his telephone, and the bell rang, not with its usual metallic insistence, but very faintly, as if the current was weak, or the mechanism impaired. However, it certainly was ringing, and he got up and took the combined ear and mouth-piece off its hook.

"Yes, yes," he said, "who is it?"

There was a whisper in reply almost inaudible, and quite unintelligible.

"I can't hear you," he said.

Again the whisper sounded, but with no greater distinctness. Then it ceased altogether.

He stood there, for some half minute or so, waiting for it to be renewed, but beyond the usual chuckling and croaking, which showed, however, that he was in communication with some other instrument, there was silence. Then he replaced the receiver, rang up the Exchange, and gave his number.

"Can you tell me what number rang me up just now?" he asked.

There was a short pause, then it was given him. It was the number of the prison, where he was doctor.

"Put me on to it, please," he said.

This was done.

"You rang me up just now," he said down the tube. "Yes; I am Doctor Teesdale. What is it? I could not hear what you said."

The voice came back quite clear and intelligible.

"Some mistake, sir," it said, "We haven't rang you up."

"But the exchange tells me you did, three minutes ago."

"Mistake at the Exchange, sir," said the voice.

"Very odd. Well, good-night. Warder Draycott, isn't it?"

"Yes, sir; good-night, sir."

Dr Teesdale went back to his big arm-chair, still less inclined to read. He let his thoughts wander on for a while, without giving them definite direction, but ever and again his mind kept coming back to that strange little incident of the telephone. Often and often he had been rung up by some mistake, often and often he had been put on to the wrong number by the exchange, but there was something in this very subdued ringing of the telephone bell, and the unintelligible whisperings at the other end that suggested a very curious train of reflection to his mind, and soon he found himself pacing up and down his room, with his thoughts eagerly feeding on a most unusual pasture.

"But it's impossible," he said, aloud.

He went down as usual to the prison next morning and once again he was strangely beset with the feeling that there was some unseen presence there. He had before now had some odd psychical experiences, and knew that he was a "sensitive"— one, that is, who is capable, under certain circumstances, of receiving supernormal impressions, and of having glimpses of the unseen world that lies about us. And this morning the presence of which he was conscious was that of the man who had been executed yesterday morning. It was local, and he felt it most strongly in the little prison yard, and as he passed the door of the condemned cell. So strong was it there that he would not have been surprised if the figure of the man had been visible to him, and as he passed through the door at the end of the passage, he turned round, actually expecting to see it. All the time, too, he was aware of a profound horror at his heart, this unseen presence strangely disturbed him. And the poor soul, he felt, wanted something done for it. Not for a moment did he doubt that this impression of his was objective, it was no imaginative phantom of his own invention that made itself so real. The spirit of Linkworth was there.

He passed into the infirmary, and for a couple of hours busied himself with his work. But all the time he was aware that the same invisible presence was near him, though its force was manifestly less here than in those places which had been more intimately associated with the man. Finally, before he left, in order to test his theory he looked into the execution shed. But next moment with a face suddenly stricken pale, he came out again, closing the door hastily. At the top of the steps stood a figure hooded and pinioned, but hazy of outline and only faintly visible. But it was visible, there was no mistake about it.

Dr Teesdale was a man of good nerve, and he recovered himself almost immediately, ashamed of his temporary panic. The terror that had blanched his face was chiefly the effect of startled nerves, not of terrified heart, and yet deeply interested as he was in psychical phenomena, he could not command himself sufficiently to go back there. Or rather he commanded himself, but his muscles refused to act on the message. If this poor earth-bound spirit had any communication to make to him, he certainly much preferred that it should be made at a distance. As far as he could understand, its range was circumscribed. It haunted the prison yard, the condemned cell, the execution shed, it was more faintly felt in the infirmary. Then a further point suggested itself to his mind, and he went back to his room and sent for Warder Draycott, who had answered him on the telephone last night.

"You are quite sure," he asked, "that nobody rang me up last night, just before I rang you up?"

There was a certain hesitation in the man's manner which the doctor noticed.

"I don't see how it could be possible, sir," he said, "I had been sitting close by the telephone for half an hour before, and again before that. I must have seen him, if anyone had been to the instrument."

"And you saw no one?" said the doctor with a slight emphasis.

The man became more markedly ill at ease.

"No, sir, I saw no one," he said, with the same emphasis.

Dr Teesdale looked away from him.

"But you had perhaps the impression that there was some one there?" he asked, carelessly, as if it was a point of no interest.

Clearly Warder Draycott had something on his mind, which he found it hard to speak of.

"Well, sir, if you put it like that," he began. "But you would tell me I was half asleep, or had eaten something that disagreed with me at my supper."

The doctor dropped his careless manner.

"I should do nothing of the kind," he said, "any more than you would tell me that I had dropped asleep last night, when I heard my telephone bell ring. Mind you, Draycott, it did not ring as usual, I could only just hear it ringing, though it was close to me. And I could only hear a whisper when I put my ear to it. But when you spoke I heard you quite distinctly. Now I believe there was something— somebody— at this end of the telephone. You were here, and though you saw no one, you, too, felt there was someone there."

The man nodded.

"I'm not a nervous man, sir," he said, "and I don't deal in fancies. But there was something there. It was hovering about the instrument, and it wasn't the wind, because there wasn't a breath of wind stirring, and the night was warm. And I shut the window to make certain. But it went about the room, sir, for an hour or more. It rustled the leaves of the telephone book, and it ruffled my hair when it came close to me. And it was bitter cold, sir."

The doctor looked him straight in the face.

"Did it remind you of what had been done yesterday morning?" he asked suddenly.

Again the man hesitated.

"Yes, sir," he said at length. "Convict Charles Linkworth."

Dr Teesdale nodded reassuringly.

"That's it," he said. "Now, are you on duty to-night?"

"Yes, sir, I wish I wasn't."

"I know how you feel, I have felt exactly the same myself. Now whatever this is, it seems to want to communicate with me. By the way, did you have any disturbance in the prison last night?"

"Yes, sir, there was half a dozen men who had the nightmare. Yelling and screaming they were, and quiet men too, usually. It happens sometimes the night after an execution. I've known it before, though nothing like what it was last night."

"I see. Now, if this— this thing you can't see wants to get at the telephone again to-night, give it every chance. It will probably come about the same time. I can't tell you why, but that usually happens. So unless you must, don't be in this room where the telephone is, just for an hour to give it plenty of time between half past nine and half past ten. I will be ready for it at the other end. Supposing I am rung up, I will, when it has finished, ring you up to make sure that I was not being called in— in the usual way.

"And there is nothing to be afraid of, sir?" asked the man.

Dr Teesdale remembered his own moment of terror this morning, but he spoke quite sincerely.

"I am sure there is nothing to be afraid of," he said, reassuringly.

Dr Teesdale had a dinner engagement that night, which he broke, and was sitting alone in his study by half past nine. In the present state of human ignorance as to the law which governs the movements of spirits severed from the body, he could not tell the warder why it was that their visits are so often periodic, timed to punctuality according to our scheme of hours, but in scenes of tabulated instances of the appearance of revenants, especially if the soul was in sore need of help, as might be the case here, he found that they came at the same hour of day or night. As a rule, too, their power of making themselves seen or heard or felt, grew greater for some little while after death, subsequently growing weaker as they became less earth-bound, or often after that ceasing altogether, and he was prepared to-night for a less indistinct impression. The spirit apparently for the early hours of its disembodiment is weak, like a moth newly broken out from its chrysalis— and then suddenly the telephone bell rang, not so faintly as the night before, but still not with its ordinary imperative tone.

Dr Teesdale instantly got up, put the receiver to his ears. And what he heard was heart-broken sobbing, strong spasms that seemed to tear the weeper.

He waited for a little before speaking, himself cold with some nameless fear, and yet profoundly moved to help, if he was able.

"Yes, yes," he said at length, hearing his own voice tremble. "I am Dr Teesdale. What can I do for you? And who are you?" he added, though he felt that it was a needless question.

Slowly the sobbing died down, the whispers took its place, still broken by crying.

"I want to tell, sir— I want to tell— I must tell."

"Yes, tell me, what is it?" said the doctor.

"No, not you— another gentleman, who used to come to see me. Will you speak to him what I say to you?— I can't make him hear me or see me."

"Who are you?" asked Dr Teesdale suddenly.

"Charles Linkworth. I thought you knew. I am very miserable. I can't leave the prison— and it is cold. Will you send for the other gentleman?"

"Do you mean the chaplain?" asked Dr Teesdale.

"Yes, the chaplain. He read the service when I went across the yard yesterday. I shan't be so miserable when I have told."

The doctor hesitated a moment. This was a strange story that he would have to tell Mr Dawkins, the prison chaplain, that at the other end of the telephone was the spirit of the man executed yesterday. And yet he soberly believed that it was so that this unhappy spirit was in misery, and wanted to "tell." There was no need to ask what he wanted to tell.

"Yes, I will ask him to come here," he said at length.

"Thank you, sir, a thousand times. You will make him come, won't you?"

The voice was growing fainter.

"It must be to-morrow night," it said. "I can't speak longer now. I have to go to see— oh, my God, my God."

The sobs broke out afresh, sounding fainter and fainter. But it was in a frenzy of terrified interest that Dr Teesdale spoke.

"To see what?" he cried "Tell me what you are doing, what is happening to you?"

"I can't tell you; I mayn't tell you," said the voice very faint. "That is part—" and it died away altogether.

Dr Teesdale waited a little, but there was no further sound of any kind, except the chuckling and croaking of the instrument. He put the receiver on to its hook again, and then became aware for the first time that his forehead was streaming with some, cold dew of horror. His ears sang; his heart beat very quick and faint, and he sat down to recover himself. Once or twice he asked himself if it was possible that some terrible joke was being played on him, but he knew that could not be so; he felt perfectly sure that he had been speaking with a soul in torment of contrition for the terrible and irremediable act it had committed. It was no delusion of his senses, either; here in this comfortable room of his in Bedford Square, with London cheerfully roaring round him, he had spoken with the spirit of Charles Linkworth.

But he had no time (nor indeed inclination, for somehow his soul sat shuddering within him) to indulge in meditation. First of all he rang up the prison.

"Warder Draycott?" he asked.

There was a perceptible tremor in the man's voice as he answered.

"Yes, sir. Is it Dr Teesdale?"

"Yes. Has anything happened here with you?"

Twice it seemed that the man tried to speak and could not. At the third attempt the words came.

"Yes, sir. He has been here. I saw him go into the room where the telephone is."

"Ah! Did you speak to him?"

"No, sir: I sweated and prayed. And there's half a dozen men as have been screaming in their sleep to-night. But it's quiet again now. I think he has gone into the execution shed."

"Yes. Well, I think there will be no more disturbance now. By the way, please give me Mr Dawkins's home address."

THIS WAS given him, and Dr Teesdale proceeded to write to the chaplain, asking him to dine with him on the following night. But suddenly he found that he could not write at his accustomed desk, with the telephone standing close to him, and he went upstairs to the drawing-room which he seldom used, except when he entertained his friends. There he recaptured the serenity of his nerves, and could control his hand. The note simply asked Mr Dawkins to dine with him next night, when he wished to tell him a very strange history and ask his help. "Even if you have any other engagement," he concluded, "I seriously request you to give it up. To-night, I did the same. I should bitterly have regretted it if I had not."

Next night accordingly, the two sat at their dinner in the doctor's dining-room, and when they were left to their cigarettes and coffee the doctor spoke.

"You must not think me mad, my dear Dawkins," he said, "when you hear what I have got to tell you."

Mr Dawkins laughed.

"I will certainly promise not to do that," he said.

"Good. Last night and the night before, a little later in the evening than this, I spoke through the telephone with the spirit of the man we saw executed two days ago. Charles Linkworth."

The chaplain did not laugh. He pushed back his chair, looking annoyed.

"Teesdale," he said, "is it to tell me this— I don't want to be rude— but this bogey-tale that you have brought me here his evening?"

"Yes. You have not heard half of it. He asked me last night to get hold of you. He wants to tell you something. We can guess, I think, what it is."

Dawkins got up.

"Please let me hear no more of it," he said. "The dead do not return. In what state or under what condition they exist has not been revealed to us. But they have done with all material things."

"But I must tell you more," said the doctor. "Two nights ago I was rung up, but very faintly, and could hear only whispers. I instantly inquired where the call came from and was told it came from the prison. I rang up the prison, and Warder Draycott told me that nobody had rung me up. He, too, was conscious of a presence."

"I think that man drinks," said Dawkins, sharply.

The doctor paused a moment.

"My dear fellow, you should not say that sort of thing," he said. "He is one of the steadiest men we have got. And if he drinks, why not I also?"

The chaplain sat down again.

"You must forgive me," he said, "but I can't go into this. These are dangerous matters to meddle with. Besides, how do you know it is not a hoax?"

"Played by whom?" asked the doctor. "Hark!"

The telephone bell suddenly rang. It was clearly audible to the doctor.

"Don't you hear it?" he said.

"Hear what?"

"The telephone bell ringing."

"I hear no bell," said the chaplain, rather angrily. "There is no bell ringing."

The doctor did not answer, but went through into his study, and turned on the lights. Then he took the receiver and mouthpiece off its hook.

"Yes?" he said, in a voice that trembled. "Who is it? Yes: Mr Dawkins is here. I will try and get him to speak to you."

He went back into the other room.

"Dawkins," he said, "there is a soul in agony. I pray you to listen. For God's sake come and listen."

The chaplain hesitated a moment.

"As you will," he said.

He took up the receiver and put it to his ear.

"I am Mr Dawkins," he said.

He waited.

"I can hear nothing whatever," he said at length. "Ah, there was something there. The faintest whisper."

"Ah, try to hear, try to hear!" said the doctor.

Again the chaplain listened. Suddenly he laid the instrument down, frowning.

"Something— somebody said, 'I killed her, I confess it. I want to be forgiven.' It's a hoax, my dear Teesdale. Somebody knowing your spiritualistic leanings is playing a very grim joke on you. I can't believe it."

Dr Teesdale took up the receiver.

"I am Dr Teesdale," he said. "Can you give Mr Dawkins some sign that it is you?"

Then he laid it down again.

"He says he thinks he can," he said. "We must wait."

The evening was again very warm, and the window into the paved yard at the back of the house was open. For five minutes or so the two men stood in silence, waiting, and nothing happened. Then the chaplain spoke.{85}

"I think that is sufficiently conclusive," he said.

Even as he spoke a very cold draught of air suddenly blew into the room, making the papers on the desk rustle. Dr Teesdale went to the window and closed it.

"Did you feel that?" he asked.

"Yes, a breath of air. Chilly."

Once again in the closed room it stirred again.

"And did you feel that?" asked the doctor.

The chaplain nodded. He felt his heart hammering in his throat suddenly.

"Defend us from all peril and danger of this coming night," he exclaimed.

"Something is coming!" said the doctor.

As he spoke it came. In the centre of the room not three yards away from them stood the figure of a man with his head bent over on to his shoulder, so that the face was not visible. Then he took his head in both his hands and raised it like a weight, and looked them in the face. The eyes and tongue protruded, a livid mark was round the neck. Then there came a sharp rattle on the boards of the floor, and the figure was no longer there. But on the floor there lay a new rope.

For a long while neither spoke. The sweat poured off the doctor's face, and the chaplain's white lips whispered prayers. Then by a huge effort the doctor pulled himself together. He pointed at the rope.

"It has been missing since the execution," he said.

Then again the telephone bell rang. This time the chaplain needed no prompting. He went to it at once and the ringing ceased. For a while he listened in silence.

"Charles Linkworth," he said at length, "in the sight of God, in whose presence you stand, are you truly sorry for your sin?"

Some answer inaudible to the doctor came, and the chaplain closed his eyes. And Dr Teesdale knelt as he heard the words of the Absolution.

At the close there was silence again.

"I can hear nothing more," said the chaplain, replacing the receiver.

Presently the doctor's man-servant came in with the tray of spirits and syphon. Dr Teesdale pointed without looking to where the apparition had been.

"Take the rope that is there and burn it, Parker," he said.

There was a moment's silence.

"There is no rope, sir," said Parker.

___________________

16: Soft Blows the Breeze From Hell

Arthur Leo Zagat

1895-1949

Dime Mystery Magazine Dec 1937

Arthur Leo Zagat

1. Messenger of Horror

IT WAS ball-shaped and about the size of a five-year-old's fist. Its color was the yellow-tainted white of a corpse dead a day. It was so weightless that although the lightest of breezes breathed down Stalton's elm-lined Blossom Street it fled before the zephyr, curiously swift, curiously without sound.

In the dusk's dim grey hush the thing was at first noticed by no one, so that for minutes no one thought its presence strange, though the hamlet lay in the midst of rolling fields, and the nearest spot sunless and dank enough for the fungus to grow was Roget's Wood, a full five miles away.

It darted along the narrow, sod-bordered walk, leaping the grass-shoots between the worn flagstones, flitting beneath the feet of the strollers in the dreamy twilight.

None had any hint of how soon all laughter would be stifled in Stalton, of how soon eyes now sparkling with gaiety would be dark and brooding with dread.

It was Hilda Mead who first saw the round thing as it scudded past her along a picket fence pale in the evening's greyness. "Look!" she exclaimed, snatching her slim hand from Hal Curtin's warm clasp to point at it. "Look, darling! What is that?"

"What?" her stalwart lover asked, his gaze reluctant to drag itself from her olive, elfin face, from the sweet promise of her velvet lips. "What is what, dear?"

"That... Oh, I don't like it, Hal." A tiny shudder went through her small-boned, round little body. "I don't like the way it's running along as though it were alive with a queer kind of life, and knows where it's going."

"Silly," the young man exclaimed, his teeth flashing in a fond smile as he peered after that at which Hilda pointed. "It's nothing but a puffball. It's a common fungus, and—"

"And I still don't like it," the girl interrupted, pouting prettily at Curtin. "I'm afraid of it."

"Afraid!" Instinctively wise in the ways of love, Hal Curtin had sense enough not to laugh, had sense enough to draw Hilda within the strong curve of his arm, to hold her close against his body's slender strength and say, deep-voiced: "You need never be afraid of anything while I'm alive to protect you."

The puffball veered sharply from its course, almost as if possessed of the weird sentience Hilda had ascribed to it. It leaped at a dim-seen gate, struck a paling and vanished in the spurt of spore-smoke that gives its kind their name.

In the next moment the cottage beyond that gate seemed blotted out by a dark pall; its outlines merged with the night, the yellow rectangles of its windows gone...

Something's happened to the lights, Hal Curtin thought...

In the blackened house someone laughed. The laugh was edged with shrillness and utterly humorless, and threaded by a mad sort of agony. More appalling than any scream, it held Blossom Street in thrall to a sudden, icy paralysis so that there was no movement under the elms but only blanching faces and the gasp of caught breaths.

Then there was light again in those windows, a burst of lurid light that lay in whirling sheets against the panes and smashed through them with a great shattering of glass, and spouted out of the gaping holes thus made in huge roaring tongues of flame. There was light in the street and on the ivy-clad small homes in the gardens, the terrifying orange-red light of fire. There were shadows; the gigantic black shadows of the trees wavering as the flames wavered; the shadows of humans, arms flung overhead— shouting shadows, screaming shadows pelting toward the blaze.

Shouts and screams and the roar of the flames, and always through the roar that terrible laugh...

"God!" Hal Curtin gasped, Hilda tight within his arm. "They haven't the ghost of a chance!" Those who had been strolling on Blossom Street were past them, those coming from farther off had not yet reached them, and for breathless seconds the lovers were isolated. "They're done for..."

"Look!" the girl throbbed. "Look!" Her free hand flung out to the ridgepole of the blazing house. "There..."

Against sky-glare was blackly silhouetted a thing man-form yet grotesquely not a man. On the narrow crest of the slanted roof that was not yet alight, it capered in a queerly simian frenzy and it was from that capering monstrosity that the brain-curdling laugh came.

From the dark human mass surging against the fence of the doomed house, surging away from the blasting heat of that furnace, a shout went up. Curtin could not know whether it was evoked by sight of the thing on the roof or by the explosion of flame through the black roof-slant. The house was a vast torch now, a pillar of seething orange and crimson and strange greens supporting on its apex the affrighted vault of the sky, within which nothing could live.

Nothing... Hal tore himself away from Hilda's clinging hands, a strange cry in his throat! He vaulted the pickets beside them, his leap a lithe and effortless bound, was hurtling away from her.

His feet thudded into soft garden loam and in his nostrils was the sweet fragrance of honeysuckle. His toes flung the crunch of path-cinders behind him. He whipped past the red-bathed porch of a small home, past its end wall whose dark ivy strove to shield it from the lurid glare. He was beyond it, on the soft turf of its kitchen yard, angling toward the roar whence that glare came and had plunged into the shadow of the next house, stygian by contrast.

Blinded, Curtin battered into a back hedge he did not see, was ripped by its stems, its stiff leaves, as he burst through it into blackness. Tall grass whipped his legs and he knew he was in the vacant lots that lie between Stalton and the fields. He halted for a moment to get his bearings, projected almost useless sight, taut hearing, into the gloom that was the deeper because overlaid by the rubid heavens.

Somewhere within that murk was furtive movement... There! Almost straight ahead was a darkening of the black. Hal launched himself at the vague forms, wrath wrenching a shout from his lips.

The forms were plainer... his ankle was caught by some ground-creeper, pulled from under him. He lurched forward into a blow that exploded white light within his skull...

HILDA MEAD squatted in the tall grass, reckless of her filmy white frock. "Hal!" she whimpered. "Hal. I thought I'd never find you." Her hands tugged at the recumbent form, tugged its head on to her knees. "Hal!" Her fingers found wetness on that head, viscid wetness matting the hair, staining her fingers.

"Ouch!" Curtin winced, jerking his head from the fierce pain of that touch. "Don't..." then, "Hilda. You..."

"Hal! What was it? What were you chasing? What— who did this to you?"

"I saw..." he checked himself. "Hilda! Don't ask me what I saw. Don't let me tell you."

"Hal, you're still dazed. You're talking wildly."

"No." Curtin pushed hands against the ground, pushed himself to a sitting posture. "No. I'm not dazed. I... Hilda, you must not know. It would be dangerous for you to know." Something in his tone told the girl there was utter truth in the words that otherwise were so mad. "And listen. Tell no one it was I... How I got this cut on my head. Say that I started to run to the fire, tripped, banged my skull. Perhaps— perhaps I was not seen clearly, was not recognized." It was fear that sounded in Hal's voice, and Hilda had not dreamed that he could ever be afraid. "Do you understand?"

"No," she said. "I don't understand. But I'll do as you say."

A crash pulled their eyes to where the fire had blazed. Sparks fountained above the dull red glow that was all that was left of the blaze. High into the sky they went, till they were golden stars dancing in the heavens, and then they were drifting down again upon Stalton. Hilda Mead had a queer fancy that they were tiny lanterns guiding a horde of imps to their landing place.

2. Disaster!

IT was not till long after dawn that the ruins of the house on Blossom Street had cooled sufficiently to permit inspection, and the full extent of the horror made certain.

The searchers found the skeletons then, in the jumble of charred timbers that once had been a home, enough of the incinerated bones to identify whose they were when the holocaust seared life from them. There were five of them, five heaps of whitened ashes.

"That's the full count," the haggard-faced Fire Chief said when he had received the last report from one of his men. "Not one escaped."

"How could they," John Wayne, village president, responded, "the way that fire burst out?" He was tall and gnarled and sturdy as an oak. His hatless white hair was smudged by the embers that had drifted into it while the blaze still burned, for he had been early on the scene. "They tell me it was everywhere at once, upstairs and down." His grizzled, kindly countenance was grey with his distress. "Everywhere."

"That's what's got me," Chief Rail muttered. "It was a wooden house sure enough, but it was well built and should have resisted the flames if I know anything at all. I'd understand it if they'd been cut off in a single room, but from the position of the— bodies and the things around them, the maid was in the kitchen washing dishes. Bob Dutton and the boy were in the living room, Mary upstairs in the nursery."

"And the baby?"

"The baby was in its crib," Rail said softly. "Mary— the way she lies tells us— threw herself over it to save it. Even with the flames around her, as they must have been, the mother did that."

A murmur went through the group of mourning neighbors that, silent save for a shifting of uneasy feet and an occasional muffled sob, had been listening to the report. In the depths of Hal Curtin's brown eyes a smolder of wrath deepened and the line of his blunt jaw hardened to a knotted ridge.

He moved closer to Wayne and Rail, addressed the latter. "Chief," he asked, low-toned, "are you sure that was all who were in the house?"

The tired man turned to him. "We've raked the ashes clean and that's all we've found."

"That isn't what I mean. I thought there might— that someone might have escaped. I know the family's all accounted for, but there might have been some visitor..."

"There wasn't none," a pillow-bosomed woman, Lena Corbitt, put in. "I was just in there to ask Mary for a dress pattern I knew she had, and there wasn't anyone but Bob and little Bob and her around. And there couldn't have been anybody come in because I was scarcely back to my own gate, two doors away, when the thing happened."

"In the kitchen maybe? Someone calling on the maid?"

"No. I went to the door to ask Jennie for a glass of water and I saw the whole room. There wasn't anybody!"

That was that, then. The capering figure on the roof was unexplained. The figure that had laughed not in glee but in agony. No one had mentioned it, hence no one but he and Hilda had seen it; but that was reasonable. The spectators' gaze had been riveted on the flame-filled, windows.

"Why did you ask that?" Rail inquired. "What's on your mind, Hal?"

Curtin shrugged. "Nothing." Now why had he lied? He had intended to tell them of what he'd seen. "Just a hunch I had." He glanced at the watch on his wrist. "It's late. I've got to be getting to work much as I don't feel like it."

The knot of watchers broke up as he walked away, reminded of waiting offices and workrooms, of housework to be done and children to be sent off to school. But those children were kissed more lingeringly that morning, more reluctantly dispatched. Infants too young for school were held tightly to their mothers' breasts.

"Hal!" Hilda's dear voice called his name. She was at the gate of her home, halfway down the block, fresh and sweet in a filmy negligee, her eyes still dewy with sleep.

"Hal! I saw you... Is your head all right?" She touched the plastered bandage that made a white patch in his shock of chestnut hair. "I had to run out and ask."

"Quite all right, darling." His brown, strong hand closed on her fingers, took them to his lips. "I haven't even a headache left."

"Hal, I was awake for a long time. I was thinking... could that thing we saw have had anything to do with— what happened? That puff ball?"

"Good Lord, what a queer idea!" Curtin was queerly uneasy. "How on earth could it?" He had an obscure sensation as of eyes upon him, watching, evil eyes. He half turned to the street with careful carelessness calculated not to alarm his sweetheart.

"It couldn't, of course," he heard her. "Of course it couldn't."

Nobody was watching him. There was no one who had any reason to watch him. They were all familiar, all friendly, warmhearted people who had been his neighbors and friends.

"That's more sensible." He leaned over the gate, kissed Hilda full on her sweet, warm mouth. "'Bye, love. I've got to go and tend to business."

She held him a moment longer. "Hal," she breathed, "I want to ask you something."

"Yes?"

"Did you mean what you said last night? That you'll protect me from anything?"

"All my life. From the devil and all his imps." His voice was deep, as if he suddenly had some prescience of how soon he was to be called upon to fulfill almost literally that promise.

The second puffball was seen by many of the townspeople. It appeared in Main Street at three-fifteen that afternoon, when traffic there was at its height. It bounded straight down the center of the street, and it was the way that it avoided the rolling wheels of the autos, the trampling hooves of the farmers' horses that drew amused eyes, pointing fingers, to it.

The wind was stronger than it had been on the previous evening and the bit of fungus was much like a tiny, pallid animal scudding legless and armless before it. It was shooting across the intersection of Apple Street when Hal Curtin, driving back to his law office from the Town Hall, spied it.

Unaccountably his skin crawled with sudden apprehension. Almost without volition he skidded his roadster into Main Street and darted after the swiftly rolling thing like a terrier after a rat.

The instant before his mind had still been filled with the scene in the village's Council Room. John Wayne had presided with unaccustomed solemnity, the morning's tragedy brooding in his eyes. Curtin himself, butcher Rudolph Schalk, portly, ruddy-cheeked; gaunt and acidulous Doctor Adam Ranier, and Stephen Brinn, pompous with the dignity of his bank, had sat slouched deep in their chairs, attentive but wordless. But there had been debate verging on acrimony at that meeting.

The protagonists had been fussy little Mark Yarrow the druggist, and realtor Reddon Gast; the issue, approval by the Council of a great trunk highway proposed to run through Stalton's very center.

Gast was violently in favor, Yarrow opposed. Brinn and Ranier were lined up with the realtor, Schalk and Curtin with Yarrow. That left Wayne with the deciding vote, and there was no doubt of how that vote would be cast.

Stalton was the old man's very life: its tree-lined streets, its neat, white homes, its peaceful atmosphere of neighborliness created almost by his very hands. When first he'd come here the town had been a rambling, dingy hamlet, a trading center for the farmers' roundabout, and nothing more. By his influence, by his unremitting toil, it had become what it was. A trunk route through it would bring turmoil and confusion, a mushroom growth of gas stations and hotdog stands and roadhouses, a stench of exhaust fumes by day and a clamor of honking horns by night.

Yet such was the fairness, the passion for justice of the man that, because Gast and his party saw prosperity for Stalton in the change, he had agreed to reserve the vote given him only in case of a tie, till they had had every opportunity to win over one of those who thought as he.

Wayne had gone further. He had offered to resign from his presidency and call a special election in which he would run against any one Gast chose. This, however, the realtor had refused, knowing well enough that, no matter what the question, John Wayne would be re-elected by an overwhelming margin, so dearly loved was he by the people of Stalton.

Gast preferred, however, to attempt to win to his side one of those who was not too strongly opposed to the idea. If he succeeded, his paltry land holdings would become a veritable gold mine.

Wealth, then, had been the gage for which Reddon Gast had battled, his alpaca coat hanging in loose folds on his huge, rawboned frame, his countenance granite-hard and expressionless except for the faint sneer of his lifted lip at Mark Yarrow, his predatory eyes contemptuous of the little man whose Vandyke had bristled and voice grown shrill and stuttering.

Hal Curtin had watched the dispute with a curious intentness he was careful to mask, with a curious excitement manifested only by the throb of a pulse in his temple. If he could only be sure of what he had seen last night, just before that terrific blow had smashed him into oblivion...

There had been no decision. Gast, sensing that he had made no progress, had demanded another week's consideration. Curtin had left the Town Hall with that pump of blood still in his temple, had driven mechanically east with a strange, unbelievable speculation throbbing in his skull. Then he saw that small puffball scuttering up Main Street, and Hilda's queer remark of the morning flashed out of memory.

It kept just ahead of his car's hood, a bounding, irregular sphere all but animate. He recalled Hilda's words: "... alive with a queer kind of life. It knows where it's going." Something grated along the side of his roadster, caught a fender, let go...

The puffball leaped sidewise, darted toward the sidewalk, darted across it and straight into the lobby of a movie theatre whose canopy was overhung with flamboyant signs proclaiming:

Kiddies' Matinee

Micky Mouse

Rustlers of Sunset Range, Episode 8

Kiddies' Matinee.

Hal jammed his brakes, hurled out of his car, hurtled into the lobby. A swirl of gray smoke, spore-puff of the fungus, lay against the white base of the door into the auditorium.

Curtin's palm slapped the door— fingers grabbed his arm and a voice rasped, "Ticket, mister."

Blackness billowed through the aperture between door-edge and jamb, as if an inky fog that filled the interior were finding exit. "Where's your...?" The door was blasted outward by a thunderous crash! Screams came with the thunder and the black fog was suddenly solid with plaster dust. These were children screaming, children in terror, children in pain...

A laugh threaded the chorus of agony! It was the same chattering, mad laugh he had heard not many hours before, the laugh whose sound had never quite died out of Hal Curtin's brain...

The doorman's clutch was a desperate, insensate grip on his arm. He ripped loose from it, battered the door out of his way, plunged through it into an impenetrable darkness, dust-filled and filled with shrill cries, with whimpers, with other sounds indescribable—

And with that damned laugh!

Curtin jerked to a halt, bewildered by that sightless void. Abruptly the black fog seemed to dissipate. A glow spread through it and he could make out jumbled timbers, small forms inextricably entangled with them; small forms struggling, jerking feebly, and not moving at all.

Realization of what had happened beat in on Hal. The balcony had fallen with its load of children on the children below... Not all the balcony...

The projection booth was still erect on its stilts, light streaming from its square window, white light which caught the swirling dust and cast a murky glow by which he saw the broken little bodies. Horrified, he saw a tiny hand reach out from between two shattered beams, its wee fingers gloved with blood, twitching...

The laugh beat at his brain, the laugh so weirdly evil with insane pain. Where did it come from? Who could be laughing in this hell?

Men and shouts poured through the door behind Curtin, battered him, and caught him up in their swirl. Men were clawing at the chaos; cursing, sobbing, frantic with horror and with grief. A voice, scarcely human, jabbered, "Lila. Where's my Lila. She's in here."

The dust swirl, heavy, was settling, the cloud thinning. The light from the projection booth was gathering into a sharp-edged beam boring through the terrible darkness. Its end was a great white square on the further wall. This was the screen that should be displaying an antic rodent. On it, black, shaggy and grotesque, capered the gigantic shadow of that which laughed!

3. The Third Puffball

HAL CURTIN was abruptly aware that somehow he had struggled far down toward that screen, dragged there perhaps by his stunned, unthinking search for the source of the laugh. He must have clambered over the worst of the wreckage for there was little here. The seats were empty, open exit doors showing where those who had occupied these seats, and still were able to move, had gone.

Behind him was the terrible clamor of disaster and rescue. Ahead of him that shadow on the screen and, on the stage-like narrow platform just before the screen, the— thing— that cast it.

It danced its evil rigadoon, laughing— Curtin vented an incoherent shout— threw himself down the aisle. His weaponless fingers were clawed, his throat swollen with the terrible anger that possessed him. Beneath his tongue was the salt-sweet taste of blood. He passed, the final seat-row, glanced up at the high rise of the stage-front close before him, jumped for its summit.

His hands caught the platform edge, clung. The momentum of his leap carried his torso high enough so that he could straighten his arms, get a toe-hold, lift and come erect on the little stage.

He was alone on it! The laughter had vanished.

Dazzled by the reflection from the screen's silver surface, Curtin started to turn— the flooring went from beneath his feet. He dropped plummet-like into darkness!

There is no consciousness of time in a sudden fall, only marrow-freezing terror.

A split-second or many minutes might have elapsed before Hal crashed on solid support.

Jarred, half-dazed, he contrived to flail gritty hands, already fisted, to fight whatever it was that had trapped him. He was on his feet... surprisingly...

A black shape loomed in the blackness! Before Curtin could move there was a click, yellow light...

Reddon Gast, his hand on a switch panted. "What is it? What's happened in the theatre? I heard a crash from my office... ran out the back way, through the alley and in here..." Metal armored cables twisted reptilian in the confined space, undulated upward to black, conelike objects, over Gast's head. "What's happened, Hal? You look..." Hal realized they were loud- speakers, behind the screen. This was the chamber beneath it where they were adjusted. That fall of Hal's had brought him only level with the theatre floor.

"Happened?" he gasped. "Enough. But— did you see anyone coming out of here? A man— like a huge ape?"

"Ape!" The realtor stared at him, his eyes widening, as though with doubt of the other's sanity. "No. Of course not. No one passed me. What's that?" A woman's wail, pent with excruciating suffering, came through the overhead aperture through which Hal had fallen. "What's going on in there?"

"The balcony fell." The answer came absently, without intonation. "Hundreds of children killed."

"Great Jupiter!" Gast lurched past Curtin, was heaving up a vertical iron ladder that came down from the trapdoor through which the lawyer had fallen...

The rest of that afternoon was a blur to Curtin, Afterward he had a dim memory of helping to lift great beams, of carrying limp and moaning small forms tenderly in his arms, of laying lifeless bodies in a lengthening, terrible row.

He was not quite clear-minded again till he found himself in the kitchen of Hilda's home on Blossom Street, weariness a dull ache in his muscles and his bones, his brain a boil of dark and dreadful thoughts, black as the night pressing against the unshaded windows.

"Eat this salad, darling," Hilda was saying. "Look, I made it for you just the way you like; only white meat, nice, crisp lettuce and plenty of mayonnaise. And here's iced tea. You must eat or you'll be sick."

He looked up at her from his chair at the kitchen table. "You made it," he said dully. "Where's Ethel?"

The girl smiled through the glimmer of tears in her eyes. "I told you," she answered with tender patience, "that Ethel went to the hospital where her little brother is, and that dad and mother are out seeing what they can do to help the Widow Simpson, whose son and daughter both were killed this afternoon."

"Yes," her lover muttered. "Yes. I remember." Because Hilda seemed to want it so much he reached for the dainty plate she had prepared. His sleeve brushed a crumpled newspaper on the table.

The lurid headlines leaped from the page at him:

FORTY KILLED, SCORES HURT IN THEATRE CRASH

BALCONY COLLAPSE BLAMED ON LAX INSPECTION

GAST ACCUSES PRESIDENT WAYNE TO WEAKNESS

LINKS FAILURE TO FIND CAUSE OF BLOSSOM ST. FIRE

AND DEMANDS THOROUGH INVESTIGATION

"Gast accuses!" Curtin exclaimed, jumping to his feet. "Gast demands!" He stared wild-eyed at the startled girl. "But it was Gast who was in the sound room, Gast who said he saw no one come out of it. I've got it, Hilda. By God, I've got it and I'm going to stop it." He whirled, was running through the dining room, was through the hall and out on the porch. He was in his roadster, parked outside, and was pounding his heel on the starter.

The car jumped away from the curb, roared off, roared past the blackened ruins of the house where five had been seared to death, past houses still standing that were blackened with heart-rending grief or with an anguish of doubt more poignant than mourning. Last night, Hal Curtin thought, little children were laughing inside those houses...

Laughing! Twice he had heard another kind of laugh— how did that fit into the dark pattern that had formed in his mind?

He twisted his wheel, changing his course. To fill out that pattern there was a bit of information he must obtain, and Mark Yarrow would have it for him. The little druggist was the village gossip...

The loungers in the pharmacy were pallid tonight, their faces sultry with recollection of the scenes they had witnessed not long since. There was little talk from their tight-lipped mouths, but what there was, was of John Wayne and how he had failed them.

"I've got a hunch there's plenty more due to happen," someone said. "The way the town's gone to rack and ruin lately. I got a feeling in my bones this ain't the last."

"Cut it, Bill," another protested. "Ain't we got enough to think about?" But the first speaker had voiced the sense of impending doom, the prescience of further disaster that brooded over all Stalton.

Ancestral fears were revived tonight in the mourning town, inchoate as these might have been in the souls of their ancestors. The gods were wroth with them, and prepared their destruction. The gods must be appeased by a human sacrifice, and that sacrifice was ready to their hand.

"I say we all ought to go up to John Wayne's and..."

The sentence was interrupted by the entrance of Hal Curtin. Disheveled, his eyes burned-out coals in a yeasty mask, he strode stiff-legged through them. He shouldered them aside from his path, and none took offense because it was so evident he did not know he had done so. He went straight back through the store, past the end of the counter that closed off its public space, through the swinging door in the partition behind it.

Mark Yarrow, dapper in a white half-smock, looked up from the pills he was rolling to see the apparition stride into his prescription room. Before his indignation at the intrusion could find more expression than a pursing of his lips, a hand had clutched his collar and thick words were choking off his own utterance.

"Mark," Curtin demanded. "Tell me. Has Reddon Gast any connection with the county madhouse?"

He gasped, "Yes. He's on the Board and he leased the place to the county. That's one of his little grafts. Why...?"

He was left with the question unfinished, his mouth gaping like a pouter fish's. Hal Curtin had wheeled away and was gone.

"Gawd," he heard an exclamation from outside. "What's eating you..." and then the hammer of heels across the floor out there was ended, to be succeeded an instant later by the thrrrrr of an auto starter and the clash of gears viciously meshed.

The night seemed darker to Hal Curtin, and more foreboding, as he catapulted through the village, retracing his course. A block from Hilda's he braked again, sat for a minute with clenched hands, with lips biting hard on one another. He must get control of himself, must speak coherently, convincingly. That which he was about to say would be difficult enough to get across without the impediment of its being said by one who looked as if he were on the brink of madness.

Mark Yarrow's expression had told him what he looked like.

There was a comb somewhere in his pocket. He fumbled for it, used it. He adjusted his tie, straightened his coat. These small actions helped to reduce the fever in his blood, the pound in his temples. Now he could trust himself.

He got out of the roadster, walked quite slowly up the path that led through a garden to the Colonial entrance of a small but somehow stately white house. He read the name in letters of wrought iron set in the weathered boards of the door:

JOHN WAYNE

His hand did not tremble as he lifted the knocker and rapped once with it.

The door opened more quickly than he had expected. It was Wayne himself who opened it. The sight of his countenance, ashen, haggard, the visage of an almost senile ancient now, and not that of gracious age, undid all Hal Curtin had accomplished with himself.

"Mr. Wayne," he blurted. "I've come to tell you... I know who's behind what's happening in town. I've seen..."

Something flared into Wayne's sunken eyes, something that silenced Curtin more surely than the old man's, "Wait a minute, Hal! Come in..."

And then there was another voice, from behind Wayne. "Looks like I'd better cut my good-night short, John. Well, we understand each other, don't we?" The old man turned... to Reddon Gast!

"Yes," he said. "Yes, Reddon. I understand. Thank you for coming." They were shaking hands. Gast was passing Curtin with a curt nod. Did Hal imagine it or was there dark flame in the pouch-underlaid eyes that caught his own briefly, flame of a hellish hate?

"What was he doing here?" Curtin croaked. "What did he want?"

Wayne smiled wearily. "He came to apologize for what he said to the Gazette's reporter. He was excited, didn't mean it. He does not honestly blame me for— the fire and the accident, and he's going to make a statement tomorrow retracting what he said today."

"After the damage is done," Curtin commented, bitterly. "After he's set Stalton against you as he planned from the beginning. You're through now. They'll demand your resignation, and some creature of his will be elected. Which is exactly why he's done what he has. He wants that highway and the fortune it means for him, and he's stopped at nothing to get it. Not even at murder."

John Wayne took a step backward into the open doorway, one almost transparent hand lifting as if to ward off an attack.

"What?" the old man whispered.

"What do you mean?"

"Just that. Gast is responsible for the fire on Blossom Street, for the collapse of the theatre balcony. And if those are not enough, he's ready to perpetrate another outrage. All this to discredit you, to get you out of the way."

"You're— you're upset, my boy. What you say is— impossible. Those were accidents."

"The hell they were accidents. Look!" The words were tumbling out of Curtin's mouth now, the words that had been pounding in his skull. "If that house were filled with lycopodium, a haze of fine powder, no one would have noticed. If a match were struck, it would have blazed up all at once, the way it did. A very little dynamite, placed under the supporting pillars of the theatre balcony, would have brought it down. Gast had access to dynamite. He's blasting foundations for that office building on Apple Street and he could have..."

"What are you saying? I've known Reddon for years. Gast couldn't..."

"No. Not Gast with his own hands. But Gast in the person of some madman he released from the asylum. I've seen him, I'd know him anywhere. I saw him in the theatre and he got away. I saw him before that, on the roof of the burning house, saw him leap for the telephone wires just before the final burst of flame came, and drop to the ground. I almost caught him that time, would have if there hadn't been someone with him who clouted me..."

"Hal!" Wayne interrupted. "That's it! You were hurt more badly than you thought when you fell that night, and your experience today finished the job. Go home. Get some sleep. Tomorrow you'll be rid of these wild ideas."

"I can prove it to you. I can, I'm almost certain, show you the madman. I've got an idea where he's hiding. Those puff-balls that have been appearing just before each thing happens, can come only from Roget's Wood. He brings them— that's where his lair is. We'll organize a posse and go there and capture him, and that will prove my ideas aren't as wild as you think."

"Yes. Yes I know. They seem so logical now, but after you've slept you'll see how fantastic they are. Look, I'll go get my hat and take you home. Wait here." The door shut between them, as if the old man were frightened of his visitor and wished a solid barrier for protection.

"God!" Curtin groaned, his hands fisting at his sides. "God help me. God help Stalton..." He turned to go back to his roadster, some idea of running back to Yarrow's, of telling his tale to the men there, beginning to form in his desperation...

On the sidewalk, bounding along with a noiseless swiftness now terrible to him, was a puffball. It shot by, went on up the street.

Something more was about to happen! Some new horror was coming to one of the houses on Blossom Street! Hilda Mead's house was in the direction the puffball fled. Was that the house that was marked for doom?

4. The Dark Cloaks Death

HAL CURTIN was running, but it seemed to him he made no progress at all along that quiet street, that as in a nightmare the faster he ran the more firmly was he rooted to the spot where he was.

And always fifty feet before him bounded the pallid bit of fluff he could not overtake, though overtaking it meant so terribly much.

Abruptly it veered, as he'd seen two exactly like it veer. It was Hilda's gate, open as he himself had left it, through which the thing darted. It was Hilda's garden pathway up which it scuttered, Hilda's porch steps it struck to puff out of existence in a gray swirl of spore dust.

As he flung himself up the path icy terror jelled Hal Curtin's veins. But nothing happened. The structure that housed the girl he loved did not burst into flame, did not collapse, did not, as he half-expected, vanish as the puffball had in a swirl of grey smoke.

He gasped with relief as he leaped the porch steps, seized the doorknob, jerked the portal open and flung through into the foyer that had known the kisses and the whisperings of so many lingering good-nights... And gasped again with terror, finding himself in black darkness, even the street-lamp light close behind blotted out!

This was not merely the absence of light. This was blackness that swallowed sight, which swallowed reality itself and left nothing but terror. This was the black fog that had filled the house up the road just before the lurid flames had made it a roaring furnace, the fog that had swirled but of the theatre auditorium just before its balcony had crashed! Now it was here, and somewhere within it was...

"Hilda!" Her name burst from Hal Curtin's clamped throat. "Hilda!"

There was no answer!

"Hilda!"

His cry was quenched by vacant silence, by the muffled hush of doom... Was there, somewhere ahead, the faint shadow of a laugh, of a chattering, mad laugh...? Ahead... from the kitchen where he had left Hilda... there was a glow, vague, vertical and narrow. It was light, blessed light, seeping past the edge of the kitchen door.

Curtin's footfalls made hollow, empty echoes in the empty house. He flung into the kitchen— the lighted kitchen... halted...

No Hilda. Not even her body, as he had feared, dead in some awful way. No sign of her at all. But the table at which he'd sat was overturned. A chair was smashed by a struggle, a fragment of her flowered dress caught in its splinters— and the back-door swung open to the mystery of the night.

That was all, the table, the chair, the door... not quite all. There was something chalked on the scrubbed white tile of the floor, letters scrawled crudely in crimson chalk and obscured by the breakfast cloth that had slid from the table.

Hal Curtin twitched the gay cloth away. He read the message:

Curtin

You keep your dam mouth shut if you want to see her again

He stood there, looking at it, the tablecloth trailing from his clenched hand, his mouth working. He had brought this upon her. He... His "dam mouth" blurting a warning to Reddon Gast, not waiting to ascertain that he was alone with Wayne. Giving Gast time to hasten here and...

How had Gast dared? If he'd been seen entering or found here when Hilda's parents returned...

It was not Gast who'd entered here. Not Gast. A clearing of Curtin's vision had revealed to him something more caught in the splintered end of that chair rung than the bit torn from Hilda's dress. Not very much. Just a wisp of black hair, of short hairs black and coarse and kinked.

It was not Reddon Gast who held Hilda Mead prisoner, but Gast's tool, his mad creature who had capered in the midst of horror laughing a weird and insane laugh!

That was worse, far worse. A madman knows no set design, no fixed purpose. He is swayed by sudden impulses, by the surge of mindless frenzies, of insane lusts...

"I will protect you always," Curtin's own oath sounded in his ears. "Against Satan and all his imps."

Protect her! She was in the hands of a mad thing. His Hilda, her rounded, warm body, her soft curves, prisoner to a thing half-human perhaps, perhaps all beast, subject to his whims, his will.

Find her! Save her! Save her before it was too late from— Curtin's mind shuddered away from thought of the peril his loved one was in. Find her! But where? How?

Gast knew. He whirled, about to dash out to Gast, to choke the truth from him, to tear him limb from limb if he would not give it. It would take time, valuable time. Hilda's captor could not have gotten far as yet, by the time he had dragged the truth from Reddon Gast they would be God knew how far away. God knew what would have occurred before he could reach them. But he had no choice...

Wait! Once more the tortured man recalled his own words, more recently spoken. "Those puffballs— Roget's Wood— That's where his lair is— I'll take you there."

Roget's Wood! Five miles across the fields. But they were gone only ten minutes, fifteen at the most. That was all it was since Gast had left Wayne's. If he went after them at once— no time to get help, no time to get a weapon— he might overtake them, might reach the madman's lair, at least, before...

Hal Curtin whirled again, went sprinting out of the kitchen door, out into the lonely flight.

Hal Curtin never knew how long it took him to run those five lightless miles over rough fields, up hills that became mountains in the dark, splashing through streams, sliding gasping, torn by his own breathing, torn by thorns of berry bushes, by barbed wire unseen till he was upon it... But he raced through, a featureless chiaroscuro of shadows, feeling his hurts not at all, feeling not at all that the clothes were torn from him, that he was lacerated and bleeding, that an iron band was about his chest and the hammers of hell beating upon his skull.

5. The House of Horror

SOMEWHERE in that nightmare flight there was the thrumming of a far-off auto. Somewhere in that Gethsemane there were twin beams of distant headlights scything the darkness... and then there was the loom of black woods ahead of him, and he was in their earth-odorous dankness, and he was slowing to a halt.

Careful now. He must be careful. If the madman heard him, got warning of his approach, Hilda would be... Hal was weaponless, he had only his arms, and his fists to use against the Lord alone knew what insane strength. The advantage of surprise must be his.

Surprise. But how? There was impenetrable darkness here. There was only the shrill piping of cicadas and the scutterings of the woods' night-kind... There was a glimmer of light, far within the tree-deepened blackness.

Cautiously, with an instinctive woods-manship called out of racial memory by his great need, with a taut check on his urge to run, shouting, to the source of that light, Hal Curtin crept up on it. He reached it at long last, at last was crouched at the edge of a tiny clearing, was gazing with aching eyes at a tumbledown cabin of crumbling logs, some shelter left by ancient lumbermen, through whose gaping chinks came the gleam that had brought him here.

Only an instant Curtin crouched there, then he stole across the narrow space between and flattened himself against the moss-slimy wall.

He peered through a crack into the shack's interior. He could see only a small portion of it, but that was enough.

A candle guttered within the hovel. By its wavering, weird luminance he saw Hilda.

Two roughly hewn beams had sometime fallen from the decrepit cabin's roof. They slanted now from roof to earthen floor. The girl lay on one of these, lashed to it hand and foot, half-covered by the rags to which her neat, crisp frock, her dainty undergarments had been reduced.

She was as yet unharmed. Physically at least. All concealment had been torn from one rounded breast. Her arms, her olive, rounded thighs, strained at the lashings that cut into their soft, warm flesh. In her fear-widened eyes there was ineffable terror.

Grotesque and horrible as the creature had appeared when capering on a blazing roof, when laughing from the stage of a smashed theatre, he was now utterly appalling.

Clad only in ragged trousers, his body was the scarred wreck of a frame once clean-cut and stalwart. It was malformed with a rottenness not so much of its tissues as of the soul within it, and shaggy with hair black and kinked and matted as a wild beast's fur. His straddled, columnar legs, his big-thewed arms, bulged with swollen muscles. His unshaved, black-bristled countenance was high-browed, its features finely chiseled, but it was empty of all intelligence, of all emotion save the vapid, long-toothed grin of a mindless idiot, while its skin twitched with tiny spasms as though beneath it vermin scuttered and pinched it with their microscopic jaws.

He towered above the bound, half-naked girl, his lips drooling, his soulless eyes repeating their imbecile grin. It was as if he were calling upon her to witness the cleverness of that which he was about.

With a curious deftness one of his great paws juggled three of the puff balls that had accumulated so much of terrible meaning for Hal Curtin, catching and tossing the fragile globules so that they did not burst but danced like down in the wavering light. In and out and about the flickering balls he flashed the braided metal lash of a small whip in gleaming intricate maneuvers.

The madman missed one of the puff-balls. It dropped on Hilda, touched her just where the ragged edge of her torn slip lay against her abdomen's throbbing skin. Her captor snatched at it. His spatulate fingers, clumsy now, caught in the pink fabric. There was a ripping sound...

The ball struck the floor, burst. Not spore dust but a black cloud spurted from it, billowed upward to meet the other two that still were floating down...

The madman's frenzied fingers were ripping the last vestige of clothing from Hilda. She screamed...

Her scream came to Curtin out of blackness that enveloped her, that was filling the cabin, the blackness that had been spewed from the burst puff ball, from the two others. He thrust himself away from the wall, whirled to hurl himself along it to search for a door— there must be a door somewhere by which he could get inside, get to Hilda, fight for her...

There was no longer any light. The candle must have gone out. No, not out. Its light quenched by the black fog of the puffballs, by the material blackness that was pouring out through the chinks between the logs, clouds darker than the forest darkness, darker than evil. There was no light, so Curtin had to guide himself by a hand against the log wall, while from behind the wall came the screams of the girl he loved, and the bestial snufflings of the man-beast who...

He came to a corner, whirled around it; saw a billow of the stygian vapor pouring out of the door he sought. He vented something between a groan and a shout, plunged through it...

Into sightlessness that was alive with sound, Hilda's shrieks, fainter now, the sound of rending cloth, snuffling, and horrible snarls.

"Stop it!" the yell tore Hal's throat. "God blast you," he yelled, "stop it!" hurtling toward those sounds, blinded by the eye-blinding black. "Stop..." A heavy blow smashed the back of his head, smashed into his skull. He spun down and down into oblivion...

HAL CURTIN'S head ballooned with pain that expanded within it, as though to burst it. Because of the pain he could not move though he tried to lift his hand to his head, to still that throbbing torture.

It wasn't because of the pain that he could not lift his hand! As returning consciousness became surer he was aware of tightness about his wrists. He was bound, wrists and ankles, to a heavy beam.

He opened his eyes. A wall slanted toward him at a mad angle, an earthen floor slanted up toward him. The guttering light through which he saw them held a curious quality of darkness, as though it were strained through a black mist. This was unreal, dreamlike.

Someone moaned, beside him. Curtin's head rolled to the sound... It was Hilda who moaned! Hilda naked, a grey pallor underlying her skin that was crisscrossed with red and angry weals. Her eyes were closed. She was lashed to a beam that slanted downward from above. Curtin realized that he too was lashed to a beam similarly slanted, that it was he and not the wall, the floor, that lay at this unaccustomed angle.

"Hilda!" He managed only a whisper. She did not move.

There were ropes around her ankles, her wrists. But there was also a rope about her neck. This did not go around the beam on which she lay. It went straight up. It went over a hook in the broken ceiling and came down again. Its other end was fastened to the beam to which Hal Curtin himself was bound, and it was just short of tautness. Beneath Hilda's ear the looped rope was tied with a hangman's slipknot.

"Hilda!"

She did not hear him. Could she hear him? Was she...?

"She has fainted," someone said, the voice oddly familiar. "But she will come out of it in a moment." Curtin jumped, hearing it. The timber supporting him rocked. Its upper end started to slip from the cross-beam holding it...

It was slipping off that cross-beam! A quarter inch more and it would come down— jerking tight the rope fastened to it, jerking tight the noose around Hilda's neck. Strangling her!

It didn't. Not this time. Something steadied it, stopped that fearful rocking. A hand, Curtin saw as his head rolled, a great calloused paw with black, kinky hair on the backs of its fingers. He saw the owner of that hand, the madman!

That fatuous, leering grin was still on the creature's face. In his other hand was still the metal lash with which he had toyed with the puffballs that had spewed the blackness.

The same voice spoke again, from behind Curtin, where he could not see the speaker. "The next time Jock will let the timber come down," it said, "and you know what that will do. It may interest you to know also that the cords with which you are tied may be broken with not too great effort. You can free yourself, but not quickly enough to stop the beam from falling."

There it was. Hal Curtin was imprisoned not by lashings that he might break, but by the knowledge that his escape meant— Hilda's death.

"You fiend!" he grunted. "Who are you?" He had heard that voice before, many times. Was it because of his physical and mental agony that he could not identify it? It was— no, it could not be Reddon Gast's. Whose then? "Come around here where I can see you." The madman Jock was drawing his whip between his fingers, lovingly. What did he mean to do with it? What in the name of Satan was he going to do with that braided metal thong?

"So that you can see me?" the Voice mused. "Well, it hardly matters now whether you see me or not, you will tell no one who I am. And your reaction will amuse us, perhaps, while we wait for your— sweetheart— to waken."

There was a shuffle of feet on the hard-packed earthen floor. There was a flicker of Jock's eyes to the sound, the look of a fawning dog coming into them. And then a man moved into the range of Hal Curtin's vision.

He was tall and gnarled. His hair was a lustrous white mane crowning a face seamed by deep lines, sunken-cheeked, with eyes that now gleamed wildly.

"Wayne!" burst from Hal Curtin's lips.

Wayne gave a humorless smile. "Clever of you to recognize me. As clever as your guessing how that fire was started, and how the theatre balcony was brought down, and that this was Jock's lair. You are a very clever man, Hal Curtin. I wonder if you have reasoned out the connection of the puffballs with all that has happened."

Curtin's brow knitted. Perhaps by humoring his captor he would gain enough time to work out some escape for Hilda, from this imprisonment, from the threat of the lash Jock fondled. "They're not quite— natural. The blackness. Some variation in them has increased their spore-puff to a vast cloud of blackness. Perhaps the puffballs were treated chemically, carefully grown, crossed with unknown varieties. This cloud cloaked Jock when he was setting the fire, when he was mining the theatre balcony.

"Not Jock," Wayne grinned. "Not Jock. He was to be the scapegoat, the whipping boy, taking the blame if some human agency were uncovered in connection with the disasters. The spore-cloud cloaked me, Hal Curtin. It was I who..."

"You!" the bound man gasped, the unbelievable truth against which his mind had rebelled was now stark and inescapable. "You are the one..."

"Yes." Wayne's features were no longer kindly. They were dark and contorted with evil triumph, and evil leered from beneath his shaggy brow. "I set the fire, I mined the balcony..." He laughed, and there was the same fierce pain in his laugh as in Jock's.

"You," Curtin groaned. "But why...?"

"Why?" Tiny light worms crawled in Wayne's slitted eyes. "You can ask that, when... But I forgot. You were not born when Stalton damned my brother to horror."

"Your brother?"

The old man's tortured look went to Jock, who was leaning forward now, his avid tongue licking his lips, his burning look fastened on Hilda's nude beauty.

"They were too penurious to pave the streets," Wayne grated. "Jock, a fine young lad, slipped in the mud as he played, sprawled into the gutter. The hoof of a passing horse just flicked his skull— and made him what you see.

"It was murder, the assassination of a soul, but they called it an accident, and I believed them. Dreamer that I was, I dedicated my life to making certain no such accident should occur again, to making Stalton a safe place for its children, for their lives, and a beautiful place for their play. Stalton thanked me with its lips but always behind their eyes, behind the eyes of Gast and Yarrow and the others who knew, I could see the taunting mockery, the reminder of my brother, an animal imprisoned within the asylum's grey walls.

"He was the only human I ever loved; I was lonely, and they had made me so. I grieved, and it was because of what they had done that I grieved. But I forgave them, because I thought they knew not what they had done. I forgave them— till once more, because of greed, they were determined to enrich themselves at the price of the soul of that which I loved, of this town I had created— my all. If I allowed that road to be put through it would have taken the town from me.

"I knew then what I had to do. They should not kill Stalton, I would, and swiftly. Station's soul was its children; its children should die... Stalton had taken the soul of my brother— I would take the limbs and lives of its children."

Jock grunted. His shaggy, muscled arm thrust out, jabbing a thumb at Hilda. She stirred, and her eyes opened...

"Hal!" she exclaimed, joy flaring into her tear-streaked countenance. "Hal...! You've come for..." and then all the joy was gone; terror, anguish were replacing it. "But you're tied up too. He's got you...!"

"I've got him," Wayne broke in. "As I planned. I've got him to punish him for interfering with me in the way that will hurt him most, and Jock will take the blame for that as he would have done for all else if he had been caught. Jock! Go ahead."

The madman whimpered, like a grateful dog, sprang forward. The whip in his hand lifted. The metal lash whistled up, whistled down...

Struck Hilda's flesh! A fiery circle sprang out upon it, a bleeding cincture belting her palpitating breast. She screamed...

Hal screamed too, screamed mad blasphemy as that biting whip flashed up, flashed down again on the naked flesh of the girl he loved. Screamed wild oaths at the madman, at the white-haired man who stood, impassive, eyes glittering, and lips tight and white. Hal yelled his protests, but he did not dare to move, did not dare to stir so much as a finger lest he rock the beam upon which he lay and bring it thundering down to strangle the life out of her.

Whirr, smack! Whirr, smack! The madman was laughing now, was laughing and capering as he had laughed and capered before. He was dancing about his victim, her flesh netted with weals now, with spurting wheels, her round soft body clothed with scarlet from her wounds... He laughed...

And Hilda moaned; "Kill me, Hal! Kill me! I want to die."

There it was! That was the way he could save her from this agony. Death— the only gift for her lover to give her. His muscles knotted, ready for the leap...

And still he waited while that whistling lash cut, and cut again, winding itself about an olive, quivering thigh, slashing across a taut abdomen. While a beast-man capered...

Then Hal Curtin leaped, tearing loose from the cords that lashed him. The beam leaped with him, crashed down...

On the head, the shoulders, of the madman, crushing Jock's skull and pulping his addled brain! It was held for a moment, as Hal had planned it, by the great shaggy form that had danced beneath its slant, held there long enough for Hal to tear free the noose from his sweetheart's neck— and then it crashed, with the bulk of the creature it had slain, to the ground.

But Curtin had whirled, had thrown himself, ravening and mad himself in that moment, at the white-haired Wayne. Curtin's fists, sledge-hammers of vengeance, catapulted— smash— smash— into the hollow-cheeked countenance of the madman's brother.

Smash! There was the crack of snapped bone. Those furious blows had broken John Wayne's jaw— had broken John Wayne's spine...

LONG after, Hilda Curtin would wake from a dream of never-to-be-forgotten terror, and Hal would wake with her.

She would turn to him, and he would take her in his arms and hold her close to him, knowing as lovers always know, why she was trembling so. And after awhile the trembling would cease, and Hilda would whisper, "Hold me, Hal. Hold me close, close, so I'll know you're here, so I'll know that always, always, you will protect me against..."

"Satan and all his imps," Hal would whisper. "Forever, my dear."

And he would hold her close...

__________________

17: The Inn of the Two Witches

Joseph Conrad

1857-1924

The Pall Mall Magazine March 1913

Teodor Josef Konrad Korzeniowski

A FIND.

This tale, episode, experience— call it how you will— was related in the fifties of the last century by a man who, by his own confession, was sixty years old at the time. Sixty is not a bad age— unless in perspective, when no doubt it is contemplated by the majority of us with mixed feelings. It is a calm age; the game is practically over by then; and standing aside one begins to remember with a certain vividness what a fine fellow one used to be. I have observed that, by an amiable attention of Providence, most people at sixty begin to take a romantic view of themselves. Their very failures exhale a charm of peculiar potency. And indeed the hopes of the future are a fine company to live with, exquisite forms, fascinating if you like, but— so to speak— naked, stripped for a run. The robes of glamour are luckily the property of the immovable past which, without them, would sit, a shivery sort of thing, under the gathering shadows.

I suppose it was the romanticism of growing age which set our man to relate his experience for his own satisfaction or for the wonder of his posterity. It could not have been for his glory, because the experience was simply that of an abominable fright— terror he calls it. You would have guessed that the relation alluded to in the very first lines was in writing.

This writing constitutes the Find declared in the sub-title. The title itself is my own contrivance (can't call it invention), and has the merit of veracity. We will be concerned with an inn here. As to the witches that's merely a conventional expression, and we must take our man's word for it that it fits the case.

The Find was made in a box of books bought in London, in a street which no longer exists, from a second-hand bookseller in the last stage of decay. As to the books themselves they were at least twentieth-hand, and on inspection turned out not worth the very small sum of money I disbursed. It might have been some premonition of that fact which made me say: "But I must have the box too." The decayed bookseller assented by the careless, tragic gesture of a man already doomed to extinction.

A litter of loose pages at the bottom of the box excited my curiosity but faintly. The close, neat, regular handwriting was not attractive at first sight. But in one place the statement that in a.d. 1813 the writer was twenty-two years old caught my eye. Two and twenty is an interesting age in which one is easily reckless and easily frightened; the faculty of reflection being weak and the power of imagination strong.

In another place the phrase: "At night we stood in again," arrested my languid attention, because it was a sea phrase. "Let's see what it is all about," I thought, without excitement.

Oh! but it was a dull-faced MS., each line resembling every other line in their close-set and regular order. It was like the drone of a monotonous voice. A treatise on sugar-refining (the dreariest subject I can think of) could have been given a more lively appearance. "In A.D. 1813, I was twenty-two years old," he begins earnestly and goes on with every appearance of calm, horrible industry. Don't imagine, however, that there is anything archaic in my find. Diabolic ingenuity in invention though as old as the world is by no means a lost art. Look at the telephones for shattering the little peace of mind given to us in this world, or at the machine guns for letting with dispatch life out of our bodies. Now-a-days any blear-eyed old witch if only strong enough to turn an insignificant little handle could lay low a hundred young men of twenty in the twinkling of an eye.

If this isn't progress! … Why immense! We have moved on, and so you must expect to meet here a certain naiveness of contrivance and simplicity of aim appertaining to the remote epoch. And of course no motoring tourist can hope to find such an inn anywhere, now. This one, the one of the title, was situated in Spain. That much I discovered only from internal evidence, because a good many pages of that relation were missing— perhaps not a great misfortune after all. The writer seemed to have entered into a most elaborate detail of the why and wherefore of his presence on that coast— presumably the north coast of Spain. His experience has nothing to do with the sea, though. As far as I can make it out, he was an officer on board a sloop-of-war. There's nothing strange in that. At all stages of the long Peninsular campaign many of our men-of-war of the smaller kind were cruising off the north coast of Spain— as risky and disagreeable a station as can be well imagined.

It looks as though that ship of his had had some special service to perform. A careful explanation of all the circumstances was to be expected from our man, only, as I've said, some of his pages (good tough paper too) were missing: gone in covers for jampots or in wadding for the fowling-pieces of his irreverent posterity. But it is to be seen clearly that communication with the shore and even the sending of messengers inland was part of her service, either to obtain intelligence from or to transmit orders or advice to patriotic Spaniards, guerilleros or secret juntas of the province. Something of the sort. All this can be only inferred from the preserved scraps of his conscientious writing.

Next we come upon the panegyric of a very fine sailor, a member of the ship's company, having the rating of the captain's coxswain. He was known on board as Cuba Tom; not because he was Cuban however; he was indeed the best type of a genuine British tar of that time, and a man-of-war's man for years. He came by the name on account of some wonderful adventures he had in that island in his young days, adventures which were the favourite subject of the yarns he was in the habit of spinning to his shipmates of an evening on the forecastle head. He was intelligent, very strong, and of proved courage. Incidentally we are told, so exact is our narrator, that Tom had the finest pigtail for thickness and length of any man in the Navy. This appendage, much cared for and sheathed tightly in a porpoise skin, hung half way down his broad back to the great admiration of all beholders and to the great envy of some.

Our young officer dwells on the manly qualities of Cuba Tom with something like affection. This sort of relation between officer and man was not then very rare. A youngster on joining the service was put under the charge of a trustworthy seaman, who slung his first hammock for him and often later on became a sort of humble friend to the junior officer. The narrator on joining the sloop had found this man on board after some years of separation. There is something touching in the warm pleasure he remembers and records at this meeting with the professional mentor of his boyhood.

We discover then that, no Spaniard being forthcoming for the service, this worthy seaman with the unique pigtail and a very high character for courage and steadiness had been selected as messenger for one of these missions inland which have been mentioned. His preparations were not elaborate. One gloomy autumn morning the sloop ran close to a shallow cove where a landing could be made on that iron-bound shore. A boat was lowered, and pulled in with Tom Corbin (Cuba Tom) perched in the bow, and our young man (Mr. Edgar Byrne was his name on this earth which knows him no more) sitting in the stern sheets.

A few inhabitants of a hamlet, whose grey stone houses could be seen a hundred yards or so up a deep ravine, had come down to the shore and watched the approach of the boat. The two Englishmen leaped ashore. Either from dullness or astonishment the peasants gave no greeting, and only fell back in silence.

Mr. Byrne had made up his mind to see Tom Corbin started fairly on his way. He looked round at the heavy surprised faces.

"There isn't much to get out of them," he said. "Let us walk up to the village. There will be a wine shop for sure where we may find somebody more promising to talk to and get some information from."

"Aye, aye, sir," said Tom falling into step behind his officer. "A bit of palaver as to courses and distances can do no harm; I crossed the broadest part of Cuba by the help of my tongue tho' knowing far less Spanish than I do now. As they say themselves it was 'four words and no more' with me, that time when I got left behind on shore by the Blanche, frigate."

He made light of what was before him, which was but a day's journey into the mountains. It is true that there was a full day's journey before striking the mountain path, but that was nothing for a man who had crossed the island of Cuba on his two legs, and with no more than four words of the language to begin with.

The officer and the man were walking now on a thick sodden bed of dead leaves, which the peasants thereabouts accumulate in the streets of their villages to rot during the winter for field manure. Turning his head Mr. Byrne perceived that the whole male population of the hamlet was following them on the noiseless springy carpet. Women stared from the doors of the houses and the children had apparently gone into hiding. The village knew the ship by sight, afar off, but no stranger had landed on that spot perhaps for a hundred years or more. The cocked hat of Mr. Byrne, the bushy whiskers and the enormous pigtail of the sailor, filled them with mute wonder. They pressed behind the two Englishmen staring like those islanders discovered by Captain Cook in the South Seas.

It was then that Byrne had his first glimpse of the little cloaked man in a yellow hat. Faded and dingy as it was, this covering for his head made him noticeable.

The entrance to the wine shop was like a rough hole in a wall of flints. The owner was the only person who was not in the street, for he came out from the darkness at the back where the inflated forms of wine skins hung on nails could be vaguely distinguished. He was a tall, one-eyed Asturian with scrubby, hollow cheeks; a grave expressionof countenance contrasted enigmatically with the roaming restlessness of his solitary eye. On learning that the matter in hand was the sending on his way of that English mariner toward a certain Gonzales in the mountains, he closed his good eye for a moment as if in meditation. Then opened it, very lively again.

"Possibly, possibly. It could be done."

A friendly murmur arose in the group in the doorway at the name of Gonzales, the local leader against the French. Inquiring as to the safety of the road Byrne was glad to learn that no troops of that nation had been seen in the neighbourhood for months. Not the smallest little detachment of these impious polizones. While giving these answers the owner of the wine-shop busied himself in drawing into an earthenware jug some wine which he set before the heretic English, pocketing with grave abstraction the small piece of money the officer threw upon the table in recognition of the unwritten law that none may enter a wine-shop without buying drink. His eye was in constant motion as if it were trying to do the work of the two; but when Byrne made inquiries as to the possibility of hiring a mule, it became immovably fixed in the direction of the door which was closely besieged by the curious. In front of them, just within the threshold, the little man in the large cloak and yellow hat had taken his stand. He was a diminutive person, a mere homunculus, Byrne describes him, in a ridiculously mysterious, yet assertive attitude, a corner of his cloak thrown cavalierly over his left shoulder, muffling his chin and mouth; while the broad-brimmed yellow hat hung on a corner of his square little head. He stood there taking snuff, repeatedly.

"A mule," repeated the wine-seller, his eyes fixed on that quaint and snuffy figure…. "No, señor officer! Decidedly no mule is to be got in this poor place."

The coxswain, who stood by with the true sailor's air of unconcern in strange surroundings, struck in quietly—

"If your honour will believe me Shank's pony's the best for this job. I would have to leave the beast somewhere, anyhow, since the captain has told me that half my way will be along paths fit only for goats."

The diminutive man made a step forward, and speaking through the folds of the cloak which seemed to muffle a sarcastic intention—

"Si, señor. They are too honest in this village to have a single mule amongst them for your worship's service. To that I can bear testimony. In these times it's only rogues or very clever men who can manage to have mules or any other four-footed beasts and the wherewithal to keep them. But what this valiant mariner wants is a guide; and here, señor, behold my brother-in-law, Bernardino, wine-seller, and alcade of this most Christian and hospitable village, who will find you one."

This, Mr. Byrne says in his relation, was the only thing to do. A youth in a ragged coat and goat-skin breeches was produced after some more talk. The English officer stood treat to the whole village, and while the peasants drank he and Cuba Tom took their departure accompanied by the guide. The diminutive man in the cloak had disappeared.

Byrne went along with the coxswain out of the village. He wanted to see him fairly on his way; and he would have gone a greater distance, if the seaman had not suggested respectfully the advisability of return so as not to keep the ship a moment longer than necessary so close in with the shore on such an unpromising looking morning. A wild gloomy sky hung over their heads when they took leave of each other, and their surroundings of rank bushes and stony fields were dreary.

"In four days' time," were Byrne's last words, "the ship will stand in and send a boat on shore if the weather permits. If not you'll have to make it out on shore the best you can till we come along to take you off."

"Right you are, sir," answered Tom, and strode on. Byrne watched him step out on a narrow path. In a thick pea-jacket with a pair of pistols in his belt, a cutlass by his side, and a stout cudgel in his hand, he looked a sturdy figure and well able to take care of himself. He turned round for a moment to wave his hand, giving to Byrne one more view of his honest bronzed face with bushy whiskers. The lad in goatskin breeches looking, Byrne says, like a faun or a young satyr leaping ahead, stopped to wait for him, and then went off at a bound. Both disappeared.

Byrne turned back. The hamlet was hidden in a fold of the ground, and the spot seemed the most lonely corner of the earth and as if accursed in its uninhabited desolate barrenness. Before he had walked many yards, there appeared very suddenly from behind a bush the muffled up diminutive Spaniard. Naturally Byrne stopped short.

The other made a mysterious gesture with a tiny hand peeping from under his cloak. His hat hung very much at the side of his head. "Señor," he said without any preliminaries. "Caution! It is a positive fact that one-eyed Bernardino, my brother-in-law, has at this moment a mule in his stable. And why he who is not clever has a mule there? Because he is a rogue; a man without conscience. Because I had to give up the macho to him to secure for myself a roof to sleep under and a mouthful of olla to keep my soul in this insignificant body of mine. Yet, señor, it contains a heart many times bigger than the mean thing which beats in the breast of that brute connection of mine of which I am ashamed, though I opposed that marriage with all my power. Well, the misguided woman suffered enough. She had her purgatory on this earth— God rest her soul."

Byrne says he was so astonished by the sudden appearance of that sprite-like being, and by the sardonic bitterness of the speech, that he was unable to disentangle the significant fact from what seemed but a piece of family history fired out at him without rhyme or reason. Not at first. He was confounded and at the same time he was impressed by the rapid forcible delivery, quite different from the frothy excited loquacity of an Italian. So he stared while the homunculus, letting his cloak fall about him, aspired an immense quantity of snuff out of the hollow of his palm.

"A mule," exclaimed Byrne seizing at last the real aspect of the discourse. "You say he has got a mule? That's queer! Why did he refuse to let me have it?"

The diminutive Spaniard muffled himself up again with great dignity.

"Quién sabe," he said coldly, with a shrug of his draped shoulders. "He is a great politico in everything he does. But one thing your worship may be certain of— that his intentions are always rascally. This husband of my defunta sister ought to have been married a long time ago to the widow with the wooden legs." *

__________

* The gallows, supposed to be widowed of the last executed criminal and waiting for another.

"I see. But remember that, whatever your motives, your worship countenanced him in this lie."

The bright unhappy eyes on each side of a predatory nose confronted Byrne without wincing, while with that testiness which lurks so often at the bottom of Spanish dignity—

"No doubt the señor officer would not lose an ounce of blood if I were stuck under the fifth rib," he retorted. "But what of this poor sinner here?" Then changing his tone. "Señor, by the necessities of the times I live here in exile, a Castilian and an old Christian, existing miserably in the midst of these brute Asturians, and dependent on the worst of them all, who has less conscience and scruples than a wolf. And being a man of intelligence I govern myself accordingly. Yet I can hardly contain my scorn. You have heard the way I spoke. A caballero of parts like your worship might have guessed that there was a cat in there."

"What cat?" said Byrne uneasily. "Oh, I see. Something suspicious. No, señor. I guessed nothing. My nation are not good guessers at that sort of thing; and, therefore, I ask you plainly whether that wine-seller has spoken the truth in other particulars?"

"There are certainly no Frenchmen anywhere about," said the little man with a return to his indifferent manner.

"Or robbers— ladrones?"

"Ladrones en grande— no! Assuredly not," was the answer in a cold philosophical tone. "What is there left for them to do after the French? And nobody travels in these times. But who can say! Opportunity makes the robber. Still that mariner of yours has a fierce aspect, and with the son of a cat rats will have no play. But there is a saying, too, that where honey is there will soon be flies."

This oracular discourse exasperated Byrne. "In the name of God," he cried, "tell me plainly if you think my man is reasonably safe on his journey."

The homunculus, undergoing one of his rapid changes, seized the officer's arm. The grip of his little hand was astonishing.

"Señor! Bernardino had taken notice of him. What more do you want? And listen— men have disappeared on this road— on a certain portion of this road, when Bernardino kept a meson, an inn, and I, his brother-in-law, had coaches and mules for hire. Now there are no travellers, no coaches. The French have ruined me. Bernardino has retired here for reasons of his own after my sister died. They were three to torment the life out of her, he and Erminia and Lucilla, two aunts of his— all affiliated to the devil. And now he has robbed me of my last mule. You are an armed man. Demand the macho from him, with a pistol to his head, señor— it is not his, I tell you— and ride after your man who is so precious to you. And then you shall both be safe, for no two travellers have been ever known to disappear together in those days. As to the beast, I, its owner, I confide it to your honour."

They were staring hard at each other, and Byrne nearly burst into a laugh at the ingenuity and transparency of the little man's plot to regain possession of his mule. But he had no difficulty to keep a straight face because he felt deep within himself a strange inclination to do that very extraordinary thing. He did not laugh, but his lip quivered; at which the diminutive Spaniard, detaching his black glittering eyes from Byrne's face, turned his back on him brusquely with a gesture and a fling of the cloak which somehow expressed contempt, bitterness, and discouragement all at once. He turned away and stood still, his hat aslant, muffled up to the ears. But he was not offended to the point of refusing the silver duro which Byrne offered him with a non-committal speech as if nothing extraordinary had passed between them.

"I must make haste on board now," said Byrne, then.

"Vaya usted con Dios," muttered the gnome. And this interview ended with a sarcastic low sweep of the hat which was replaced at the same perilous angle as before.

Directly the boat had been hoisted the ship's sails were filled on the off-shore tack, and Byrne imparted the whole story to his captain, who was but a very few years older than himself. There was some amused indignation at it— but while they laughed they looked gravely at each other. A Spanish dwarf trying to beguile an officer of his majesty's navy into stealing a mule for him— that was too funny, too ridiculous, too incredible. Those were the exclamations of the captain. He couldn't get over the grotesqueness of it.

"Incredible. That's just it," murmured Byrne at last in a significant tone.

They exchanged a long stare. "It's as clear as daylight," affirmed the captain impatiently, because in his heart he was not certain. And Tom the best seaman in the ship for one, the good-humouredly deferential friend of his boyhood for the other, was becoming endowed with a compelling fascination, like a symbolic figure of loyalty appealing to their feelings and their conscience, so that they could not detach their thoughts from his safety. Several times they went up on deck, only to look at the coast, as if it could tell them something of his fate. It stretched away, lengthening in the distance, mute, naked, and savage, veiled now and then by the slanting cold shafts of rain. The westerly swell rolled its interminable angry lines of foam and big dark clouds flew over the ship in a sinister procession.

"I wish to goodness you had done what your little friend in the yellow hat wanted you to do," said the commander of the sloop late in the afternoon with visible exasperation.

"Do you, sir?" answered Byrne, bitter with positive anguish. "I wonder what you would have said afterwards? Why! I might have been kicked out of the service for looting a mule from a nation in alliance with His Majesty. Or I might have been battered to a pulp with flails and pitch-forks— a pretty tale to get abroad about one of your officers— while trying to steal a mule. Or chased ignominiously to the boat— for you would not have expected me to shoot down unoffending people for the sake of a mangy mule…. And yet," he added in a low voice, "I almost wish myself I had done it."

Before dark those two young men had worked themselves up into a highly complex psychological state of scornful scepticism and alarmed credulity. It tormented them exceedingly; and the thought that it would have to last for six days at least, and possibly be prolonged further for an indefinite time, was not to be borne. The ship was therefore put on the inshore tack at dark. All through the gusty dark night she went towards the land to look for her man, at times lying over in the heavy puffs, at others rolling idle in the swell, nearly stationary, as if she too had a mind of her own to swing perplexed between cool reason and warm impulse.

Then just at daybreak a boat put off from her and went on tossed by the seas towards the shallow cove where, with considerable difficulty, an officer in a thick coat and a round hat managed to land on a strip of shingle.

"It was my wish," writes Mr. Byrne, "a wish of which my captain approved, to land secretly if possible. I did not want to be seen either by my aggrieved friend in the yellow hat, whose motives were not clear, or by the one-eyed wine-seller, who may or may not have been affiliated to the devil, or indeed by any other dweller in that primitive village. But unfortunately the cove was the only possible landing place for miles; and from the steepness of the ravine I couldn't make a circuit to avoid the houses."

"Fortunately," he goes on, "all the people were yet in their beds. It was barely daylight when I found myself walking on the thick layer of sodden leaves filling the only street. No soul was stirring abroad, no dog barked. The silence was profound, and I had concluded with some wonder that apparently no dogs were kept in the hamlet, when I heard a low snarl, and from a noisome alley between two hovels emerged a vile cur with its tail between its legs. He slunk off silently showing me his teeth as he ran before me, and he disappeared so suddenly that he might have been the unclean incarnation of the Evil One. There was, too, something so weird in the manner of its coming and vanishing, that my spirits, already by no means very high, became further depressed by the revolting sight of this creature as if by an unlucky presage."

He got away from the coast unobserved, as far as he knew, then struggled manfully to the west against wind and rain, on a barren dark upland, under a sky of ashes. Far away the harsh and desolate mountains raising their scarped and denuded ridges seemed to wait for him menacingly. The evening found him fairly near to them, but, in sailor language, uncertain of his position, hungry, wet, and tired out by a day of steady tramping over broken ground during which he had seen very few people, and had been unable to obtain the slightest intelligence of Tom Corbin's passage. "On! on! I must push on," he had been saying to himself through the hours of solitary effort, spurred more by incertitude than by any definite fear or definite hope.

The lowering daylight died out quickly, leaving him faced by a broken bridge. He descended into the ravine, forded a narrow stream by the last gleam of rapid water, and clambering out on the other side was met by the night which fell like a bandage over his eyes. The wind sweeping in the darkness the broadside of the sierra worried his ears by a continuous roaring noise as of a maddened sea. He suspected that he had lost the road. Even in daylight, with its ruts and mud-holes and ledges of outcropping stone, it was difficult to distinguish from the dreary waste of the moor interpersed with boulders and clumps of naked bushes. But, as he says, "he steered his course by the feel of the wind," his hat rammed low on his brow, his head down, stopping now and again from mere weariness of mind rather than of body— as if not his strength but his resolution were being overtaxed by the strain of endeavour half suspected to be vain, and by the unrest of his feelings.

In one of these pauses borne in the wind faintly as if from very far away he heard a sound of knocking, just knocking on wood. He noticed that the wind had lulled suddenly.

His heart started beating tumultuously because in himself he carried the impression of the desert solitudes he had been traversing for the last six hours— the oppressive sense of an uninhabited world. When he raised his head a gleam of light, illusory as it often happens in dense darkness, swam before his eyes. While he peered, the sound of feeble knocking was repeated— and suddenly he felt rather than saw the existence of a massive obstacle in his path. What was it? The spur of a hill? Or was it a house! Yes. It was a house right close, as though it had risen from the ground or had come gliding to meet him, dumb and pallid, from some dark recess of the night. It towered loftily. He had come up under its lee; another three steps and he could have touched the wall with his hand. It was no doubt a posada and some other traveller was trying for admittance. He heard again the sound of cautious knocking.

Next moment a broad band of light fell into the night through the opened door. Byrne stepped eagerly into it, whereupon the person outside leaped with a stifled cry away into the night. An exclamation of surprise was heard too, from within. Byrne, flinging himself against the half closed door, forced his way in against some considerable resistance.

A miserable candle, a mere rushlight, burned at the end of a long deal table. And in its light Byrne saw, staggering yet, the girl he had driven from the door. She had a short black skirt, an orange shawl, a dark complexion— and the escaped single hairs from the mass, sombre and thick like a forest and held up by a comb, made a black mist about her low forehead. A shrill lamentable howl of: "Misericordia!" came in two voices from the further end of the long room, where the fire-light of an open hearth played between heavy shadows. The girl recovering herself drew a hissing breath through her set teeth.

It is unnecessary to report the long process of questions and answers by which he soothed the fears of two old women who sat on each side of the fire, on which stood a large earthenware pot. Byrne thought at once of two witches watching the brewing of some deadly potion. But all the same, when one of them raising forward painfully her broken form lifted the cover of the pot, the escaping steam had an appetising smell. The other did not budge, but sat hunched up, her head trembling all the time.

They were horrible. There was something grotesque in their decrepitude. Their toothless mouths, their hooked noses, the meagreness of the active one, and the hanging yellow cheeks of the other (the still one, whose head trembled) would have been laughable if the sight of their dreadful physical degradation had not been appalling to one's eyes, had not gripped one's heart with poignant amazement at the unspeakable misery of age, at the awful persistency of life becoming at last an object of disgust and dread.

To get over it Byrne began to talk, saying that he was an Englishman, and that he was in search of a countryman who ought to have passed this way. Directly he had spoken the recollection of his parting with Tom came up in his mind with amazing vividness: the silent villagers, the angry gnome, the one-eyed wine-seller, Bernardino. Why! These two unspeakable frights must be that man's aunts— affiliated to the devil.

Whatever they had been once it was impossible to imagine what use such feeble creatures could be to the devil, now, in the world of the living. Which was Lucilla and which was Erminia? They were now things without a name. A moment of suspended animation followed Byrne's words. The sorceress with the spoon ceased stirring the mess in the iron pot, the very trembling of the other's head stopped for the space of breath. In this infinitesimal fraction of a second Byrne had the sense of being really on his quest, of having reached the turn of the path, almost within hail of Tom.

"They have seen him," he thought with conviction. Here was at last somebody who had seen him. He made sure they would deny all knowledge of the Ingles; but on the contrary they were eager to tell him that he had eaten and slept the night in the house. They both started talking together, describing his appearance and behaviour. An excitement quite fierce in its feebleness possessed them. The doubled-up sorceress flourished aloft her wooden spoon, the puffy monster got off her stool and screeched, stepping from one foot to the other, while the trembling of her head was accelerated to positive vibration. Byrne was quite disconcerted by their excited behaviour…. Yes! The big, fierce Ingles went away in the morning, after eating a piece of bread and drinking some wine. And if the caballero wished to follow the same path nothing could be easier— in the morning.

"You will give me somebody to show me the way?" said Byrne.

"Si, señor. A proper youth. The man the caballero saw going out."

"But he was knocking at the door," protested Byrne. "He only bolted when he saw me. He was coming in."

"No! No!" the two horrid witches screamed out together. "Going out. Going out!"

After all it may have been true. The sound of knocking had been faint, elusive, reflected Byrne. Perhaps only the effect of his fancy. He asked—

"Who is that man?"

"Her novio." They screamed pointing to the girl. "He is gone home to a village far away from here. But he will return in the morning. Her novio! And she is an orphan— the child of poor Christian people. She lives with us for the love of God, for the love of God."

The orphan crouching on the corner of the hearth had been looking at Byrne. He thought that she was more like a child of Satan kept there by these two weird harridans for the love of the Devil. Her eyes were a little oblique, her mouth rather thick, but admirably formed; her dark face had a wild beauty, voluptuous and untamed. As to the character of her steadfast gaze attached upon him with a sensuously savage attention, "to know what it was like," says Mr. Byrne, "you have only to observe a hungry cat watching a bird in a cage or a mouse inside a trap."

It was she who served him the food, of which he was glad; though with those big slanting black eyes examining him at close range, as if he had something curious written on his face, she gave him an uncomfortable sensation. But anything was better than being approached by these blear-eyed nightmarish witches. His apprehensions somehow had been soothed; perhaps by the sensation of warmth after severe exposure and the ease of resting after the exertion of fighting the gale inch by inch all the way. He had no doubt of Tom's safety. He was now sleeping in the mountain camp having been met by Gonzales' men.

Byrne rose, filled a tin goblet with wine out of a skin hanging on the wall, and sat down again. The witch with the mummy face began to talk to him, ramblingly of old times; she boasted of the inn's fame in those better days. Great people in their own coaches stopped there. An archbishop slept once in the casa, a long, long time ago.

The witch with the puffy face seemed to be listening from her stool, motionless, except for the trembling of her head. The girl (Byrne was certain she was a casual gipsy admitted there for some reason or other) sat on the hearth stone in the glow of the embers. She hummed a tune to herself, rattling a pair of castanets slightly now and then. At the mention of the archbishop she chuckled impiously and turned her head to look at Byrne, so that the red glow of the fire flashed in her black eyes and on her white teeth under the dark cowl of the enormous overmantel. And he smiled at her.

He rested now in the ease of security. His advent not having been expected there could be no plot against him in existence. Drowsiness stole upon his senses. He enjoyed it, but keeping a hold, so he thought at least, on his wits; but he must have been gone further than he thought because he was startled beyond measure by a fiendish uproar. He had never heard anything so pitilessly strident in his life. The witches had started a fierce quarrel about something or other. Whatever its origin they were now only abusing each other violently, without arguments; their senile screams expressed nothing but wicked anger and ferocious dismay. The gipsy girl's black eyes flew from one to the other. Never before had Byrne felt himself so removed from fellowship with human beings. Before he had really time to understand the subject of the quarrel, the girl jumped up rattling her castanets loudly. A silence fell. She came up to the table and bending over, her eyes in his—

"Señor," she said with decision, "You shall sleep in the archbishop's room."

Neither of the witches objected. The dried-up one bent double was propped on a stick. The puffy faced one had now a crutch.

Byrne got up, walked to the door, and turning the key in the enormous lock put it coolly in his pocket. This was clearly the only entrance, and he did not mean to be taken unawares by whatever danger there might have been lurking outside. When he turned from the door he saw the two witches "affiliated to the Devil" and the Satanic girl looking at him in silence. He wondered if Tom Corbin took the same precaution last night. And thinking of him he had again that queer impression of his nearness. The world was perfectly dumb. And in this stillness he heard the blood beating in his ears with a confused rushing noise, in which there seemed to be a voice uttering the words: "Mr. Byrne, look out, sir." Tom's voice. He shuddered; for the delusions of the senses of hearing are the most vivid of all, and from their nature have a compelling character.

It seemed impossible that Tom should not be there. Again a slight chill as of stealthy draught penetrated through his very clothes and passed over all his body. He shook off the impression with an effort.

It was the girl who preceded him upstairs carrying an iron lamp from the naked flame of which ascended a thin thread of smoke. Her soiled white stockings were full of holes.

With the same quiet resolution with which he had locked the door below, Byrne threw open one after another the doors in the corridor. All the rooms were empty except for some nondescript lumber in one or two. And the girl seeing what he would be at stopped every time, raising the smoky light in each doorway patiently. Meantime she observed him with sustained attention. The last door of all she threw open herself.

"You sleep here, señor," she murmured in a voice light like a child's breath, offering him the lamp.

"Buenos noches, senorita," he said politely, taking it from her.

She didn't return the wish audibly, though her lips did move a little, while her gaze black like a starless night never for a moment wavered before him. He stepped in, and as he turned to close the door she was still there motionless and disturbing, with her voluptuous mouth and slanting eyes, with the expression of expectant sensual ferocity of a baffled cat. He hesitated for a moment, and in the dumb house he heard again the blood pulsating ponderously in his ears, while once more the illusion of Tom's voice speaking earnestly somewhere near by was specially terrifying, because this time he could not make out the words.

He slammed the door in the girl's face at last, leaving her in the dark; and he opened it again almost on the instant. Nobody. She had vanished without the slightest sound. He closed the door quickly and bolted it with two heavy bolts.

A profound mistrust possessed him suddenly. Why did the witches quarrel about letting him sleep here? And what meant that stare of the girl as if she wanted to impress his features for ever in her mind? His own nervousness alarmed him. He seemed to himself to be removed very far from mankind.

He examined his room. It was not very high, just high enough to take the bed which stood under an enormous baldaquin-like canopy from which fell heavy curtains at foot and head; a bed certainly worthy of an archbishop. There was a heavy table carved all round the edges, some arm-chairs of enormous weight like the spoils of a grandee's palace; a tall shallow wardrobe placed against the wall and with double doors. He tried them. Locked. A suspicion came into his mind, and he snatched the lamp to make a closer examination. No, it was not a disguised entrance. That heavy, tall piece of furniture stood clear of the wall by quite an inch. He glanced at the bolts of his room door. No! No one could get at him treacherously while he slept. But would he be able to sleep? he asked himself anxiously. If only he had Tom there— the trusty seaman who had fought at his right hand in a cutting out affair or two, and had always preached to him the necessity to take care of himself. "For it's no great trick," he used to say, "to get yourself killed in a hot fight. Any fool can do that. The proper pastime is to fight the Frenchies and then live to fight another day."

Byrne found it a hard matter not to fall into listening to the silence. Somehow he had the conviction that nothing would break it unless he heard again the haunting sound of Tom's voice. He had heard it twice before. Odd! And yet no wonder, he argued with himself reasonably, since he had been thinking of the man for over thirty hours continuously and, what's more, inconclusively. For his anxiety for Tom had never taken a definite shape. "Disappear," was the only word connected with the idea of Tom's danger. It was very vague and awful. "Disappear!" What did that mean?

Byrne shuddered, and then said to himself that he must be a little feverish. But Tom had not disappeared. Byrne had just heard of him. And again the young man felt the blood beating in his ears. He sat still expecting every moment to hear through the pulsating strokes the sound of Tom's voice. He waited straining his ears, but nothing came. Suddenly the thought occurred to him: "He has not disappeared, but he cannot make himself heard."

He jumped up from the arm-chair. How absurd! Laying his pistol and his hanger on the table he took off his boots and, feeling suddenly too tired to stand, flung himself on the bed which he found soft and comfortable beyond his hopes.

He had felt very wakeful, but he must have dozed off after all, because the next thing he knew he was sitting up in bed and trying to recollect what it was that Tom's voice had said. Oh! He remembered it now. It had said: "Mr. Byrne! Look out, sir!" A warning this. But against what?

He landed with one leap in the middle of the floor, gasped once, then looked all round the room. The window was shuttered and barred with an iron bar. Again he ran his eyes slowly all round the bare walls, and even looked up at the ceiling, which was rather high. Afterwards he went to the door to examine the fastenings. They consisted of two enormous iron bolts sliding into holes made in the wall; and as the corridor outside was too narrow to admit of any battering arrangement or even to permit an axe to be swung, nothing could burst the door open— unless gunpowder. But while he was still making sure that the lower bolt was pushed well home, he received the impression of somebody's presence in the room. It was so strong that he spun round quicker than lightning. There was no one. Who could there be? And yet…

It was then that he lost the decorum and restraint a man keeps up for his own sake. He got down on his hands and knees, with the lamp on the floor, to look under the bed, like a silly girl. He saw a lot of dust and nothing else. He got up, his cheeks burning, and walked about discontented with his own behaviour and unreasonably angry with Tom for not leaving him alone. The words: "Mr. Byrne! Look out, sir," kept on repeating themselves in his head in a tone of warning.

"Hadn't I better just throw myself on the bed and try to go to sleep," he asked himself. But his eyes fell on the tall wardrobe, and he went towards it feeling irritated with himself and yet unable to desist. How he could explain to-morrow the burglarious misdeed to the two odious witches he had no idea. Nevertheless he inserted the point of his hanger between the two halves of the door and tried to prize them open. They resisted. He swore, sticking now hotly to his purpose. His mutter: "I hope you will be satisfied, confound you," was addressed to the absent Tom. Just then the doors gave way and flew open.

He was there.

He— the trusty, sagacious, and courageous Tom was there, drawn up shadowy and stiff, in a prudent silence, which his wide-open eyes by their fixed gleam seemed to command Byrne to respect. But Byrne was too startled to make a sound. Amazed, he stepped back a little— and on the instant the seaman flung himself forward headlong as if to clasp his officer round the neck. Instinctively Byrne put out his faltering arms; he felt the horrible rigidity of the body and then the coldness of death as their heads knocked together and their faces came into contact. They reeled, Byrne hugging Tom close to his breast in order not to let him fall with a crash. He had just strength enough to lower the awful burden gently to the floor— then his head swam, his legs gave way, and he sank on his knees, leaning over the body with his hands resting on the breast of that man once full of generous life, and now as insensible as a stone.

"Dead! my poor Tom, dead," he repeated mentally. The light of the lamp standing near the edge of the table fell from above straight on the stony empty stare of these eyes which naturally had a mobile and merry expression.

Byrne turned his own away from them. Tom's black silk neckerchief was not knotted on his breast. It was gone. The murderers had also taken off his shoes and stockings. And noticing this spoliation, the exposed throat, the bare up-turned feet, Byrne felt his eyes run full of tears. In other respects the seaman was fully dressed; neither was his clothing disarranged as it must have been in a violent struggle. Only his checked shirt had been pulled a little out the waistband in one place, just enough to ascertain whether he had a money belt fastened round his body. Byrne began to sob into his handkerchief.

It was a nervous outburst which passed off quickly. Remaining on his knees he contemplated sadly the athletic body of as fine a seaman as ever had drawn a cutlass, laid a gun, or passed the weather earring in a gale, lying stiff and cold, his cheery, fearless spirit departed— perhaps turning to him, his boy chum, to his ship out there rolling on the grey seas off an iron-bound coast, at the very moment of its flight.

He perceived that the six brass buttons of Tom's jacket had been cut off. He shuddered at the notion of the two miserable and repulsive witches busying themselves ghoulishly about the defenceless body of his friend. Cut off. Perhaps with the same knife which … The head of one trembled; the other was bent double, and their eyes were red and bleared, their infamous claws unsteady…. It must have been in this very room too, for Tom could not have been killed in the open and brought in here afterwards. Of that Byrne was certain. Yet those devilish crones could not have killed him themselves even by taking him unawares— and Tom would be always on his guard of course. Tom was a very wide awake wary man when engaged on any service…. And in fact how did they murder him? Who did? In what way?

Byrne jumped up, snatched the lamp off the table, and stooped swiftly over the body. The light revealed on the clothing no stain, no trace, no spot of blood anywhere. Byrne's hands began to shake so that he had to set the lamp on the floor and turn away his head in order to recover from this agitation.

Then he began to explore that cold, still, and rigid body for a stab, a gunshot wound, for the trace of some killing blow. He felt all over the skull anxiously. It was whole. He slipped his hand under the neck. It was unbroken. With terrified eyes he peered close under the chin and saw no marks of strangulation on the throat.

There were no signs anywhere. He was just dead.

Impulsively Byrne got away from the body as if the mystery of an incomprehensible death had changed his pity into suspicion and dread. The lamp on the floor near the set, still face of the seaman showed it staring at the ceiling as if despairingly. In the circle of light Byrne saw by the undisturbed patches of thick dust on the floor that there had been no struggle in that room. "He has died outside," he thought. Yes, outside in that narrow corridor, where there was hardly room to turn, the mysterious death had come to his poor dear Tom. The impulse of snatching up his pistols and rushing out of the room abandoned Byrne suddenly. For Tom, too, had been armed— with just such powerless weapons as he himself possessed— pistols, a cutlass! And Tom had died a nameless death, by incomprehensible means.

A new thought came to Byrne. That stranger knocking at the door and fleeing so swiftly at his appearance had come there to remove the body. Aha! That was the guide the withered witch had promised would show the English officer the shortest way of rejoining his man. A promise, he saw it now, of dreadful import. He who had knocked would have two bodies to deal with. Man and officer would go forth from the house together. For Byrne was certain now that he would have to die before the morning— and in the same mysterious manner, leaving behind him an unmarked body.

The sight of a smashed head, of a throat cut, of a gaping gunshot wound, would have been an inexpressible relief. It would have soothed all his fears. His soul cried within him to that dead man whom he had never found wanting in danger. "Why don't you tell me what I am to look for, Tom? Why don't you?" But in rigid immobility, extended on his back, he seemed to preserve an austere silence, as if disdaining in the finality of his awful knowledge to hold converse with the living.

Suddenly Byrne flung himself on his knees by the side of the body, and dry-eyed, fierce, opened the shirt wide on the breast, as if to tear the secret forcibly from that cold heart which had been so loyal to him in life! Nothing! Nothing! He raised the lamp, and all the sign vouchsafed to him by that face which used to be so kindly in expression was a small bruise on the forehead— the least thing, a mere mark. The skin even was not broken. He stared at it a long time as if lost in a dreadful dream. Then he observed that Tom's hands were clenched as though he had fallen facing somebody in a fight with fists. His knuckles, on closer view, appeared somewhat abraded. Both hands.

The discovery of these slight signs was more appalling to Byrne than the absolute absence of every mark would have been. So Tom had died striking against something which could be hit, and yet could kill one without leaving a wound— by a breath.

Terror, hot terror, began to play about Byrne's heart like a tongue of flame that touches and withdraws before it turns a thing to ashes. He backed away from the body as far as he could, then came forward stealthily casting fearful glances to steal another look at the bruised forehead. There would perhaps be such a faint bruise on his own forehead— before the morning.

"I can't bear it," he whispered to himself. Tom was for him now an object of horror, a sight at once tempting and revolting to his fear. He couldn't bear to look at him.

At last, desperation getting the better of his increasing horror, he stepped forward from the wall against which he had been leaning, seized the corpse under the armpits, and began to lug it over to the bed. The bare heels of the seaman trailed on the floor noiselessly. He was heavy with the dead weight of inanimate objects. With a last effort Byrne landed him face downwards on the edge of the bed, rolled him over, snatched from under this stiff passive thing a sheet with which he covered it over. Then he spread the curtains at head and foot so that joining together as he shook their folds they hid the bed altogether from his sight.

He stumbled towards a chair, and fell on it. The perspiration poured from his face for a moment, and then his veins seemed to carry for a while a thin stream of half-frozen blood. Complete terror had possession of him now, a nameless terror which had turned his heart to ashes.

He sat upright in the straight-backed chair, the lamp burning at his feet, his pistols and his hanger at his left elbow on the end of the table, his eyes turning incessantly in their sockets round the walls, over the ceiling, over the floor, in the expectation of a mysterious and appalling vision. The thing which could deal death in a breath was outside that bolted door. But Byrne believed neither in walls nor bolts now. Unreasoning terror turning everything to account, his old time boyish admiration of the athletic Tom, the undaunted Tom (he had seemed to him invincible), helped to paralyse his faculties, added to his despair.

He was no longer Edgar Byrne. He was a tortured soul suffering more anguish than any sinner's body had ever suffered from rack or boot. The depth of his torment may be measured when I say that this young man, as brave at least as the average of his kind, contemplated seizing a pistol and firing into his own head. But a deadly, chilly, langour was spreading over his limbs. It was as if his flesh had been wet plaster stiffening slowly about his ribs. Presently, he thought, the two witches will be coming in, with crutch and stick— horrible, grotesque, monstrous— affiliated to the devil— to put a mark on his forehead, the tiny little bruise of death. And he wouldn't be able to do anything. Tom had struck out at something, but he was not like Tom. His limbs were dead already. He sat still, dying the death over and over again; and the only part of him which moved were his eyes, turning round and round in their sockets, running over the walls, the floor, the ceiling, again and again till suddenly they became motionless and stony— starting out of his head fixed in the direction of the bed.

He had seen the heavy curtains stir and shake as if the dead body they concealed had turned over and sat up. Byrne, who thought the world could hold no more terrors in store, felt his hair stir at the roots. He gripped the arms of the chair, his jaw fell, and the sweat broke out on his brow while his dry tongue clove suddenly to the roof of his mouth. Again the curtains stirred, but did not open. "Don't, Tom!" Byrne made effort to shout, but all he heard was a slight moan such as an uneasy sleeper may make. He felt that his brain was going, for, now, it seemed to him that the ceiling over the bed had moved, had slanted, and came level again— and once more the closed curtains swayed gently as if about to part.

Byrne closed his eyes not to see the awful apparition of the seaman's corpse coming out animated by an evil spirit. In the profound silence of the room he endured a moment of frightful agony, then opened his eyes again. And he saw at once that the curtains remained closed still, but that the ceiling over the bed had risen quite a foot. With the last gleam of reason left to him he understood that it was the enormous baldaquin over the bed which was coming down, while the curtains attached to it swayed softly, sinking gradually to the floor. His drooping jaw snapped to— and half rising in his chair he watched mutely the noiseless descent of the monstrous canopy. It came down in short smooth rushes till lowered half way or more, when it took a run and settled swiftly its turtle-back shape with the deep border piece fitting exactly the edge of the bedstead. A slight crack or two of wood were heard, and the overpowering stillness of the room resumed its sway.

Byrne stood up, gasped for breath, and let out a cry of rage and dismay, the first sound which he is perfectly certain did make its way past his lips on this night of terrors. This then was the death he had escaped! This was the devilish artifice of murder poor Tom's soul had perhaps tried from beyond the border to warn him of. For this was how he had died. Byrne was certain he had heard the voice of the seaman, faintly distinct in his familiar phrase, "Mr. Byrne! Look out, sir!" and again uttering words he could not make out. But then the distance separating the living from the dead is so great! Poor Tom had tried. Byrne ran to the bed and attempted to lift up, to push off the horrible lid smothering the body. It resisted his efforts, heavy as lead, immovable like a tombstone. The rage of vengeance made him desist; his head buzzed with chaotic thoughts of extermination, he turned round the room as if he could find neither his weapons nor the way out; and all the time he stammered awful menaces….

A violent battering at the door of the inn recalled him to his soberer senses. He flew to the window, pulled the shutters open, and looked out. In the faint dawn he saw below him a mob of men. Ha! He would go and face at once this murderous lot collected no doubt for his undoing. After his struggle with nameless terrors he yearned for an open fray with armed enemies. But he must have remained yet bereft of his reason, because forgetting his weapons he rushed downstairs with a wild cry, unbarred the door while blows were raining on it outside, and flinging it open flew with his bare hands at the throat of the first man he saw before him. They rolled over together. Byrne's hazy intention was to break through, to fly up the mountain path, and come back presently with Gonzales' men to exact an exemplary vengeance. He fought furiously till a tree, a house, a mountain, seemed to crash down upon his head— and he knew no more.

HERE Mr. Byrne describes in detail the skilful manner in which he found his broken head bandaged, informs us that he had lost a great deal of blood, and ascribes the preservation of his sanity to that circumstance. He sets down Gonzales' profuse apologies in full too. For it was Gonzales who, tired of waiting for news from the English, had come down to the inn with half his band, on his way to the sea. "His excellency," he explained, "rushed out with fierce impetuosity, and, moreover, was not known to us for a friend, and so we… etc., etc. When asked what had become of the witches, he only pointed his finger silently to the ground, then voiced calmly a moral reflection: "The passion for gold is pitiless in the very old, señor," he said. "No doubt in former days they have put many a solitary traveller to sleep in the archbishop's bed."

"There was also a gipsy girl there," said Byrne feebly from the improvised litter on which he was being carried to the coast by a squad of guerilleros.

"It was she who winched up that infernal machine, and it was she too who lowered it that night," was the answer.

"But why? Why?" exclaimed Byrne. "Why should she wish for my death?"

"No doubt for the sake of your excellency's coat buttons," said politely the saturnine Gonzales. "We found those of the dead mariner concealed on her person. But your excellency may rest assured that everything that is fitting has been done on this occasion."

Byrne asked no more questions. There was still another death which was considered by Gonzales as "fitting to the occasion." The one-eyed Bernardino stuck against the wall of his wine-shop received the charge of six escopettas into his breast. As the shots rang out the rough bier with Tom's body on it went past carried by a bandit-like gang of Spanish patriots down the ravine to the shore, where two boats from the ship were waiting for what was left on earth of her best seaman.

Mr. Byrne, very pale and weak, stepped into the boat which carried the body of his humble friend. For it was decided that Tom Corbin should rest far out in the bay of Biscay. The officer took the tiller and, turning his head for the last look at the shore, saw on the grey hillside something moving, which he made out to be a little man in a yellow hat mounted on a mule— that mule without which the fate of Tom Corbin would have remained mysterious for ever.

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Table of Contents

- 1: "At $32 Per" / Albert Payson Terhune

- 2: The Devil and the Deep Sea / Richard Dehan

- 3: John Charrington's Wedding / Edith Nesbit

- 4: The House in the Mist / Anna Katharine Green

- 5: The Luminous Shield / H. P. Blavatsky
- 6: More Than a Story / Lynn D. Follett
- 7: The Trodden Path / Mabel Quiller-Couch

- 8: Exhibit Number Two / Frederick Trevor Hill

- 9: "Napoleon the Scoundrel" / Pierre Mille
- 10: By Wireless / Fred M. White
- 11: My Terminal Moraine / Frank R. Stockton
- 12: The Tree of Heaven / Robert W. Chambers
- 13: Home for Christmas / Sumner Locke

- 14: Branch Line to Benceston / Andrew Caldecott

- 15: The Confession of Charles Linkworth / E. F. Benson

- 16: Soft Blows the Breeze From Hell / Arthur Leo Zagat

- 17: The Inn of the Two Witches / Joseph Conrad