Author: Ulric Daubeny
Date: 1919-01-01T05:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Horror; Supernatural; Mystery; Short Fiction
Description: This collection stands out for its original ideas and well-crafted stories. Daubeny creates a haunting atmosphere of subtle horror, with occasional humor and clever wordplay. He makes use of a few traditional tropes: there are out of body experiences, time shifts, possession, witches, and supernatural vengeance; there are images of the dead, cursed objects, and traditional hauntings. This collection of 15 stories includes “The Sumach”, Daubeny’s cult-classic tale of botanical vampirism. “The Elemental” is rather Lovecraftian in its use of physical horror wrought by an unknown invasive supernat
Publisher: MobileRead.com
Rights: Public domain where copyright is “Life+70”

THE  ELEMENTAL

TALES OF
THE SUPERNORMAL
AND
THE INEXPLICABLE

MobileRead Edition
2025

This collection stands out for its original ideas and well-crafted stories. Daubeny creates a haunting atmosphere of subtle horror, with occasional humor and clever wordplay. He makes use of a few traditional tropes: there are out of body experiences, time shifts, possession, witches, and supernatural vengeance; there are images of the dead, cursed objects, and traditional hauntings.

This collection of 15 stories includes “The Sumach”, Daubeny’s cult-classic tale of botanical vampirism. “The Elemental” is rather Lovecraftian in its use of physical horror wrought by an unknown invasive supernatural force. Other notable stories include “The People of the Hidden Room,” about a self-returning cabinet; “Matheson’s Mummy”, an Egyptian relic engineering a return to its homeland; “The Serpent”, a strange haunted musical instrument. The book is suitable for readers who do not insist on dripping grue and gore in their horror tales.

Ulric Daubeny (1888-1922) was a British scholar of church architecture and of woodwind instruments; publishing texts on both topics. In 1919 he published The Elemental, his only volume of fiction.

The Elemental was originally published in 1919. This book is in the public domain worldwide, because the author died more than 100 years ago, and it was published prior to 1929.

CONTENTS:

- The Elemental
- The Garden that Was Desolate
- The Sumach
- Winds of Memory
- The Hand of Glory
- Matheson’s Mummy
- “H.F.”
- The Bronze Devil
- The People of the Hidden Room
- The Apostate
- A Lasting Legacy
- The Other Occupant
- As It Was Written
- Scarlet Poppies
- The Serpent

THE ELEMENTAL

In publishing these extracts from the Diary of Mr. Murcheson, until recently a prominent figure in athletic circles, a brief introduction may not be considered out of place.

Murcheson was an athlete not only born, but also very scientifically trained. While differing from the type that develops blood and bone at the expense of brain, it must be admitted that his mental endeavours were directed solely towards the quest of physical perfection. The doctrine of “Fitness” was with him almost a religion; indeed, he states as his unalterable belief, that “A purity of body must necessarily imply a purity of mind and soul.”

Upright of principle, irreproachable in his private life, it follows as a natural sequence that his habits should have conformed equally to the Spartan: not only was every hour of his day rigidly mapped, but also of the night, which was spent in the garden of his peaceful home near Newnham, on the banks of the river Severn.

For such a man to plunge suddenly into the most unspeakable excesses, and in the space of a few weeks to bring himself to physical and moral wreckage, should in justice be ascribed to mental derangement, rather than to inherent vice. This, I regret to note, has not been done, and out of pity for the dead, I offer the following pages to the consideration of those who presume to judge him.

Only such portions of the Diary as seem to bear upon the strange delusions have been transcribed. Much is, of necessity omitted, especially towards the end, but in places it is possible to read between the lines, and perhaps those who yet so cruelly vilify his memory may develop in their hearts some measure of forgiveness, even if forgetfulness is still withheld.

THE DIARY

March 7th. —

The tide was unusually high again last night. I awoke about one o’clock, with the same sensation of uneasiness that has come to me so frequently of late. This time it was less indefinite: a feeling of excitement vaguely apprehensive, of expectancy, of waiting – such a feeling as might be supposed to herald some terrific demonstration on the part of Nature.

Of course, it is easily explained. An extraordinary natural phenomenon was even then in progress, the great Tidal Wave of Severn, the Bore. (a tidal river wave in the River Severn Estuary)

I could hear it approaching in the distance, a dull, crescendo hiss, like the rushing of a mighty wind. To me it is no new experience, not even when viewed by the uncertain starlight, for I have lived by it, slept by it in this very garden for nearly fifteen years; yet last night it stirred me strangely, and sent the blood pumping feverishly through my veins.

Sleep became impossible, so slipping into rubber boots and a heavy overcoat, I left the shelter, and made my way to the end of the garden, where a low wall and a shelving bank alone separated me from the sinuous eddyings of the river. The wind was eloquent of the storm-swept Bristol Channel, and in close pursuit hurried the muddy tide, shot up with incredible velocity by the occurrence of two “bottleneck” contractions in the estuary, one at Sharpness, and the other above the treacherous Noose Sands, a mile or so below this house. A moment longer, and with a deafening roar the solid mass of water, towering half a fathom above the river, hove into view, its curving edge one endless wave of churning, slightly phosphorescent foam. Accompanying it came a shock of air, dank with chill and brine, and then another, and yet another seething layer, each one raising the tidal level nearer and nearer to my wall.

In the very middle of the turmoil, a most extraordinary notion took possession of me. Either I was dreaming, or the incessant swirling of the waters must have dazed my eyes, for I fancied that on the crest of the tide there rode a shadowy form, just faintly luminous, like some spirit of the secret ocean-depths, whereon unknown monsters glide in shapeless and horrible obscenity. Swiftly forward it was borne upon the water, until it came level with the garden wall; then, although the tide went racing by, it paused, and I believed that this Thing, sensate and malignant, was gazing at me!

God! I cannot recollect what really happened, but it seemed as if the phantom began to move across the rushing waves, making a bee-line in my direction…. I turned, and ran with all my speed towards the shelter, banging and bolting the door behind me, and slamming down the flimsy window. My terror gradually passed when I had slipped between the blankets, but my limbs continued to quake with damp and cold, and dawn was approaching before I felt inclined to sleep.

March 9th. —

The weather has been less rough these last two nights, but I am still troubled by disturbing dreams. Never before. during all these years, has the change of tide, or rather the occurrence of the Bore, so affected me – for it is invariably about that time these dreams, or rather waking nightmares, occur. A week ago, I dismissed them without a thought; later, though increasingly vivid and alarming, I steadfastly ignored them; now – last night it was horrible. In my dreams I seemed menaced by some vague yet awful danger, and in great distress I started up from sleep, only to hear the retreating echoes of the Bore, as it followed its relentless passage towards Gloucester. A moment or two of wakefulness and, as normally happens, the sense of uneasiness began to pass, but last night there came an unexpected change, for suddenly my fears returned with a renewed intensity.

No doubt climatic conditions were responsible for this extraordinary development, for the atmosphere turned chillier, and the sea air, in pungent gusts, came wafted through the open window. Then the blankets and sheets grew heavy, as if weighed down with damp, and finally, stricken rigid by my growing sense of horror, I seemed to be covered by an icy, slimy Something, that felt like shifting mud…. Disgust and fear at last gave energy to my limbs, for I somehow scrambled out of bed, and after much fumbling around managed to obtain a light. By moving restlessly about my shelter for a while, the clammy suggestiveness of the sea grew less, and in proportion my presence of mind returned. Then once more I went to bed, and slept soundly until dawn.

March 10th. Thank goodness for a full night’s rest, almost altogether free from dreams. Until quite recently I seldom dreamt, and I cannot recall a single instance of a frightening nightmare; so I hope that the spell at last is broken, and henceforth my nights are undisturbed.

Yesterday evening promising to be unusually boisterous, I decided to remain indoors. There have been years when I could sleep out all the Winter, but it must be unusually damp and cold just now – for at forty-four, I can hardly believe that I am suffering from approaching age! However, I shall sleep indoors for a while, in any case until the Spring gales and the “Palm Tides” have passed.

March 13th. —

Either my nerves are going to pieces, or – but I am obviously too much in training to be suffering from any physical complaint. Somehow I have felt disinclined to confide even in my Diary the last two days, buoyed by the hope that my troubles were about to disappear; but instead, the dreams, or whatever they may be, grow more vivid, seeming to develop, too, on reasonably progressive lines.

My first night spent indoors was practically undisturbed, but on the second I started up from some quite ghastly dream, to hear the Bore retreating in the distance. Then followed a recurrence, perhaps a thought less vivid, of my last waking nightmare in the shelter.

In the early hours of this morning the order of affairs was again repeated, but with details clearer, and the whole horror of the experience much intensified. My first few hours of sleep had been disturbed by the foreboding of a Something, inexpressibly, dangerous and malignant, which was striving to encompass me. When I awoke, it was to find the sheets and blankets cold and sodden, and the stench of seaweed, rather of sea creatures, strong within my nostrils. For some time I lay unable to shift hand or foot, while every moment the bedclothes became more clammy and oppressive, until at length they seemed imbued with a kind of movement, and I fancied myself lying beneath a layer of shifting, writhing jelly. Gradually, inch by inch, the glutinous horror spread, until it was level with my mouth and nose. In agonising gasps I fought for breath, and then, just as my lungs were almost bursting, I made a superhuman effort, dragging myself clear of the stifling embrace. Once out of bed, I immediately felt better, but even as I coaxed a flame into the wick of the spluttering candle, the clammy dampness struck against my feet, and with flaccid movements commenced to mount my shins. Letting drop the candle, I staggered blindly to the door, and then downstairs, where I found a fire still burning in the smoking-room, so piling it up to the very chimney, I stayed there for the remainder of the night.

Can it be that the climate of Newnham is turning against me, after fifteen years? Foggy and damp it often is, but I have heard nobody complain, and this morning my bedding was quite dry, as I noticed on returning to my room to shave. Perhaps a change would do me good, for I have felt decidedly off colour the last few mornings, although my appetite is, if anything, healthier than usual.

March 14th. —

I have slept in the smoking-room, and feel more easy for the quieter night. Yesterday was foggy and depressing: something of the nightmare horror seemed to have entered into me, and when bedtime came, I was so reluctant to quit the cheerful smoking-room that I decided to sit up for an extra hour. Naturally my head began to nod, and when consciousness returned, the clock told me that it was early morning. The air felt chill, for the fire was burning low, and although there was with me that clammy sensation which I have grown almost to expect on waking, yet I was aware of very little discomfort, and practically no alarm.

Presently, the Something that seemed to fold my body in its grasp began to slip from me like a garment, first leaving free my shoulders, then subsiding to the level of my knees, then to my feet, until it had disappeared, and with it the brackish odour of the sea. My hand shook, as I plied the tongs, and poked the fire into a blaze, but it was with curiosity and suppressed excitement rather than with fear.

I feel somewhat relaxed this morning, but as hungry as a hunter: this despite the fact that a similar gnawing sensation shortly before dawn embarked me on a foraging expedition, which resulted in an al fresco meal of sardines and cold chicken.

March 15th. —

I have been the witness of an extraordinary occurrence, the memory of which fills me with disquietude, and a vague sense of dread. Strange to relate, at the time of happening, my feelings were merely those of intense interest, interest tinged with ironical amusement….

Being more cheerful after my night spent in the smoking-room, I decided to sleep there again, ensconced, with a dressing-gown and bedroom slippers, in the big armchair. Teedles, the cat, had been particularly friendly all the evening, and my latest memory was a picture of him, coiled up comfortably upon my lap.

Something was approaching, something was about to happen – that was the burden of my dreams, but they could not have been of long duration, for when I awoke the fire was still piled high, and burning brightly.

Apparently the cat disturbed me, for although still asleep upon my lap, he was twitching and grumbling uneasily. Almost at once I became aware of a strong and dreadful smell, a smell which has become familiar, and yet tonight seemed more distinct than ever before: pungent, beast-like, indescribably suggestive of some ocean cavern, dank and thick with slime of living creatures…. Then there approached the usual, clammy moistness, creeping and ebbing ever nearer, until it struck with a sudden shock against my feet and coiled itself sinuously about my ankles. Teedles now commenced crying in his sleep, digging his claws deep in to my dressing-gown, and twitching with uneasy violence. Suddenly he started up, ears flattened and every hair erect. I thought he intended to throw himself off my lap, but instead, with a choking snarl, he recoiled heavily backwards and in mad terror scrambled to my shoulder, and jumped on to the ground behind the chair. I heard the crash of the blind, as he shot out of the window, but after that my memory is uncertain. Perhaps I fell asleep for a while, but later I remember feeling very hungry, and after foraging in the larder, returned triumphantly with a beef-steak pie.

I feel tired today, doubtless owing to the disturbances of the night. Meanwhile, I must not allow my mind to dwell too freely upon what can be nothing more than empty dreams.

March 20th. Little to report as to my health – meaning, of course, nightmares. I still sleep in the smoking-room, and the dreams recur, but it has become a case of “Familiarity breeds Contempt”, for they no longer trouble me – save in the daytime, when their memory strikes me cold, and frightens my thoughts into different channels. My only physical symptom is a gradual loss of weight, and this although I am eating more than usual, and invariably wake up ravenous, in the early morning. Indeed, I have given instructions for a little food to be placed in the smoking-room at night: sardines, cold chicken, and such-like to begin with, but once there was nothing in the house but a couple of uncooked chops, so I determined to toast those myself, before the fire. Since then I have fancied only chops or steaks. After all, it is red meat that feeds, and satisfies the appetite…. The very thought of it makes me feel hungry. Yet – Good heavens! What talk for one who, a short while back, was almost a vegetarian!

March 25th. My capacity for eating is extraordinary, particularly at night. I have bought a grid, so that when I awake in the early morning, I can cook my steak over the smoking-room fire, and eat it piping hot. At first I warmed potato, or ate a little bread, but it seemed to choke me, so now I take my meat alone. A pound, a pound-and-a-half, last night it was two pounds, and not a scrap left! Still I continue to lose weight. It is almost unbelievable, and when I think of these things in my calmer moments, it is with nameless misgivings, and an awful fear. What is this that I feel is about to happen? What Thing can it be that comes in the silent hours of the night, and takes possession of me, forcing me to its foul will….

March 26th. —

I slammed together the pages of my Diary unblotted yesterday, vowing never to write there more. Vain questionings and rackings of the memory could lead but in one direction – or so it seemed to me – that of the lunatic asylum. Today my spirits are more buoyant, excited – almost cheerful, except for isolated moments of most gloomy blackness, when I dare not permit my thoughts to stray.

What decided me to return to my Diary, is the extraordinarily interesting experience of last night – an experience which, I feel, marks, not only the end, but also the beginning of a phase.

I slept as usual in the smoking-room armchair, and towards morning awoke with the sensation of almost furious hunger which has become normal to me at such an hour. I sat dallying for some moments in joyful anticipation of my meal, when suddenly there came, from the darkest corner of the room, a hasty scuffling, followed by a piercing squeak. As I turned to look, Teedles came stalking into the zone of firelight, a live mouse dangling from his jaws.

Normally the spectacle would have filled me with repulsion, and I should have tried my best to rescue, or at least to put an end to the sufferings of the unhappy mouse. But last night it was different. I watched spellbound, prompted by a curious sympathy, almost a kinship with the feelings and the very nature of the cat. How glorious a sensation, to catch one’s food alive, to feel it struggling impotently between one’s jaws, to toy with it and torture it until the appetite grew keen, finally to kill it, the hot, living blood spurting upwards between one’s teeth…. Suddenly the blood-lust left me, and horror took its place, for as surely as I pen these words, I believe that my eyes could see a shapeless Something materialize at my very feet, and glide, like a vague, slightly phosphorescent shadow, across the room towards the cat. Teedles, in the act of cracking the mouse between his teeth, saw, or rather felt, for he wheeled swiftly round, and with a gasp of terror, let fall his twitching prey. Almost palsied by his fear, he shot across the room, and scrambled to the top of a high bookcase.

After that I have none too clear a recollection, but my horror presently deserted me, and once more there came a ravening hunger, together with a wild, unholy lust…. The cat’s lithe body fascinated me. I gloated on the sinuous ripple of the flesh beneath the skin. Trembling with excitement, I rose from my chair, and stealthily moved across the room, but the cat jumped down, and dodged at my approach. Then followed a wild scrambling and rushing in which chairs were sent flying and tables overturned…. Once I actually caught the brute, scratching and tearing horribly, but even as I crouched above him, he managed to wriggle free, and with a desperate spring, tore his way up one of the curtains, and jumped through the top of the window.

As I watched him disappear, my excitement and my hunger passed, and gasping painfully for breath, I regained the armchair, and sank back into a dreamless sleep.

March 27th. —

Teedles, I hear, has not been near the house for two whole days. This afternoon, when walking in the shrubbery, he caught sight of me, but instead of cantering gaily forward, the poor brute fled as if in terror of his life. Merciful Heaven, what kind of a devil can I be becoming, that even my pet animals are afraid?

Yesterday, and again today, I have been troubled by my teeth, a dull aching in both the upper and the lower jaws. It is particularly uncomfortable when eating, and perhaps that is why I was so hungry, when I awoke in the early hours of this morning. My spirits were unusually high, almost jovial in fact, for although I felt encompassed by the usual clammy Something, yet it was less incommoding, less consciously present – as if I were becoming used to It, and It to me.

For several minutes I sat gazing at the uncooked steak, which was placed on its table near the fire, and the more I gazed, the more distasteful grew the anticipated smell and taste of roasting meat…. There was a loathsome mess when I awoke at six o’clock, luckily before the servants were about. The carpet was disarranged, and covered with dark stains, as if some wild beast had been worrying its prey there. Shreds and fragments of raw meat were scattered broadcast. After clearing away the debris, I repaired to the bathroom, to have a wash. My own reflection in the mirror gave me a ghastly turn: all around my mouth and cheeks were hideous stains, like those upon a butcher’s hands….

God! Even as I wrote, an acute spasm of pain about my jaws drew me hastily to the glass. Do my eyes deceive me, or can it indeed be true? My teeth somehow appear longer, more prominent – sharper, especially the canines. When I close my jaws, the lips are noticeably parted, giving me a wolfish look….

April 10th. —

In London. A confidant of some kind man must have, and perhaps that is why I come back once more to write in my old Diary. When this gruesome complaint has left me, I shall be able to read over the details, to diagnose my symptoms, and to reassure my frightened memory that I was not really mad.

A fortnight must have elapsed since I came to London, driven from home by the questioning looks of servants; driven also by the nameless Something which possesses me, and which calls for freedom, and untrammelled opportunity to do that which I have not the power to resist. The days, and especially the nights have passed as if in some dreadful dream, with occasional lucid intervals following upon a temporary physical collapse. Now, weaker than I have ever felt before, I seem to have earned a brief period of rest. My mind is still in turmoil: partial memories come and in a flash are gone, while ever before me are the blurred reflections of most hideous deeds, the very nature of which it were impossible to confide to paper. Somewhere in the depths of London I have been in company with devils, surpassing all in my abominations, and making a name which must surely stink for as long as memory shall last.

There is one incident which, with ever increasing vividness, returns to me. I believe that the agony which I saw graven on that girl’s innocent, tortured face will always be before my eyes, sleeping or awake…. Also her degradation serves to mark an epoch: a revelation of the extraordinary powers I possess, not merely over people who in themselves are prone to evil, but over the innocents, those childish, half-developed minds which, above all others, I have found susceptible to vile suggestion.

The incident in question occurred one evening while lounging in the Berlin restaurant, a place of resort which has been particularly useful to me as a stepping-off place for my nightly adventures. From the first, the fish tank was my great attraction, to stand by it watching the bestial faces of the diners – though now, and in all normal moments, the very memory of it fills me with a sense of indescribable pollution and disgust.

Briefly, the staging of the scene is this. In a kind of antechamber to the dining-hall there stands a huge glass tank, full of crystal water, in which swim gleaming fish; this is set about with palms and rustic seats, after the manner of some beautiful aquarium. Here the would-be diner pauses, and by way of stimulating a surfeited appetite, may examine through the glass, and choose a trout, which the attendant adroitly catches in a little net. Within ten minutes the fish is served, crisp and frizzling on a plate – as bestial, and degrading a form of savagery as ever emanated from Prussian mind.

Here, one evening, in ignorance of the foreign beastliness that lay about them, came a young Englishman, just entering upon manhood, and on his arm a girl, obviously his fiancée, very young, very shy, probably straight from some quiet country village.

She gazed upon the brilliant scene in wonder and delight, the great glass fish pond naturally calling for particular attention.

“Madame vill chooce her feesh?” invited the attendant, with a leering glance.

Not understanding, she turned questioningly to her companion, who paused uneasily, as 1f he would not have her linger.

“Madame vould like?”

“What does he mean, Harold?”

“Oh, come away, Letty! Some beastly foreign trick.”

“But what is it?” she insisted, obstinately.

I was standing by the tank – and here let me say, that what I did was opposed to my most ardent wishes – the desire came to me, to bend her will to mine.

“Madame vill chooce her feesh – for de grill?”

As I concentrated on her, I felt the devil enter, and saw her innocent blue eyes turn cruel and narrow. A moment’s hesitation, and she pointed eagerly at a splendid trout, heedless of her companion’s plucking hand.

“That! That one! Catch it for me quickly – quickly!”

As it happened, the attendant, a bloated German brute, experienced unusual difficulty in securing that particular fish. It darted hither and thither about the tank, and for several seconds succeeded in avoiding the fatal net. All the while the face of the girl grew more intense, more cruel, more bestial, until at length the fish was drawn out of the aquarium, scattering drops of water in its efforts to be free. One step, two, and the girl had plunged her hand into the net, and drawn forth the wriggling fish.

That much could I make her do, but nothing further, for the thread seemed to grow weak and snap, while for a moment she gazed with growing horror at that which she held struggling in her hand. Then, with a piteous cry, her grasp relaxed, and she staggered backwards into her companion’s arms, unconscious.

Devil as I then was, the debasement of this good, pure girl pleased me beyond anything I had ever experienced…. Poor young people, a terrible memory that must ever be between them! And Heaven look with pity upon my soul, for this awful discovery of power but served as a cue for further abominations, at the recollection of which my memory reels….

April 16th. —

Weary almost unto death, I have managed to escape from London. Three days ago I arrived home, a scarcely recognisable shadow of my former self: eleven-stone-two, and my normal weight is nearer thirteen-seven! Good God! It strikes me cold to think of it! And as for appetite, gluttonous and depraved – but I dare not recall those awful memories. Sufficient to thank heaven for several peaceful nights, and a decent moderation after food: yet, every day a slight recovery of weight.

Never before have I experienced a serious illness, and now comes this paradox: the weaker, the more unwell my body, the healthier I feel in mind! My personal religion has always been based upon this favourite teaching: A purity of body must necessarily imply a purity of mind and soul, yet it almost seems as if my body had been suffering from an excess of health, or had prospered at the expense of what is me, my personal identity…. But the thought is too abstruse. My mind has never been trained to deal with such subtle problems. Plain common sense tells me to make my body pure and fit, and my mind will doubtless follow suit.

April 21st. —

Felt so marvellously refreshed two mornings since, that I decided to try my wind, hounds being fixed to meet at Little Dean. Carpenter drove me over, and I followed on foot for about three miles, but was then absolutely at my last gasp, left behind at the entrance to a wood. Three weary miles – and many a time I have kept ahead of the best of them on a ten mile run! I pulled up beneath a gigantic oak, utterly blown, and heart thudding like a printing-press.

Presently there came the sound of a distant tally-ho, and after a little while Reynard (the fox) broke cover from the wood, closely followed by the pack. He made straight for my tree, and being hard pressed, somehow managed to jump and claw his way up the gnarled old trunk, and so into the upper branches. I had the sense to run, and a moment later, the hounds were swarming round the tree, tearing and scratching at the bark, and making ineffectual springs in the direction of their quarry.

Jove, I’ve never seen such a sight! I felt myself growing clammy with impatience and excitement. Almost immediately the Master, a more than ordinarily brutal type, hastened forward, swearing horribly, and ordered the huntsman to climb the tree. None too pleased at the task, the man scrambled warily into the hollow trunk, but he need not have feared, for the fox retreated hurriedly at his approach. Finally the wretched brute was driven along a spreading branch, near the extremity of which he crouched whimpering, the frenzied pack yelping and screaming immediately beneath.

“Shoo him down! Shoo the – – – down, damn you!” roared the Master, furious at the delay.

“Can’t get at him, Sir,” the man answered nervously. “The branch won’t bear my weight.”

With a furious imprecation, the Master spurred forward, bringing his horse on to its haunches with a brutal jerk. He raised himself high upon the stirrups, and making a slip-knot in his crop, lassoed Reynard, and held him out, kicking and struggling above the seething pack. Then he laughed, a devil’s laugh, a laugh which seemed to stir some awful Beast within me. I met his glance, and recognised the blood-lust in his eyes. I edged nearer, eagerly bending forward in a greedy anticipation of the final act – the scream of terror, the struggling, worried mass, the smoking carcase….

When I recovered consciousness, it was to find myself in a neighbouring farm house, a doctor standing near, making arrangements for my removal home. They said I had suddenly fallen senseless…. And now I dare not even pray to Heaven, I who was amongst those hounds, the strongest, fiercest, the most savage of them all: screaming wildly for my prey, tearing at the pungent fur, madly lusting after the taste of the living entrails….

April 22nd. —

Yesterday I could write no more. The memory was too much for me. At first it turned me sick, but later my feelings changed, and in imagination I lived through the whole bloody scene once more…. I am very ill and weak today, but somehow my outlook upon things is brighter, and more hopeful.

God! But what an idiot is the average medical practitioner! A pill or an operation, the alternative panacea for every ailment! Bishop, a decent fellow in his way, listened with a scarcely tolerant smile as I tried to tell him a little about my malady, about my dreams. He told me to – put out my tongue, and promised he would send some tablets!

Last night there came a recurrence of the nightmare, but differing from the original type. I have felt intolerably restless towards tide ebb lately, starting up from sleep as if someone called, and I seem to hear the sucking noise of the wavelets in my very room. Then I cling in terror to the bed, to anything I can lay my hands on, rather than allow the black, oily waters to drag me down. It is a horrible sensation, but last night I awoke before that stage, feeling that I should like to take an airing in the garden.

Partially dressing, I went out, and sat for several minutes on the wall, watching the swiftly running current. There was a curious phosphorescence somewhere in the river, but it was difficult to locate, for the receding tide each moment wafted it farther from me. Straining my eyes, I gazed and gazed, and – suddenly found myself up to the waist in water. The shock recovered me at once, and I managed to drag myself clear of the sucking mud, and so, shivering and panting to my bedroom.

I cannot help thinking that my restlessness is due to lack of air. I never did feel anything but stifled when sleeping in a room, and as the repainting of my shelter is now completed, I shall move out there tomorrow night.

April 25th. —

Petersham to see me this morning. Formerly he was my friend, but I find him to have become sodden in ridiculous superstition, and a believer in the laughable quackery of spiritualism. I was fool enough to tell him something of my dreams and fancies. My God! I have never seen a man so frightened. He fairly whimpered!

Presently he began to mutter something about malignant spirits – Elementals, I believe he called them – that in certain cases have been known to take possession of human beings – usually those of splendid physique, but childish and uncultivated in mind. All hope is then forever at an end. The Spirit saps the very life, by reason of its fearful and degrading orgies, until nothing remains but a sinking into the black and bottomless Hereafter….

Madman that he must be, to believe such stuff! Fool! Fool! I hate fools who talk damned rot like that…!

•   •   •   •   •

Here the Diary ends. The concluding sentences are written in a nervous, hasty hand, the pen, as in a frenzy of indignation, dug deep into the paper.

The morning afterwards, Mr. Murcheson was missing from his shelter. His slippers were found embedded in the sticky Severn mud, but there was no trace of his body. It must have been carried out to sea, by the receding tide.

THE GARDEN
THAT WAS DESOLATE

The country to the south of Birdlip, a Cotswold eyrie close on Roman Ermine Street, is, if scarcely wild, at least bleak, austere, and sparsely populated. It is a region of prehistoric burial mounds, of straggling British trackways, of Roman roads, Norman churches, ancient farm buildings, ruinous cottages; a dry-wall country, sharply undulating, its bleak downs relieved by occasional secretive woods of larch or beech. In striking contrast is the Cotswold “Edge”, a precipitous drop of several hundred feet into the fertile Severn Valley, where a kaleidoscopic vista of irregularly shaped and parti-coloured fields spreads out in a level tract, for a distance of some thirty miles. Close to Birdlip, the high-road skirts this “edge”, and there, for the space – of several minutes, Philip Cranham lingered, watching the play of sunlight over the jagged chine of Malvern, pale and beautiful in the shimmering distance.

“What a position for a house!” he mused, turning reluctantly, and continuing at a brisk walk, for the air on these heights is chilly, even towards the end of June. His way bore to the south-west, in the direction of the forgotten town of Painswick, which was to be the last stage of his tour.

A lover of the unconventional in walking, Philip deserted the usual high road through the woods, striking across a strip of common, and over several fields, until he met a narrow lane, which promised to lead him in the right direction. Deeply rutted by former traffic, it was long since grass-grown, scattered with mossy boulders, and enclosed on either side by a straggling bramble hedge. A veritable picture of desolation, thought Philip, glancing uneasily at the approaching heavy clouds, for the tremulous mutter of thunder had assailed his ears, and he looked in vain for a place of shelter. This was an upper rampart of the Cotswolds, a ridge bleak and desolate, set apart from all things hospitable, where there was no course but to throw one’s weight against the wind, and face the threatened downpour. The lane, overgrown and serrulated, continued for some distance until, quite unexpectedly, the hedge was succeeded by a wall, dry-built as is the custom of the district, and strengthened by a massive cornice. Philip marvelled at its height, for it stood at least twelve feet; it looked to be of recent building, and still retained that bright, cream colour, peculiar to the local limestone, when freshly dug. Near the middle, the wall was broken by a gateway, flanked by massive pillars, on which hung double doors, palpably amateurish in construction. One of these had been unhooked, and dragged into the enclosure, where an elderly man was busy strengthening it with pieces of rough timber.

“Afternoon!” he volunteered, after a nervous scrutiny of Philip, who had come to a halt before the gateway. “Going to have a storm!”

He needed to be no prophet, for already great, bloated drops of rain were falling, heralded by a resounding clap of thunder. Philip cast an apprehensive glance skywards, and commenced to unstrap his mackintosh.

“Yes. We are in for it,” he agreed, with the pointed addition, “Unpleasantly exposed, up here. Not even a decently thick hedge to shelter under!”

There was a noticeable hesitation before the stranger answered, and when he did, it was with a certain shy reluctance.

“Come inside. You can shelter in my room, until the rain stops.”

Philip required no second bidding. Half-a-dozen steps, and he was viewing an extensive garden, consisting first of a rough lawn, backed by currant and gooseberry bushes, young fruit trees, a yew hedge industriously trimmed, and then divers beds and footpaths, disappearing over the sloping hillside. Signs of any habitable building, there were none.

“Come along!” enjoined the stranger, advancing hastily across the spacious lawn. “I live over there, in the look-out post.”

For the first time, Philip noticed, built against and forming part of the left-hand boundary wall, a kind of miniature watch-tower, with pyramidal stone roof, terminated by a central chimney. A flight of steps led them to the doorway, for the place was built upon a mound, with floor-level half way up, and sloping roof considerably above the wall. Within there was a single room, possibly twelve feet square, having a fireplace in one corner, a narrow window cut through the outer wall, and another, a very large one, facing down the garden, and over the lovely Vale of Severn.

“What a glorious view!” exclaimed Philip, despite himself.

“Damned view! Damned view! Wish I had never set eyes upon it!”

Philip turned in open mouthed astonishment, but his companion paid no heed, though he continued in a quieter tone.

“I am a slave to that view. I can sit, and look at it for hours. I worship it – yet all the while I hate it…! Like to hear the story of all this?”

With rather an abandoned gesture, he swept his hand about, to indicate the tiny house, the garden, and the towering outer walls.

“I should like to know why there are immensely high walls on three sides – or rather, two, for the third is incomplete – and yet—”

“To keep out undesirables, my dear Sir; to keep out undesirables!” interrupted the stranger, with uncontrolled impatience. “The walls and the tall gates, which I am busy strengthening.”

“But – excuse me,” continued Philip, obstinately bent on satisfying his curiosity, “the third wall, as I say, is but partially built, while no barrier of any kind protects the bottom of the garden!”

A long silence ensued, broken only by the drumming of the rain upon the unceiled roof, and an occasional echoing burst of thunder. Philip lounged thoughtfully near the open window, while his companion stood irresolute, chewing at his moustache, and with close-knit brows, as if striving to recapture some elusive or forgotten memory. Presently his expression cleared, and as quickly changed to one of crafty eagerness.

“Come, come, Sir. Come, come! You cannot expect everything, all at once! Do you know, every stone of those walls – yes, even of this house – I built myself?”

Philip nodded encouragingly. At times the man seemed sane enough, and yet he was decidedly peculiar.

“The reason for all this,” he continued, repeating the gesture which embraced the whole of the surroundings, and ended with the larger window. “The reason of it all, is that. The view. More than seven years ago, I camped here, while on a holiday from London. After all the noise and smoke and racket, this place seemed like Paradise; and the view – I simply could not tear myself away! It ended in my purchasing the land, for I had determined to erect a house here. There was some trouble with a woman, who held part as an allotment, and claimed the place as hers, but she could produce no legal title, so the lawyer and I bundled her out, between us. Vindictive old harridan, she was…”

•   •   •   •   •

He ceased abruptly, creeping across to the rickety door, which he slowly opened, and after a stealthy glance around, closed, with an exclamation of relief. Philip watched narrowly. The manner was so ridiculously furtive as to point without a doubt to lunacy; it was becoming distinctly creepy, this sheltering from a thunderstorm, in the cottage of a maniac!

“Where was I?” the man resumed, seating himself by the empty fireplace. “What? Ah, yes! I had determined, as you say, to build a house here. Seven years ago, it was, this very day, that half-a-dozen labourers commenced to turn the sods, for the foundations. A month later I was all alone. Nobody would work for me, though I had men up from Stroud, Gloucester, Cheltenham, finally from London. Will you credit me, when I tell you that the beastly old hag who claimed the place had frightened ’em all away? I admit that there were several distressing accidents. The first day, a man was bitten by an adder, and another crushed beneath a heavy stone-cart. The Cheltenham foreman tripped up in a rabbit hole, and broke a leg, and his successor suddenly went mad, but – Fools! Idiots! They actually believed the crude tales of the country folk, who said that the ranting old woman was a witch! They took to their heels, and ran, the dirty cowards!”

“What happened after that?”

“They left me, to build the house as best I might; and build it, I swore I would, in face of Beelzebub! Witch or no witch, she did not frighten me, though often enough she came and threatened; yes, cursed and threatened…. So I started right away, to build the highest wall I could, to keep her out!”

“Has it taken seven years to do all this?”

“Yes. I could only build at intervals, for the garden had to be planted, and I practically live on its contents. In two years’ time, I hope to have the defensive walls completed, and then the ill-omened old faggot will be shut out from my property forever!”

“But, pardon me once more,” insisted Philip, bent on settling the question of the stranger’s sanity, “Why did you not run up a medium wall all round, sufficient to exclude unwelcome visitors, and then raise and strengthen it at your leisure?”

The recluse made no reply. Instead, he sprang towards the door, tore it open, and halted on the threshold, quivering with rage. Facing him was a wizened, bent old woman, clad in an assortment of dirty rags, leaning heavily upon a stick. Her face was stained and wrinkled like a winter walnut, and inexpressibly malignant was the look that shot from beneath the overhanging eyebrows.

“What is it, you old devil?” choked the man, his voice pitched high in apprehension. “Why do you stand gibbering at me like that?”

She made no immediate answer, but pointing a skinny talon, uttered a husky chuckle.

“Ha, ha! Ralf Cook! What did I tell ’ee? What did I tell ’ee, these seven years agone?”

“Stand back there. Stand back. Don’t you dare to molest me, woman!”

“Why don’t ye answer, Ralf Cook? Is it that ye are afeard, or can it be that ye don’t remember? Seven years I gev thee; seven years. I said, and then Are ye leavin’, Ralf Cook, leavin’ here this very day?”

“No. you old fool! You won’t frighten me by your threats and curses. I bought this land, and paid for it, and – by glory! – I mean to stay here, in face of you or anybody!”

“Then, Ralf Cook, by all the Powers—”

Her arms were raised in vehement imprecation, but before the words could leave her lips, the man had dealt her a smashing blow across the face. She swayed helplessly for a moment, and then staggered backwards, falling heavily to the ground. A sudden vivid flash of lightning transfixed the two men, but as the echoes of the thunder died away, Philip pushed through the open doorway, and bounded down the steps. One glance was sufficient to convince him that the old woman’s neck was broken. Awe stricken by the sight, he looked back, to meet a pair of fiend’s eyes, madman’s eyes – homicidal maniac’s eyes. Then blank, unreasoning panic overtook him; he fled blindly, in his terror taking what appeared to be a different route across the garden. Here the grass grew rank, a yew hedge was pitifully unkempt, the fruit trees were old and straggling, the pathway all but indistinguishable. At last the boundary wall: but it was stained by the flight of many winters, and near a crumbling gateway lay one wooden door, rotting amid the weeds, while the other hung perilously upon its rusted hinges. When at last he checked his pace, Philip found himself in the grass-grown lane, and on looking back, felt relieved that the walls of the accursed garden were no longer visible.

With the memory so fresh upon him, Philip’s judgement lost its normal balance. To witness, perhaps in some measure to be a mute accomplice in the murder of an old woman by a maniac, might well upset the strongest nerves, and he could not forget that his own life must have hung in fearful jeopardy. So alarming was the thought of giving evidence in the witness-box, that by the time Philip had reached Painswick, he was fully determined to say no word to the police. Instead, he gave himself to headlong flight, catching the late motor bus to Stroud, and the evening train to London. Months went by, but although he kept in anxious touch with local news, no hint came that the murder had been detected. At times Philip suffered considerable pangs of conscience, and on more than one occasion he was on the point of going to the police, only to be deterred by the anticipation of considerable official censure, for so long concealing knowledge of the crime. Later, his engagement, and then the happiness of marriage put a period to further vain recriminations, but the memory of that awful afternoon, a secret even from his wife, was seldom from him.

Two years passed before he again set foot in Cotswold, this time with his wife and sister, viewing the romantic beauty of the district from a comfortable motor. It had been entirely Philip’s proposition, this re-visiting of scenes with which he had been familiar since his youth, and if the suggestion had not entirely sprung from sentiment, the other reason was such that he refused to admit it, even to himself.

It fell out that they stayed a while at Painswick, and then it was that Philip, throwing further self-deception to the winds, determined to satisfy his pent-up curiosity. Explaining that he wished to make enquiries of an old acquaintance, they one day motored over, approaching the garden from the direction by which he had so precipitately left it. A passable road led past the entrance to the grass-grown lane, and there, near a cottage, they drew up. Philip, in a happy moment of inspiration, crossed to the cottage, with a view to making some discreet enquiries.

A typical Cotswold woman answered to his knock, tanned and healthy, but prematurely grey.

“Good afternoon,” he greeted her. “Can you tell me anything about the house – that is, the garden up the lane? Mr. Ralf Cook, I think, was the owner’s name,” he added, seeing that the woman preserved a stolid silence.

“I’ll ask father to come,” she answered, regarding him with questioning eyes. “Will you step inside, Sir?”

Philip followed into the neatly furnished parlour, and was presently joined by a corduroyed rustic, very old and lame.

“Ralf Cook?” repeated the latter, on becoming acquainted with the business. “Yes, zur, I can tell ’ee zurnmat about he, to be zure I can. Ralf Cook, o’ Cook’s Folly, we called un; ay, and fule he were right ’nough, when he tried to be upsides o’ Mother Gaskin! ’Twere a bad day for he when he went up theere, zur, an’ no mistake, not but what I allus said as how—”

“Is the building complete?” ventured Philip, breaking in upon the old fellow’s ponderous garrulity. “Are the walls finished?”

“Nowe, o’ coourse not. She seed to that, bless ye! Why, I can yet mind the day, zur, when he began a-buildin. Six men he brought wi’ un, and what o’ that? One were crushed beneath a waggin, ’nother broke his leg, the foreman—”

“Yes. Yes. I know about that. What I really wanted to ask was, of Mr. Cook himself. Is he still living there?”

The old man glared at Philip in open-mouthed astonishment.

“Still theere?” he at last gasped. “Lor’ sakes, an’ he old ’nough to be my own feyther when he came, mor’n forty years back!”

“What do you mean? Forty years! Mr. Cook told me that he had been there about seven.”

“He – he towld you?”

“Yes. Don’t you understand? I was here the summer before last, and had a long conversation with him.”

Instead of making a direct reply, the old man shuffled to the door, and called his daughter. His voice was distinctly tremulous, when he began to question her.

“Polly. Can ye mind the time when Ralf Cook were a-livin’ up at the Folly?”

“Why, no, father,” she replied, obviously puzzled. “You know, I wasn’t born then. Not till several years later.”

“Ah, ye be thirty-vour, now, b’ain’t ye? This here gen’leman – but no matter, Polly. Ye can run along!”

Left alone, the two men regarded each other in moody silence.

“What became of him?” asked Philip presently.

“Hung ’isself – leastways so ’twere said, but people do hold as how Mother Gaskin did it vur un. She allus was a rum un, was Mother Gaskin. Folks don’t rightly know what became o’ her, though some vows she went off a-ridin’ upon her broomstick, and got took up inter the moon. O’ course that b’ain’t rightly possible, leastways, not to my way o’ thinkin’.”

There was no more to be learnt, so Philip, curiously unconvinced, hurried back towards the motor. This was empty, and realizing that the girls had wandered off alone, he decided to seize the opportunity, and put an end to further doubt by private personal investigation. Accordingly he set off up the lane, ruminating all the while on the extraordinary tales he had just heard. Could the old man have been weak-witted, and was he backed up by his daughter merely to preserve appearances before a stranger? It seemed quite probable, more probable than that he must disbelieve the evidence of his own senses. Yes, of course. how could he have doubted! There, ahead of him, stood the garden wall, bright and new looking, and the massive, dry-built gateway, with one door still unhooked! A few steps more, and he had come to a standstill before the familiar entrance.

“Afternoon!” greeted an elderly man, who was at work mending the dismantled gate with pieces of odd timber. “Going to have a storm!”

A heavy echo of thunder came, as if to confirm his supposition, and then the rain began to fall, in isolated, swollen drops.

“Yes, we are in for it!” Philip found himself repeating, as a person in a dream.

“Unpleasantly exposed up here. Not even—”

Then he was running, racing madly away from the accursed spot. Horror in its most primitive form pursued him, and he fled until, soaked with perspiration and painfully short of breath, he found himself clambering on board the waiting motor. Presently his wife and sister came into view, approaching from the entrance to the grass-grown lane. Both were somewhat breathless, and a trifle pale.

“Oh, Philip!” the former panted, as soon as they had reached the motor. “We’ve found such a horrid place! Joyce suggested walking up that lane, just to see where it led, and we came across a kind of deserted garden, surrounded by enormous walls. They looked old and dilapidated, and there was a tumble-down gateway Oh, all so sad and dreary. Everything inside was wild, and overgrown, and there was a curious little house, built against the wall, which looked as if it had not been touched for years.

“Suddenly, as we were wandering around, we both had an impression that somebody was watching us. I don’t know why, but it quite gave us the horrors, and we simply had to run – What is the matter, dear? You look quite ill!”

“Oh, nothing. Perhaps the thunder. It was quite a heavy clap.”

“When? We heard nothing! Have you seen your friend?”

“Yes – No, I mean. He has left this neighbourhood. Shall we be making a move homewards?”

THE SUMACH

“How red that Sumach is!”

Irene Barton murmured something commonplace, for to her the tree brought painful recollections. Her visitor, unconscious of this fact, proceeded to elaborate.

“Do you know, Irene, that tree gives me the creeps! I can’t explain, except that it is not a nice tree, not a good tree. For instance, why should its leaves be red in August, when they are not supposed to turn until October?”

“What queer ideas you have, May! The tree is right enough, although its significance to me is sad. Poor Spot, you know; we buried him beneath it two days ago. Come and see his grave.”

The two women left the terrace, where this conversation had been taking place, and leisurely strolled across the lawn, at the end of which, in almost startling isolation, grew the Sumach. At least, Mrs. Watcombe, who evinced so great an interest in the tree, questioned whether it actually was a Sumach, for the foliage was unusual, and the branches gnarled and twisted beyond recognition. Just now, the leaves were stained with splashes of dull crimson, but rather than droop, they had a bloated appearance, as if the luxuriance of the growth were not altogether healthy.

For several moments they stood regarding the pathetic little grave, and the silence was only broken when Mrs. Watcombe darted beneath the tree, and came back with something in her hand.

“Irene, look at this dead thrush. Poor little thing! Such splendid plumage, yet it hardly weighs a sugar plum!”

Mrs. Barton regarded it with wrinkled brows.

“I cannot understand what happens to the birds, May – unless someone lays poison. We continually find them dead about the garden, and usually beneath, or very near this tree.”

It is doubtful whether Mrs. Watcombe listened. Her attention seemed to wander that morning, and she was studying the twisted branches of the Sumach with a thoughtful scrutiny.

“Curious that the leaves should turn at this time of year,” she murmured. “It brings to mind poor Geraldine’s illness. This tree had an extraordinary fascination for her, you know. It was quite scarlet then, yet that was only June, and it had barely finished shooting.”

“My dear May! You have red leaves on the brain this morning!” Irene retorted, uncertain whether to be irritated or amused. “I can’t think why you are so concerned about the colour. It is only the result of two days’ excessive heat, for scarcely a leaf was touched, when I buried poor old Spot.”

The conversation seemed absurdly trivial, yet, Mrs. Watcombe gone, Irene could not keep her mind from dwelling on her cousin’s fatal illness. The news had reached them with the shock of the absolutely unexpected. Poor Geraldine, who had always been so strong, to have fallen victim to acute anaemia! It was almost unbelievable, that heart failure should have put an an end to her sweet young life, after a few days’ ailing. Of course, the sad event had wrought a wonderful change for Irene and her husband, giving them, in place of a cramped suburban villa, this beautiful country home, Cleeve Grange. Everything for her was filled with the delight of novelty, for she had ruled as mistress over the charmed abode for only one short week. Hilary, her husband, was yet a stranger to the more intimate of its attractions, being detained in London by the winding-up of business affairs.

Several days elapsed, for the most part given solely to the keen pleasure of arranging and rearranging the new home. As time went by, the crimson splashes on the Sumach faded, the leaves becoming green again, though drooping as if from want of moisture. Irene noticed this when she paid her daily visits to the pathetic little dog grave, trying to induce flowers to take root upon it, but do what she might, they invariably faded. Nothing, not even grass, would grow beneath the Sumach. Only death seemed to thrive there, she mused in a fleeting moment of depression, as she searched around for more dead birds. But none had fallen since the thrush, picked up by Mrs. Watcombe.

One evening, the heat inside the house becoming insupportable, Irene wandered into the garden, her steps mechanically leading her to the little grave beneath the Sumach. In the uncertain moonlight, the twisted trunk and branches of the old tree were suggestive of a rustic seat, and feeling tired, she lifted herself into the natural bower, and lolled back, joyously inhaling the cool night air. Presently she dropped asleep, and in a curiously vivid manner, dreamt of Hilary; that he had completed his business in London, and was coming home. They met at evening, near the garden gate, and Hilary spread wide his arms, and eagerly folded them about her. Swiftly the dream began to change, assuming the characteristic of a nightmare. The sky grew strangely dark, the arms fiercely masterful, while the face which bent to kiss her neck was not that of her young husband: it was leering, wicked, gnarled like the trunk of some weather-beaten tree. Chilled with horror, Irene fought long and desperately against the vision, to be at last awakened by her own frightened whimpering. Yet returning consciousness did not immediately dissipate the nightmare. In imagination she was still held rigid by brutal arms, and it was only after a blind, half-waking struggle that she freed herself, and went speeding across the lawn, towards the lighted doorway.

Next morning Mrs. Watcombe called, and subjected her to a puzzled scrutiny.

“How pale you look Irene. Do you feel ill?”

“Ill! No, only a little languid. I find this hot weather very trying.”

Mrs. Watcombe studied her with care, for the pallor of Irene’s face was very marked. In contrast, a vivid spot of red showed on the slender neck, an inch or so below the ear. Intuitively a hand went up, as Irene turned to her friend in explanation.

“It feels so sore. I think I must have grazed the skin, last night, while sitting in the Sumach.”

“Sitting in the Sumach!” echoed Mrs. Watcombe in surprise. “How curious you should do that. Poor Geraldine used to do the same, just before she was taken ill, and yet at the last she was seized with a perfect horror of the tree. Goodness, but it is quite red again, this morning!”

Irene swung round in the direction of the tree, filled with a vague repugnance. Sure enough, the leaves no longer drooped, nor were they green. They had become flecked once more with crimson, and the growth had quite regained its former vigour.

“Eugh!” she breathed, hurriedly turning towards the house. “It reminds me of a horrid nightmare. I have rather a head this morning; let’s go in, and talk of something else!”

As the day advanced, the heat grew more oppressive, and night brought with it a curious stillness, the stillness which so often presages a heavy thunderstorm. No bird had offered up its evening hymn, no breeze came sufficient to stir a single leaf: everything was pervaded by the silence of expectancy.

The interval between dinner and bedtime is always a dreary one for those accustomed to companionship, and left all alone, Irene’s restlessness momentarily increased. First the ceiling, then the very atmosphere seemed to weigh heavy upon her head. Although windows and doors were all flung wide, the airlessness of the house grew less and less endurable, until from sheer desperation she made her escape into the garden, where a sudden illumination of the horizon gave warning of the approaching storm. Feeling somewhat at a loss, she roamed aimlessly awhile, pausing sometimes to catch the echoes of distant thunder, until at last she found herself standing over Spot’s desolate little grave. The sight struck her with a sense of utter loneliness, and the tears sprang to her eyes, in poignant longing for the companionship of her faithful pet.

Moved by she knew not what, Irene swung herself into the comfortable branches of the old Sumach, and soothed by the reposeful attitude, her head soon began to nod in slumber. Afterwards it was a doubtful memory whether she actually did sleep, or whether the whole experience was not a kind of waking nightmare. Something of the previous evening’s dream returned to her, but this time with added horror; for it commenced with no pleasurable vision of her husband. Instead, relentless, stick-like arms immediately closed in upon her, their vice-like grip so tight that she could scarcely breathe. Down darted the awful head, rugged and lined by every sin, darting at the fair, white neck as a wild beast on its prey. The foul lips began to eat into her skin.… She struggled desperately, madly, for to her swooning senses the very branches of the tree became endowed with active life, coiling unmercifully around her, tenaciously clinging to her limbs, and tearing at her dress. Pain at last spurred her to an heroic effort, the pain of something – perhaps a twig – digging deep into her unprotected neck. With a choking cry she freed herself, and nerved by a sudden burst of thunder, ran tottering towards the shelter of the house.

Having gained the cozy lounge-hall, Irene sank into an armchair, gasping hysterically for breath. Gusts of refreshing wind came through the open windows, but although the atmosphere rapidly grew less stagnant, an hour passed before she could make sufficient effort to crawl upstairs to bed. In her room, a further shock awaited her. The bloodless, drawn face reflected in the mirror was scarcely recognizable. The eyes lacked lustre, the lips were white, the skin hung flabby on the shrunken flesh, giving it a look of premature old age. A tiny trickle of dry blood, the solitary smudge of colour, stained the chalky pallor of her neck. Taking up a hand-glass, she examined this with momentary concern. It was the old wound reopened, an angry-looking sore, almost like the bite of some small, or very sharp-toothed animal. It smarted painfully.…

Mrs. Watcombe, bursting into the breakfast room next morning, with suggestions of an expedition to the neighbouring town, was shocked at Irene’s looks, and insisted on going at once to fetch the doctor. Mrs. Watcombe fussed continually throughout the interview, and insisted on an examination of the scar upon Irene’s neck. Patient and doctor had regarded this as a negligible detail, but finally the latter subjected it to a slightly puzzled scrutiny, advising that it should be kept bandaged. He suggested that Irene was suffering from anaemia, and would do well to keep as quiet as possible, building up her strength with food, open windows and a general selection of pills and tonics. But despite these comforting arrangements, no one was entirely satisfied. The doctor lacked something in assurance, Irene was certain that she could not really be anaemic, while Mrs. Watcombe was obsessed by inward misgivings, perfectly indefinable, yet none the less disturbing. She left the house as a woman bent under a load of care. Passing up the lane, her glance lighted on the old Sumach, more crimson now, more flourishing in its growth than she had seen it since the time of Geraldine’s fatal illness.

“I loathe that horrid old tree!” she murmured, then added, struck by a nameless premonition, “Her husband ought to know. I shall wire to him at once.”

Irene, womanlike, put to use her enforced idleness, by instituting a rearrangement of the box-room, the only part of her new home which yet remained unexplored. Among the odds and ends of the rubbish to be thrown away, there was a little notebook, apparently unused. In idle curiosity, Irene picked it up, and was surprised to learn, from an inscription, that her cousin Geraldine had intended to use it as a diary. A date appeared – only a few days prior to the poor girl’s death – but no entries had been made, though the first two pages of the book had certainly been removed. As Irene put it down, there fluttered to the ground a torn scrap of writing. She stooped, and continued stooping, breathlessly staring at the words that had been written by her cousin’s hand – Sumach fascinates me—

In some unaccountable manner this applied to her. It was obvious what tree was meant, the old Sumach at the end of the lawn; and it fascinated her, Irene, though not until that moment had she openly recognized the fact. Searching hurriedly through the notebook, she discovered, near the end, a heap of torn paper, evidently the first two pages of a diary. She turned the pieces in eager haste. Most of them bore no more than one short word, or portions of a longer one, but a few bigger fragments proved more enlightening, and filled with nervous apprehension, she carried the book to her escritoire, and spent the remainder of the afternoon in trying to piece together the torn-up pages.

Meanwhile, Mrs. Watcombe was worrying and fretting over Irene’s unexpected illness. Her pallor, her listlessness, even the curious mark upon her neck, gave cause for positive alarm, so exactly did they correspond with symptoms exhibited by her cousin Geraldine, during the few days prior to her death. She wished that the village doctor, who had attended the earlier case, would return soon from his holiday, as his locum tenens (substitute) seemed sadly wanting in that authoritative decision which is so consoling to patients, relatives, and friends. Feeling, as an old friend, responsible for the welfare of Irene, she wired to Hilary, telling him of the sudden illness, and advising him to return without delay.

The urgency of the telegram alarmed him, so much so that he left London by the next train, arriving at Cleeve Grange shortly after dark.

“Where is your mistress?” was his first inquiry, as the maid met him in the hall.

“Upstairs, Sir. She complained of feeling tired, and said she would go to bed.”

He hurried to her room, only to find it empty. He called, he rang for the servants; in a moment the whole house was astir, yet nowhere was Irene to be found. Deeming it possible that she might have gone to see Mrs. Watcombe, Hilary was about to follow, when that lady herself was ushered in.

“I saw the lights of your cab@” she commenced, cutting short the sentence, as she met his questioning glance.

“Where is Irene?”

“Irene? My dear Hilary, is she not here?”

“No. We can’t find her anywhere. I thought she might have been with you.”

For the space of half a second, Mrs. Watcombe’s face presented a picture of astonishment; then the expression changed to one of dismayed concern.

“She is in that tree! I’m certain of it! Hilary, we must fetch her in at once!”

Completely at a loss to understand, he followed the excited woman into the garden, stumbling blindly in her wake across the lawn. The darkness was intense, and a terrific wind beat them back as if with living hands. Irene’s white dress at length became discernible, dimly thrown up against the pitchy background, and obscured in places by the twists and coils of the old Sumach. Between them they grasped the sleeping body, but the branches swung wildly in the gale, and to Hilary’s confused imagination it was as if they had literally to tear it from the tree’s embrace. At last they regained the shelter of the house, and laid their inanimate burden upon the sofa. She was quite unconscious, pale as death, and her face painfully contorted, as if with fear. The old wound on the neck, now bereft of bandages, had been reopened, and was wet with blood.

Hilary rushed off to fetch the doctor, while Mrs. Watcombe and the servants carried Irene to her room. Several hours passed before she recovered consciousness, and during that time Hilary was gently but firmly excluded from the sickroom. Bewildered and disconsolate, he wandered restlessly about the house, until his attention was arrested by the unusual array of torn-up bits of paper on Irene’s desk. He saw that she had been sorting out the pieces, and sticking them together as the sentences became complete. The work was barely half finished, yet what there was to read, struck him as exceedingly strange:

The seat in the old Sumach fascinates me. I find myself going back to it unconsciously, nay, even against my will. Oh, but the nightmare visions it always brings me! In them I seem to plumb the very depths of terror. Their memory preys upon my mind, and every day my strength grows less.

Dr H. speaks of anaemia.…

That was as far as Irene had proceeded. Hardly knowing why he did so, Hilary resolved to complete the task, but the chill of early morning was in the air before it was finished. Cramped and stiff, he was pushing back his chair when a footstep sounded in the doorway, and Mrs. Watcombe entered.

“Irene is better,” she volunteered immediately. “She is sleeping naturally, and Doctor Thomson says there is no longer any immediate danger. The poor child is terribly weak and bloodless.”

“May – tell me – what is the meaning of all this? Why has Irene suddenly become so ill? I can’t understand it!”

Mrs. Watcombe’s face was preternaturally grave.

“Even the doctor admits that he is puzzled,” she answered very quietly. “The symptoms all point to a sudden and excessive loss of blood, though in cases of acute anaemia@”

“God! But – not like Geraldine? I can’t believe it!”

“Neither can I. Oh, Hilary, you may think me mad, but I can’t help feeling that there is some unknown, some awful influence at work. Irene was perfectly well three days ago, and it was the same with Geraldine before she was taken ill. The cases are so exactly similar

Irene was trying to tell me something about a diary, but the poor girl was too exhausted to make herself properly understood.”

“Diary? Geraldine’s diary, do you think? She must mean that. I have just finished piecing it together, but frankly, I can’t make head or tail of it!”

Mrs. Watcombe rapidly scanned the writing, then studied it again with greater care. Finally she read the second part aloud.

“Listen, Hilary! This seems to me important.”

Dr H. speaks of anaemia. Pray heaven, he may be correct, for my thoughts sometimes move in a direction which foreshadows nothing short of lunacy – or so people would tell me, if I could bring myself to confide these things. I must fight alone, clinging to the knowledge that it is usual for anaemic persons to be obsessed by unhealthy fancies. If only I had not read those horribly suggestive words in Barrett …

“Barrett? What can she mean, May?”

“Wait a moment. Barrett? Barrett’s Traditions of the County, perhaps. I have noticed a copy in the library. Let us go there; it may give the clue!”

The book was quickly found, and a marker indicated the passage to which Geraldine apparently referred.

At Cleeve, I was reminded of another of those traditions, so rapidly disappearing before the spread of education. It concerned the old belief in vampires, spirits of the evil dead, who by night, could assume a human form, and scour the countryside in search of victims. Suspected vampires, if caught, were buried with the mouth stuffed full of garlic, and a stake plunged through the heart, whereby they were rendered harmless, or, at least, confined to that one particular locality.

Some thirty years ago, an old man pointed out a tree which was said to have grown from such a stake. So far as I can recollect, it was an unusual variety of Sumach, and had been enclosed during a recent extension to the garden of the old Grange …

“Come outside,” said Mrs. Watcombe, breaking a long and solemn silence. “I want you to see that tree.”

The sky was suffused with the blush of early dawn, and the shrubs, the flowers, even the dew upon the grass caught and reflected something of the pink effulgence. The Sumach alone stood out, dark and menacing. During the night its leaves had become a hideous, mottled purple; its growth was oily, bloated, unnaturally vigorous, like that of some rank and poisonous weed.

Mrs. Watcombe, looking from afar, spoke in frightened, husky tones.

“See, Hilary! It was exactly like that when – when Geraldine died!”

•   •   •   •   •

When evening fell, the end of the lawn was strangely bare. In place of the old tree, there lay an enormous heap of smouldering embers – enormous, because the Sumach had been too sodden with dark and sticky sap, to burn without the assistance of large quantities of other timber.

Many weeks elapsed before Irene was sufficiently recovered to walk as far as Spot’s little grave. She was surprised to find it almost hidden in a bed of garlic.

Hilary explained that it was the only plant they could induce to grow there.

WINDS OF MEMORY

“My dear, we really must have a draught-excluder fitted to the study door,” remarked my grandmother, drawing a woollen shawl more firmly about her shoulders.

“Try another chair, Granny!” I suggested, a trifle carelessly, for old ladies, however lovable in themselves, are sometimes a little tedious, by reason of their whims and fancies.

“Have you not noticed, Bob dear, that during the few days we have been here, I have tried all the chairs?” she replied, in that slow, almost quizzing manner which always makes me feel as if thirty years had fallen from my age. “The draught is everywhere, and it comes from underneath that door; so I think it would be wise to get one of those patent boards – they are so much less unsightly than a sand bag!”

Of course I agreed to observe her wishes, though certain that the draught was merely the outcome of imagination; for old people always vow the sun is losing power, and the winds are keener than of yore, quite forgetful that the trouble lies in their own thin blood and weakened circulation.

The study opening off the lounge-hall was a dreary little room, if furnished not for beauty, then much less for comfort – in fact, strangely out of keeping with a “bijou residence”, let by the week at three-and-a-half guineas! Its one window had remained shut since the commencement of our stay, and the grate being fitted with a gas stove precluded the likelihood of much air passing up or down the chimney. Nevertheless, next morning, when in town, I bought a patent draught board, an elaborate affair with layers of thick felt, and fitted it to the study door before evening. My grandmother surveyed the work with marked approval, but although it gave me pleasure to see her satisfied, the thought that age was laying its icy hand upon her made me sad.

Of course my diagnosis proved correct, and things turned out exactly as I had expected. Evening advanced, and my grandmother grew more restless, edging her chair nearer to the fire, and twisting it this way and that, as if to make a shield of its high back. For some while, I pretended not to notice, but the sight of apprehensive glances at the study door, followed by spasmodic twitchings of her shawl, at length moved me to speak, and risk offending.

“What is it, Granny?” I enquired of her. “Still feel a draught?”

“Yes, Bobby. I hoped the board would stop it, but, if anything, it seems worse than last night. Dear me, it is so cold!”

“I hope you have not caught a chill,” I blurted, unable to conceal the full extent of my anxiety.

“No, dear, of course not; nothing of the kind ” She broke off, racked by a sudden fit of coughing. “It is merely the – the draught. I suppose, like most things in these modern houses, the door fits badly – Oh, Bobby! Whatever was that noise?”

She jerked upright, head turned enquiringly towards the study. Not the faintest sound had come to my own ears, and I crossed to her chair in anxious haste.

“Dear Granny, I heard nothing! Are you feeling ill—?”

“S-sh! There is someone in there, Bob. Didn’t you hear? – Like something falling – and then a groan!”

The poor old soul was well nigh breathless, and all a-quiver with alarm. Her condition caused me great uneasiness, for never had I known dear, old Granny to behave like this, imagining first draughts, and then – noises.

To convince her there was no reason for alarm, I went to the study, threw open the door, and switched on the electric light. Naturally it was empty, the window closed, and not a thing out of its accustomed place. My grandmother came forward, and hovered on the threshold, gazing somewhat blankly about the room. Her eyes looked tired, and her face more than usually lined and drawn, so it came as a relief when she soon afterwards announced her intention of going upstairs to bed.

As I feared would be the case, the poor old lady felt too unwell to leave her room next morning. She complained of lassitude, and a sense of chill that had been with her since the evening, but the indisposition was not sufficiently marked to require the services of a doctor. Nevertheless, it was an anxious day for me, and determining that she should run no further risk from draughts, either imaginary or real, I wedged the study window, plugged the chimney of the stove, and fastened rubber edging around the door, so that, with the addition of the patent draught board, the room to all intents and purposes was rendered airtight.

Half way through the evening, I went upstairs, to find out if my grandmother had everything she needed for the night. A shaded lamp was burning in her bedroom, so I opened the door softly, and tiptoed towards the bed, in case she should be dozing. Apparently she was, for there came to my ears an uneasy muttering, and standing by the bedside, I distinctly caught the words, spoken in an apprehensive whisper—

“Listen! Listen to the wind – how it screams and rushes! Dreadful! Dreadful! It is like a hurricane!”

Then she started violently in her sleep, gave a gasp of fear or horror, and commenced to moan, repeating all the while some words, low and difficult to catch, though this seemed to be their purport—

“Poor soul – Oh, poor, innocent young soul!”

I leant forward with an anxious exclamation, and my movement roused her from the dream. On opening her eyes, she blinked a puzzled enquiry of me, and after a moment spoke in quite her usual voice.

“That you, Bobby? I – I thought for a moment we were sitting in the lounge. It was such a horrid dream.”

She broke off, drawing the clothes to her chin, and shivering as if with cold. Undecided about sending for the doctor, I persuaded her to try her temperature, but it proved to be at normal, and as she now declared herself quite warm and comfortable, perforce, after some little hesitation, I left her for the night.

By next morning, my grandmother had succeeded to her usual health and spirits: on going to her bedroom to enquire, I found her dressed, and ready to go downstairs. Later in the day, she thanked me for my additional efforts in the study, an examination of the various arrangements having convinced her that she could not possibly be annoyed by further draughts.

It promised to be a stormy night, and a boisterous wind was already battering at the rear portions of the house. Thanks to my preparations, the study door and window were proof against a gale, and on that account I felt relieved, otherwise, had either been at all ill-fitting, there might in actual fact have been a draught. Imagine, therefore, my surprise, and even greater concern when, towards the middle of the evening, my grandmother once again commenced to fidget, drawing her chair close up to the fire, and looking reproachfully towards the study.

“I cannot understand it, Bobby,” she murmured querulously. “For all your trouble, the draught is really worse than ever – such a bitter air it is, tonight!”

To my astonishment, I too became conscious of a rapid drop in temperature, though the sensation was more suggestive of proximity to coldness, than of actual draught. It occurred to me, that the servants might have been cleaning in
the study, and left the window open, but on going to investigate, everything was as it had been left, though the room itself felt curiously chilly.

During the next quarter of an hour, we remained in silence, my grandmother hunched up, with her woollen jacket and a shawl; but presently the cold became so marked, that I got up, and threw more coals upon the fire. An unmistakable current of air now swept the room, presumably coming from the study, though this was difficult to credit, considering the perfection of the draught excluders, and other contrivances. Hardly had I seated myself, than my grandmother started, as if she had heard a noise, and turned a curious, half-frightened glance in the direction of the study.

“What a dreadful wind, Bob!” she breathed uneasily. “And that noise – did something blow against the window in there?”

I looked at her stupidly, believing she was once again the victim of delusion, but something occurred to check the expostulation which trembled on my lips: a sound was rapidly becoming audible to my own less keen perceptions. It commenced quite low, as a train approaching in the distance, but by degrees increasing to a deep, whistling roar, more like a storm gust tearing through the sails and rigging of a ship. My grandmother rose unsteadily to her feet, blanched and shivering, and personally I was conscious of a breath-bereaving torrent of cold air, which beat upon my face and head, causing the scalp to tingle, and each hair to feel as if endowed with individual movement. We both stood motionless, waiting for what would happen, and staring amazedly in the direction of the study wherein seemed to lie the centre of the disturbance. The noise grew ever shriller, ever more terrifying and intense, and the wave of icy air more wild and rushing. Suddenly there came a fearful crash, as if some mighty tree had fallen to the earth, each branch smashing to a thousand splinters. Then, almost immediately, we heard an awful, long-drawn groan….

I scarcely recollect the sequence of what afterwards happened. My grandmother, swaying unsteadily for a moment, went down face forward in a chair, while I staggered to the study door, pushing against it with my concentrated strength – for guessing that the window had collapsed, I anticipated battling with the gale in all its fury. Without encountering the least resistance, the door swung violently open, coming into noisy contact with the corner of a table, and rebounding against me, as I stumbled into the middle of the room. Quickly recovering, I switched on the electric light. Not a breath was stirring in the room. The window was intact, the walls, the pictures – everything remained exactly as before, save that the atmosphere felt warmer. There was not visible the slightest disarrangement, by which could be explained the wind, the crash, or the concluding groan. Still shuddering at memory of that final despairing sound, I was startled by a realistic echo from the lounge hall. My heart leapt, for the mystification and bewilderment had caused me to forget poor grandmother, who to the best of my belief had fallen unconscious in her chair. She rose unsteadily as I hurried to her assistance, and clutched in apprehensive terror at my arm.

“Bobby, Bobby, could you see him?” she gasped, trembling so violently that she scarce could form her words. “Did you see him when you went into the study?”

“See whom, dear?” I replied, making an effort to be calm. “There was no one in there. The room was absolutely empty!”

She regarded me in such a manner as to make me apprehensive for the balance of her brain.

“He was there, Bobby, lying dead upon the floor. I – I could feel it. I could—”

The poor old lady swayed, and tottered forward, clutching blindly at my coat, as I saved her in the act of falling. Two minutes later she was being attended by her maid, while I ran wildly through the night, to fetch the doctor.

An hour passed, before she recovered consciousness, and almost two had sped their weary course by the time the doctor came downstairs. His verdict on the whole was satisfactory, for although the patient had sustained a violent shock, her heart remained strong, and unaffected, so there appeared no reason to anticipate any lasting ill effects.

“But her mind – I almost feared that it might have become unhinged,” I explained anxiously. “She seemed possessed by such extraordinary fancies; her excitement was so – so unwarrantable.”

“Her mind is perfectly normal now.” replied the doctor, slowly. “From what I could gather from her conversation, she was terrified by the noise.”

“Ah! the storm! It certainly was alarming, particularly a few moments before she was taken ill. But she – we—” The doctor’s penetrating gaze for some reason caused me to falter, and I ended with another lame remark about the violence of the gale.

“I heard very little of it, but perhaps this house is more exposed. In fact, it must be” – he went on, with an air of reminiscence – “for curiously enough, your description reminds me of another storm, which I can testify seemed quite appalling here, but which passed unnoticed in the immediate neighbourhood. You remember about young Vine, the airman?”

I shook my head. The name was quite unknown to me.

“Why, it was a year ago, this very day, that they called me in to see him. He met with a mishap, you know, while flying, and his machine had crashed to earth, falling from an enormous height, in the roadway just outside. Crushed almost to a pulp he was, poor fellow, but by some miracle a spark of life still lingered, and they carried him in here.”

“In – there? Into the study?” What suggested to my mind the question, I cannot say: it came spontaneously to my lips, and would not be suppressed.

“Yes. It were cruelty, to drag him further, so they brought some mattresses, and made a bed upon the floor…. Poor Vine, it was an awful end for him: as terrible a death scene as I remember.”

He fell into a brooding silence, his brow darkened by introspective, troubled thought. At length I roused him with a question.

“The pain must have been unbearable?”

“Yes – and no. There was complete unconsciousness for many hours, but on the approach of night, he began to mutter in delirium. Of course, I am accustomed to that kind of thing, but in this case – well, somehow it was different. The whole tragedy became re-enacted in his mind, so clearly and consecutively that one could follow the actual course of events. For a long while he imagined he was flying, yet as far as I could judge, troubled by the suspicion of some defect in the aeroplane. All at once his voice commenced to rise: the machine had suddenly become a hopeless wreck, and he was falling, plunging downwards, swifter and ever swifter, to his death….

“With startling abruptness, the wind, which had been buffeting against the study window, rose to the violence of a gale. Its fury was almost unbelievable: eddies of cold air seemed to sweep the room, stirring the hair upon my head, and rousing the dying airman to a supreme paroxysm of excitement. At the very climax of the noise – the thunderous rushing of the wind, intermingled with the man’s hoarse ravings – there came a terrific crash, which seemed to shake the very foundations of the house. I rushed into the hall, quite believing that the window had been burst, but almost immediately, a long-drawn groan recalled me to my post … to find my patient beyond mere human aid.”

“Was the window broken?” I asked, after a pause.

“Nothing of the kind; and apparently no tree had fallen in the neighbourhood, as I half expected. In fact, as I remarked before, the storm appeared to catch this house to the exclusion of all others, for nowhere else had any particularly violent gusts been noticed.”

“And about my grandmother,” I asked, breaking in upon an awkward silence, for I felt that there remained nothing else to say.

“Let her have a complete change. Get her out of this house tomorrow, if you can,” he urged. “She will be perfectly able to move to a short distance.”

“Then you think,” I remarked quietly, voicing a suspicion that had suddenly flashed across my mind, “You think that there is something queer about this house – particularly about the study?”

The doctor made no attempt to meet my eyes, or to give any direct answer to the question.

“Goodnight!” he said, holding out his hand. “I consider that this situation is not to be recommended to your grandmother, and the sooner she leaves – you both leave – the better!”

We drove away in a cab next afternoon, both deeply immersed in our respective thoughts. Quite half-an-hour elapsed before we reached our temporary lodgings, and it was not until the cab had drawn up, that my grandmother at last broke the silence.

“I shall never forget that draught,” she said, apropos of nothing. “Nor the wind – nor the sounds. Nor do I believe the house ever will! I mean—”

The cabman was holding open the door, waiting for us to descend. I jumped out, and offered the old lady a helping hand.

“I mean—” she continued in a lower tone, but a passing motor completely drowned the remainder of her sentence.

I made no sign of having missed her words. In certain cases, perhaps it is better not to know exactly what we – or what others mean.

THE HAND OF GLORY

Rain, drenching rain, mist and cold, these with a five-mile drive in an open conveyance accompanied my first introduction to that land of desolation – Dartmoor.

Evil weather conditions are never cheering, and by the time I had changed at Totnes, and been painfully dragged up to the moorland station of Buckfastleigh, my spirits had reached a sorry ebb. There was no improvement when my final destination hove into view, for Blackmead House proved to be a prison-like structure of dark granite, buried in a plantation of gloomy evergreens, and the fact that I had come in the character of executor to my friend, Hervey Nicholson, who had lately committed suicide, added to my feeling of depression.

The trusted housekeeper admitted me – sad of countenance, poor soul! – and I was at once shown into the library, where the solicitor, a capable little man from Totnes, awaited me. Then it was my painful lot to learn the more intimate details of my poor friend’s end.

“It is a most sad, most inexplicable business,” the little man had ended. “None of us can imagine the remotest cause that should have driven poor Mr. Nicholson to hang himself…. Such a cheery gentleman, too. The inquest was held this morning. Of course, they brought it in ‘temporarily insane’.”

We settled a few business details, mainly with reference to the funeral, which was to be held next day. Unless my co-executor had arrived from the North of England, I was likely to be the only mourner, for Nicholson had no relatives in England, and the solicitor found himself unable to attend.

“There is just one little matter,” the lawyer added with a slight hesitation, as he was about to take his leave. “It seems scarcely worth mentioning, but – perhaps you had better know. Mr. Nicholson had recently bought some property from a neighbouring landowner, and the transaction had stirred up considerable resentment amongst the peasantry. I had one of them here about it this afternoon.”

I raised my eyebrows. “What is the dispute?” I asked.

“Oh, no dispute – legally. The title deeds are sound enough, but the villagers claim that the land is rightly common. It is named Weeping Maiden Mead, after some prehistoric stones upon it, and includes one tiny cottage. You can guess how high superstition runs in these parts, when I tell you that they solemnly believe that ill-luck will fall on anyone who interferes with the ancient monuments. Mr. Nicholson, of course, being an ardent archaeologist, intended to excavate; in fact, he had actually begun to do so. The cottage, too, which is a mere mud hovel, he condemned, and was considering plans for the erection of a new one.”

“Is that all?” I asked wearily, for I was longing for a cup of tea, and not particularly interested in the lawyer’s discourse.

“Yes – er, except that it was the old woman from the cottage who came here this afternoon. A loathsome old creature, full of venom, and with impudence enough to demand that I should destroy the title deeds! A crafty old body, for I caught her eye upon the safe, which was standing open. I closed it with a bang, and turned her out of the house without another word. She cursed and gibbered a lot of threatening nonsense, half of which I could not understand, calling herself hereditary guardian of the Weeping Maiden. Not quite right in the head, I should say. Folks like that are better in a workhouse infirmary.”

“Quite. Did you learn her name?”

“Mrs. – Mother Hibbert, they call her. People seem afraid of her – rather an unsavoury reputation, from all accounts!”

“Ah, a witch, no doubt?” I sneered, for I could guess too well at the gross ignorance and superstition of the country folk. “Well, if old Mother Hubbard, or whatever she calls herself, comes bothering me, I shall know how to deal with her!”

“I am sure you will, Sir!” the little man laughed, and with that we parted. Next morning, it presaging to be a glorious day, I went out ostensibly to view the surrounding property, but mainly in order to get away from the intolerable gloominess of Blackmead House. I quickly found myself at one extremity of a treeless slope, rank with faded bracken and unhealthy grass. Overhanging it, dark and threatening, was the granite outcrop of Blackmead Tor, deeply shadowed by a cloud, and in the middle, a ring of ancient stones, some upright, others leaning at dangerous angles, or already fallen. A little distance from the circle, just as if it had been banished, stood a willowy monolith, the drooping contour of which had no doubt given rise to the fanciful resemblance of a weeping maiden. For several minutes I stood gazing at the scene, wondering of what forgotten race these had been the religious symbols, and the thought came to me, that here the superstitious would pretend to see a curse fulfilled in poor Nicholson’s sad end, the curse which the ignorant country folk believed would fall upon any who should venture to disturb the monuments’ brooding quietude.

Unlike myself, I must have fallen into a brown study, for suddenly there came to my ears a wail so awful, so throbbing in its agony of despair, that for a moment it seemed to interrupt the regular pulsations of my heart. Just for an instant it seemed that the sound must issue from the very stones themselves, but that, of course, was nonsense, and I decided that it must be the death note of some unfortunate rabbit, choking in a snare. The cry, however, proved to be too continuous, too intense for that, and as I moved forward with uncertain step, I noticed the roof of a low cottage, partially concealed behind the monuments, and decided that it must come from there. Partly out of curiosity, partly with a view to bringing possible help, I took to my heels and ran towards it, only to be brought up by a straggling hedge, sprouting from a low, mud wall. Even as I approached, the sounds grew rapidly less, and ceased, but I admit, though not of a nervous disposition, that I felt strangely shaken, and was obliged to pull myself together before I had the courage to face what I might see. It was this: A hideous, shrunken old woman, answering to the description of Mother Hibbert, gloating over the body of a cat, which yet twitched unpleasantly as it hung by the neck from a low branch.

“What are you doing there?” I shouted indignantly. “Was it you who killed that cat?”

The old hag slowly turned a bleared and unseeing eye in my direction. She made no answer, but instead deliberately cut down the cat – a beautiful black creature, of an immense size – and with it dangling in her hand, retired with shuffling footsteps towards her hovel.

“I shall report you for cruelty!” I yelled after her, with every intention of carrying out my threat, and if necessary of giving evidence against her. The whole affair had disgusted me beyond expression, and I felt annoyed at the old woman’s total unconcern; for her only answer had been the rattle of her rickety door, as she drew it to behind her.

I made my way back to the house in by no means a happy mood, for it was almost time to dress for my poor friend’s funeral. Taking what looked like a short cut through the shrubbery, I entered by a back door, and passing by the kitchen, noticed Mrs. Pibkin, the old housekeeper, and the undertaker’s man talking in excited undertones. The latter, on learning who I was, came forward.

“The hand, Sir, the hand?” he began hysterically. “Do you know anything about it?”

“Come along into the library,” I replied, wondering what on earth could be the matter. I dislike these intensely nervous people, and an exhibition of their weakness invariably breeds in me an added calm. Accordingly I led the way in silence, quietly shut the door, and selected a comfortable armchair, indicating to the man to follow suit.

“Now, what is it all about? To what hand do you refer?”

“The – the dead hand, Sir. The hand of the corpse,” he gasped, his voice quavering with emotion. “It’s missing! It’s been – cut off!”

Needless to tell, I was thunderstruck. But I had the presence of mind to mix the man a stiffish glass of brandy, for he showed signs of an utter breakdown. I watched him gulp the spirit greedily, and after a few moments he became more composed. In my quietest tone, I then requested him to be more explicit.

“If I understand you aright, you wish to infer that one of Mr. Nicholson’s hands is missing?”

“Yes, Sir, that’s it. I went up with some fittings, and found his hand – the right hand – clean gone. Severed at the wrist, Sir!”

“Most extraordinary! But it must have occurred before his death. Some accident—”

“Oh, no, Sir. I can swear to that. I attended the inquest. I – both hands were there, Sir, when I left yesterday!”

The man’s voice was still somewhat tremulous, and indeed it was a ghastly, and unheard-of business, this mysterious mutilation of the dead. One course seemed obvious: I must satisfy myself as to the truth of it, for I still half believed that the man had somehow been mistaken. Accordingly we went upstairs, though not without certain inward qualms on my part, for I am one of those who believe in preserving a pleasant memory of one’s friends and relatives, knowing them only as they appeared in life. However, everything was decently covered, and the hands alone left visible. One hand, that is, for the other had been cleanly severed at the wrist, obviously within the last few hours….

To cut a long story short, we could come to no plausible solution of the mystery. Apparently some hideous ghoul had been at work, but as to motive – what could there be? Mrs. Pibkin, of course, was above suspicion, and the only possible person to whom guilt might point appeared to be Mother Hibbert, who on the first occasion had been called in to help the undertaker. I deemed her bad enough for anything, but we had no proof, and nothing could be done until I had communicated with the police. Even then it was doubtful whether we should ever regain possession of the hand, so I decided that it would serve no useful purpose to delay the funeral. Accordingly the sad little procession formed up, and we set out on our melancholy drive to the churchyard at Buckfastleigh.

“I don’t like it, Sir,” the undertaker had insisted miserably, after it was over. “Not at all, I don’t – the disappearance of that hand, I mean.”

“No, it is a most revolting, most inexplicable occurrence,” I agreed. “But we can do no good by worrying. We must leave matters to the police.”

The man seemed far from satisfied. His manner suggested that he wished to make some confidential statement, perhaps some curious disclosure, yet hesitated to do so.

“I would have given anything, rather than this should happen,” he began at last. “The hand, the right hand of a – of poor Mr. Nicholson…. Begging your pardon, Sir, I would not remain at Blackmead House longer than I could help, not if I was you, Sir. You know what people say…!”

“Oh, I see what it is. You’ve got hold of some silly superstition, is that it? Well, you can make yourself easy, for I am not one to credit any rubbish of that kind.” I felt quite annoyed. The man was behaving like a fool, and I began to wonder whether he was not the worse for drink. Possibly he divined something of my thoughts, because he forthwith retired into himself, and made no attempt at further confidences. Shortly afterwards, a pourboire (gratuity) unostentatiously changed hands, and I jumped into the carriage which awaited me, and settled myself for the wearisome journey back to Blackmead House.

That night, my sleep was disturbed by the most vivid and unpleasant nightmares. I was haunted continuously by the memory of that wretched cat I had seen so cruelly done to death, alternated with questionings about the missing hand. In the end, the latter became visualized, hovering in mid-air, like the sword of Damocles, to descend suddenly upon the cat, clutching at its throat, and choking out its life. I tried to interfere, I struggled, I believe I even screamed aloud for help, but some extraordinary power held me back. Then unexpectedly my bonds were loosened, and I rushed forward to the animal’s assistance, only to find myself looking down upon the body of the old woman, Mother Hibbert! I awoke at that, thoroughly disturbed, and could get no further sleep till dawn.

•   •   •   •   •

Next morning, at breakfast, two letters were awaiting me. One was from Clifton, my co-executor, who wrote to say that he would be with me during the course of the afternoon. The other, ill-typed and suggestive of nervous hurry, bore the Totnes postmark, but when I came to open it, there was neither signature, nor address.

“It may be fashionable to scoff at the old traditions,” this extraordinary epistle read, “but they have served many a good turn in their day. In face of supernatural danger, the old country folk have an absolutely infallible spell. It sound silly enough, but – for God’s sake, Sir, say the words ‘numney-dumney’…”

I threw the letter down in passionate disgust. Really, this was too much! Its origin, of course, was obvious – that idiot of an undertaker. I had suspected him of liquor when he so greedily mopped up my glass of brandy…. Numney-dumney, stuff and nonsense! How dare the fellow! I should report to his employer at the earliest opportunity. With that idea in mind, I irritably crammed the letter into my pocket, but the whole incident was soon forgotten in the laborious work of sorting and docketing my poor friend’s papers.

This uncongenial task kept me busy throughout the day, but I promised myself a good long interval for tea, when my co-executor was expected to arrive. I welcomed him with some enthusiasm, for although our friendship had never reached any degree of intimacy, yet it was a relief to have someone to talk to in that gloomy house. Sad to relate, he was rather a dispiriting companion, but I recalled to mind my own unpleasant first impressions of the house, impressions which several gruesome episodes had not assisted to dispel.

We sat long over our tea, talking about old times, and regretting the tragic loss of our mutual friend. Presently I related to Clifton the extraordinary desecration of the poor fellow’s body, and the consequent disappearance of the hand. My story filled him with a natural horror, but it seemed to me he took the matter rather unnecessarily to heart. His questions, too, were curiously minute, and for some reason he evinced a special interest in the character and reputation of Mother Hibbert. It was on my tongue to relate the incident of the cat, but I detest horrors, and the whole atmosphere was, to my way of thinking, becoming unwholesomely morbid, so I adroitly changed the subject.

Clifton proved to be a most unsettling visitor. He was almost painfully restless, his manner sometimes verging on the furtive, and more than once he questioned me as to whether I had become acquainted with any of the local folk-tales and superstitions. I knew that he was interested in the subject, collecting information and making notes, but my patience was exhausted, and I curtly replied that the subject was distasteful to me, and I knew nothing. Finally, at dinner, he asked me outright whether I had heard of any recent disappearances of a cat – a black cat, it would be. For a moment I gazed at him electrified: the question seemed so utterly pointless, so – bizarre.

“No,” I blurted out. “But I saw one killed yesterday. A most disgusting affair, and I intend to submit a full report to the police.”

As I had said so much, there seemed no possible object in suppressing further details, so I did my best to satisfy the inordinate curiosity and eagerness with which he received the news. Again he plied me with incessant questionings, making me repeat certain details regarding the disappearance of the hand – just as if, in his own mind, he had some extraordinary reason for connecting that incident with the cruel slaughter of the cat. In the end, I found it increasingly difficult to suppress my boredom, so he said no more. Instead I caught him shooting at me curious glances – questioning – apprehensive – in a way that somehow reminded me of the undertaker. I naturally felt annoyed by his stupid conduct, and began to wish that, after all, he had never come.

Dinner over, we returned to the library, and resumed our task of sorting papers. At least, I did, for Clifton seemed too restless to settle down to work, continually jumping up and sauntering uneasily about the room, fingering various objects, and pulling out occasional books. The night was very wild, torrents of rain washing heavily against the windows, with punctuations in the form of increasingly violent gusts of wind. Once a door slammed noisily upstairs. It caused both of us to start, in fact I noticed that Clifton turned perceptibly whiter. His obvious apprehension had the immediate effect of calming me, and I inwardly sneered at such weakness, in allowing external weather conditions to so upset his nerves. At ten o’clock, Mrs. Pibkin came with whisky, and our candles. She looked worn and tired, and went so far as to venture an apprehensive comment on the storm.

“I never did remember such a night, Sir,” she said, addressing me. “So rough and wild, and all come over so sudden like.”

Indeed, it was blowing a half gale, and one could distinguish a perceptible tremor when the more violent gusts struck against the house. I asked her whether she had locked up.

“Yes, Sir, everything shut and latched. I shot the bolts and drew the chain on the front door, too, Sir…. The wind seems fit to blow it in.”

And so she left us, and no doubt retired to somewhere in the back regions, where she slept. I settled once again to work, but the noise without continued to increase, and Clifton’s restlessness grew even more disturbing. He could barely remain quiet for a minute, and eventually commenced what appeared to be a systematic search of the book shelves, which – as I myself had noticed – were arranged in no kind of order.

From time to time I watched him, and then at last took off my glasses, and rearranged my papers. I was thoroughly tired,and what with the noise of the storm, and Clifton fidgeting, it was hopeless to try to do more. Besides, it was close on twelve o’clock, I learnt, on pulling out my watch.

“I’m going to bed,” I declared abruptly, almost startled by the hollow echo of my voice, for although the hubbub outside was louder than ever, the room itself had grown strangely quiet.

Clifton, I noticed, had become deeply engrossed in some musty volume.

“Eh? What’s that?” he murmured vacantly, after a moment’s pause.

“I say, I am going to bed.”

By way of rejoinder, he came unsteadily across the room to where I sat, holding out the book, as if for me to read.

“Here, look at this! I’ve been hunting for something of the kind the whole evening…. Don’t think me mad!”

I glanced up surprised, and found his eyes glistening with something very much akin to terror. He pushed the volume almost roughly into my hands, pointing to a certain paragraph with a shaking finger. I said no more, but read:

Another, even a more curious superstition, was that of the so-called Hand of Glory, or Dead Man’s Power. This pertained to the very blackest form of witchcraft, and as an indispensable adjunct required the right hand of a man who had been hanged, preferably that of a convicted murderer, or failing that, of a suicide. Strands of the dead man’s hair were also taken, and woven to form the wick of a candle, whereof the grease was that of a male black cat. At the hour of midnight, the Dead Hand, lighted candle in its grasp, had but to rap its summons against the strongest door for bars and bolts to give way, and make admittance for the witch. Persons seeking to bar the progress of the Hand were immediately stricken motionless…. This gruesome tradition lingered until comparatively recent times in the remoter districts of Western England, particularly among the Moors of Devon, and in Cornwall. In earlier days, public gallows-trees were frequently robbed….

“What – what unwholesome piffle to be reading at twelve o’clock at night,” I exclaimed irritably, throwing down the book. Then I met Clifton’s glance, and for several seconds we looked into one another’s eyes.

“Good heavens, man!” I gasped at length. “You can’t mean to suggest…”

“But I do! That is exactly what I do suggest!”

“But Clifton! Really….”

The gravity of his expression stopped me. He seemed so desperately in earnest, that I could no longer refuse to hear what he had got to say.

“Don’t you see for yourself?” he asked, with a half-incredulous look. “Doesn’t everything fall into place, reading by the light of that? The disappearance of the – yes, of the suicide’s hand, the slaughter of the black cat, the evil reputation of the old woman, and as a motive, the title deeds of Weeping Maiden Mead?”

“No, no, I can’t believe it,” I choked, summoning all my stock of common sense. “Not in the twentieth century, Clifton, not even in an outlandish hole like this….”

As I spoke, above the bellowing of the wind in the wide, old-fashioned chimney, and its diapason roar outside the windows, there came to our ears a different sound: one quite subdued, hollow, yet curiously penetrating – a sound like the rapping of bony knuckles!

I believe Clifton and I studiously avoided meeting one another’s glance. Instead, we moved towards the door leading into the hall, for it was from that direction that the sound had seemed to come. A single look assured us that everything was all right, and that the oil lamp was burning steadily. But while we stood at the open door, the extraordinary sound was once again repeated, and even as it reached our ears, a stupendous gust of wind struck against the front of the house. There came a moment of breathless suspense, and then something seemed to crush beneath the strain, and the hall door swept open, crashing back with a terrific din against the wall.

Out went the lamp, but – framed within the open doorway stood the shrunken form of Mother Hibbert, holding in her skinny claw a curious Something, a Something which clutched a tiny candle, alight in all that gale, and burning with a steady, evil flame.

For the first time in my life, I felt the hair prickling on my scalp, and my limbs grow rigid. A cry choked in my throat, but – most strange of all – a voice sounded on my lips which I failed to recognise, chanting the ridiculous syllables:

“Numney-dumney. Numney-dumney!”

Then at my elbow Clifton, an earnest Catholic, took up the Latin exhortation: “In nomine domini, et filii, et spiritu sancti.”

Even as the words left his – left our lips, the horrible candle flickered and went out, and the evil little figure seemed to crumple up, and be propelled backwards into the outer darkness.

Both badly shaken by the extraordinary vision, we neither of us moved, but stood listening to the gentle sighing of the wind among the nearer treetops. I was the first to pull myself together…. Curious that the gale should drop so suddenly, but – I supposed that it sometimes was so, in great storms….

“Come on!” I ejaculated, in a barely audible voice. “Come on! Help me to close the door.”

We tried, but our efforts at first were in vain. The hinges had been badly ruptured, and though every bolt and lock was shot, they had been bodily torn out of their sockets. At length we managed to move the door more or less into place, securing it by a fairly effective barricade of chairs and tables. Then we returned to the library, and I poured out for each of us a liberal glass of spirit.

“A mighty blast of wind!” I murmured, as I tossed off mine. “Think of the force – to tear out those locks and bolts, and to break the chain!”

“Mighty!” Clifton echoed, with a meaning glance around the room. “And not a single window damaged!”

My whole being revolted at his innuendo. Besides, it was not the hour to go into such details. Shortly afterwards, we parted for the night. I don’t think either of us slept. Certainly, I did not. My room was brightly illuminated until daylight had well advanced!

•   •   •   •   •

Next morning at breakfast – a farcical meal for both of us – we agreed to quit the house as soon as possible, a decision which was clinched by Mrs. Pibkin also announcing her intention to depart. Being a Sunday, there were no trains, so I set out to walk to Totnes to fetch a conveyance, but was fortunate in getting a lift for the greater part of the way. About noon I was back at Blackmead, where I found Clifton had strongly barricaded the broken doorway, and collected together our baggage and all the important papers, including the title deeds of Weeping Maiden Mead. There was no cause for further delay, and in a few minutes we were off on our return journey to Totnes, and civilization.

As we left the house with its gloomy plantation behind us, I glanced up to where the rocky crag of Blackmead Tor stood boldly out against the skyline. It was bright and cheerful in the vivid sunlight, and there below lay the mystic circle, planted on the sloping hillside. With some surprise, I noticed a group of peasants gathered beneath the drooping monolith known as the Weeping Maiden. I nudged Clifton, motioning him to look, and as I did so the group formed into a sort of crude order, and began to move towards us, bearing some dark object upon a hurdle.

“Didn’t you know?” said Clifton hastily. “But, of course not. You had left before it was discovered. They are carrying Mother Hibbert. She was found dead beneath the Weeping Maiden – strangled! They say there were no traces of her assailant – only a dead hand – the hand – empty, but clutching, a few paces distant on the ground.”

“Numney-dumney,” I muttered despite myself, and I noticed that my companion quietly crossed himself.

Then suddenly I had an idea. I felt in my coat pocket, and drew forth the strange letter from the undertaker, the very existence of which I had forgotten. In silence I handed it to Clifton, and in silence he perused it.

“Numney-dumney – in nomine domini – in the name of the Father…. The sacred exhortation handed down by word of mouth from Catholic – pre-Reformation – times, as a safeguard against evil. Most interesting, most extraordinarily interesting! May I keep this?”

“Certainly,” I replied, albeit a trifle grudgingly. I was beginning to think there might be some truth in these old traditions, after all!

MATHESON’S MUMMY

One afternoon last January, I met Matheson, the artist, on a platform at Victoria. He was restlessly moving up and down, keeping a furtive eye upon an enormous pile of luggage.

“Hello!” I cried, as our glances met. “Where are you bound for, Matheson?”

“I? To Egypt. To Egypt, of course!”

“Lucky dogs, you artists are!” I retorted, not a little surprised at his nervous manner. At first, it seemed as if he had not heard, because for several seconds he gazed through, rather than at, me. Then the focus of his eyes was shifted, but I noticed they did not lose their haunted look.

“Lucky? I? Well – yes, I suppose I am, for I above all men have been given an opportunity for atonement. I am taking that back. Look!”

With increased astonishment, my eyes followed the direction of his trembling finger. It pointed to his luggage, amongst which was a colossal packing-case, in shape and size somewhat resembling a coffin.

“What on earth?” I began.

“Come into the waiting-room. There will just be time for me to tell you.”

I take no responsibility for the truth of this most extraordinary statement, but merely endeavour to repeat it, as closely as possible, in Matheson’s own words.

•   •   •   •   •

About a week ago, I spent the day near Windsor, sketching. As you are aware, the recent snowfall was of a depth quite unusual in the southern counties, so heedless of the cold, I sat busily collecting materials for a picture, fearful every minute lest the thaw should rob me of my subject. It was long after dark, when I reached home, and Harrison was nearly due, to accompany me to a concert; but I felt stiff and tired, and determined to take a hot bath, cost what time it might. Things invariably go wrong, if one is in a hurry, and when I went to light the geyser, the flames came pouring downward, and nearly burnt my hand. Probably the exit of the chimney was blocked with snow, but there was no time to attend to that, so I simply disconnected the whole affair, as was easily done, the geyser being of very antiquated pattern. Leaving the bath to fill, I went back towards my bedroom, lingering a moment in the studio, to warm myself before the fire, and gaze around in satisfied content.

As you are aware, my studio is furnished with all kinds of artistic curios, most bizarre, most treasured of all being a mummy, a particularly well-preserved specimen of the nineteenth dynasty, which I myself recovered from a rock-hewn tomb near Thebes. Gazing idly at this, I noticed, with a start of extreme annoyance, that the glass door of the case in which it stood was broken. There was a hole large enough to put one’s head through, evidently the work of a wretched char-woman, who rarely came to scrub my floors without leaving behind some such abominable memento.

I hastily crossed the room, in my anxiety to see that the mummy was in no way injured, and then, with a hearty malediction on char-women in general and mine above them all, I took off my clothes, and went back into the bathroom. Here the atmosphere was becoming permeated with the disagreeable smell of exhausted gas, much to my disgust, for in former days I have often read of persons being suffocated in their baths, overcome by the fumes from a lighted geyser. Harrison was almost due, and for once I thought it would not matter, so, leaving the geyser still in action, I stepped into the slowly filling bath.

To my wearied senses, the heat proved most soothing, and presently I lay back luxuriously, with the hot water rippling around my throat. Goodness, but I was tired! Languid and sleepy, something seemed to be stealing away my senses, yet I knew that it was time to get up, time to make a struggle against this increasing drowsiness. Well, just for one minute longer, and then I would! The heaviness of my eyelids was insupportable; I would close them for no more than half a second….

I recovered my senses with a start, and an uneasy feeling that something quite unexpected, something vaguely alarming had occurred. The room was full of steam, and for several moments my mind was wrapt about with strange confusion. Presently it began to dawn on me that I was looking very intently at some object, some object quite familiar, yet at the same time, terrifying. Then, with a sudden awful shock, came realization.

I was staring at my own body, stretched full-length inside the bath!

Horror was presently succeeded by a kind of terrified solicitude. I looked again, closer, peering through the steam. Heaven! The water was above my mouth, even above my nostrils, and not a bubble to be seen!

Instinctively I made as if to drag the drowning body from the water, and then there came another, and an even more disturbing revelation.

There was nothing of me!

I existed. In some way I could see my own body, I could feel the warm moisture of the steam, and smell the poisonous fumes; I could even move about, and view things from a different standpoint, but I was powerless to act. There lay my body in the water, to all appearances drowned, but as for being able to control a single muscle of it, I might as well have sought to control the moon! Panic seized me. Was this death, I asked? – for I did not wish to die, my ambitions in life still being very dear to me.

Suddenly there came a knocking on the bathroom door, followed by the familiar voice of Harrison.

“Hello! Matheson, are you there? Come out, man, it is getting late!”

I called wildly for help, or rather I attempted to do so, only to discover that by no possible means could I produce the faintest sound. The physical part of me was dead. My cries, my feelings, my actions were only mental: I was a mind without a body to receive or obey commands. Yet, curiously enough, I had perfect knowledge of Harrison’s presence on the other side of the door. I could see him just as plainly as if nothing material had been interposed between us.

“Matheson! Matheson, don’t you bear me?” the voice repeated, somewhat anxiously.

Next moment the door opened, and Harrison was confronting an almost impenetrable fog of steam. Without a word, he made straight for the flaming geyser, and shut off both the gas and water, muttering to himself the while.

“My word, what a beastly smell! It is perfectly poisonous. My God—!”

He had suddenly caught sight of my body, covered now with water, covered to the very eyebrows! With a choking cry, he leant forward, and seizing it beneath the arms, with a mighty effort managed to pull it from the steaming bath.

“My God! My God!” he gasped, as he tenderly deposited it, face downwards, on the cork mat. “No, no, that won’t do; these fumes will finish both of us!”

He rushed to the window, and throwing it wide open, called several times for help. Then, wrapping the body in my dressing-gown, he half carried, half dragged it into the studio, and laid it on the rug before the fire. Naturally, I followed. It was no effort: I simply went, without any conscious exercise of will. Anxiously I watched Harrison turn the body over, drawing out the tongue, and trying his best to empty it of water. Presently the door burst open, and a policeman hurried in.

“Fetch a doctor – quick!” jerked Harrison, scarcely looking up. “An accident in the bath…. Quick! Quick, or we may be too late!”

The constable immediately disappeared, leaving Harrison to continue his first-aid ministrations. Not once did he look in my direction. Indeed, I realized that I had no particular, that is no fixed, direction. While conscious of Harrison bending over my body on the floor, I was somehow equally cognizant of the policeman hurrying up a flight of steps, and pulling furiously at a doctor’s bell. As for anyone being able to see me – well, I could not see myself, I who was existing quite apart from any visible appendages.

Not many minutes had elapsed before the doctor came, and immediately set about making an examination of the body. While he was thus engaged, Harrison breathlessly explained the facts, so far as he was acquainted with them.

“Too far gone!” was the blunt verdict. “I fear we can do no good. Gas fumes and the water…. No, he is dead.”

I felt terrified, yet more than terrified, infuriated and rebellious. I was determined not to give up life without a struggle, so filled with desperation, I tried to influence the doctor, tried to get into contact with his mind, and will that he should make some effort to resuscitate my body. Almost instantly my exertions were rewarded with success, for the doctor suddenly threw down his coat, and turned to Harrison.

“Let us give the poor fellow a chance,” he cried excitedly. “I could swear that he is dead, but – there is no harm in trying!”

“You may pull him through?” Harrison queried hopefully, as they set to work.

“Honestly, I don’t think so,” retorted the doctor. “But I am going to attempt it!”

In less time that it takes to tell, they were hard at work, performing the regular movements of artificial respiration, while I set myself to concentrate the whole power of my will on regaining possession of my body. For several minutes, success seemed to be hovering in the balance, but gradually some superior, some contrary force commenced to drag me in the opposite direction. Something unknown, yet in some manner gruesomely familiar folded itself about me, and although I fought with maniacal desperation against this fearsome influence, it was of no avail. I became increasingly aware of the presence of the mummy: into this ghastly relic of humanity I was being absorbed, as ink is absorbed by blotting paper!

Struggling, fighting, praying – at length I realized that once more I was the possessor of a body. And such a body! Cold, dry, stiff: it was as if I were imprisoned in a wooden statue!

My eyes were partially open, but I could not lift the lids. They felt dry and stiff, as if they had not been moved for centuries. Objects were strangely blurred and faded, and it was some considerable time before the fact became recognisable: that I was looking through a pane of glass into my studio, looking across towards the fireplace, where two familiar figures were bending over my own, half-naked body! The sight brought with it a renewed sense of horror, more ghastly than the wildest fancies of any nightmare.

I was a mummy, and I was – alive!

Vainly I essayed to scream aloud my awful fear; vainly I strove to impart some movement to this horrible body which kept my spirit captive, a body dead and mummified for quite three thousand years! I struggled desperately, madly, my gaze fixed in an agony of longing on the back of Harrison’s neck.

Suddenly he turned his head, and shot a glance in my direction. As he met my – the mummy’s eyes, the colour vanished from his face, leaving it dull and grey. He remained staring, rigid and open mouthed, while the doctor, who continued applying the artificial respiration, asked some question in an undertone. Receiving no reply, he looked up, obviously perplexed by the extraordinary rigidity of Harrison’s pose. Then he too met the eyes, and for a moment was also stricken motionless.

“Doctor!” Harrison managed to gasp, in a croaking whisper. “Doctor! That damnable thing – It’s looking at us!”

The doctor’s professional knowledge, or unbelief, came to the rescue, and helped to dissipate his momentary look of blank, astonished terror. Mechanically he resumed the actions of artificial respiration, while keeping his eyes fixed upon the mummy.

“Rubbish!” he answered, in a voice still far from steady. “Rubbish! It is impossible! It is merely a reflection….”

At that moment, utter agonizing desperation somehow gave me strength, and making a supreme effort, I managed to raise, and stretch forward the mummified arm. With horror and repulsion I gazed upon the gruesome talon … but the effort had been too great. Swaying helplessly for a second, I toppled forward. and amidst a sound of crashing glass, fell face downwards upon the floor.

•   •   •   •   •

The black oblivion into which the fall had plunged me seemed to pass almost at once, giving place to a sensation of stifling heat, and of air stale and poisonous, as if from long confinement. I felt no terror, only a burning curiosity as to the nature of my new surroundings. Presently the conviction grew stronger and stronger upon me, that I was in a subterranean tomb, the very tomb from whence I had removed the mummy, which since had occupied a position of honour in my studio. The place was absolutely dark, being buried many feet within the solid rock, yet I was acutely conscious of the surrounding details: of the square-built doorways, of the chiselled columns, even of the wall-paintings. One scene in particular I remember, a picture of the deceased Egyptian hunting a gazelle with dogs, and I noticed that it had become cracked, and flaked away in places since the last time I had seen it. I was likewise conscious of the colossal, stone sarcophagus, too unwieldy and too roughly carved to pay removal, with its lid overturned upon the ground, and cracked across the centre – all exactly as we had left it, several years before.

As I was with interest noting such details, a sudden sense of fear overcame me, so awful that the very thought makes my memory stagger. I felt less worthy, of less account than the smallest grain of sand in the great Sahara. I knew that I was at the mercy of some awful force, more fearsome, yet more just by a millionfold than could be realized by human imagination. Then, out of a Somewhere, there came the echo of a voice, and I heard dreadful words spoken in a curious tongue, unknown to me yet strangely familiar, the purport of which I had no difficulty in understanding.

“O, thou spirit of a man,” the voice said. “Dost thou not tremble? Art thou not mortally afraid at thy own unworthiness? Do not thy evil deeds weigh as a mountain upon thy conscience?

“Thy race it is which steals away the temples of the holy gods, to set them up in strange and impious positions. Thy race it is which robs the tombs of the Great Ones of Holy Khem, and the bones of those beloved of the gods are not respected by their sacrilegious hands. Ay! Also the sahus (the mummies) of the veritable Sons of Ra, the Pharaohs, dost thou and thine drag forth, and set in public places, as meet to be looked upon by curious and profane eyes. And thou thyself, man doubly accursed, didst even steal away thine own sahu, thy sahu which, in this very tomb, was dedicated to the gods forever.

“Believest thou that the kas (spirits) of the violated ones do not cry to the eternal gods for vengeance? Thinkest thou that they, the great, great ones of ancient Khem shall sleep forever?

“Take warning, thou and other mortals, and turn back, while there is yet time. The vengeance of the Eternal Gods is even now at hand, nor can any stay its fury. Yet mayest the accursed strive to undo something of their evil works, if they would hope for aught but the torture pits of Amenti, for now and for all time.

“So thou, man, bring back to Khem its stolen treasures. Ay, bring them back even to the meanest scarab….”

•   •   •   •   •

“I think he will pull through now, though, honestly, it is more than I expected.”

The doctor’s voice came to my ears, as if from an enormous distance, and then the black wave of unconsciousness once more closed my ears. Later, I was conscious of a burning liquid in my mouth, causing me to cough and choke, and then fearful pains began to rack my body. Yes, my body, for I knew that once again I was possessed of my own flesh, the flesh that I had seen lying dead, beneath the water!

It was not until several hours had elapsed, and I was well on the road towards recovery, that I brought myself to ask the doctor if I had been dead.

“Dead?” he echoed with a curious smile. “If you had been dead, Mr. Matheson, you may be perfectly certain that you would not be talking to me now!”

“You do not think it possible that I could have died, and – somehow come back to life?”

“No, I certainly do not. When you are dead, you are dead, and no power on earth can bring you to life again.”

“Yet you said that I was dead!” I insisted, repeating exactly the words he had uttered after his examination of my body.

“I did say that,” he admitted grudgingly, surprise and curiosity patent in his look. “I believed it at the time, but for once I was grievously mistaken. But – who told you what I said?”

“Nobody. I saw, and heard the whole affair.” And I described to him in detail everything that I could remember.

The doctor was silent for several minutes after I had finished my recital, but presently, reading the unspoken questions in my face, he offered a half-apologetic explanation.

“Now, Mr. Matheson, you must not allow yourself to dwell upon any unwholesome fancies of what you think you have seen or heard. Your description of all that happened in the studio is, I admit, absolutely correct, but though strange, the phenomenon is by no means unknown to medical experience. I could quote similar instances, where drowning has proceeded very far, though I have never come across a case myself. The latter portion of your statement is, of course, a dream, one of the usual manifestations of delirium, and totally unworthy of consideration.”

“The movement of the mummy?” I insisted. “Did it actually lift its arm, and then fall forward on its face?”

“Yes. But that, again, is quite open to reasonable explanation.” He spoke slowly, his manner lacking something of its habitual assurance. “You see, Mr. Harrison’s nerves were shaken by the shock of finding you, as he supposed, dead in your bath. During times of excitement or anxiety, nervousness is often most infectious, and it was his terrified expression, more than the fancied appearance of the mummy, which for a moment startled me.”

“Granted!” I replied. “But that has not the slightest bearing upon the fact that the mummy actually moved!”

“I am coming to that. On making enquiries, I find that a mummy in the Cairo Museum behaved in much the same manner a few years since, nearly frightening the onlookers out of their senses. It was found afterwards that a ray of sunlight, falling directly on his arm, had caused it to expand, and the joint had moved mechanically, to ease the pressure. Now the unaccustomed cold and damp, gaining access through the broken glass, affected the joints of your mummy in exactly the same way, and the sudden movement naturally caused the whole thing to overbalance. There is nothing supernatural about that, I can assure you!”

I made no answer. It was no use arguing, for I knew.

•   •   •   •   •

“What?”

“My train?”

“Goodbye! Goodbye! Porter, take particular care of that big packing-case!”

“H.F.”

Leonard Meakes was one of those young men whose character and appearance can best be described by the expression, wishy-washy: pale buff hair, pale brown eyes, a complexion of dirty parchment plentifully bestrewn with pimples, lip clouded by a hint of flaxen moustache – and, as if to complete the revolting symphony, thick pebble glasses, with gold mounts.

It was difficult to credit that this regrettable creature, whose receding chin and forehead bespoke a deficient intellect, and whose mouth all but shouted at you “Adenoids!”, should sustain a position as foremost imaginative author of the day. Yet so it was. The name Leonard Meakes, a year ago unknown, had sprung into a sudden blaze of fame, until it now bid fair to become a household word in the five Continents.

Before his totally unexpected access to celebrity, Meakes, in desultory moments, had been addicted to fiction writing, of the “nice stories for nice girls” type, though never had any product of his pen achieved the dignity of publication. His acquaintance, Denver, editor of the local Journal, had done his best to help, but it was a thankless task, for Leonard’s efforts in romantic fiction were mawkish, sloppy, senseless, in fact, ludicrous to the last degree.

The particular afternoon on which, for the first time, the inspiration of genius had descended on him, he was engaged upon the composition of a serial story.

“… Greatly daring, Ernest clasped her dainty fingers in his huge, brown paw, and – marvelling inwardly at the extent of his own hardihood – whispered passionately, ‘Miss Winifred! May I – Will you allow me to kiss your lily hand?’”

“Brown paw,” he felt, was a remarkably telling touch, but the “passionately” troubled him – it was an ugly, vulgar word. Heaving a painful sigh, he conscientiously erased it, and after further prolonged consideration, substituted the expression “humbly”.

Wearied by the unaccustomed effort, he gave himself to a fit of mooning, pen still held in feeble contact with the paper. The period of vacancy was more than usually prolonged, and when at length his normal faculties returned, they awoke to the realization of a most astounding discovery. Several sheets of foolscap had been covered with an unknown handwriting, the ink still wet upon the final page, and his own hand in the act of forming the concluding sentence! Shaking the pen from his nerveless fingers, as if it had been a snake, he pushed back his chair, and glared in terror around the room. No physical being other than himself was visible, and the door still remained locked on the inside, as was customary when, to use his own expression, he was engaged on composition.

In trembling uncertainty, he hovered about the room until, with the movements of a frightened animal, he found courage to re-approach the writing table, and gingerly turn the written pages. Contained in them was a complete short story, and as he commenced to read, the thought by degrees obtruded itself that, in some miraculous manner, he himself had been constrained to write it. Alas! that it should prove so disappointing, not having the least resemblance to his usual type of tale. No blushing maidens, no lisping heroes: parts of it indeed he could not understand, and several of the expressions were – quite dreadful! Yet, somewhere within what served him as an intellect, there formulated the vague idea that it was, or might be, rendered good.

After further hesitation, he decided to rewrite the story, modifying the plot, altering many unconventional sentences and phrases, and boldly omitting such paragraphs as were to him unintelligible. He brought out a fresh sheet of foolscap, shook his fountain pen, stared blankly through the window by way of gathering fresh inspiration, and at length let fall his gaze.

Leave it alone, you fool! If you cannot appreciate its value, ask a journalist.

H. F.

The words stood out clear upon the paper, paralysing all power of thought and movement, and sending icy shivers down his spine. Bold and masterful, the writing differed from his own childish niggle as greatly as the incisive, almost brutal brevity of the message was opposed to his habitual mode of address.

For some minutes, Leonard Meakes felt physically sick: in his own diction, he “trembled like an aspen leaf”, while his stylographic pen rolled across the desk, and tumbled noisily to the floor. When at length the shock caused by this second mysterious stroke began to pass, he locked the story-manuscript away, with shaking fingers, thoroughly converted from the idea of making any improvements of his own. “H. F.”, whoever, or whatever, that could be, was plainly responsible, and Leonard possessed sufficient of the cur’s intuition, to warn him against attempting further combat with the stronger will. And so, choked of any fleshy appetite, and sorely troubled. he crept upstairs, supperless, to bed.

Next morning, feeling little more than half alive after a most wretched night, he regarded the alien manuscript with jaundiced eyes. A momentary impulse prompted him to burn it, reminiscences of early religious teaching having suggested a terrible personage as it originator. but somehow the sight of that clear, powerful handwriting acted as a deterrent. Then there came to mind the suggestion of the later message – “If you cannot appreciate its value, ask a journalist”.

Why not show it to Denver? He would be passing the Journal office before lunch, and could leave it there, calling for an opinion in the afternoon. It seemed a bright idea, though personally he placed little faith in Denver’s judgement: the man was incapable of appreciating the poetic beauty of his – Leonard’s – romances, in fact, he was little better than the stupid editors who always sent them back – unread. Nevertheless, he left the writing, together with a polite message, and returned some hours later, to learn his friend’s opinion. Denver greeted him with a warmth of manner never before revealed. His voice vibrated with enthusiasm, as he pointed excitedly to the manuscript, which lay open on his desk.

“Meakes, tell me, for goodness’ sake, whose is it?”

“Mine, of course!” replied Leonard, constitutionally unable to appreciate the situation.

“I mean, who wrote it? It isn’t yours. It isn’t even in your handwriting!”

Leonard eyed the masterful calligraphy, aware that no one could possibly mistake it for his own. For some reason, the sight turned him momentarily faint, but he swallowed painfully, and did his best to answer in a natural tone.

“A – a friend of mine wrote it – Why?”

“Man – can’t you see? Why, this is it. This is the goods!”

“The goods?” repeated Leonard, still unable to grasp the other’s meaning. Then, with a sudden flash of understanding, “You mean – you mean that it is good?”

“Good is not the word for it. Why, boy, it is sheer genius, and nothing less! Tell me, what is your friend’s name?”

Denver absently fell to glancing at the story, picking out a particularly clever sentence here and there, and metaphorically smacking his lips about it. Thus employed, he failed to notice the hesitation, and the subsequent crafty look which passed across his companion’s face.

“It really does not matter, Denver,” came the answer, with a fair assumption of indifference. “My friend – er – he just wrote it out for me – made a fair copy from my own scrawl, you know.”

Leonard had never launched such a colossal lie in all his life; Denver had never looked so aghast.

“Don’t tell me you wrote that story,” he threatened, waving the manuscript above his head. “Not you, of all creation!”

The boy had been upon the point of confessing everything, but he felt deeply mortified at this openly contemptuous remark. It seemed to raise some wholly unsuspected devil in him, and he found himself replying in a voice scarcely recognisable as his own, and meeting the other’s eyes with nothing of his usual unsteady gaze.

“I wrote that story, Mr. Denver, and my friend made the copy. If you don’t believe me, I will go home, and write another equally good. I will write another – many of them. This is only the – the beginning!”

He stopped for want of breath, while Denver regarded him in sheer amazement. He had never known the boy to be so outspoken, so decently manlike, and yet – the whole thing was incredible.

He took several paces up and down the room, and finally sat down at his desk, and fell to fingering the manuscript.

“Of course, if this happened to be a copy of another man’s work, and you sold it as your own,” the editor pronounced, in meaning tones, “it would result in a very heavy fine, if not imprisonment.”

Seeing Leonard remained quite unembarrassed, he shrugged his shoulders, and continued.

“As it is, this manuscript must be properly typed, and submitted to an editor.”

“Can’t – can’t you print it in the Journal?” ejaculated Meakes, falling back into his usual manner. “I’d gladly take a – a guinea for it!”

“Heavens, Meakes, have you no better estimate of your own work than that?” gasped Denver, tapping the written pages distractedly. “This is not my style of stuff: God bless my soul, I wish it were! It must go to a London editor, a big Man….”

And so it had been arranged. The story was typed, and with an introduction from Denver, the MS submitted to the editor of a famous London journal. Success was instantaneous, and during the months that followed, Leonard found himself besieged by representatives of papers, bidding against one another for his stories – stories which without exception originated independent of his own volition, written in the mysterious, supremely virile hand. They dealt at various times with phases of life, and revealed avenues of thought and knowledge which were entirely outside his own experience, yet he hugged jealously to himself the secret, copying in his normal hand everything that was written automatically, and burning the originals. Stories, skits, finally a brilliant novel had appeared beneath his signature, in fact, Leonard Meakes had become an object of wonder to all who knew him – Denver in particular – and more than that, a name with which to conjure in modern literary circles.

In face of this, the conviction remained firmly rooted, that his own particular type of calf-love fiction was ineffably superior to anything that “H. F.” made him write, but upon the few occasions when he attempted to tamper with the latter’s work, the automatic messages had become so peremptory, even threatening, as to cause him to suppress all further inclinations of the kind.

•   •   •   •   •

Some nine months had gone by, before Meakes began to realize that he was growing rich beyond his wildest dreams of avarice. His prospects were indeed so brilliant, that there now remained no objection to his marriage with the angel of his heart, Evangeline Potts, a good enough maiden in her way, though the very embodiment of his own, early heroines – that is, but slightly less insipid and colourless than Leonard Meakes himself. Leonard’s vacillating nature, which if anything had become more helpless since his access to the realms of fame, called for many sleepless nights before reaching a decision of such great moment, but, buoyed up by the timely promptings of his prospective mother-in-law, the step had at last been taken, and the deed was done.

During the few weeks prior to his marriage, the famous author’s literary output had been steadily shrinking. The faculty for automatic composition to a great extent deserted him, and this phase made itself additionally marked in the days that followed. Commissions from various editors came in ever increasing numbers, but things arrived at such a pass, that they simply had to remain unfulfilled. If it proved impossible to fabricate bricks without the use of straw, still more so was it for Leonard to produce one of his latter-day stories by other methods than the automatic script.

It is doubtful whether the turn events were taking really troubled him. He was rapidly degenerating to the vegetable type, his mind just a maudlin vacancy wherein “Vangie” sat enthroned. Any passing aspirations did no more than express themselves in vague longings to get back to his lisp-and-slobber type of fiction, so much so that one afternoon he set himself to rummage among the half forgotten manuscripts of the early days. One story, headed with the alluring title “When Kisses Wake, or A Pair of Gloves”, he regarded with particular satisfaction, and pen in hand, determined to revise it, when suddenly across the paper flashed a message, written in the now familiar hand.

Pull yourself together, man! You have played the fool long enough. Now to work.

H. F.

As in a dream he set the pile of paper, saw to the filing of his stylo pen, and – with a cunning smile – securely locked the study door. Next day, he had dispatched to the typist what was afterwards quoted as the best short story that had ever fallen from his pen.

From that time onwards he continued in his regular routine of writing, or rather of transcribing the words formed by his hand when in a kind of waking sleep. All continued to progress favourably, until the fatal day when he neglected to lock the study door, and his wife ran to him with an important telegram. She first knocked, remembering his strict injunctions against intruding while he was at work, but, receiving no reply she called, then tried the door. Finding that it gave, she opened it, and looked inside. Leonard was seated at his table writing busily, quite unconscious of the presence of his wife. When he recovered from his dreamlike state, it was to find Vangie’s pale face and gooseberrying eyes glued close against his own, and her hand spasmodically clutching at his shoulder.

“Lennie, Lennie, what’s the matter?” she panted hysterically. “Dear – darling – Are you ill?”

“I’m all right, Vangie,” he replied, a trifle irritably. “What’s the matter? I – I told you I must never be disturbed in here!”

“Oh, Lennie, you – I—” She broke off, weeping, and kissed him damply. “I knocked, and called, and – and had to shake you ever so, before you answered! You looked so strange and pale, almost as if you – you were d-dead!”

Lennie – the contemptible name suited him so exactly! – felt quite alarmed at this. So much so, that he confessed everything to Vangie, told her all about the automatic scripts, even to the cruelly biting messages, which frightened him into obedience, despite his better judgement.

“Then that is how you – you write your stories?” Vangie gasped, when he had finished.

Her lord and master bowed his head.

“I – I used to wonder sometimes,” she began to muse. “Those stories never seemed quite like you, Lennie. They were so hard and strange, and – yes, I must say 1t! – not always nice.”

Suddenly she flung her arms around him, and burst into a flood of tears.

“Oh, Lennie, it is horrid! It is terrible! It is wrong! – What would dear mother say? Promise me you will never allow yourself to write like that again! Oh – oh – oh! You might even die while in one of those sort of fits! Oh, Lennie – Lennie, darling!”

The poor boy’s nerves were never proof against a scene. He was badly frightened this time, perhaps even more deeply terrified than he was aware. No wonder that he promised faithfully, between his sobs, to abjure the devil and all his works, of which they both felt quite convinced that this subconscious authorship was not the least.

A good night’s rest, and influence of the calmer atmosphere of morning, was sufficient to make Meakes reconsider the wisdom of his last night’s promises. In his own way, he rather enjoyed the halo of fame which now surrounded him, and although, as he expressed it, there was already a tidy little sum put by, yet the delight of receiving and endorsing ever fattening cheques had lost nothing of its captivating novelty. He felt, in fact, that he had been over rash, and altogether it was an ill-timed moment for “H. F.” to deliver another of his coercive messages. This unexpectedly made its appearance across a letter Meakes was painfully penning to an editor.

No wobbling, mind! You must be my man wholly, or not at all. I give no one a second warning of this kind, so don’t commence to snivel when it is too late!

H. F.

He was goggling at this when Vangie entered the room, and stood behind him, gazing spellbound at the paper. Suddenly realizing the dreadful origin and import of the message, she bent over his shoulder, and snatched it from before his eyes. Leonard staggered to his feet with a protesting cry, only to see her dash before him from the room, and a moment later, debouch hatless out of the front door.

•   •   •   •   •

Mrs. Potts made a point of accompanying her daughter home. She wore her carpet slippers, and her hair was marvellously arrayed in curling papers – for such details were of little moment, when the errand was to snatch a brand from out the burning. The two ladies scuttled back, chattering like frightened starlings, Vangie explaining volubly in altissimo.

The house was silent and deserted when they reached it; the study – locked. “Lennie, Lennie! Don’t you hear? Mother has come to see you. Oh – Lennie!”

Fortunately Mrs. Potts possessed an eminently practical strain which was lacking in her daughter.

“Don’t you go and excite yourself now, dearie,” she consoled, finding that the door was like to withstand even her own mighty bulk. “Let’s trot around, and try the window!”

Try it they did, and a few minutes later, Leonard Meakes blinked up from nothingness to find his wife and mother-in-law standing over him.

“Why, Mumsie—” he began, with the usual sickly affectation of affection.

“My boy, my poor, dear boy – Oh, Vangie, and is that the writing?” The worthy dame broke off, her eye lighting upon a number of boldly written sheets, the uppermost still lying damp upon her son-in-law’s desk.

Leonard made a frightened grab at the mysterious papers.

“Yes, that’s it!” he answered, with a quaver. “You must not touch them, or – or – I may never be able to write any more!”

“Oh, my poor boy – my child, you know not what you do!” shuddered Mrs. Potts, stark horror naked on her brow. “You must have done with them for good and all. You are trafficking in sin, Leonard! You are juggling with witchcraft!”

Evangeline was crying softly, Leonard white as death beneath this fresh attack. Mrs. Potts snatched from her daughter’s drooping hand the fatal message, and waved it menacingly before the young man’s frightened eyes.

“Bow down, and worship at your peril, Leonard!” admonished the old lady, in tragic laden tones. “These doings stink of the pit, Leonard, of the burning fiery furnace. ‘H. F.’, ‘H. F.’, it’s signed, and there’s no mistaking what that means. Hell Fire, Leonard! Hell Fire – and it’ll have you, if you persist in your wicked, willful ways!”

So saying, she grabbed the sheaf of manuscript, which lay beneath her son-in-law’s limp hand. Damp of brow, and with sagging jaw, he sat motionless, while the two women tore the accursed pages to a thousand fragments.

The public were keenly disappointed when it was discovered that no further stories issued from the pen of Leonard Meakes. No obituary notices were seen, no explanation offered – nothing, save that he had ceased to write. Several of his former editors were still more puzzled. After a lapse of several weeks, during which all commissions had been unfailingly ignored, each in turn received a MS which bore the famous author’s name. The story, however, proved an impudent, nay a most insulting forgery, as was apparent even from its title, “When Kisses Wake, or A Pair of Gloves”. In each case the manuscript was immediately posted to Mr. Meakes, advising him to take the necessary action, but this the kindly author proved too magnanimous to do.

Never again did his name appear in print, save only in the collected editions of his works. Readers of these were vastly puzzled by the dedication, until they decided that it was a misprint, an instance of ridiculous inversion:

To Leonard Meakes, from “H. F.”

THE BRONZE DEVIL

His lordship was scarcely accustomed to receive unknown callers before breakfast, but the nature of the message delivered by the faithful Mills was such, that curiosity forbade him to refuse.

The visitor, haggard and sallow, as if from many years spent in an unhealthy climate, sat waiting in the library, a leather kit-bag between his feet. His attitude was one of either nervous or physical exhaustion, and a hunted look came in his eyes, on the sudden opening of the door.

“Lord Berrington?” he queried, rising abruptly from his chair, and speaking in staccato haste. “I arrived from Hong Kong in the early hours of this morning, and must apologise for making an untimely call. But I came here first, knowing you to be the foremost collector and authority on Chinese curios in London.”

“You have something very special you wish to show me, Mr. AH—?”

By way of reply, the stranger bent over his travelling bag, and lifted out an object wrapped in several layers of chamois leather. This he placed upon the table, and stripping away the coverings, revealed an antique bronze, some twelve inches in height. The figure, which evidently represented a Chinese deity, stood erect, though slightly crouching, its attitude expressive of inveterate malignance, rendered all the more sinister by the inhuman calmness of the face. The workmanship was exquisite, while the garments were of solid gold, and the eyes of some curiously marked mineral. It was a perfect triumph of artistic genius.

“Whew!” breathed Lord Berrington, in an admiring whisper. “You say it is for sale?”

The man nodded. Then, seeing the look of doubt which came over his prospective patron, he proceeded to explain.

“I came by it quite honestly, while living in the Kwei-ling district,” he said, with an engaging smile. “One afternoon a coolie came to me, carrying a shapeless lump of sun-baked clay. He asked me whether I would care to buy it, motioning that I should feel its weight. After long years spent in the East, I have gained some experience of the way they do things, and as it was also generally known that revolutionaries had been looting neighbouring temples, I put no awkward questions, but simply asked how much he wanted. He said – but never mind! When I discovered what the clay concealed, it struck me that a change of climate might prove advisable, and clearly London was the easiest place for me to sell a thing like this…. I want two thousand pounds for It!”

Lord Berrington made a shrug of protest, and his visitor commenced to straighten out the leather wrappings.

“The names of several eminent collectors are on my list,” he murmured, as if speaking to himself. “I think – yes, Sir James Meedmore will be my most convenient call from here.”

Lord Berrington took up a magnifying glass, and examined the image for some time in silence. Then he selected a volume from the bookshelves, and compared the bronze with several diagrams and plates. Finally he shook his head, sighed deeply, and unlocked his bureau.

“I will write a cheque,” he said., uncovering the ink-pot. “To what name should I make it payable?”

“Oh – ‘Bearer’ will do!” the stranger answered, stooping to close his bag, and a minute later Lord Berrington was carrying his purchase with him to the breakfast room.

The meal was barely finished before Mills announced two visitors. They were of Chinese nationality, and, as a matter of routine, were granted an interview with the famous Oriental scholar. Yet, Lord Berrington, accustomed as he was to meeting numerous types of the Celestial, found himself unable to place the position of these men; they were members of – to him – an unknown sect, more reserved, more utterly inscrutable than any Easterns he had ever met. Neither of the men was young, neither very old, though both were stamped with that look of intolerable antiquity which is seen even on the features of some Chinese children. The one who took the part of spokesman was master of correct, but stilted English. He preluded his complimentary greeting by a formal bow.

“Your lordship pays us considerable honour in so readily according us this interview.”

Lord Berrington expressed a hope that he might be able to render some service to his visitors.

“Your lordship, barely an hour since, received an image of the – received a certain image?”

“That is so.”

“We have come to ask your lordship for that image.”

“The deuce you have! Possibly you are not aware that I paid for it in honest cash – two thousand pounds!”

“We will give your lordship two thousan’ poun’ for the image.”

The voice was monotonous, the man’s face equally devoid of passion. Lord Berrington returned a puzzled gaze. Both men were neatly dressed, in European clothes, yet it was difficult to imagine that they possessed the wherewithal to offer so large a sum, in payment for a mere antique.

“We will give your lordship two thousan’ poun’ for him.”

“I’m hanged if you do!” Lord Berrington exploded, driven to exasperation by their almost inhuman unconcern. “I bought it, and I intend to keep it – even if you choose to offer fifty thousand!”

“We offer – two thousan’,” repeated the Celestial, this time with the faintest suspicion of emphasis in his tone.

Lord Berrington was not unused to deal with haggling strangers. He rang the bell, and motioned Mills to escort them from the library. Quite unconcerned, the little foreigners retired, but near the door they hesitated, as if by mutual consent gazing up at a great oil painting, a genuine Murillo Virgin. It hung above a long, monastic table, on which stood a set of silver pricket-candlesticks, spoil from some mediaeval altar. The group thus formed was calculated to arrest the Oriental mind, and Lord Berrington watched with interest, quite expecting some further attempt at conversation. In this he was disappointed, for abruptly recovering themselves, the men moved forward, and passed through the door without a word.

Later, Lord Berrington fetched the precious image from the breakfast room, and searched around the library for some suitable position in which to place it. The apex of a Chinese lacquer cabinet answered the very purpose, and he stood back, head slightly on one side, to admire the effect from a distance. The combination was in the best of taste, and truly Eastern, but some freak of lighting had the effect of distorting the godlike serenity of the face. Instead of the look of inscrutable detachment, the bronze features now seemed to mirror that implacable ferocity which gave the body its crouching, almost demoniac pose. With an involuntary movement, Lord Berrington turned to follow the direction of the staring eyes – on the wall opposite, in all its mystic beauty, hung the Murillo Virgin. Singularly ill-harmonized were these two conceptions of the form of deity, yet the contrast pleased him. It typified so exactly the opposing temperaments of West and East.

•   •   •   •   •

That night, Lord Berrington, whose bedroom was above the library, started from his sleep to hear the crash of falling objects in the room beneath: to his awakening senses, the sound would have been no greater had the ceiling suddenly collapsed. For no apparent reason, thoughts of the Chinese bronze sprang prominent to his mind, for in some manner he connected it with the disturbance, though it was obviously impossible that, in falling, it could produce so great a noise. Throwing on a dressing gown, he went down to investigate, in his haste neglecting to switch on the electric light. The library door stood open, framing the uncertain glow of firelight within, and as Lord Berrington made his way towards it, an enormous shadow crossed the ceiling, and someone shot from the room, seizing upon him with a vindictive snarl. Fighting and struggling in grim silence, the combatants staggered back into the library, when almost immediately their grasps relaxed. Lord Berrington’s opponent was none other than his butler, Mills.

“M’lord – beg pardon – did he pass you?” gasped the latter, on discovering the identity of his victim.

“No one passed me. Did you see anybody?”

“Yes – at least, no, there couldn’t have been, m’lord. Hurrying in by the service door, I half thought I saw someone standing before that himage, but the light was too uncertain to make sure. I fancied I was after him, but he’d have run right into you – like me, m’lord!”

“There was nobody,” repeated Lord Berrington. “What on earth caused all the noise?”

At that moment, Mills switched on the light. One glance at the lacquer cabinet sufficed to show that the bronze image was in position, but not so the Murillo Virgin. The great picture had fallen, impaling itself upon the row of candlesticks, and carrying five of them with it to the floor. The ancient canvas had been torn to shreds, and the picture ruined beyond all hope of restoration. It was almost incredible that such destruction could have been wrought by accident, but there was nothing to be done, and no occasion to search for burglars, a phantom in the brain of Mills.

Before going back to bed, Lord Berrington went over to the cabinet, to glance admiringly at his newly acquired bronze. Viewed by artificial light, its facial expression was once more changed. The look of hate had given place to one of triumph, and the polished eyes glittered brightly, as if consumed by fiendish glee. It looked almost as if, deep down in its brazen breast, the thing were laughing. Lord Berrington wondered what was ailing him that he should indulge such fanciful imaginings about an inanimate bronze, but Mills remained serene, though a discreet cough hinted at the lateness of the hour.

Breakfast was just over, next morning, when the mysterious Chinamen paid their second visit.

“I declared you could not see them, m’lord,” the butler apologised profusely, “but I’d no sooner shut the door upon them, than they rang and knocked again. At last I ’ad to come to you, just by way of gettin’ rid of them, m’lord.”

“Confound their impudence; tell them to go, at once!” came the reply, and then, after momentary reflection: “Stay! I may as well know why it is they come. Perhaps it is to apologize. I will see them in the hall, Mills.”

The identical pair were quietly waiting, shiny hats in hand, and the spokesman once more bowed, and began his formal prelude.

“What is it you want?” Lord Berrington asked, impatiently.

“The image of the God, your lordship. We will give—”

“I told you yesterday, and I now repeat, that it is not for sale.”

“One thousan’ poun’. We will give one thousan’ poun’ for Him.”

“What’s that?” queried his lordship, surprise getting the better of his annoyance. “You said two thousand yesterday!”

The spokesman coldly bowed.

“We now offer – one thousan’ poun#!”

Lord Berrington turned upon his heel, and the strange couple were shepherded outside by the watchful Mills. As before, they betrayed no trace of anger or disappointment, or indeed of any other human emotion. It was as if they had their task of drudgery allotted, and classed such abortive interviews amongst the day’s routine.

Puzzled as he doubtless was, Lord Berrington found no leisure to contemplate the inexplicable behaviour of the two Chinese. That evening he was to deliver his address, as President of the Oriental Society, and the day was taken up in perfecting his notes. He arrived home late, and feeling disinclined for immediate bed, went into the library, to enjoy a nightcap and a final pipe.

The fire was blazing merrily, and after a while his head sank on his breast, and the pipe slipped from between the slackened jaws. He had a dream, so vivid in its grim reality, that afterwards he felt inclined to question whether he were really sleeping, or awake. It seemed that the two Chinamen were in the room, no longer dressed in European clothes, but in long, flowing garments, such as in their native country they might wear, as priests. The one who acted as spokesman crept towards his chair, bent over him, and studied carefully his sleeping face. The flattened, Eastern countenance was inanimate as a mask, and no human flicker crossed it, even when the yellow hand crept into its breast, and drew out a glittering knife. The dagger was about to strike, when the other Chinaman stepped forward, and caught the wrist of the assassin, murmuring something in an undertone, whereon the other put away his knife. A look of understanding passed between them, their cruel eyes sparkling maliciously, and their features moved by a triumphant flicker.

When Lord Berrington awoke, he for a moment imagined himself transported to a Chinese temple. The smell of burning was pungent in his nostrils, and through the sinuous coils of smoke he fancied he could see two shadowy figures, making genufletions before the exalted bronze. A moment later he was on his feet, alone in the room, but stamping wildly upon the rug. set smouldering by the ashes from his fallen pipe. Lambent flames were already bursting out, and creeping round the base of the Chinese lacquer cabinet, but at that moment Mills appeared, and the outbreak was checked, before it had done further damage.

Lord Berrington avoided looking at the bronze. Not in the slightest degree was he a superstitious man, but he knew quite well the expression it would wear by artificial light, and tonight he could not support a repetition. Already upon two occasions he had seen it: after the fall of the Murillo Virgin, and again, reflected on the faces of the two conspirators, in his ghastly dream. Now all he craved was the peace and oblivion of his bedroom.

It was really beyond all toleration, that the Chinese should come, ringing at the bell again next morning. Mills flatly refused to admit them, or to carry any message, but he could not prevent them loitering about outside, and there they were when Lord Berrington went out, an hour later. They at once accosted him, calm and dignified as ever, but he felt he could not trust himself, so permitted them to come inside the hall, rather than risk a scene upon the doorstep.

“If you continue to molest me in this manner,” he began, by way of greeting, “I shall put the matter in the hands of the police!”

The Celestials bowed.

“Your lordship does us honour, in so readily permitting us this interview,” the spokesman of the two insisted, no shadow of sarcasm breaking the immobile hardness of his face. “We have come—”

“Yes, yes. But I have already told you twice, and now finally repeat, that the image belongs to me, and with me it shall remain. It is useless to make even the wildest offer.”

“We offer nothing,” the man answered, in his monotonous manner. “We have come to take away the image.”

Lord Berrington looked down at the little man in almost dazed surprise. Despite his wide experience of Oriental mind and method, he found himself unable to fathom any motive in this extraordinary sequence of behaviour.

“We have come – to fetch our god,” the Chinaman repeated once again, as with an effort imparting a trace of emphasis to the words.

Tense silence followed for a moment, and then Lord Berrington heard a step behind him.

“Mills,” he spluttered. “Turn these – these heathens out!”

He felt a trifle foolish afterwards, for he had gone straight back to the library, and with trembling hand, had measured himself a liberal dose of brandy. It was ridiculous to look back upon, but the parting appearance of the Chinese faces had quite upset his nerves. At last the mask had fallen, and they shot at him that glance of hideous menace he had in fancy seen upon the image of their god, the morning he had placed it opposite the Murillo Virgin. And then, as he burst into the library, and faced the Chinese cabinet, the terrible expression was once more on the god – but this time the staring eyes looked down, fixing their malignant gaze on him….

He had recovered, and was already laughing at his idle fancies, when the next unpleasant incident of that day occurred, the visit of a police inspector, sent from Scotland Yard. An unknown body had been recovered from the river, and the only clue to its identity was a cheque for two thousand pounds, bearing the signature of Lord Berrington.

“I know nothing of the man,” the latter protested. “I bought a curio from him, but he was a complete stranger to me, and seemed careful to conceal his name.”

“Curious that a gentleman should commit suicide with so much money on him!” meditated the detective. “However, there was not the slightest sign of violence about the body.”

“Most inexplicable,” agreed Lord Berrington. “How long since could death have taken place?”

“We found the body at ten o’clock this morning, your lordship. The doctor estimated that it had been in the water for two days.”

•   •   •   •   •

That night, when Mills was going his final round, he discovered his master lying before the Chinese lacquer cabinet, dead. The house was roused, and a famous specialist summoned. He could do no more than pronounce him past all human aid, and offer an opinion that death was due to heart failure. The look of pain, or fear, upon the face of the deceased was not unusual with certain forms of the complaint.

The great man had departed when Mills made his significant discovery. The Chinese god had disappeared!

THE PEOPLE
OF THE HIDDEN ROOM

The Prince’s Feathers was quite agog, when the existence of a hidden chamber was first discovered. Jasper Doone, the genial landlord, fairly capered with delight, for the old-world village had become so popular with motorists that he could let his rooms twice over in the Summer – and to light upon an unsuspected extra parlour, panelled throughout in Jacobean oak, was indeed a stroke of luck worth capering about.

To “Boy” Daniel belonged the honour of the discovery, and old Jasper Doone, in gracious generosity, presented him with a shilling, and an extra glass of beer.

“Ye’re a sharp lad, Dan’el boy,” he said, by way of preface to the presentation, “and if ye keep on as ye be doin’, ye’ll get ’long in the world, for certain!”

Daniel had been “odd boy” at The Feathers for over half-a-century, but to Jasper Doone, a bare ten years his senior, the grizzled hair and unsteady gait were non-existent: he still remained the gawky lad, who one day might “better himself”, provided he worked hard, and did as he was bid.

The manner in which he fell upon the secret of the hidden room was most prosaic. He had been clipping ivy on the south wall, above the ancient bowling green, when the ladder slipped, throwing him forward, arm and shears plunged deep into the tangled growth.

“Dom thing!” Daniel gasped, shaken from his unaccustomed calm; and then, as there came the unmistakable crack and tinkle of broken glass – “Blest if it ain’t a windey!”

A few moments of industrious clipping, and his surmise proved fully justified, though two centuries’ growth of ivy challenged any tool of less destructive power than a saw. At length the clearance had been accomplished, until the small, diamond-paned window of an unknown room stood revealed. “Boy” Daniel, with many a knowing chuckle, hugged the knowledge of his discovery, lingering to trim carefully around the window, before sauntering off in search of his employer.

“There’s a windey up on south wall,” he had muttered in assumed unconcern, pointing vaguely shoulderwards with a toil-distorted thumb.

“Windey?” echoed Jasper Doone, almost letting fall his pipe, in puzzled indignation. “Windey? Course there’s windies – and ’bout time they were for nother clean, I’m thinking!”

“Queer bit o’ windey,” continued Daniel, stoically indifferent to the hint. “Queer windey as ever I seed, it be. Better come, and look at un.”

Half-an-hour later, they located the entrance to the room, a doorway off the main staircase, carefully boarded, and concealed by several generations of wall paper – obstructions which were removed without undue exertion by the village carpenter. The chamber of mystery, a not over large apartment, proved to have oak panelling throughout, and a great, old-fashioned fireplace: it was empty, save for an oak press, of such a height, and placed in such a position, that it obscured a blocked-up window facing on the street.

“Nice bit o’ old wood, that – and modern folks’ pay an extra ten bob a week for the panellin’,” chuckled Jasper, delightedly apprising the room and its contents. “Now Dan’el, boy, just get the ladder round in front, and we’ll see about openin’ up t’other windey.”

The remainder of the morning was spent in cutting away the plaster, which choked the embrasure of the window to the outer level of the wall; it was tough, and old Jasper kept an eagle eye upon proceedings, for he knew the value connoisseurs would set upon the ancient glass, too well to risk the breakage of a single pane. Meanwhile, both housemaids had been turned inside, to scrub the floor and get a polish on the oak, but it was impossible to finish in one day, despite the fact that Jasper made a relentless taskmaster.

“We maun get that press moved to yonder corner,” he had directed. before work finished for the day. “It be chokin’ the best windey.”

The press was Jacobean, in two portions, the lower comprising a pair of roomy cupboards, and the upper recessed, also with cupboards, while above all was a tester, upheld on twisted columns. It seemed extraordinary that so valuable a piece of furniture should have been abandoned, but still more curious was the mystery of the room – why it had come to be disused, and its very existence concealed with elaborate care.

In due course, Jasper Doone’s suggestions regarding the position of the press had been carried out, but the task had proved far beyond the strength of the two maids; even when “Boy” Daniel lent a willing shoulder, the mass of solid oak moved with the most extreme reluctance. Yet, next morning, when old Jasper strolled in to admire his newly discovered premises, he was annoyed to find the press in its old position before the window.

“Drat them wenches,” he muttered testily. “They be gettin’ ’bove themselves, these times, what with their votin’ and their trowsis. But my orders shall be looked to, so long as I be landlord of The Feathers!”

He went to the door, and shouted. Both maids answered to his summons, and both evinced the same surprise, as they listened to his admonition.

“We moved it last thing afore we left the room, didn’t we Minnie?” declared one, turning to her companion.

“Yes, and Mr. Daniel ’elped, it being so weighty,” the other elaborated.

“Dan’el helped, did he? Well – call the boy,” old Jasper had replied, still half unbelieving.

Daniel raised an alarm, when he learnt what had occurred.

“This room b’ain’t no good,” he prophesied, in a tone of breathless awe. “’Tain’t natural for bits o’ furniture to go ’oppin’ about by ’emselves. Summat’s wrong ’ere, and that’s why the room were shut down, mark my words!”

“Drat ’ee, Dan’el, hold thy tongue!” snapped Jasper, the more furious because a superstitious tremor moved him to agree. “I never heard of furniture a-shiftin’, without someone’s there to do it – it were foolhardy to suggest the thing!”

“Maybe there – there is someones!” insinuated Daniel, with a meaning glance, which added appreciably to the alarm of the two maids, and the secret discomfort of his old master.

But the press was shifted back into the corner, and during most of the day, the combined energies of the staff were concentrated on the furnishing and arranging what, in future, would be known as the Jacobean Chamber. By evening all was finished, the room being now ready for immediate occupation, and Landlord Doone, amid considerable rubbing of hands and chuckling, had mounted the creaking staircase, to enjoy a final survey.

The furniture, which was all antique, looked “slap-up” – to use his own expression – although, apart from the fine panelling, the new-found press undoubtedly remained the object of most interest. This now stood across one corner, and as Jasper apprised its massive bulk, the idea came with renewed conviction, that Daniel and the maids had been deceiving him. The idea of some unknown agency shifting it back against the window was, on the face of it, preposterous, and the old man felt a good deal piqued, to think he should have been so easily taken in.

Just as The Feathers was closing for the night, there drove up a belated motor, delayed through serious trouble on the road. Jasper was delighted, and most assiduous in his attentions, for although the house was all but full, the car looked to be expensive, and the owners announced their intention of staying several days.

“Only we must have a private sitting-room,” the lady stipulated.

“That you shall, ma’am,” assured the landlord, complaisant in the recollection of the only apartment available. “You shall have the Jacobean Chamber, ma’am – oak panellin’ and antique furniture throughout!”

The newcomers were enthusiastic. They would not require the use of the room that night, but curiosity insisted on an immediate inspection of its beauties, so Jasper escorted them upstairs, leading the way with his smartest duplex lamp. This was smoking when they got inside the room, so he made immediately for a table, and stooped to readjust the wicks.

“Charming! Perfectly delightful!” voiced the lady. “I am sure we shall love this little room. But what an awkward position for a press: I should like it moved right away from the window!”

Old Jasper remained bent over the lamp, immovable and speechless. Fortunately the lady went on prattling, while for many moments he continued in his cramped position, reluctant that his eyes should verify a fact which was both alarming and incredible. When the little party left the room, he hurried out behind them, waiting only to change about the key, and lock the door from the outside.

In the hall, the final details were arranged regarding terms, and for some reason the landlord found himself letting the Jacobean Chamber at a considerably smaller figure than he had at first intended.

“The press shall be moved tomorrow morning,” he apologised, when all was settled. “’Twas not meant to stand afore the windey, only – only while the room was bein’ cleaned!”

The following night promised to be stormy, and the air felt stagnant and oppressive, despite the ever rising wind. Jasper Doone sat in his private parlour, with a paper and a pipe, but the paper lay across his knees, and the pipe was cold, for his mind was wholly concerned with the Jacobean room. That morning, for the third time, had they moved the press from the window to the corner, but not without a considerable disturbance: both maids flatly refused to stir a hand to help, and “Boy” Daniel, together with a stable lad, had only aided Jasper under threat of immediate dismissal without a character. At the present moment, the lady visitor was in there all alone, her husband having gone away about the car, and Jasper, with many a sober nod, devoutly hoped no harm would come to her
while staying at The Feathers. On what, in the most unlikely circumstances, could happen, he did not choose to speculate – indeed, not being at all a superstitious man, this aspect of the case proved quite beyond imagining, though he found it impossible altogether to refrain from apprehensive doubts.

The old innkeeper at length commenced to nod, but was presently roused by the sound of footsteps, and a hurried knock at his partially open door. A moment later, the object of his late solicitude appeared before him, very white of face, and with troubled eyes.

“I – I don’t like that room!” she panted hysterically. “It – it – I fancied I could hear people moving about, and whispering!”

Jasper at this had turned a shade less rubicund, but the credit of his house was now at stake, and it was no time for hesitation.

“The wind, ma’am, nothin’ but the wind,” he comforted. “It be blowin’ powerful rough tonight. But if so be you’d prefer to stay down here, I hope, ma’am, as how you’ll do so.”

“Thank you, thank you!” the lady repeated, beginning to feel a trifle out of countenance. “I – I think I will. Would you mind fetching my glasses – I left them on the table by the lamp.”

Mr. Doone could do nothing less than accept the situation with good grace, yet of his own free will, he would rather not have undertaken such an errand. As things were, he trundled up the stairs, puffing as much with inward apprehension, as with the exercise.

The door of the Jacobean Chamber was shut, and as he paused to recover breath, a noise of a ghostly cry sounded from within.

“Shakes bless us, it be only t’wind!” he insisted audibly, and, of course, on throwing open the door, the room proved to be untenanted. Cosy indeed as the apartment looked, the glimpse was only momentary, for a rush of air from the open window threatened to extinguish the lamp, and even as Jasper’s hand was at the casement, there came another violent gust, slamming the heavy door with a resounding crash, and plunging the room into instant darkness. The old man was momentarily startled, but not the least alarmed. The room, he knew, was empty, so he lingered to secure the window before attempting to relight the lamp. Gusts of wind continued rattling at the panes, and thundering in the wide, old-fashioned chimney; the very boards were set a-creaking, and as Jasper felt his way towards the table, he could almost imagine that the sound of sibilant whispering filled the room.

Suddenly, at his very elbow, a man’s voice rang out, in tones of anxiety and haste.

“Giles, hold thou the portal with this rapier!”

The poor old landlord jumped several yards, and then remained stock-still, quaking in every limb, yet unable to bestir himself. A further shock of wind sent a tremor through the very fabric of the house, yet above its roar there came a more alarming sound:

“Nay! – Word of Christ! I see the Parliament traitors mount the opposite roof. Quick, Giles! Thou and Will draw forward the press, to barricade the window. I guard the door! Quick, dotards, quick ’fore they discharge their culverins!” (muskets)

A medley of hurrying footsteps, the noise of laboured breathing and deep sighs, the creak of heavy furniture, and then:

“What? Hasten, and I will help ’ Now! – Put thy back into it, Will! Good! – Sacred Mother, but I am smitten…!”

The words sank into a dreadful groan, followed immediately by the sound of a long-drawn, staggering fall. Then the door of the room burst open, and “Boy” Daniel entered, carrying a candle.

“Gaum! That dratted old chest moved across windey again!” he gasped as he stood open-mouthed within the doorway. And then his gaze fell upon the floor. Lying there, face downwards, was a man, strangely clad, and with a large, plumed hat beside him. The figure gave a spasmodic, sudden movement, revealing a dark, oily patch, which slowly spread itself across the boards….

Daniel, in speechless horror, dropped his candle and bolted from the room, followed closely by his master, who had now regained possession of his senses. The latter, frightened as he was, retained sufficiently his wits to bang the door, and turn the key on whatsoever dwelt within.

Next morning, before the house in general was astir, Jasper Doone and Daniel repaired, with many trepidations, to the room of mystery. Taking a deep breath, the landlord unlocked the door, and threw it open, fearing to discover he knew not what, but save that the press was once more drawn across the window, there was nothing unusual to be seen – least of all a dead, or dying man, and wide, plumed hat.

“That was where un lay!” pointed Daniel, voice sunk to a sepulchral whisper. “There ain’t even no – no bloodstain! But – look at yon boards: there’s bin some mendin’ done, plain enough!”

Landlord Doone examined the spot with care. Part of the original flooring, without a doubt, had been cut away, and replaced by newer boards; and at this,
and the recollection of the previous evening, he could not suppress a shudder.

“I swore that I should have un closed, an’ closed un’s goin’ to be,” he murmured presently. “But Dan’el lad, we maun get that press out, ’fore we shuts un up! She’d fetch a brace o’ tenners at a sale!”

“Maybe she ’ood,” retorted Daniel, busy measuring with his arm, “but you won’ get ’er out ’nless you takes the door down, maister. See, she’s a matter o’ nine inches the wider!”

Jasper reluctantly agreed, but even at this, the eleventh hour, he could not keep his eyes from wandering.

“That panellin’,” he commented with another mournful shake. “I could get a couple o’ hundred poun’ for that!”

“Look ’ee heere, Maister Doone, I don’ hold wi’ meddlin’; no good’ll come of it, mark my words!” warned the old retainer. “Lor’, man, b’ain’t ye satisfied wi’ what ye saw last night?”

The landlord turned upon his heel, and replied in tones distinctly irritable.

“Bless us, lad,” he muttered, “ye maun learn to wait till I asks advice, afore ye proffers it!”

Still more morose was he when, in obedience to commands, the wondering staff removed every stick of furniture that had been carried into the Jacobean Chamber, everything save the press, which was allowed to remain in its final position before the window. Usually a man of even temper, he was almost insupportable when the carpenter came to block up a certain door, replacing both the wall paper and wainscot, and while the diamond-paned window was being obliterated by great clods of plaster and a covering of rough-cast, the old man bided, furiously impotent, within the privacy of his room.

•   •   •   •   •

Anyone seeking information first-hand at The Feathers will be doomed to disappointment. Old Jasper Doone will hear him out in chilly silence, face a blank, and eyes set in a stony stare. He will declare himself most interested, nay astonished, and regret that no one at The Feathers has any knowledge of the ghost; and as for the hidden room – well, an extra apartment would have been most welcome, especially at this crowded season!

From the bowling green, a visitor may examine the tangled mass of ivy, covering the inn wall, and imagine that in one particular spot it looks thinner than elsewhere; but if the mighty wooden stems have been cut through, a growth of younger tendrils successfully conceals the fact – and the place is beyond the reach of closer investigation.

In the end, the matter may be settled by the voice of common sense. How could any portion of the inn be haunted? It would not be so favoured by the public, if it were!

THE APOSTATE

Far away in the dim past, there was a monk, attached to one of the strictest of the ancient Orders. Blue eyes allured him, inviting lips were so inviting as to make complete his conquest. For love he set aside the cramping, man-made codes, and broke his vow of chastity; broke it in spirit only, for she met him with an indignant scorn. Who, forsooth, would seek damnation in the arms of an outcast monk!

Blinded by grief, crushed with shame, sickened unto death by the false-heartedness of the world into which he had dared to peep, he staggered back again towards the Priory. Therein lay his home, his harbour of refuge, his only hope of atonement, forgiveness, and of salvation. Dusk was falling as he approached the monastery, and for a while his courage was like to fail him; yet, remembering the promise held out to the repentant sinner, at length he dared to knock. The grille was lifted, and as swiftly shut. To such as he, that gate would be forever closed.

Desperation seized him. Like one demented he cried aloud, he beat upon the door, he prayed for mercy. Learning the reason for the uproar, the Prior, a parched ascetic, himself descended to the gate, and clutching at the truant’s garments, drew him eagerly within. Next evening, the lay brothers were busied on the interment of a great stone coffin, not within the Priory compound, but in unconsecrated ground. And indeed, how otherwise might a faithless monk be buried?

None there volunteered to tell the manner of his end, though one was heard to whisper – that the apostate had not died.

Silence reigned for a full minute after their host had finished reading. Amid such surroundings, the subtle horror of the story could not fail to grip, for it was in this very house, Orton Priory, that the scene of this four-centuries-old monastic crime was laid. Sitting around the fire in the Refectory, dark with its original long tables, its benches, its oak panelling, and its open timber roof, few would have found difficulty in crediting the legend which, in all probability, was based upon the shallowest foundation.

“What about the ghost?”

Cyril Veeder asked the question, and sceptic though he was, the sudden echoing of his voice among the rafters startled himself no less than any of the assembled guests.

“That is the ghost,” replied Roy Clifford, laying down the musty volume. “That is all we know about him: that he was a monk, here, shortly before the Dissolution, and must frequently have sat in this Refectory, no doubt at that very table.”

Each guest turned hastily, throwing an apprehensive glance behind, almost as if expecting to be confronted by a ghostly seated figure. Veeder alone looked fixedly at his host: the faintest hint at challenge was apparent in his voice.

“Do you believe it, Clifford? Have you seen the – er, ghost?”

“No, I have seen nothing,” laughed Roy, in answer to the second question. “Nor am I ever likely to, for the pious brother reveals his presence only to the fairer sex!”

A delicious creepiness overcame the ladies, all save little Ailsa Revett, who sat huddled in her chair, pale and quiet.

“Where does the dear thing show himself?” asked one, more frivolous than the rest.

A noticeable pause ensued, before Clifford answered, and when he spoke, it was hurriedly, and his tone was somewhat strained.

“He goes, at dusk, to the built-up doorway in the west wing – formerly that was the principal entrance to the monastic buildings. After waiting for a time, he totters off in the direction of the Tithe Barn; but no one has been bold enough to follow, for as I have already said, the spectre only appears to women.”

“And leaves them shaking in their shoes?” added Veeder, quizzingly.

“No. The apparition is more sad than frightening, so I have been told.”

“Enough of horrors, Roy,” warned Mrs. Clifford. “You are making Ailsa cry. It is perfectly disgraceful: you know how very sensitive the poor child is.”

“I think it dreadful, dreadful!” the girl murmured, rising unsteadily from her chair. “Poor soul! To sacrifice so much for love, and then … Oh, it is too, too sad!”

Comforting her as best she might, Mrs. Clifford led her weeping charge from the Refectory. Roy and his guests exchanged sympathetic glances, for one and all they loved the delicate child, who was so sweetly budding into womanhood. Poor Ailsa! It was painful to see her so moved by an old wives’ tale, and a little fantastic nonsense about a ghost, and by mutual agreement it was arranged to say no more about the subject in her presence. Meanwhile, a house-party only justifies itself in being merry, so this one formed an orchestra of pianola, both gramophones, fire-irons, and all other noise-producing media that ingenuity could devise, and licensed madness reigned supreme, until a truce was sounded by the additional discord of the dressing gong.

The days and nights of jollity passed quickly, and without further mention of any ghostly matters, at least in front of Ailsa Revett. She, poor girl, appeared more than usually clouded by the melancholy of hysteria, the only grave-faced member of the little party. Mrs. Clifford did her best to cheer her, and to discover the cause of her depression, but Ailsa obstinately declared that all was well, despite the fact that upon several occasions she had been surprised in tears.

One afternoon, wearied of the horseplay, she slipped from the party unobserved, and went to her cosy bedroom in the old west wing. There she tried to read, tried to write, tried to sew, but continually her eyes would fill with tears, as the memory of that tragic tale of unrequited love recurred to her. For a long while she sat idly before the fire, until her dreams were interrupted by a muffled knocking, not at her bedroom door, but somewhere in the room below, or possibly outside. Obeying a sudden impulse, she crossed to the window, and throwing it wide open, looked out. It was almost dark, but she could distinguish the figure of a man – or it might have been a woman – standing in an expectant attitude, almost immediately beneath.

“That is not the door” Ailsa volunteered. “It has not been used for years. You must go round—”

The words died upon her lips, as the head was raised until a pair of haunted eyes looked into hers. In the fading light, the features were barely visible, yet it was a face she knew, if not in life, then in her dreams. The expression of the eyes was fevered, weary, infinitely pleading…. Without making a reply the intruder turned, and bowed with age or excessive tribulation, made silently across the paddock, the long coat – or it might have been a skirt – waving to and fro at each unsteady pace.

Darkness had completely fallen, when Ailsa was awakened from her reverie by a violent fit of coughing. She closed the window hurriedly, and then for many minutes sat rocking herself, in the pain of suffocation. It was only to be expected that the night air would so affect her chest, and she quickly realized that there was nothing for it but to go to bed, and accept the kindly ministrations of Mrs. Clifford. To her hostess she made no mention of the twilight encounter, partly because she lacked the necessary breath, but more so because her thoughts upon the subject were strangely undermined. The face had seemed familiar, yet at the same time strange – as if one of childhood’s friends had reappeared, old and worn by many sorrows. Was it some vagrant she had seen, or could it indeed have been the spirit of that poor, unhappy monk? Or – had she all the while been dreaming? A renewed spasm of coughing began to rack her delicate frame, as if to assure her that, had she dreamt, at least it was before the open window.

The threatened chill succumbed to drastic and immediate treatment, and next day Ailsa had practically recovered, though it was considered wise that she should keep her room. Towards evening, the suppressed excitement that had been with her all day grew more intense, until finally she was driven to complain of tiredness, and so dismiss two sympathetic, yet distracting visitors. Questioned why she felt and acted in this manner, she would have found it difficult to answer, unless it were to plead that a great and strange emotion cried within her for such solitude. To this was presently added a sense of expectancy, of breathless waiting for she knew not what, and then, as the burden was fast becoming insupportable, the summons came. There it was: a muffled knocking, such as she had heard the night before!

As if in answer to a signal prearranged, she sprang towards the window, and next moment was leaning out, regardless of the cold. The same, dark figure stood outside the built-up doorway, as though humbly waiting for admittance. Ailsa gazed down, fascinated by something she had failed to appreciate before: the head was bare, and partly bald – evenly and cleanly bald, as is the tonsure of a monk! And then the eyes found hers….

“Wait! I will come to you!”

The assurance was involuntary, unnecessary, Ailsa felt, for there was no resisting such an awful, pleading look. She snatched a hat and cloak, and swiftly crept down the turret staircase, which gave onto the terrace, by a postern seldom used. Next moment, she and the mysterious stranger met, met before the gateway which was forever closed.

•   •   •   •   •

That afternoon the shooting-party had been far afield, and darkness was falling rapidly when, homeward bound, they crossed the paddock near the old Tithe Barn.

“Now then, girls,” called Veeder, to the little party of ladies on ahead, “keep your eyes open, and you may see the ghost!”

The laughing retort which somebody threw back was punctuated by a scream, half frightened, half in jest.

“There it is! Look! It has just sunk down beneath that tree.”

“Where? Where? Can it really be the monk?”

“What is the matter, Mrs. Clifford?” enquired Veeder, forging ahead of the other men, and interrupting the excited chorus. “Has someone really seen the ghost?”

“Why, no, of course not! But there certainly is something white – lying underneath the tree. Don’t you see?”

“Probably an old ewe,” he muttered, as in order to satisfy his hostess, he strode towards the indistinct, white blur. They watched him approach it, stoop, and then were electrified to hear him call sharply to Roy Clifford. In a body the men cut across the grass, and were soon standing together, in a murmuring, gesticulating group. Then one figure detached itself, and came across to the anxiously awaiting ladies.

“Don’t be alarmed! It is Ailsa Revett. She appears to have fainted, and they are going to carry her in.”

The chattering tongues were quickly hushed. Delicate little Ailsa, out of doors at such an hour, and – in a faint! Everyone could guess how serious it might be for her, particularly as she was only that day recovering from a chill.

Next morning, Mrs. Clifford, who had spent the night in Ailsa’s room, was besieged by the anxious enquiries of almost every guest. Her replies were no more than vaguely reassuring, and immediately after breakfast she summoned Veeder and her husband to a private conference in her boudoir.

“Ailsa is very ill,” she began, rather breathlessly. “I can see that Dr Hervey thinks most seriously of her condition.”

She went on to detail certain symptoms, and to tell something of the harassing night passed, not only by the invalid girl, but also by her attendants.

“What I consider so alarming, is the fixity of her delusions. You know, Mr. Veeder, the poor child is positively convinced that she has been in communication with the spirit of that dead monk. Her distress at times is heartrending: one might imagine that she thought herself to be the faithless girl who sent him to his doom. One phrase she repeats almost continuously. ‘For Love he died, by Love he shall be saved.’ I can’t imagine what she means – unless it is her love.”

“Tut-tut, Mrs. Clifford!” expostulated Veeder, leading her gently to a chair. “Tut-tut! You are exciting yourself unnecessarily. It is merely a case of ordinary delirium. High temperature, eh? Well – there you are!”

His hostess regarded him blankly for a moment. Her face was drawn, and lined by a night of anxiety and sleeplessness, but when she next spoke, it was in a quieter tone.

“No doubt you are correct, Mr. Veeder. But I feel in honour bound to repeat the message she bade me give to you and Roy, for she is so painfully insistent that her wishes should be observed. She believes that the monk was buried in the paddock, at the exact spot where you found her lying. Naturally this is, and always was unconsecrated ground, and she begs that you will exhume the coffin, and have it properly interred. Of course, it sounds perfectly ridiculous, but—”

“But it always pays to humour such delusions,” interrupted Veeder. “Humour them. Prove that they are utterly unfounded, and – Hey, presto, the hallucination vanishes!”

“Jove! You are right there, Veeder,” agreed Clifford, with an admiring glance. “We’ll collect a working party, and commence to dig at once; dig up the entire paddock, if so much is necessary to convince Ailsa that the whole thing is a myth!”

An hour later they were plying shovel, spade, and pick, but the ground was hard and stony, and no great progress had been made when a halt had to be called for lunch. Early in the afternoon, they strolled back to the paddock, somewhat bored with the prospect of more fruitless labour, which had lost the zest of novelty. On reaching the scene of operations, they were surprised to find one of the under-gardeners, waist deep in the excavation, digging as if for a wager.

“Seems to be something here, sir!” he said to Clifford, pointing to a long, flat stone, embedded several feet below the surface. In a moment the party was all agog, and their efforts at leverage proving fruitless, they set to work with a will, to clear away the surrounding soil. After about an hour, a deep, stone coffin stood exposed, but ropes had to be obtained, and finally a cart horse, before its weighty bulk could be dragged clear of the grave.

Still unconvinced, Veeder insisted on crowbars and chisels being fetched, in order to remove the cemented lid, and discover what, if anything, might be within. At length the oolite stone slab began to move, falling into several pieces as it broke away, and then was revealed a sight which no one present was ever likely to forget.

It was the body of a monk, huddled against one side of the great stone coffin. The hair, the waxen flesh, the coarse, homespun habit, all remained unimpaired, as if superior to corruption. There was no mistaking how the unfortunate man had died: his attitude, the expression on his face was painfully eloquent of that. But even as they gazed in horror, the whole image sunk to dust, leaving behind nothing but a crumpled skeleton. As is usual in such cases, a few minutes’ exposure to the atmosphere had been sufficient to complete the work of centuries.

Dusk had fallen, and it was not possible to do more that night. They replaced the unbroken portions of the lid, and covering the coffin with a rick sheet, straggled back towards the house, a strangely silent company.

Mrs. Clifford, though she had determined otherwise, found it impossible to keep the facts from Ailsa. The girl grew so excited, so insistent, that there was nothing for it but to tell the truth.

“Poor Ailsa’s manner is so strange at times, it frightens me,” she complained afterwards to her husband, adding, a trifle disappointedly, “She seemed not the least surprised at the discovery. She did not even say, ‘I told you so!’ She merely asked what arrangements were being made for the final burial.”

“What did you tell her, May?”

“I said that you were having a grave dug near the chapel, and that Mr. Oakley would most probably read the service.”

“Well?”

“Ailsa was most terribly distressed. ‘Mr. Oakley!’ she expostulated, between her gasps for breath. ‘No, No! It must be a priest. Do you not understand that Brother Clement was a monk – a Catholic!’”

“Brother Clement?” echoed Roy, aghast.

“Yes. Why – whatever is the matter?”

Her husband had turned noticeably pale, and his hand shook as it hovered above a sheaf of time-stained papers. Then suddenly he recovered his self-possession, and faced his wife quite calmly.

“I don’t know! Only – rather a curious coincidence. I have been looking over these papers of my grandfather, and from them I learn, for the first time, that the monk’s name actually was – Brother Clement!”

•   •   •   •   •

A solemn hush fell on the house next day, for Ailsa’s condition was considered dangerous. Also the funeral of the unhappy monk had been arranged for twelve o’clock, and the grave was already dug in the chapel compound, actually a portion of the old monastic cemetery. No ladies were to attend the service, out of consideration for the dead man’s calling, a mark of respect which, together with many other details, had been inspired from Ailsa’s sick bed. The poor girl, critical as was her own condition, insisted on regarding the obsequies as a kind of personal mission, vowing that she could have no peace of mind until everything was properly accomplished.

Shortly after midday, a respectful group of men were assembled about the grave, into which, with considerable difficulty, the great stone coffin had been lowered.

It was a strange, an unforgettable experience, this burial of a monk, dead four hundred years, this linking of the Present with the Mediaeval, and one and all gazed thoughtfully at the ancient coffin lid, cracked, and broken where it had been forced. Here and there a shaft of wintry sunshine could penetrate the grim interior, throwing into prominence the dried, white bones.

The priest had said his office, and now he cast the consecrated earth, earth which broke and scattered on the coffin, and disappeared within the open crevices.

“Look!” gasped Veeder, clutching at Roy’s arm. “Look! Earth and air complete the dissolution!”

It was even so. The very bones were crumbling, melting into formless dust. They watched in silence until the disintegration was at an end, and then some impulse prompted Roy to turn his head towards the west wing of the old Priory, a hundred paces distant. His pose grew rigid; the blood receded from his face. They were pulling down the blinds in Ailsa’s bedroom.

Then the chapel bells clanged out. And although it was tolling for two souls, the sound was almost joyful.

A LASTING LEGACY

The old gentleman bent down, and carefully wiped the seat with a huge Bandana handkerchief.

His quaint figure, his courtly bearing, had attracted my attention ever since arriving at the hotel, and now he was taking a chair beside me, in the little garden which overhung the sea. Indeed, he made a very charming, and in these days an unusual spectacle, that of an old-world aristocrat, who still clung to the costume, and to the elaborately polite traditions of a bygone age. His stove-pipe hat, his peg-top trousers, the full-skirted coat with exaggerated waist, and the gold-topped, tasselled Malacca cane – known in former days as a Penang Lawyer – all made their appeal, and aroused the interest.

“Good morning to you, sir,” he replied to my salutation, gravely removing his hat, turned rusty-brown with age. The scant white locks, and the complicated network of wrinkles which covered the kind old face, told me that his life, at any rate, had met with full measure of sorrow and disappointment.

“You must overlook an old man’s curiosity,” he continued, after we had exchanged a few remarks on scene and weather. “You must please excuse me, but I have been given to understand that you are a romantic author. Might I ask if such information is correct?”

“Rather say a scribbler of stories, a dilettante,” I replied, with an apologetic laugh.

“But at least a student of human nature – one who will listen to the memories of long ago, without counting them the imaginative ramblings of age? Something drives me to seek a listener today, a confidant who has the wit and sympathy to understand; for mine is a wild tale of the old coaching days, when witches were accredited, and the curse of a gipsy led to the loss of an enormous fortune – yes, and to the blighting of at least two lives…. And now, if that awful prophecy is to be fulfilled, but little time can remain to me in which to speak.”

His voice had gradually fallen to a whisper, the final sentence coming in so low a tone, that I suspected it had not been meant to reach my ears. For some minutes the old gentleman was lost in contemplation, gazing blankly out towards the far horizon, while the unconscious, blue-veined hand with the cane traced curious figures in the dust at our feet. I silently produced a notebook, and sat waiting for his words.

I was quite a little fellow, at the time of which I wish to speak – and that was more than seventy years ago, he commenced at last. I am eighty years of age today, young man, just as was my grandfather, when he died.

I must tell you that he and I, we lived together in a rambling old Manor House, near Yanworth, not far from the great coach-road between Oxford and Cheltenham – the hard-bitten general, who had served at Waterloo, and the lonely little orphan boy, myself. The only other occupant was good, slow-footed Mrs. Pye, our housekeeper, and there was besides a cocker spaniel named Toozle, the solitary companion of my youth. Ah, that was a curious childhood, to be sure! My grandfather could be kind enough when the humour took him, but we held him in respectful if affectionate awe. He was soured with the memory of many troubles, and appeared more often as the stern, quick-tempered soldier, eternally hard put-to in finding sufficient money to keep the roof above our heads. Poorly, almost miserably we lived, with little evidence of that comfort which should have been ours by right and birth, but even so, we knew him constantly to be besieged by ruthless demands for payment – demands and threats which, ’fore God, should never have been levelled at one whose youth and prime had been given so ungrudgingly in the service of his country.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The old man’s voice had risen, trembling with indignation, and then, still muttering, he paused a moment to regain his breath. Presently he continued, and in a happier tone.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

One day, quite unexpectedly, all this was changed. At least, there came the promise of a change, and that in no more romantic manner than by the arrival of the mail from London. It was an unusual event for my grandfather to receive a letter, other than a dunning one, for money overdue. Few cared to know, or have correspondence with the broken general, who had mortgaged his pension to pay the debts of honour of a worthless son.

Myself, I had been for a walk that afternoon, and on my return had fallen in with Granny Jordan, an ancient gipsy, very evil of repute, who lived in a hovel under Prison Copse, near the neighbouring town of Northleach. She was held to possess the Evil Eye, and the villagers were generally decided that by right she should long ago have paid the penalty for witchcraft. Child as I was, reared from infancy on old wives’ tales, it seemed but natural that I should have stood in fear of her. And she – for some unknown reason she hated me. As we drew level, the withered crone pointed a threatening finger in my direction, amid incoherent gibes and chucklings, and I ran panic-stricken to the house, seeking consolation in friendly arms. Bursting into the so-called library – the books had long since gone the way of all things saleable! – I found my grandfather holding a letter, and in tears!

Always, with a feeling akin to shame, do I recall the surprise and confusion of that moment. As a child, I had occasionally cried in secret; I knew that women cried; but a man, a soldier, a general who had ridden into battle with “The Dook” … That show of feeling was a revelation I could not forget.

“Ah, boy!” the old man commenced, heedless of the tears upon his hollowed cheeks. “Ah, boy, you may thank your God, as I do, for the news this day has brought – for everything of mine will of course belong to you, when I am gone. No more pinching and skimping, boy! No more dunning, no more bailiffs! I shall die in peace yet, boy, though please God I may be spared a year or two before I am called.”

Strange talk, this, for a child, but associating solely with old people, I had become wise beyond my years, and more than guessed what was at the bottom of it all. Besides, in those days I often knew the pangs of hunger – when things were rather worse than usual – and I was aware that Mrs. Pye received no reward save food and lodging, for her loving care.

“’Tis your uncle’s money, boy,” my grandfather resumed. “He always hated me, but now he is dead, and left no Will, so his property reverts to me, as next-of-kin. Here! You may read it for yourself,” he ended, handing me the letter.

All thoughts of Granny Jordan vanished, my fears being easily forgotten in this new excitement, as eagerly I took the proffered pages, to spell them through as best I could. Most of the writing was mere legal jargon, lists of bonds and so forth which were meaningless to me, but the more intelligible paragraphs I shall ever recollect, so strongly did they stir my boyish imagination.

… We hope within the next few days to dispatch the above-mentioned Box of Deeds by the Berkeley Hunt coach, plying between The Castle and Falcon, Aldersgate Street and Cheltenham. As it is most important that the package should not fall into alien hands, it will be sent “carriage forward”, to be delivered only to you personally, at whatever point on the road you may care to name.

Pressure of business, and the present unexampled shortage of labour, renders it impossible for the box to be delivered by one of our own clerks, as in the ordinary course, we should have arranged – hence the precautions above suggested.

The enclosed list offers a detailed description of the contents, which, you will observe, represents a capital of but little short of half-a-million sterling.

Half-a-million! Half a million guineas to be grandfather’s within the next few days. and brought down in a great, big box, by the London coach!

“Oh, father, how splendid!” – he was always father to me, who had known no other. “How glorious it will be! You will now drive in a handsome coach-and-pair, and perhaps I may have a long-tailed pony…?”

“Yes, boy, but we must wait until we receive the actual money, before we commence to spend it. Heaven knows, in the past I have paid dearly enough for others’ folly – though, please God, the future shall be brighter for us both.”

Leaving my grandfather to his dismal mutterings, I rushed away to tell the joyful news to Mrs. Pye, and romp with Toozle. Father was to be very rich. Immensely rich. And riches, as I believed in those days, were synonymous with happiness.

Next afternoon, upon the stroke of four, my grandfather and I set out to meet the London coach, “just to get an idea of the time it passes”, as he was careful to explain, for of course the box was not expected to arrive that day.

And so we found ourselves in the leaf-strewn lane which wound its way up the hillside to the high-road, some half a mile from our home. I ran ahead with Toozle, the liver-and-white spaniel, while grandfather brought up the rear, more upright than many men of half his age, marching as if on parade before the godly “Dook”.

A thorough-going Tory of the old school, he was, and strangers would oft-times turn to take a second look at the still handsome beau, who clung to the fashions of his long-departed youth. He wore a white, wide-brimmed beaver hat, with a long black coat, square-cut at the corners, and furnished with large pockets, covered by enormous flaps. These pockets held a particular interest for me, because occasionally – only very occasionally – out of them would come one of those all too precious pennies, with which I could obtain lollipops at the village store. It was late in February, when the momentous letter came, and in these winter months he wore pearl-buttoned breeches, with leather gaiters fastened by a row of polished studs, which in summer would give place to white-silk stockings, and silver-buckled shoes.

The lane turned into the Cheltenham – Oxford road a mile or so from Northleach, and not far from an exposed and desolate spot named Hangman’s Stone. As we awaited the arrival of the coach, grandfather marched up and down, in an effort to keep warm, while I explored the overgrown hedge with Toozle, in quest of rabbits. I believe we were both careful to avoid the immediate neighbourhood of the ill-omened stone, said by some to mark a place of Roman execution, and in living memory the spot where supernatural retribution overtook a sheep thief. Whatever the truth of such tales, I found it an uncanny neighbourhood upon a winter’s evening, for Mrs. Pye declared that the country folk would never pass the place at night, because of nameless forms, heads stupidly lolling upon broken necks, and with projecting eyes….

But on that first afternoon, all such creepy fancies were subservient to excitement, and the expected arrival of the coach – so impatient is our boyhood, perhaps even of the treasure chest itself! But that day it was not to come.

“Is there a package for me?” my grandfather queried, when the coach drew to a standstill. “From Gridnell and Cole, Lincoln’s Inn, to be delivered only into my own hands.”

“No, sir. Nothing today, sir,” the guard replied, and with a heigh-ho, and a merry tune on the bugle, the great vehicle hurried on its way to Cheltenham.

After this, we walked regularly, for many days, towards Hangman’s Stone, and met the coach as it passed on its long run from London. My grandfather would wait, watch in hand, until he could hear the strains of the guard’s Kent Bugle – most coaches at that time galloped to its mellow, cheerful strains – and then presently the swift conveyance would heave into view, the horses steaming, and the passengers hunched up, and irritable with cold.

“Fourteen minutes late, today!” my grandfather would murmur; or perhaps it would be – “Five minutes before time, Guard. Is there any packet for me, to be delivered personally?”

And invariably would come the same reply: “No, sir, nothing. Nothing today, sir.” So trying vainly to hide the disappointment that mirrored itself upon our faces, we would stand, watching the coach as it was swallowed by the wintry dusk.

News, good or bad, soon spreads abroad, and after a time it came to be known that my grandfather was in daily expectation of some package from London which would bring him long-delayed, but absolutely fabulous wealth. Aware of this, the guards in kindness strove to make excuses for its non-appearance. “Not room for all of the packages today, sir”, might come the explanation. “Perhaps they may be able to bring it down tomorrow.” Or else the words might come – for I know now they were nothing more than words – “Thick fog in town today, sir. We had to get away without making all our usual calls.” But the whole life of the old General had been punctuated by a series of bitter disappointments, and as the dreary weeks crawled by and brought with them no further notice of the Deed Box, he grew to be even more silent than was his wont, until in the end, I believe he began to lose faith in the very existence of either box or fortune.

And then, one day it did arrive.

We had left home later than usual, and as fast as my grandfather’s lack of breath would permit, were hurrying along the lane, so as to be in time to meet the coach. About half way up the hill, as we were rounding a corner, there came the noise of a dog barking, punctuated by shrill cries of anger, and distress.

I ran ahead, my grandfather puffing bravely after me, only to discover Toozle, tail violently on the wag, making playful, open-mouthed plunges at Granny Jordan. As we appeared upon the scene, the old woman, who was only meeting fair deserts for teasing him,, snatched up a heavy stone and flung it at the dog, who rolled over yelping, his cheek laid open in an ugly wound. My grandfather was furious to see his pet so treated.

“Hell blight your blood, you hag!” he thundered, amid old-fashioned oaths. “You have killed my dog – an honest dog who knows you for what you are, you witch!”

He advanced threateningly, and for a moment I thought he was about to lay his cane about the old woman’s shoulders; but suddenly she thrust forward her arms, and fixed my grandfather with two beady, piercing eyes. He fell back, seemingly despite himself, as, commencing low, but ending in most dreadful tones, she cursed us…. Never have I heard such words, and today, after more than seventy years, their evil portent burns into my brain with even greater keenness than it did upon that wintry evening. My grandfather and myself were equally included in her evil prophecy. Not one penny of the fortune should be his or mine, she vowed, but instead, death and disappointment should dog our footsteps to the end.

“And you, you who dared to lift a hand against the poor old gipsy, death shall meet you unexpectedly before this year be out, death and disappointment, at a single blow. But that devil’s spawn of yours, your grandchild, he shall live for many a year to rue this day – aye, until he be as old as you when you die, and then, poor and lonely, his end, too, shall come!”

I stayed to hear no more. Trembling, and sobbing with fear, I clenched my fists against my ears, and fled.

How we reached the high-road that night, I do not know. Dimly I can remember clinging to my grandfather, subdued and quiet, but for occasional half-choked sobs which shook my frame, while the old soldier tramped along silent, and preoccupied. And then, when the high-road was separated from us only by a bend in the lane, there came to our ears the lively call of the Kent Bugle, half smothered by the roar of the great coach, as it passed rapidly on its way.

We were too late! My grandfather turned with a sigh, and we walked slowly homeward.

It was not until next day, that we learnt what we had missed. That afternoon found us earlier than usual at our post, yet almost an hour elapsed before the coach hove into view.

“Damme, but you’re late, guard!” exclaimed my grandfather irritably. “Is there any package?”

“Why, no, sir,” the man replied, with a curious look. “That is, not today, sir. I believe there was one last night.”

“Last night? What the devil do you mean, man? What kind of a package?”

“An iron-bound box it was, sir, from Gridnell and Cole, Lincoln’s Inn, to be delivered only into your own hands. There was fifteen shillin’ to pay, and as nobody was here to claim it, the box was returned to London. Those were the instructions on the label.”

We were amazed to hear this news. I know my grandfather was deeply mortified to have missed the box. the precious box which contained the key to an enormous fortune: and more so, because he owed the loss to Granny Jordan, who had delayed us with her curses, even as the coach went driving onward with its precious burden.

The old general was most perturbed. He wrote post haste to London, only to learn, some few days later, that the box could not be traced. Endless correspondence followed, but it was of no avail: the Deed-box, and with it all title to the fortune, had completely disappeared. The shock and disappointment, together with a renewed activity on the part of numerous creditors, all had their effect upon my grandfather. A stoop appeared in the back which used to be so straight, and by visible degrees his body seemed to shrivel, as if indeed he were accursed….

My next memory is of a dark, threatening afternoon – my kind old guardian’s birthday. He was exactly eighty years of age, as today I am myself, and the atmosphere of sorrow, poverty, and disappointment froze the congratulations which, at breakfast time, had hovered on my lips. As usual, I had been playing out of doors alone, and was returning home, as dusk was falling, when I came face to face with Granny Jordan. So unexpected was her appearance, that for some moments I stood rooted to the ground, too terrified to move.

“Ah, devil’s spawn, run home! Run home, devil’s spawn, or it will be too late!” she screeched. “I’ve a message for your precious Granfer: Tell him that I say his time is come, and that my curse will follow him to the grave! Tell him that, devil’s spawn, and when you reach his years, be prepared yourself….”

The use of my limbs returned, and I fled in terror, lingering to hear no more. Once again I ran for comfort to the library, even as I had done that afternoon, nearly a year before, when news had arrived announcing the great fortune. And there, just as he had appeared on that occasion, sat my grandfather, scanning a letter newly come. He looked up as I entered, but did not move.

“Father, oh, father!” I began to pant hysterically. “Granny Jordan is outside. She cursed you – Yes, you, dear father, and told me to say ‘your time had come’. Then I – I—”

The General had assumed an ivory pallor, and as I burst into a flood of passionate weeping, his mouth dropped open in surprise – or fear. After a few minutes, when my boyish outburst had been somewhat overcome, I turned towards him. He still sat silent, staring at me in open-mouthed surprise.

Something in the look stilled the very beating of my heart. I called to him, I shouted, I shook him by the arm…. My grandfather had answered the eternal call.

It was not until some hours later that I read the letter, which had literally to be torn from between his lifeless fingers.

So far as I can remember, its commencement ran like this:

We beg to report that the Deed Box, which disappeared from the London – Cheltenham Coach in February last, has been recovered, stored in error with certain other baggage…. We also very much regret to have to inform you that a Will has recently been found, whereby you and your grandson are totally disinherited from all participation in the fortune.

The narrator’s voice had grown strangely weak towards the finish of this long recital, and now of a sudden he was silent, chin sunk deep on breast, eyes staring beyond the far horizon, as if seeking to read the enigma of his unfortunate past. Not wishing to interrupt the reverie, I made a revision of my notes, and added several passages which my pen had been too sluggish to record.

When I glanced up, the old man’s rigid attitude brought me quickly to my feet.

He, too, had responded to the awful summons.

THE OTHER OCCUPANT

Roger Wayford had never known The Castle to be so packed with visitors. He arrived to find the place in hub-bub, a pell-mell of scurrying servants and excited guests, everyone in the best of humour, because the occasion for this fancy-dress frivolity was none other than the great Armistice Ball.

“We are absolutely crammed, Wayford,” apologized his host, “and as you can only stay the night, we’ve put a bed for you in the old oak closet. Hope you’ve no objection.”

On the contrary, he was most agreeable, for the Oak Closet, ordinarily used, or rather disused as a study, made a comfortable enough apartment for a bachelor. The panelling was said to date from Queen Elizabeth, but the pictures were smug portraits, mostly Georgian; otherwise the appearance of the room was not unusual, a bed with a bright quilt now occupying one corner, while the little Jacobean dressing chest, erstwhile the writing table, once again fulfilled its ancient purpose.

Wayford changed hurriedly, and repaired down stairs, where there was a continuous bustle of arrivals, all gaily disguised parties from the surrounding countryside.

As is the case with most short-notice entertainments, the Armistice Ball was perceptibly behind its scheduled time, and after idling until the band arrived, Wayford seized the opportunity to go upstairs, for more of his particular brand of cigarette. On approaching the Oak Closet, he found the door ajar, and a light within; his footsteps along the passage had been inaudible, nor did the door creak as he pushed it further open, and came to a sudden halt upon the threshold.

A young girl, attired in Puritan costume, was sitting at the dressing chest, putting the finishing touches to her coiffure. A pair of dancing eyes and an attractive mouth, curved in a mischievous smile, were reflected in the mirror – but the glimpse was only fleeting, for, undiscovered, he immediately stepped back, softly pulling to the door. The situation was unusual, but easily explained. She was among the late arrivals, who had driven over to the ball, and with visitors so numerous, all or any of the apartments were being put to temporary use as cloak-rooms.

Wayford returned downstairs without his cigarettes, but satisfied with the thought of securing as many dances as possible with the pretty Puritan.

Despite this promising commencement, the evening to Wayford proved disappointing. He had set his heart upon dancing with the unknown girl, and on that account, as she was late in coming to the ballroom, he sacrificed his chances with the general favourites. Instead, he wandered anxiously among the groups of chattering guests, for time was passing and the band already tuning up, while the Puritan costume persisted in its non-appearance. At last he saw it, and with a gratified smile edged forward through the crowd, only to discover that the wearer was somebody quite different. Her eyes lacked lustre, the lips were thin and petulant: there was nothing of that joyous diablerie which had characterised the lady in the Oaken Closet.

Wayford felt keenly disappointed, and not a little puzzled, when his adorable Puritan altogether failed to appear. He searched the faces of the dancers, wondering whether for some reason she could have changed her costume, and he put an indirect question to his hostess, who declared that only one Puritan was at the ball. He had even visited his room, professedly for cigarettes, but inwardly questioning whether his divinity had fainted, or otherwise been taken ill. But although the door was still ajar, the Oak Closet was without the faintest sign of her.

The ball over, Wayford retired upstairs, not waiting to speed the final batch of lingering guests. Being more than usually weary, he was soon asleep, but before long awoke, to find the room illuminated, and the charming Puritan seated before the dressing chest, letting down her hair! A candle burnt on either side of the old mirror, casting a becoming light on the altogether fascinating vision, who, needless to say, appeared supremely unaware that the room was doubly occupied. Wayford lay rigid, partly from surprise and not knowing what to do, partly because he did not wish to cause alarm. No doubt she was preparing for her drive home – yet how came he to have missed her during the evening, and why should she be letting down her hair?

These were problems too abstruse for sleepy brains, and for a while he must have dozed, to be aroused again by a sudden transition in the room from light to darkness. He heard the rustle of silk garments, the pattering of feet; then she was leaving, and if he remained quite still, she would never know With a shock he realized that she had missed the direction of the door, and her steps were turned towards the bed. Still nearer, until at its very edge they halted, and there came the sound of slippers shaken off, a faint sigh, and a hand commenced to draw aside the bedclothes.

“Please don’t be alarmed!” Wayford exclaimed, jumping out the other side. “There has been some mistake! I will get a light.”

He fancied he could hear a stifled laugh, but a moment later the room, flooded with electric light, proved to be quite empty. He blinked around in dazed astonishment, then went to the door, which was fast shut, and peered up and down the silent passage. There was no sign of anyone, although he searched the room, even telling himself that the poor child might, in her alarm, have dived beneath the bed. Neither was there trace of feminine slippers, or disarrangement on the dressing chest – and another curious circumstance occurred to him: there were no candles, not even any candlesticks about the room, nor could he detect that odour of smouldering wick, of which he had been distinctly conscious upon waking.

Vastly puzzled, but still more drowsy, Wayford returned to bed, and did not awake again till morning.

Returning consciousness was haunted by memories of the lovely Puritan, her appearance, and still more extraordinary disappearance from his room; and then, still mazed with sleep, he found his eyes fixed, not on her, but on her picture. It hung in an old gilt frame above the bed, the same bewitching eyes and mouth, the same stiff costume accentuating her shapely, pliant figure…. Curious that he had not noticed this the night before, when in a comprehensive glance he had classed the pictures as “a lot of stuffy ancestors”. But the hour was advanced, and cutting short his pleasing reverie, he went along to the bathroom, where he met his host.

“Can you tell me what became of the fair Puritan last night,” he asked. “The merry-eyed girl, like the picture in my room?”

“What do you mean? There is no picture of a Puritan!”

“But of course there is – above the bed!” insisted Wayford, surprised by the blank look upon his companion’s face.

“My dear fellow, I assure you no such picture hangs in your room – or anywhere else about the house!”

Wayford, insisting that he was right, dragged an incredulous host along the passage, and into the Oak Chamber, where he pointed a triumphant hand – only to let it fall, as he gaped foolishly around. Without exception the paintings were of frumpy ancestors in Georgian dress, the one above the bed, if anything, of all the most unlovely!

•   •   •   •   •

Several months elapsed before Wayford was again bidden to The Castle. His curious experience had never been long absent from his thoughts; as much as ever it remained a mystery, but he gladly accepted the invitation, clinging obstinately to the belief that the fascinating little Puritan might yet be run to earth in one of the neighbouring country houses.

His host was waiting with the motor, and talked volubly during the long drive from the station.

“I must tell you of the extraordinary happening since you left us, Wayford,” he began, almost before the car was started. “Some of the pictures have recently been cleaned, commencing with those in the Oak Closet. You remember the one you termed a ‘musty Georgian ancestor’, and which a moment earlier you had been prepared to swear was the portrait of a lovely Puritan?”

Wayford nodded, a trifle sheepishly.

“By accident the surface of that picture was injured in removal, and we found there was a much older, and a better one beneath. It proved to be that of a Puritan, provoking eyes, tantalizing smile – everything, just as you described her! By Jove, old fellow, but however came you to imagine it was there?”

“Can’t think!” came the reply, after a short pause. “Except – as you say – just imagination!”

AS IT WAS WRITTEN

Millicent could never listen to the howling of a dog with equanimity. To use her own expression, it “poured cold water down her back”, and never failed to move her to take instant action, partly from compassion for the author of the outcry, but primarily to remove the cause.

The lament on this particular occasion was so insistent that she halted in mid-pace, and turned her head enquiringly in the direction from whence it came. The only habitation visible from the lane was creeper grown, and apparently unoccupied, but a repetition of the uncanny call dispelled all doubts, so she hurried towards a break in the line of hedge, which marked the entrance drive. The gate, bearing in faded characters a name, The Hermitage, pushed open stiffly, creaking upon hinges long disused, its expostulation finding an immediate echo in a further long-drawn-howl. The sound was eerie when heard at fall of day, with the drive already plunged in half-light by a tangled, overhanging growth, and as the girl stepped forward, she felt increasingly uncomfortable.

A curious silence had now fallen, broken only by the patter of feminine heels upon the moss-grown gravel. Millicent began to think her errand was to be a fool’s one, when a turn of path brought into view the house, and with it a half-bred collie, waiting at the foot of the front steps.

“What’s the matter, boy?” she hailed in soothing tones, to be met with a response as strange as it was unexpected. The dog had moved towards her, tail commencing to wave to and fro, when suddenly he turned again, and with the utmost savagery, bounded up the steps, and hackles bristling, tore at the woodwork of the door with fangs a-drip, pausing ever and again to take deep-drawn sniffs, before giving vent to a paroxysm of frenzied scratching.

Millicent, though not a coward with strange dogs, felt rather frightened. She watched awhile in doubt, then moved to retrace her footsteps along the drive, but another melancholy howl arrested her. The dismal utterance, again so unexpected, caused her very flesh to creep.

“My dear dog, what is the matter?” she beseeched, advancing tentatively, with open hand. The collie had now left the immediate doorway, and came to meet her, with troubled eyes. “Want to be let in? Come on, then!”

The animal gave an understanding whine, so lightly tripping up the steps, she seized the knocker, and gave it a resounding tap.

The sound echoed cavernously, surprising Millicent into questioning why she should be knocking at an obviously empty house, for a heap of withered leaves had accumulated against the door, which itself was scaled and dusty. Then, glancing at the dog, whose beseeching eyes asked plainly to enter, she recalled the probability of a caretaker, and knocked again.

A mass of leaden clouds began to engulf the setting sun, and a sudden perceptible tremor in the still air spoke of distant thunder; the collie’s tail was drooping, his whole attitude suggestive that a further howl was imminent. Meanwhile, all within kept silent.

The atmosphere of heavy omen, together with the deserted aspect of the house and grounds so acted upon her nerves, that the girl felt she should scream, if she remained there any longer. Still hesitating, she made as if to descend the steps, when once again the behaviour of the dog restrained her. He was staring, as if fascinated, towards the door, hackles slowly raising, and eyes ablaze. Millicent likewise turned, and in obedience to an impulse, bent to the level of the letter-box, and peered within. In this position she remained for several seconds, every muscle tense, until a sudden relaxation left her staggering backwards, and next moment she was tearing down the drive, face blanched, and eyes luminous with horror. Fortunately, the entrance gate had remained ajar, and through this she projected, her wild stampede meeting with no interruption until she voluntarily slackened pace, after the first, straggling houses of the village had been passed.

Once dropped to a walk, she soon recovered self-possession, though her breath came in long, unsteady gasps, and her heart throbbed painfully. She forged ahead until the Police Station was at hand, then, with an excited gesture, hailed the shirt-sleeved sergeant, who was working in his garden. In a miraculously short space of time he presented himself, clad in faultless uniform, and startled her as she leant with outstretched arm against the doorpost.

“Anything the matter, Miss?” he queried sharply, apprising her with a searching look. She stared stupidly for a time; then the reply was uttered in a dry, hard whisper—

“Yes. Murder at The Hermitage!”

The sergeant goggled at her in astonishment. He made as if to speak, but failing, swallowed awkwardly, and without comment, led the way into the office.

•   •   •   •   •

A steaming cup of tea, proffered by the sergeant’s kindly wife, did much to restore Millicent’s equilibrium, and after a short interval, she found herself commencing to recount the adventure with unanticipated calm. But as the story advanced, she became increasingly flustered by the peculiar attitude of the sergeant. He seemed obviously distrait, and more than once she surprised in him a look of introspective wonder, suggesting an incredulity of what she said. The position grew more and more intolerable, until finally she hesitated, and broke off.

“Well, Miss?” the sergeant prompted, after a short pause. His tone was almost what one would use in speaking to a child – or idiot. “Well, Miss, what was it you saw inside the letter-box?”

Making an effort, she pulled herself together, and the words continued breathlessly.

“As I was about to tell, something prompted me to bend until my eyes were level with the opening, when I found myself looking into an entrance hall, with staircase ascending slightly to one side. At the bottom, crumpled in a horrible position, lay the body of an old lady – dead. But it was not that which held me terror-stricken. Feet were approaching into view, stockinged feet, creeping softly down the carpeted stairs. Step by step they advanced, tiptoeing cautiously; then trousered legs appeared, then a man’s body. Ah, the memory of that cruel face, and those dreadful, gloating eyes!”

The girl paused for a moment to regain her breath. Her voice, was hoarse, when once again she took up the narrative.

“The murderer’s gaze was shifting, shifting towards the door, towards the letter-box…. I noticed that his hand was wet with blood; blood trickled onto the linoleum in the hall…. Then I ran—”

She broke off finally, and with an unsteady hand, reached for the remainder of the cup of tea. The sergeant continued motionless, idly fingering a pencil, and without making any attempt to move. His listless attitude astonished Millicent. To her excited fancy, the interview was assuming all the unreal horror of a nightmare.

“Why do you stare like that?” she flashed impatiently. “Are you not going to – to do something?”

“Certainly, Miss, I’ll go up and see about it, if you wish,” he replied civilly. “But it’s like this. There can have been no murder at The Hermitage, because the house is empty!”

“But I tell you, I saw the people! They may be caretakers. I saw the blood upon the carpet—”

“That’s another thing, Miss. There is no carpet or linoleum. The place has been untenanted for the past five years. We keep the keys ’ere, at the Station, and go up regular, to see that everything’s all right. I was up there day before yesterday, and—”

“You don’t believe a word I say!” Millicent interposed excitedly. “No, don’t apologise. You think I am either mad or dreaming, but you are wrong. I saw everything exactly as I have described it. Besides, the dog knew that something was the matter, or he would never have attracted my attention…. Of course, Sergeant, if you choose to neglect your duty—”

The man rose quickly, reaching for his helmet, and a bunch of keys.

“I am going up to The Hermitage at once,” he announced stiffly. “If you care to remain here, or in the parlour, you may do so, Miss. I’d like you to wait for my report.”

“Indeed, no! I am not now afraid. I am coming with you!”

Expostulations would be unavailing, decided the sergeant, as without further parley the two set off at a brisk pace.

Darkness was falling swiftly as they passed together up the desolate drive, and approached the front door of The Hermitage. A sudden shadow emerging from the bushes startled both, but it was only the collie, who trotted towards Millicent with deep grunts of welcome.

“Farmer Burrows’ dog,” the sergeant volunteered shortly. “He is always wandering around this house.”

They had now come to the front steps, where the girl hung back, breath catching painfully in her throat. The collie stood close by, gazing silently towards the door, to which the sergeant advanced without the slightest hesitation. Next moment it was standing open. The policeman flashed his lantern on the interior, the dog fled yelping down the drive, tail tightly wedged between his legs – and Millicent swayed from side to side, as if she were about to fall.

Yet there appeared not the remotest reason for alarm. There were no indications of humanity, either living or dead – merely an empty house, the bare boards of hall and ascending staircase thickly dust-covered. With a slight shrug, the sergeant set about making a formal examination of the house, and then, quietly closing the door behind him, presented his negative report.

“Are you quite satisfied, Miss?” he added, good-naturedly.

The girl just nodded. She felt too dazed to speak.

•   •   •   •   •

Millicent despatched a warning telegram that night, and returned home next morning, looking little better for her holiday. The extraordinary experience – vision – she knew not how to describe it – absorbed every waking thought for many days. Though scarcely a believer in the supernatural, she was not a sceptic, and came in time to form the definite conclusion that what she had seen could be nothing other than a very elaborate form of a “ghost”. This idea took such possession of her, that in order to regain her peace of mind, she wrote a private letter to the sergeant, enquiring if in the past any deed of violence had been perpetrated at The Hermitage. The reply came by return of post, conclusive, and to the point.

Madam,

In answer to your enquiry, I can testify from personal knowledge, that no such occurrence as you suggest has taken place at The Hermitage, since it was built.

Respectfully yours,

P. Smith, Sergeant.

Two years had passed, and now the memory of that dread experience seldom, if ever recurred to Millicent. Indeed, it is doubtful whether it had crossed her mind for many weeks, prior to that day on which the chance sight of an illustrated paper recalled the vision in all its pristine horror.

She had been travelling in an omnibus, and gazing half consciously at the pictures in a newspaper, which the passenger opposite was reading. Suddenly the reproduction of a portrait seemed to stand out in relief upon the printed page. Millicent gave vent to a suppressed cry, and for a moment felt like swooning. The reader opposite dropped his paper, glancing above it with round eyes of surprise, but the girl had already staggered to her feet, motioning for the vehicle to stop.

Outside, in the fresher air, she soon recovered, feeling furiously mortified that her nerves should play her false, but presently a paper shop proved irresistible, so blaming her stupidity, she went inside, and bought the offending sheet.

With admirable strength of mind, she kept the journal until she had reached home, and was safe within the privacy of her bedroom. Then, biting her lip until the blood commenced to trickle, she turned to the pictorial back page. There was no denying the likeness to her visionary murderer. It was strikingly exact, and with growing perturbation, she read the short description – VILLAGE MYSTERY: Mr. Tale, stepson of the murdered lady, who in company with a friend, discovered the crime.

Over the page were printed full particulars, headed by three lines of heavy type:

THE HERMITAGE MYSTERY

Fingerprint Clue

Police Still Baffled

Millicent held herself in leash for three whole days, and then, as no sign came of a solution to the mystery, she took her courage in both hands, and set off for the country. Arriving at her destination, she found a pony trap at the station, which carried her along the peaceful lane towards the village.

Her breathing became uneven as The Hermitage drew near. With some surprise, she found difficulty in recognising the situation: trees had been cut down, the house re-painted, also the entrance gate, and she noticed that the carriage drive no longer tunnelled beneath a too luxuriant growth. Then, as a bend in the lane was about to shut the ill-omened house from view, the sun could be seen shining upon drawn blinds. The Hermitage was now a dwelling of the dead.

Arrived at the rustic Constabulary Branch, she stated her business to a young policeman, who admitted her to the parlour, with a request that she should wait. Some time elapsed before voices sounded in the passage, and a man, heavily bandaged about the neck, stepped rapidly past the parlour window. That fleeting glimpse sufficed. Millicent was left, pressing both hands against her bosom, and desperately fighting for her breath, Next moment the door opened, and a man stood on the threshold; she turned to meet the sergeant, whom she had first seen on that never-to-be-forgotten afternoon.

“The – the murderer! Why don’t you arrest him?” she choked, nodding her head towards the roadway.

“Beg pardon, Miss, but that is Mr. Tale, the gentleman who found his murdered step-mother. He has just called to complain of Farmer Burrows’ dog, who has bitten him badly about the throat!”

“Ah! do you not remember that evening, two years ago, when I came to tell you what I had seen inside The Hermitage? You, of course, did not believe me, but I understand all now. It was a vision – You must admit that I described the unfortunate woman exactly as now reported in the papers?”

The sergeant nodded.

“Well, he, that man, was the man who murdered her. I say it, for I should know the face among a million.”

“Impossible, Miss. Not the least suspicion is attached to Mr. Tale. He had been away from home, and was met by a chance acquaintance in the village, who accompanied him to the house. It was those two who discovered the poor lady.”

“But the fingerprints? Have his been compared?”

“The public know the evidence as well as I do, Miss. Bloodstained prints were found upon the dress, and elsewhere, but having no grounds to suspect the gentleman, we naturally cannot ask for an impression of his fingers.”

“But you must! He is the murderer, I tell you! In the vision, I saw that his hand was wet—”

An authoritative tap at the door cut short the sentence. The sergeant moved towards it with alacrity, and next moment ushered in the detective from Scotland Yard.

•   •   •   •   •

A few days later, the gutter-press journals were black with smudgy photographs and vulgar headlines.

HERMITAGE MYSTERY SOLVED

MURDERER STEPSON

Fingerprints Obtained by Ruse

Prisoner Pleads Guilty

Latest Details!

SCARLET POPPIES

It was one of those idyllic days in August, when distant objects are set a quivering, and the air is laden with the hum of busy insects; one of those days when the very idea of strife, or evil is untenable.

Fielding, in the enjoyment of a holiday, was paddling up the river, occasionally guiding his canoe behind a clump of reeds, the better to observe a moorhen with her young, and perhaps obtain a glimpse of that rara avis, the lordly heron. Sometimes he would linger beneath the willows, smoking in reflective appreciation of the jumping trout, or anon a fit of energy might seize him, and his boat Would be sent skimming up a reach, in record time.

In such a mood, on such an afternoon, these dallyings would be slow to tire, yet the sight of a deserted mill, and the prospect of a ramble, came as an irresistible diversion. Fielding immediately made the bank, tied up his craft, lit a pipe, and turned his steps towards the ruin. It was a glorious day, and he whistled gaily as his feet sunk deep into the rich herbage, each step raising a little cloud of crane flies, or silencing some raucous grasshopper.

The meadow was ablaze with gorgeous buttercups, and backing it, a line of solemn elms threw dark, contrasting shadows. Beneath them nestled the old mill, to reach which Fielding must cross the meadow, and negotiate a mud-bound stream – a delicate task in pipe-clayed shoes and flannels, and one which stirred a group of cows to momentary interest. At length it was accomplished, and he pushed aside the broken gate which gave into the mill enclosure. The dry bed of the former pond was high with weeds, desperately at strife, for bare existence, with a straggling growth of bramble interspersed with willow shoots – a scene of desolation which was paralleled only in the kitchen garden, cultivated in bygone times upon the slope of embankment. Rank grass, weeds, rhubarb run to seed, a devouring bed of horse-radish, and nothing more but poppies, flaming scarlet poppies. Fielding, submitting it to moody speculation, turned abruptly, in obedience to that instinct which tells us we are watched, but his intuition was at fault, for no trace of human life was apparent near the mill. The house was ruinous and ivy-clad, and the windows, where not hidden by the creeping growth, looked cavernous, the stones above their empty frames being blackened, as if by fire.

On he wandered through the garden, halting once, because he thought he heard a footstep, but it was nothing, and the trail of scattered poppies brought him leisurely towards the buildings. Here was the dark sluice-way, long since deserted by the meanest trickle, and the moss-grown wheel, lying broken in the pit. The atmosphere was damp, the scene depressing, but a blazing mass of poppies attracted his attention, and he stood with puckered eyes, delightedly contrasting their vivid colours with the cold, dark shadows in the background.

Poppies grew in superlative abundance here, covering the ground up to the very wall of the old mill, where, in one particular spot, they seemed to congregate: for a moment, Fielding imagined them as a scarlet stream, welling up from the stone foundations, and flowing in ever diminishing trickles, to the extremest limits of the kitchen garden. It was a curious fancy, and suggested following the growth of poppies to its imagined source. This proved to be a grating, partially below ground level, between the very bars of which the flowers grew. Fielding stooped, looking through into a small cellar, which was faintly illuminated by a square of light, emanating from a trap door, or hole in the floor of the room above. It was chock-a-block with debris, and the mildewed accumulations of many years, from which exuded a disagreeable odour of decay: broken bricks, dead leaves, pieces of mortar, and embedded in the very midst, rust-coated and green with noisome moss, a metal trunk.

With eyes becoming more accustomed to the gloom, this relic of human occupation held him fascinated, and he bent still lower, peering through the bars, racked by curiosity as to what, if anything, could be inside….

Who the—?

Fielding had straightened himself abruptly, looking round in blank amazement. The place was utterly deserted, yet he could swear that a hand had lain upon his shoulder, and hot breath had fallen on his neck – as if someone immediately behind had also bent to look. His nerves were not accustomed to play such tricks, and it necessitated a considerable effort to pull himself together. Not a bird was singing, not an insect rustled in the grass; the silence grew unbearable, and sheer necessity of action urged him to move on round the house, still obsessed by the feeling that he was being watched – nay, more than watched, followed.

Presently he found the entrance, made carefully secure with a rusted padlock, but the hinges had given way, and the door fell open to an energetic push. Once within he turned to close it, then cursed his folly, for the instinct had presupposed somebody whom he wished to keep outside, and of whom he stood in fear. Sheer contrariness prompted him to leave it open, wedging the door in position with a piece of stick.

The room in which he found himself could in no wise claim to be remarkable. The walls were mildewed, the stone floor green, and dirty, and an open fireplace still retained great smears of rust and soot. In the further wall, a door gave admittance to an inner room, and it was to the stone flags in front of this that Fielding felt his whole attention drawn. Coming from beneath the door was a great, brown stain, dark in its solidity, but forking into a dozen wavering streamlets as it crossed the room, and faded beneath the layers of accumulated dirt. It brought to mind his vision of the poppies, how, straggling amid the garden, they had seemed to concentrate as from a single source, welling-up like a blood-red fountain from the cellar – the cellar which he knew must lie beneath that very room. Almost could he picture its desolate interior, the gaping trap through which the noisome pit was visible, and immediately beneath, that large, mysterious trunk…. What dreadful secret had he lighted on? What was it that urged him forward, while a creeping terror sapped the strength from brain and limb?

But anything were better than this inaction, and come what might, he must know for himself what lay behind that door.

Three determined strides, and it yielded readily to his touch. A waft of foetid air, a crushing blow, and next moment he was on the floor, struggling against some superhuman force, invisible yet overpowering, which drew him inch-by-inch towards the gaping cavity. He fought blindly, silently, fought against he knew not what, save only that defeat meant death. Already one leg was swinging in mid-air, kicking madly until the shoe fell off, to strike with a muffled clang upon a thing metallic, in the dark beneath. Like a knell it echoed, as for a moment Fielding felt released from the unearthly grip.

With a desperate effort, he managed to regain the floor, to stagger to his feet, and rush headlong from the awful chamber. Unseeingly he passed the outer doorway, trampling under foot the flaming poppies as he sped by the broken mill-wheel and through the kitchen garden – for there was no mistaking the reality of those footsteps, or the harsh intake of the pursuer’s breath. Headlong down the steep embankment to the meadow, splashing knee-deep through the muddy stream, much to the scandal of the group of cows – on, on until he reached the river bank, where with palsied fingers he tore at the knotted painter of the canoe. Then suddenly a glimmering of self-control returned. He halted, and swept a nervous glance around. The scene was utterly deserted. No human creature was in sight. Away over the field, the cows had lazily resumed their munching, and high up in the sky above, a lark trilled joyously….

Looking down, he was struck by the condition of his clothes, by the missing shoe, and the fact that he possessed no hat. But somehow nothing seemed to matter. He jumped into the canoe, pushed off from the bank, and paddled away as quickly as his arms could take him.

THE SERPENT

Even in my college days, I had a passion for antiques. Lectures, to me, were of secondary interest to hobbies: hobbies became studies, finally minor professions in themselves. I have written a book about old musical instruments, illustrating it from a collection mainly gathered during lecture hours, when I was wont to search the antique shops, and scour the countryside in search of “finds”.

The Serpent was a “find”, one of my earliest in fact, dirt cheap at half-a-sovereign. It hangs on the wall above me as I write, and twelve years seem as yesterday, so vividly can I recall its connection with what was obviously a demonstration of the psychic. And here let me add that this is no mere author’s jargon, whereby an imaginative tale is clothed with a semblance of reality. My own name appears throughout the dialogue, and the story is offered at its own face value, as an experience of the supernormal.

That year found me in lodgings, the only tenant of an upper storey, while Pearson, a fifth-year medical student, occupied the rooms beneath. I well remember carrying home the sinister looking monster, and going with it in triumph to his study.

“Heavens, Daubeny, what on earth have you got there?” he exclaimed, aghast.

“Serpent – old musical instrument. Listen!”

I applied my lips to the ivory mouthpiece, and blew with vigour, producing some deep, booming notes of no particular denomination. Pearson clapped his hands across his ears, and danced about the room in mimic agony.

“For mercy’s sake. shut up” he cried. “More rubbish; more rotten refuse! You are a funny beggar, Daubeny. I bet you paid at least a shilling for it!”

“Shilling! Refuse!” I repeated, with indignant scorn. “My dear Pearson, this is a most interesting instrument. Bass of the ancient Cornett family, invented by a Canon of Auxerre, and…”

Pearson had assumed an idiotic, hanging-jawed expression. staring at me glassily until I stopped, and then derisively addressed me as “Professor”. Knowing that he was busy, working hard for an examination, I almost immediately retired, to admire the new-found treasure in the privacy of my room.

It is a handsome beast, the Serpent, an eight-foot length of bulky tubing, coiled into sinuous zig-zags, to meet the convenience of the player. This specimen dated from the early reign of George III, a king who took particular, even practical interest in the noble if unwieldy instrument. Its material is wood, covered with black leather, and there are six ivory-rimmed finger holes, and several brass keys and mountings. It looked particularly appropriate in a Pergolesi armchair – another famous bargain – and there I left it, hurrying off to dress, having an appointment for the theatre with some friends.

On my return, I strolled in to Pearson’s study, bent on the usual nightly gossip. He raised his eyebrows at my entry, as if a trifle surprised to see me in my outdoor clothes.

“I was nearly coming up to you, an hour ago,” he murmured. “Just been out?”

“Yes. Most excellent show on at the theatre.”

“Who told you?”

“Nobody. I’ve been.”

“You don’t catch me so easily as that, Daubeny.” He insisted, a shade of annoyance in his voice. “When you choose to blow that beastly old instrument half the evening, it’s useless to pretend you’re out. I was nearly coming up to stop it. The noise—”

“Well?”

“Was like an asthmatic cow. Nearly drove me mad!”

“You have been dreaming, Pearson. Falling asleep over your scalpels and your hideous books. Much better to have come to the theatre with your humble.” Then, seeing that he yet doubted, I continued in a more serious tone. “Honestly, I was at the theatre, Pearson. Went out shortly after seven o’clock.”

“Deuced curious!” he muttered. “I could have sworn the sound came from your room.”

“I haven’t touched the Serpent since bringing it in for you to see,” was my reply. “It must have been an evening incantation on the part of Mrs. Phillips!”

This was a gibe at our landlady, a dear old soul who occasionally croaked reminiscences of youthful song, to the accompaniment of a kind of little harp.

Probably neither of us thought further of the matter until next evening, when another difference of the same kind arose. I had determined to cope with some arrears of work, but at the last moment the prospect of a lecture on Mediaeval Brasses proved irresistible, so I pitched aside my books, and went. Afterwards, having changed into slippers and a pipe, I leisurely ambled down to Pearson’s hospitable fireside.

“Really, Daubeny, this is a bit too thick!” he commenced, almost before I had got inside the room. “How the deuce can a fellow study for his finals, when you go kicking up a row like that!”

“My poor, dear, demented friend—” I began, in mock solicitude, wondering what on earth he was talking about.

“No. It’s no good, Daubs. It is beyond a joke. I made allowances yesterday, because you’d just bought the beastly thing, but that you should regularly make night hideous with it—”

“Oh, you mean the Serpent!” I interrupted, divining the trend of his lamentation. “But you surely don’t suggest that its melodious voice has been heard again this evening?”

“Oh, shut up! You weren’t straight about it yesterday, so don’t make it worse by lying now!”

“My dear Pearson,” I said gravely, trying to ignore his offensive tone, for it was clear that he was labouring under some delusion. “I spent his evening with the Archaeological Society. Not one note has been sounded on the Serpent, or an any other of my instruments since I came into this room with it yesterday. That is absolute truth.”

“Then I must believe it,” he muttered, with a shrug. “But I must also credit the evidence of my own ears. No – it is no use suggesting Mrs. Phillips.”

“Then it must have been a ghost!” I pronounced, triumphantly.

“A damned, noisy ghost!” was his sour reply, and soon afterwards we parted.

Next evening, I really did intend to work. Examinations loomed uncomfortably in the middle-distance, and my knowledge fell sadly short even of the most modest requirements of the task masters. But the afternoon had been spent in tramping freshly ploughed furrows in search of Neolithic flints, and having secured a number of fair specimens, I naturally felt bound to wash and classify them before settling to less absorbing studies. The evening was half gone by the time I was clearing up the debris in my bedroom – a convenient annex to the study, for it was reached by a communicating door. Suddenly I heard footsteps on the stairs, followed by a thunder of blows upon my study door, which finally burst open to admit Pearson, voice raised high in expostulation.

“For God’s sake, stop! Why – What the deuce are you doing: all guyed up for a fancy-dress ball? Oh, shut up – Do!”

“Pearson, my dear old crony,” I called out from the bedroom, completely puzzled by his latest freak. “Since when have you been taken so decidedly worse?”

“Daubeny? You in there? I thought – Stop that noise, can’t you?”

His tone was too vicious to be assumed. I put down my tray of flints, and hurried into the adjoining room, to find Pearson, hands clapped to ears, glaring angrily before him. Then he turned to me, annoyance and surprise written on his face. When he spoke, it was in a shout, as if trying to make himself heard above some considerable din.

“Who is it? Make him stop!”

For the first time in my life, I experienced an extraordinary prickling sensation about the short hairs of the scalp. Pearson had gone mad! He was indignantly pointing at the Serpent, peacefully reposing in the Pergolesi armchair!

“Steady on, old fellow,” I said, moving quietly up to him. “Come and sit down a minute!”

“Not with that damned noise!”

I grabbed his arm, and then – my head was ringing with the deep booming of a Serpent, considerably louder and more resonant than the tones produced by my own unpractised lips. Poom, poom-poom, poom! Somebody was sitting in the Pergolesi armchair, nonchalantly performing on my instrument! As Pearson so graphically expressed it, he was guyed up as if for a fancy-dress ball, with long, old-fashioned coat, knee breeches, white silk stockings, and buckled shoes!

“Who the devil—” I began, taking a step forward, only for the question to die unformed upon my lips. Was I, too, mad? The Serpent stood, propped up as usual, in the Pergolesi armchair; nobody was to be seen, and the only sound came from Pearson’s retreating footsteps down the stairs. Momentarily dazed, perhaps also a little frightened, I left the room, and followed him. He was standing before the fireplace, nervously charging a pipe, when I pushed open his study door.

“Pearson – What does it mean? There was nobody there!” I gasped, in a voice scarcely recognisable as my own. He regarded me coolly, and lit his pipe before replying.

“Who was that fellow in your room?”

“There was no fellow!” I insisted. “Nor any noise. You can’t hear any noise!”

Thus I challenged him, half expecting that he would deny the fact.

“No. Not now. It ceased almost immediately I left your room. But there has been the devil’s own bellowing for the last half-hour. You can’t pretend you did not hear tonight!”

“I am very, very sorry, Pearson. It shan’t occur again,” I answered, in my most conciliating tone. Delicate, highly nervous man as I knew him to be, it was obvious that he was suffering from overwork. My best course was to soothe him. “You shall be left in peace tomorrow night. If I were you, I should go to bed. You look quite done up.”

“I think I shall,” he replied wearily, passing his hand across his brow. “That noise has given me a splitting headache.”

At that I left him, and returned upstairs, not without a childish sense of apprehension, but one glance at the Serpent assured me that it was exactly where it had been left. Yet I had seen, I had heard Sternly putting the memory from me, I assured myself it was some queer freak of imagination. Poor Pearson was decidedly seedy and overwrought, and for a moment he must have communicated his “nerves” to me.

My surmise bid fair to be correct, for next morning he elected to remain in bed. His face was flushed, his eyes restless: this was obviously the result of late hours, and overwork. Complete rest for a day or two would do him good, but I determined, if he grew no better, to summon medical assistance, and so put an end to my self-imposed responsibility. Towards evening his temperature commenced to mount, and I immediately called a doctor. The diagnosis came with the shock of the absolutely unexpected: typhoid, and he was to be removed to the fever hospital at once. Poor Pearson was terribly upset, but in one respect I felt immeasurably relieved. The approaching illness sufficiently explained his delusions of the last few nights: it put out of court the haunting fear that his mind had become unhinged.

He was dozing quietly when I went to his bedroom shortly before nine o’clock, to be ready to assist when the hospital conveyance came. I tiptoed across the room, and sat down by the fire, without him becoming aware of my presence. Presently he started up, wide awake, and almost shouted at me.

“That damned noise! Make him stop it, Daubeny, for Heaven’s sake!”

In a moment I was at his side.

“What is it, Pearson? Have you been dreaming?”

“Good God, no! Can’t you hear it? Oh, my head – it will drive me mad!”

In an extremity of pain, he clutched my arm. Poom, poom-poom, poom! The sound was bellowing in my ears, the deep tones of the Serpent. There was no doubting from whence it came.

“I will go, and stop it!” I gasped, considerably startled, despite myself. “Release my arm.”

Next moment I was outside the door, almost colliding with the attendants, come to take Pearson to the hospital. With a murmured “excuse me”, I dashed past them, and up the stairs, but the noise had ceased, and as I half expected, the room was empty, and the Serpent quietly reposing on its chair. As I turned again into the passage, Mrs. Phillips met me, coming from her sitting-room upstairs.

“Nobody has been in my study?” I asked, feeling a trifle foolish.

“Not as I knows of, Sir,” she answered, obviously surprised.

“You heard no noise?”

“No, Sir.”

“I mean – the sound of a musical instrument. Not only tonight, but for the last three nights?”

“No, Sir. If I ’ad, and knowing you was not there, Sir, of course I should ’ave—”

“Yes, yes. I quite understand. I only – wondered.”

That was the end of the mysterious disturbances. No Pearson, no complaints of noise. And Pearson was in a fever hospital, so it was all as plain as a pikestaff. Yet, of course, his nerves must have become much distraught by overwork, because on two occasions, when influenced by personal contact, I too had seen and heard. This fact I took unto myself as a solemn warning, cut lectures for a week, and spent my days upon the hills, sketching a plan of some Pit Dwellings, and continuing my hunt for Neolithic flints.

One evening, returning rather late, I found Chummy, the lodging cat, sitting disconsolately outside Pearson’s door. I stopped to pet and sympathise, and she followed me upstairs, as being second favourite. For an hour or so she sat mooning in the fender, and then jumped onto the Pergolesi chair, a recognised vantage post, and with a reproving sniff at the antique evil already in part possession, settled down to sleep. All this while I had been washing flints, and as it was just on nine o’clock, I came back into the sitting-room, intending to take a turn at my professional text books, Suddenly Chummy let forth an unearthly scream, and shot from the armchair as a thing possessed. She turned at the closed door, and with hackles raised, exhibiting every symptom of acute terror, crouched glowering at the so hastily vacated chair.

“More indigestion? My dear cat, let me recommend that you should chew your mice!” I murmured, stooping to pick her up.

Poom-poom-poom, poom, poom-poom!

It was the loud braying of the Serpent, and there, unconcernedly in my armchair, squatted the old, guyed-up player! In blank astonishment, I dropped the cat, and at once the vision faded, though my ears still rang with the echoes of the unexpected din. Then madness temporarily took possession of me. I seized the poker and beat, beat, beat at the poor Serpent, as if it had been a live thing, and a poisonous, deadly snake at that! As suddenly my arm was stayed. What fool thing was I doing? I must have been dreaming, for Chummy was rubbing affectionately against my legs, and indicating her wish to regain possession of the chair.

Sorrowfully I gathered up the mangled Serpent. There would be many hours of work before me, if I hoped to piece together its splintered fragments.

At a later date, Pearson and I, between us, told his doctor about these curious imaginings. He listened patiently, but merely replied that we were silly boys, and had been working – or idling – too strenuously, or perhaps doing both, if the credit were divided up between the two of us. Afterwards he asked Pearson whether he had ever experimented in table-turning, or any of the other spiritualist phenomena, and on being reassured, warned him never to do so, on account of his unusually sensitive nervous system. Pearson and I talked the matter over, but could come to no satisfactory conclusion as to what prompted this gratuitous advice.

There was no further trouble with the Serpent, which I had pieced together again, as best I could. When Pearson returned, he uttered no more complaints, neither did he see any unfashionably dressed gentleman sitting in the Pergolesi armchair, which Chummy had learnt to share amicably with the Serpent, undisturbed by reminiscences of semi-masticated mouse.

I often puzzle over the nature of the change which took place when the quaint old instrument was shattered beneath my blows. Could the unbroken structure have been endowed with properties analogous to a resonator, transmitting, to such as possessed the psychic gift, the mysterious vibrations of another Plane? Was the cessation of these mysterious disturbances merely an instance of “the rift within the – Serpent?”