Author: Various
Date: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00
Description: Another 25 short stories, totalling approximately 100,000 words, all in the Life+70 yrs public domain. 1: The Striding Place / Gertrude Atherton 2: The Family Honor / J. M. Barrie 3: The Search for the Lost Chord / A. E. Martin 4: On the Loose / C. J. Dennis 5: Casey / Ernest O'Ferrall 6: Cold Feet / Albert Dorrington 7: The Dancer in Red / Fergus Hume 8: Captain Black / Charles E. Carryl 9: Mr. Donah / Tom Gallon 10: Saintin's "Madame." / Ambrose Pratt 11: The Model / W. W. Jacobs 12: The Rival Ghosts / Brander Matthews 13: The Viscount's Cub / J. S. Fletcher 14: Us / Owen Oliver 15: An Occul

Past Masters 254

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

24 March 2026

Contents

1: The Striding Place / Gertrude Atherton

2: The Family Honor / J. M. Barrie

3: The Search for the Lost Chord / A. E. Martin

4: On the Loose / C. J. Dennis

5: Casey / Ernest O'Ferrall

6: Cold Feet / Albert Dorrington

7: The Dancer in Red / Fergus Hume

8: Captain Black / Charles E. Carryl

9: Mr. Donah / Tom Gallon

10: Saintin's "Madame." / Ambrose Pratt

11: The Model / W. W. Jacobs

12: The Rival Ghosts / Brander Matthews

13: The Viscount's Cub / J. S. Fletcher

14: Us / Owen Oliver

15: An Occult Experience / Anna Nicholas

16: Lifebuoy / Ernest O'Ferrall

17: The Break of Day / Joseph Altsheler

18: The Pool of Honor / Elinor Mordaunt

19: The Parliament at Thebes / Donn Byrne

20: By His Own Hand / Anonymous

21: On the Adavale Common / Edward S. Sorenson

22: Through the Ether / Gilbert Munro Turnbull

23: Shadows in Zamboula / Robert E. Howard

24: George Dobson's Expedition to Hell / James Hogg

25: An Undergraduate's Aunt / F. Anstey

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1: The Striding Place

Gertrude Atherton

1857-1948

The Speaker, 20 June 1896 (as "The Twins")

Collected in: The Bell in the Fog and other stories, 1905

WEIGALL, continental and detached, tired early of grouse shooting. To stand propped against a sod fence while his host's workmen routed up the birds with long poles and drove them towards the waiting guns, made him feel himself a parody on the ancestors who had roamed the moors and forests of this West Riding of Yorkshire in hot pursuit of game worth the killing. But when in England in August he always accepted whatever proffered for the season, and invited his host to shoot pheasants on his estates in the South. The amusements of life, he argued, should be accepted with the same philosophy as its ills.

It had been a bad day. A heavy rain had made the moor so spongy that it fairly sprang beneath the feet. Whether or not the grouse had haunts of their own, wherein they were immune from rheumatism, the bag had been small. The women, too, were an unusually dull lot, with the exception of a new-minded débutante who bothered Weigall at dinner by demanding the verbal restoration of the vague paintings on the vaulted roof above them.

But it was no one of these things that sat on Weigall's mind as, when the other men went up to bed, he let himself out of the castle and sauntered down to the river. His intimate friend, the companion of his boyhood, the chum of his college days, his fellow-traveller in many lands, the man for whom he possessed stronger affection than for all men, had mysteriously disappeared two days ago, and his track might have sprung to the upper air for all trace he had left behind him. He had been a guest on the adjoining estate during the past week, shooting with the fervor of the true sportsman, making love in the intervals to Adeline Cavan, and apparently in the best of spirits. As far as was known there was nothing to lower his mental mercury, for his rent-roll was a large one, Miss Cavan blushed whenever he looked at her, and, being one of the best shots in England, he was never happier than in August. The suicide theory was preposterous, all agreed, and there was as little reason to believe him murdered. Nevertheless, he had walked out of March Abbey two nights ago without hat or overcoat, and had not been seen since.

The country was being patrolled night and day. A hundred keepers and workmen were beating the woods and poking the bogs on the moors, but as yet not so much as a handkerchief had been found.

Weigall did not believe for a moment that Wyatt Gifford was dead, and although it was impossible not to be affected by the general uneasiness, he was disposed to be more angry than frightened. At Cambridge Gifford had been an incorrigible practical joker, and by no means had outgrown the habit; it would be like him to cut across the country in his evening clothes, board a cattle-train, and amuse himself touching up the picture of the sensation in West Riding.

However, Weigall's affection for his friend was too deep to companion with tranquillity in the present state of doubt, and, instead of going to bed early with the other men, he determined to walk until ready for sleep. He went down to the river and followed the path through the woods. There was no moon, but the stars sprinkled their cold light upon the pretty belt of water flowing placidly past wood and ruin, between green masses of overhanging rocks or sloping banks tangled with tree and shrub, leaping occasionally over stones with the harsh notes of an angry scold, to recover its equanimity the moment the way was clear again.

It was very dark in the depths where Weigall trod. He smiled as he recalled a remark of Gifford's: "An English wood is like a good many other things in life— very promising at a distance, but a hollow mockery when you get within. You see daylight on both sides, and the sun freckles the very bracken. Our woods need the night to make them seem what they ought to be— what they once were, before our ancestors' descendants demanded so much more money, in these so much more various days."

Weigall strolled along, smoking, and thinking of his friend, his pranks— many of which had done more credit to his imagination than this— and recalling conversations that had lasted the night through. Just before the end of the London season they had walked the streets one hot night after a party, discussing the various theories of the soul's destiny. That afternoon they had met at the coffin of a college friend whose mind had been a blank for the past three years. Some months previously they had called at the asylum to see him. His expression had been senile, his face imprinted with the record of debauchery. In death the face was placid, intelligent, without ignoble lineation— the face of the man they had known at college. Weigall and Gifford had no time to comment there, and the afternoon and evening were full; but, coming forth from the house of festivity together, they had reverted almost at once to the topic.

"I cherish the theory," Gifford had said, "that the soul sometimes lingers in the body after death. During madness, of course, it is an impotent prisoner, albeit a conscious one. Fancy its agony, and its horror! What more natural than that, when the life-spark goes out, the tortured soul should take possession of the vacant skull and triumph once more for a few hours while old friends look their last? It has had time to repent while compelled to crouch and behold the result of its work, and it has shrived itself into a state of comparative purity. If I had my way, I should stay inside my bones until the coffin had gone into its niche, that I might obviate for my poor old comrade the tragic impersonality of death. And I should like to see justice done to it, as it were— to see it lowered among its ancestors with the ceremony and solemnity that are its due. I am afraid that if I dissevered myself too quickly, I should yield to curiosity and hasten to investigate the mysteries of space."

"You believe in the soul as an independent entity, then— that it and the vital principle are not one and the same?"

"Absolutely. The body and soul are twins, life comrades— sometimes friends, sometimes enemies, but always loyal in the last instance. Some day, when I am tired of the world, I shall go to India and become a mahatma, solely for the pleasure of receiving proof during life of this independent relationship."

"Suppose you were not sealed up properly, and returned after one of your astral flights to find your earthly part unfit for habitation? It is an experiment I don't think I should care to try, unless even juggling with soul and flesh had palled."

"That would not be an uninteresting predicament. I should rather enjoy experimenting with broken machinery."

The high wild roar of water smote suddenly upon Weigall's ear and checked his memories. He left the wood and walked out on the huge slippery stones which nearly close the River Wharfe at this point, and watched the waters boil down into the narrow pass with their furious untiring energy. The black quiet of the woods rose high on either side. The stars seemed colder and whiter just above. On either hand the perspective of the river might have run into a rayless cavern. There was no lonelier spot in England, nor one which had the right to claim so many ghosts, if ghosts there were.

Weigall was not a coward, but he recalled uncomfortably the tales of those that had been done to death in the Strid. *  Wordsworth's Boy of Egremond had been disposed of by the practical Whitaker; but countless others, more venturesome than wise, had gone down into that narrow boiling course, never to appear in the still pool a few yards beyond. Below the great rocks which form the walls of the Strid was believed to be a natural vault, on to whose shelves the dead were drawn. The spot had an ugly fascination. Weigall stood, visioning skeletons, uncoffined and green, the home of the eyeless things which had devoured all that had covered and filled that rattling symbol of man's mortality; then fell to wondering if any one had attempted to leap the Strid of late. It was covered with slime; he had never seen it look so treacherous.

_______

* "This striding place is called the 'Strid,'

A name which it took of yore;

A thousand years hath it borne the name,

And it shall a thousand more."

He shuddered and turned away, impelled, despite his manhood, to flee the spot. As he did so, something tossing in the foam below the fall— something as white, yet independent of it— caught his eye and arrested his step. Then he saw that it was describing a contrary motion to the rushing water— an upward backward motion. Weigall stood rigid, breathless; he fancied he heard the crackling of his hair. Was that a hand? It thrust itself still higher above the boiling foam, turned sidewise, and four frantic fingers were distinctly visible against the black rock beyond.

Weigall's superstitious terror left him. A man was there, struggling to free himself from the suction beneath the Strid, swept down, doubtless, but a moment before his arrival, perhaps as he stood with his back to the current.

He stepped as close to the edge as he dared. The hand doubled as if in imprecation, shaking savagely in the face of that force which leaves its creatures to immutable law; then spread wide again, clutching, expanding, crying for help as audibly as the human voice.

Weigall dashed to the nearest tree, dragged and twisted off a branch with his strong arms, and returned as swiftly to the Strid. The hand was in the same place, still gesticulating as wildly; the body was undoubtedly caught in the rocks below, perhaps already half-way along one of those hideous shelves. Weigall let himself down upon a lower rock, braced his shoulder against the mass beside him, then, leaning out over the water, thrust the branch into the hand. The fingers clutched it convulsively. Weigall tugged powerfully, his own feet dragged perilously near the edge. For a moment he produced no impression, then an arm shot above the waters.

The blood sprang to Weigall's head; he was choked with the impression that the Strid had him in her roaring hold, and he saw nothing. Then the mist cleared. The hand and arm were nearer, although the rest of the body was still concealed by the foam. Weigall peered out with distended eyes. The meagre light revealed in the cuffs links of a peculiar device. The fingers clutching the branch were as familiar.

Weigall forgot the slippery stones, the terrible death if he stepped too far. He pulled with passionate will and muscle. Memories flung themselves into the hot light of his brain, trooping rapidly upon each other's heels, as in the thought of the drowning. Most of the pleasures of his life, good and bad, were identified in some way with this friend. Scenes of college days, of travel, where they had deliberately sought adventure and stood between one another and death upon more occasions than one, of hours of delightful companionship among the treasures of art, and others in the pursuit of pleasure, flashed like the changing particles of a kaleidoscope. Weigall had loved several women; but he would have flouted in these moments the thought that he had ever loved any woman as he loved Wyatt Gifford. There were so many charming women in the world, and in the thirty-two years of his life he had never known another man to whom he had cared to give his intimate friendship.

He threw himself on his face. His wrists were cracking, the skin was torn from his hands. The fingers still gripped the stick. There was life in them yet.

Suddenly something gave way. The hand swung about, tearing the branch from Weigall's grasp. The body had been liberated and flung outward, though still submerged by the foam and spray.

Weigall scrambled to his feet and sprang along the rocks, knowing that the danger from suction was over and that Gifford must be carried straight to the quiet pool. Gifford was a fish in the water and could live under it longer than most men. If he survived this, it would not be the first time that his pluck and science had saved him from drowning.

Weigall reached the pool. A man in his evening clothes floated on it, his face turned towards a projecting rock over which his arm had fallen, upholding the body. The hand that had held the branch hung limply over the rock, its white reflection visible in the black water. Weigall plunged into the shallow pool, lifted Gifford in his arms and returned to the bank. He laid the body down and threw off his coat that he might be the freer to practise the methods of resuscitation. He was glad of the moment's respite. The valiant life in the man might have been exhausted in that last struggle. He had not dared to look at his face, to put his ear to the heart. The hesitation lasted but a moment. There was no time to lose.

He turned to his prostrate friend. As he did so, something strange and disagreeable smote his senses. For a half-moment he did not appreciate its nature. Then his teeth cracked together, his feet, his outstretched arms pointed towards the woods. But he sprang to the side of the man and bent down and peered into his face. There was no face.

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2: The Family Honor

J. M. Barrie

1860-1937

Romance, Dec 1891

MUCH of the story of the Glendowie Monster, now on the tongues of all in the north who are not afraid to speak, has been born of ugly fancies since the night of September 4, 1890, when that happened which sent the country to bed with long candles for the rest of the month. I was at Glendowie Castle that night, and I heard the scream that made nigh two hundred people suddenly stand still in the dance; but of what is now being said I take no stock, thinking it damning to a noble house; and of what was said before that night I will repeat only the native gossip and the story of the children, which I take to be human rather than the worst horror of all, as some would have it.

There are those in Glendowie who hold that this Thing has been in the castle, and there held down by chains, since the year 1200, when the wild Lady Mildred gave it birth and died of sight of it; and in the daylight (but never before wine), they will speak the name of her lover, and so account for 1200 A.D. being known in the annals of that house, not as a year of our Lord, but as the year of the Devil. I am not sufficiently old-fashioned for such a story, and rather believe that the Thing was never in the castle until the coming home from Africa of him who was known as the Left-Handed Earl, which happened a matter of seventy years ago. The secret manner of his coming and the oddness of his attendants, with a wild story of his clearing the house of all other servants for fifteen days, during which he was not idle, raised a crop of scandal that has not yet been cut level with the earth. To be plain, it is said by those who believe witchcraft to be done with, that the Left-Handed Earl brought the Thing from Africa, and in fifteen days had a home made for it in the castle—a home that none could find the way to, save himself and a black servant, who frequently disappeared for many days at a time, yet was known always to be within whistle of his master. Men said furtively that this Thing was the heir, and again there was the devil's shadow in the story, as if the devil could be a woman.

Half a century ago the Left-Handed Earl died, and they will tell you of a three-days' search for a minister brave enough to pray by the open coffin, and that, in the middle of the prayer, the mourners rose to their feet and ran out of the room, because of something squatting on the corpse's chest. There are many such stories of the Thing, against which all who might have seen shut there eyes so quickly that no two drew the same likeness. But this is no great matter, for what they say they saw I will not tell, and I would that none had ever told me.

There have been four earls since then; but, if the tale of the Thing be true, not one of them lawful earls. Yet until the 4th of September, 1890, since the time of the Left-Handed Earl, it has always been the same black servant who waited on the Thing, so that many marveled and called these two one, as they are not. Of the earls I have nothing to tell that could not be told by other men, save this, that they paced their halls by night, and have ever had an ear of listening, not to what was being said to them, but as if for some sudden cry from beyond.

It is not a pretty story, except what is told of the monster's love of children; and though, until the 4th of September, 1890, I never believed what was told of the Thing and these children, I believe it now. What they say is, that it was so savage that not even the black servant could have gone within reach of it and lived; yet with children scarce strong enough to walk, save on all-fours, it would play for hours, even as they played, but with a mother's care for them. There are men of all ages in these parts who hold that they were with it in their childhood and loved it, though now they shudder at a picture they recall, I think, but vaguely. And some of them, doubtless, are liars. It may be wondered why the Lords of Glendowie dared let a child into the power of one that would have broken themselves across its knee; and two reasons are given: the first, that it knew when there were children in the castle, and would have broken down walls to reach them had they not been brought to it; the other, that compassion induced the earls to give it the only pleasure it knew. Of these children some were of the tenantry and others of guests in the castle, and I have not heard of one who dreaded the monster. If half of the stories be true, they would let it toss them sportively in the air, and they would sit with their arms around its neck while it made toys for them of splinters of wood or music by rattling its chains. I need not say that care was taken to keep these meetings from the parents of the children, in which conspiracy the children unconsciously joined, for the pleasant prattle of their new friend allayed suspicion rather than roused it. Nevertheless, queer rumors arose in recent times which, I dare say, few believed who came from a distance; yet were they sufficiently disquieting to make guests leave their children at home, and, as I understand, on the 4th of September, 1890, several years had passed since a child had slept in the castle. On that night there were many guests and one child, who, had been in bed for some hours when the Thing broke loose.

The occasion was the coming of age of the heir, and seldom, I suppose, has there been such a company in a house renowned for hospitality. There were many persons from distant parts, which means London, and all the great folk of our country, with others not so great in that gathering, though capable of making a show at most. After the dancing begins, no man is ever a prominent figure in a room to those who are there merely to look on, as I was; and I now remember, as the two which my eyes followed with greatest pleasure, our hostess, a woman of winning manners, yet cold when need be, and the lady who was shortly to become her daughter, a languid girl, pretty to look at when her lover, the heir, was by her side. I know that nearly all present that night speak now of a haggard look on the earl's face, and of quick glances between him and his wife; I know they say that the heir danced much to keep himself from thinking, and that his arm chattered on the waists of his partners; I know the story that he had learned of the existence of the Thing that night. But I was present, and I am persuaded that at the time all thought, as I did, that never was a gayer scene even at Glendowie, never a host and hostess more cordial, never a merry-eyed heir more anxious to be courteous to all and more than courteous to one. Dance succeeded dance. The hour was late, but another waltz was begun. Then suddenly—

And at once the music stopped and the dancers were as still as stone figures. It had been a horrible, inhuman scream, so loud and shrill as to tear a way through all the walls of the castle; a scream not of pain, but of triumph. I think it must have lasted half a minute, and then came silence, but still no one moved; we waited as if after lightning for the thunder.

The first person I saw was the earl. His face was not white, but gray. His teeth were fixed and he was staring at the door, waiting for it to open. Some men hastened to the door, and he cast out his arms and drove them back. But he never looked at them. The heir I saw with his hands over his face. Many of the men stepped in front of the women. There was no whispering, I think. We all turned our eyes to the door.

Some ladies screamed (one, I have heard, swooned, but we gave her not a glance) when the door opened. It was only the African servant who entered, a man most of us had heard of, but few had seen. He made a sign to the earl, who drew back from him and then stepped forward. The heir hurried to the door, and some of us heard this conversation:

"Not you, father— me."

"Stay here, my son; I entreat; I command."

"Both," said the servant, authoritatively; and then they went out with him, and the door closed.

The dancing was resumed almost immediately. This is a strange thing to tell. Only a woman could have forced us to seem once more as we were before that horrid cry; and the woman was our hostess. As the door closed, my eyes met hers, and I saw that she had been speaking to the musicians. She was smiling graciously, as if what had occurred had been but an amusing interlude. I saw her take her place beside her partner, and begin the waltz again with the music. All looked at her with amazement, dread, pity, suspicion, but they had to dance. "Does she know nothing?" I asked myself, overhearing her laughing merrily as she was whirled past me. Or was this the woman's part in the tragedy while the men were doing theirs? What were they doing? It was whispered in the ballroom that they were in the open, looking for something that had escaped from the castle.

An hour, I dare say, passed, and neither the earl nor his son had returned. By this time it was known to all of us that the door of the ballroom was locked on the outside. Guests bade their hostess good-night, but could retire no further. One man dared request her to bid the servants unlock the door, and she smiled and asked him for the next waltz.

About two o'clock in the morning many of us heard a child's scream, that came, as we thought, from the hall in the castle. A moment afterward we again heard it— this time from the shrubbery. I saw the countess shake with fear at last, but it was only for a moment. Already she was beckoning to the musicians to continue playing. One of the guests stopped them, by raising his hand. He was the child's father.

"You must bid the servants unbar the door," he said to the countess, sternly, "or I will force it open."

"You cannot leave this room, sir," she answered, quite composedly. And then he broke out passionately, fear for his child mastering him. Something about devil's work, he said.

"There is someone on the other side of that door who would not hesitate to kill you," she replied. And we knew that she spoke of the native servant.

"Order him to open the door."

"I will not."

In another moment the door would have been broken open had she not put her back against it. Her eyes were now flashing. The men looked at each other in doubt; and each of them, I know, were for tearing her from the door. It was then that we heard the report of a gun.

It is my belief that the countess saved the life of her guest by preventing his leaving the ballroom. For close on another hour she stood at the door, and the servants gathered round her like men ready to support their mistress.

We were now in groups, whispering and listening, and I shall tell you what I heard, believing it to be all that was heard by any of us, though some of those present that night now tell stranger tales. I heard a child laughing, and I doubt not that we were meant to hear it, to appease the parents' fear; I heard the tramp of men in the hall, and on the stairs, and afterward an unpleasant dirge from above. A carriage drove up the walk and stopped at the door. Then came heavy noises on the stair, as of some weight being slowly moved down it. By and by the carriage drove off. The earl returned to the ballroom, but no one was allowed to leave it until daybreak. I lost sight of the countess when the earl came in, but many say that he whispered something to her, to which she replied, "Thank God!" and then fainted. No explanation of this odd affair was given to the company; but it is believed that the Thing, whatever it was, was shot that night and taken away by the heir and the servant to Africa, there to be buried.

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3: The Search for the Lost Chord

A. E. Martin

1885-1955

The Gadfly, 14 Feb 1906

"The Gadfly" was a monthly Australian humour and satirical paper produced by A. E. Martin and poet C. J. Dennis. This sketch is a little shorter than my usual arbitrary lower limit of 1,000 words.

SEATED ONE DAY at the organ I was horrified to discover that one of the chords was lost. Hurriedly I consulted the curate, and together we overhauled the instrument, taking it to pieces bit by bit. But our search was vain. We could not find the chord. The parson stood erect and frowned.

"There is only one thing to be done," he said; "send for Sherlock Holmes."

So we sent, and Holmes, the great detective, came.

"It is simple," he said, after a casual glance at the organ. "The village blacksmith is the culprit."

"What!" shouted the parson.

"Yes," said Holmes, calmly. "He comes on Sundays to the church and sits among his boys; he hears the parson pray and preach, doesn't he?"

"Correct," said the parson; "but how did you know ?"

"I never explain," replied Holmes, shortly. "I will go to him disguised as a detective. Where is he to be found ?"

"Under a spreading chestnut tree the village smithy stands," answered the parson.

"Thank you," said Holmes, making a note on the tongue of his left boot; "I shall go there."

"The smith a mighty man is he," I remarked, warningly.

Holmes smiled contemptuously.

"The muscles of his brawny arms are strong as iron bands," I urged.

"I fear him not," replied the detective.

THE CURFEW tolled the knell of parting day as Sherlock Holmes walked down the street and encountered the village blacksmith.

"You have a daughter," said Holmes.

The blacksmith nodded.

"You had a wife," said Holmes.

"Ah, Alice, where art thou?" groaned the smith.

"I will investigate," muttered Holmes, absent-mindedly.

"Ha! You are a detective," cried the blacksmith, turning white.

"Merely disguised as one, my friend," returned Holmes, with the readiness for which he is famous. Then he followed this up with one of his brilliant sallies.

"The lost chord," he shouted, through the coaldust in the smith's ear.

The village blacksmith cowered.

"I know you," hissed Holmes, under his breath; "you stole the chord. I am Sherlock Holmes. I know everything."

At the mention of the mighty name the blacksmith's dog poked uneasily about him, and moved stealthily towards the door.

"Forgive me," cried the blacksmith, falling on his knees; "forgive me. I did steal it. I confess. It reminded me so much of my dear wife's voice."

Holmes calmly slipped the handcuffs on his man.

"It won't do, Mr. Village Blacksmith," he sneered; "it won't do."

"For heaven's sake, have mercy," cried the blacksmith ; "and I will restore all. Think of all the people who have read about me. Think how they will be deceived. Think of poor Longfellow, who has so much faith in me. Think of the innocent children who look in at the open door. You would not give me in charge, Mr. Holmes? You would not, you could not do it."

Just then the village blacksmith's daughter entered.

"Oh, father, must I stay?" she cried. Then, noticing her father's predicament, she listened and heard him plead for mercy.

"Why, he gave me the beastly old chord," she broke in. "He said he won it at a raffle at the church bazaar."

"I must arrest him," said Holmes.

"Spare me," shrieked the blacksmith, and his heavy breathing put the forge fire out.

"Spare him," cried the young girl, piteously.

"What's been ensnared cannot be spared," replied the detective callously.

"Holmes, Holmes, sweet, sweet Holmes," cried the daughter; "spare him."

"Save me," cried the village blacksmith, fervently; "do not expose me; and, though 'midst pleasures and palaces both of us roams, be he ever so humble, we won't forget Holmes."

Holmes, with great coolness, called a policeman, and gave the village blacksmith in charge.

"Well, well," sighed the policeman, as he arrested his old friend; "a policeman's lot is not a happy one."

Suddenly Holmes uttered an exclamation of delight.

"Eureka!" he cried. "This man is no village blacksmith. I have been looking for him for years."

Drawing out his pocket-book he began to read a description from one of its pages, casting swift glances at the blacksmith the while.

" 'His hair is crisp and black and long,' " he read; " 'his face is like the tan.' By heaven! I've nabbed you at last."

The blacksmith's face turned from tan to white.

Leaning forward, Holmes hissed in the unhappy man's ear— " Who killed Cock Robin?"

The effect was magical. A terrible look of fear crossed the wretched blacksmith's face.

"Not me, not me, not me," he shrieked, grovelling on his knees in the dust. "At least, it was in self-defence. We fought. It was fair fight; it was indeed."

As he finished he fell back fainting, Whisky was poured down his throat without effect. A glass of water revived him immediately.

Standing up proudly he faced Holmes.

"Take him away," said the great detective.

The village blacksmith turned to his daughter.

"Good-by, Dolly, I must leave you," he muttered, brokenly; "life's dream is o'er; farewell."

Ten minutes later Sherlock Holmes restored the lost chord to the delighted parson.

_________

4: On the Loose

C. J. Dennis

1876-1938

The Gadfly, 14 March 1906

GEORGE HAD BEEN a pretty gay bachelor in his time. Indeed, in the days when "the crowd" made up its mind to indulge in that artistic pastime of "painting the place red," George was generally the most prominent and conscientious artist. He had a reputation amongst "the boys" as a "red-hot member" who, when he was "all out," could "go the pace" with the best of them. Consequently, when she came, and George contracted a habit of gazing contemplatively into the shop windows of furnishing emporiums, the boys began to predict disaster.

When, at damp and joyous evenings up the town, George's fund of yarns (soothers, he called them) used to run short, and he acquired a most annoying habit of telling stories that would be tolerated in any drawing-room, the boys knew that his doom was sealed.

George himself had no misgivings while she was near, but when, after some gently hilarious evening with his companions, he trod the homeward road with a strangely even, sober tread, and his thoughts dwelt on the growing coldness between himself and his friends, he would reflect that after all— perhaps—

Next evening she would be with him, and all his fears vanished. It was at the beginning of what promised to be a particularly joyous evening that George broke the fatal news to the boys. It spoiled the evening for them. With mournful countenances they came to him one by one, and shook hands with him, and uttered soft, kindly words of sympathy. But even as they spoke they could see that they did not hold his attention as of old. Then they tried him with a brand new soother— something just off the mail boat from Paris. But George didn't even smile. Snuffy Baker, the warmest raconteur of the crowd, so far forgot his reputation as to attempt a highly respectable story.

Drink— bubbling, sparkling amber nectar, was set before George, but he sat on unheeding, gazing dreamily into the middle distance; and the boys knew that for him they were not. He was thinking of Her.

It happened a few days after that he selected a victim from the ranks of the crowd, calling him with strange irony "the best man," and after that the boys knew George no more.

It would be unfair to say that during the five years of his happy married life George for one moment looked back with regret to the days of his freedom. She was the right she, and George had no cause to fret in the golden chains. Still, it has to be admitted that when, at the end of the five years, it was agreed that she was to go away with the eldest boy for a whole month's holiday, there was, mingled with the very real regret he felt at her leaving him, a vague sense of approaching though temporary freedom. He knew he would miss her; knew thas he would miss also the thousand little attentions to which he had become accustomed; yet— there was always present in the back of his brain that little yet —there was a chance, if only for a month, to be just as he used to be: one of the boys again. Nothing out of the way (dear me, no!); nothing too gay; but, just in a mild, comfortable, say-when-early manner, one of the boys.

He prided himself that he knew how to compromise with respectability and still use a tint of pink in the paint.

He saw her off by the boat, feeling genuinely sorry and miserable, with the little "yet" altogether silent and apparently vanished. But it sprang to being again as he took the train up to town.

In the office he felt a distaste for work, and his thoughts dwelt alternately on the wife he had lost for a whole month, and the strange, delicious freedom that was to be his for the same period.

At five he met by appointment Snuffy Baker, now grown elderly in riotousness, and clothed in that strange, bachelor-like attribute, a sinful content.

Snuffy had mapped out a programme. Dinner at the Greek's, a little theatre after, perhaps, and then the boys! Just like old times!

George took a deep breath, and beamed on Snuffy as of yore. Then his face took on the strange, mysterious smile of youth that delights in an ankle well-rounded, and gazed forth on all femininity with a favouring gaze.

At dinner Snuffy strove to excel himself. In five years he had collected material galore, and of a shade intensely blue. But for George the zest was not there. Snuffy used to be able to tell a story, he knew, but he found himself unsmiling when a point was reached, gazing queerly at his companion, and wondering if age was robbing him of his old power to amuse.

At the end of an hour Snuffy grew weary of his own laughing solo, and suggested the theatre.

The play was good, but Snuffy's comments thereon seemed to George inane and somewhat in bad taste. Also, Snuffy refused to be affected by a beautifully pathetic domestic scene. Indeed, he scoffed, and George was pained, and thought it sacrilege.

The boys were assembled at the old spot. Nearly all of the old crowd were there, and George's entrance was greeted with a chorus of delight, punctuated by comments on his grass-widowerhood that seemed to him wholly unnecessary and a trifle on the coarse side.

Still, it was old times. Just like it used to be five— or was it a thousand years ago? As the evening wore on the boys began to "strike form," but they used strange oaths and catch words that were new to George. Their talk was foolish, their jokes were drivel. He tried to tell them of the Canadian creeper he had planted on the north side of the bay window, and of the wallpaper he had put up in the study without assistance, but they drowned his voice with bull-like bellowings, and threatened to pour whisky down his collar.

During the evening some one came and slapped him on the back and told him to "buck up." He did not know why he should resent it. They had slapped him on the back hundreds of times before, but, though he tried to smile cheerfully, he did consider it a liberty. Later he found himself gazing thoughtfully at his feet, while the others yelled out a story which he considered plain rot, and then he remembered that he wanted his slippers.

At 12 o'clock George arose, amidst i few half-hearted protests, and said jood-night. As the door closed behind him Snuffy sent up a heartfelt prayer of thankfulness that Hymen knew him not, and the others hiccoughed "Amen."

Under the stars George strode mournfully to his lonely home, and, raising his head to heaven, asked the void if he— he that to-night saw but one moon hanging amidst the fixed, unswerving stars— was ever like that.

How he spent his time during the following week nobody knows, least of all George. It was a nightmare of mging and loneliness, and futile atempts to feel unshackled and free.

Thrice did Snuffy Baker come own to try to "dig him out," and thrice did Snuffy suffer martyrdom, and sit in George's study listening to strange tales of teething and gas stoves and carpets and early-flowering stocks; and tempted a nervous breakdown by trying to remember not to throw matches on the floor.

For a whole week George fought a battle with his pen, that ever wanted  move in accordance with his desires. It would be cruel to ask her to come home, he reasoned. She had needed the holiday, and surely a little sacrifice of mere comfort on his part was the least he could do.

But at the end of the week a happy little woman sat on an esplanade far away, reading a letter— the seventh for that week— written on both sides of five sheets.

"Don't think of coming back if the holiday is doing you good," it ended; "but I am afraid it must be rather slow for you over there, and if you would rather come back at once we could go away somewhere together when I get my leave. But, still, if you are enjoying yourself, perhaps you had better stay out the month. I can drag along all right for a bit longer.

—Your loving husband, George."

She smiled again as she finished the letter, and went back to her boarding-house to pack.

"AND HOW have you managed to live while I was away?" she asked, when at last she was able to speak.

"Live?" said George, holding her from him, and feasting his eyes again. "Live? Heaven only knows how I ever managed to live before I met you. I didn't live; I merely existed and waited."

"And yet you wrote that you were getting along all right. I thought you would have enjoyed being a gay bachelor again for a month."

"Bachelor!" said George, with a world of scorn in his voice; "a bachelor is— is— oh, he's just impossible! Promise me, little woman, that you will never go away like that again. I can't stand it."

"George," she said, gravely, "you would almost tempt a woman to leave you for a whole year."

"A year!" gasped George: "but why?"

"Because," she replied, playfully, rumpling his hair, "because she could be perfectly certain that you would want her all the time."

_________

5: Casey

Ernest O'Ferrall (as by "Kodak")

1881-1925

Gadfly (Adelaide) 28 Feb 1906

"His writings ... promote an inner-city and suburban comic mythology, of life in the boarding-house, office and pub: his exploitation of male and female stereotypes in humorous and ridiculous situations anticipates much Australian and overseas comic journalism and drawing." — Australian Dictionary of Biography

CASEY IS A MAN OF VAST EXPERIENCE, so when the street lamps on either side of the street joined hands— so to speak and reeled upon the hill, he just steadied himself on the nearest fence and enjoyed the unusual spectacle, until they waltzed back again and ranged themselves in order. Then Casey resumed his homeward journey, soliloquising gravely.

"Swate are th' uses av whisky! If I hadn't taken thim last five nobblers I would have throtted home at an ondacintly early hour— same's I do most nights— an' have missed all thim evolutions. So, ye see, there's some vartue in bein' a dhrunkard now an' thin. I wouldn't min' bettin' there's lots av non-dhrinkers that's been roun' th' woif an' never seen th' like! Av coise, I'm dhrunk— there's that much t' be said agin me— an' if Mary's waitin' up, she's waitin' up f'r that wan purpose.

"Now, I mus' make up me min' before I go in that if she makes tn' terrible ac-accusation (phwat a fearful wurrd that is t' say!)— if she says that I am, I must raysolve t' kape silent an' not thry an' persuade her agin her own will. (Hold up, y' fool!) Be hivin, I wish I cud see a copper; th' sight av wan av thim sobers me up wonderful, an' there's no doubt I need it bad, f'r I'm a lot worse nor I thought. (Min' the gutter, y' ijit!)"

Then he stopped dead and slunk into the shadow, laughing softly to himself. Ten yards ahead, with his back to Casey, stood the fattest policeman Casey had ever seen. He seemed to be as broad as he was long, and his helmet, which was about double the ordinary size, sat on his fat head about as gracefully as a pot would on a pumpkin. Now, a policeman of the size he was used to would have galvanised Casey into some semblance of respectability, but the one whose back he now beheld only moved him to cackle insanely in the shadow.

"Shure," he giggled, " 'tis too late f'r any copper t' be out catchin' his death av cold, let alone wan av that shape. I wonder now if a mahn av his figure can run!"

And with that he bounded forward like a trained footpad, and brought a heavy fist down on the shiny knob of the helmet.

"You're 'he'!" yelled Casey, and jumped off like a sober deer. As he fled, he cast a glance over his shoulder and saw— two policemen.

One was still at the corner, trying with both hands to push his helmet off his face, and the other so horribly close that Casey drew another sobbing breath and put his gait up to about thirty miles an hour.

"Stop!"

Casey took a flying leap over a dark gutter, recovered, and was off again like a champion steeplechaser.

"Stop, will you!"

Casey whistled round a dark side street, and went faster than ever.

"Stop, or I fire!"

For a second or two there was no sound, but the rapid padding of heavy feet, then— Bang ! The fugitive rushed blindly round another corner with a few yards to spare. He was winded, and he knew capture was inevitable, but before he quite realised what he was doing he was scrambling like a mad cat up a thick hedge, and the very same instant that the policeman rounded the corner Casey sank on his back on the top of the greenery, and muffled his gasps with a discreet coatsleeve, while he gazed at the winking stars.

"Och!" he panted, addressing the Southern Cross. " 'Twas an optical delusion! How th' divil— was I t' know— he wuz twins!"

"Stop!" yelled the first policeman, as he rushed past underneath. "Stop!"

"Listen t' him!" said Casey, with fine scorn. Then the other constable stumbled round the corner, and raced after his brother officer.

"Wonder phwat they're after chasin'!" murmured Casey, and took another draught of the cool night air.

The yells and footbeats died away in the distance.

HALF AN HOUR later a lone newspaper man on his way home overheard a rich Irish voice that seemed to come from mid-air, saying— "Casey, ye re just a low immoral Irishman, an' there's only wan solit'ry thing' between ye an' th' goal. If it wasn't f'r y'r devastatin' jaynius, this minit ye'd be in th' hands av th' polis— who are also immoral— an' Irish. Think av th' shame av seein' y'er name in th' 'Polis Intelligence,' which is, at wan an' th' same time, a newspaper headin' and an unknown quantity. Think av the shame av it, an' thremble f'r y'r name as a scientific dhrinker!"

Then a head peeped cautiously over the top of the hedge, and addressing the reporter said—

"Are you or are you not wan av thim low coppers?"

"I'm not!"

"Did ye happen t' see me gettin' up here?"

"No."

"Then," said Casey, "ye missed whan av th' sights ay y'er life, f'r 'twas an inspired act. I ran here so fast that I lift me guarjeen angel standin', an' if it hadn't been f'r me natcheral jaynius I would now be standin' me thrial f'r chasin' two policemen t' death. Did ye iver own a reputation? No! Well, ye're a lucky mahn. I used t' have wan whin I was young, but th' thing was such a thruble t' kape up that I got rid av it. That's how I come t' be here enjoyin' mesilf. Have ye any idea av th' time?"

"Close on four."

"Good hivins! An' phwat kapes you out t' this ondacint hour?"

"Work, of course!"

Casey looked at him pityingly.

"Poor divil!" he said.

__________

6: Cold Feet

Albert Dorrington

1874-1953

The Lone Hand, 1 July 1907

FRANK BRIDGES RETURNED from the Boer War with a V.C. pinned to his coat. When he arrived at the Castlereagh, the Mayor— his other name was Casey— presented him with an illuminated address and a speech that filled nine columns of the Dingo Flat Chronicle.

No one knew exactly how Bridges had earned the Victoria Cross, but there was a vague idea that he had, under close shell-fire, pulled his company out of a death-trap.

The women of the Castlereagh gathered round Bridges, and stared at the tiny cross fastened to his tunic. Bridges admired them all, and stroked his big yellow moustache solemnly. Then, after shaking hands with the local volunteers, he rode away to Woolombi Station, where the pure merino girls were waiting for him with sandwiches and champagne.

Passing from the crowd, I sought Doctor Hyndson, who was seated on the small hospital verandah. Doc. Hyndson was an old army veteran; he had been to Kandahar with Roberts, and had done ambulance work in a score of tribal wars on the north-west frontiers of India. Now his right leg was bulleted and shell-torn beyond repair.

"Don't sit in that chair," he said huskily. "My pet carpet snake is asleep under the rug; I'm keeping it to bite Barnum Powell, if ever he comes to Australia."

I told him briefly of the arrival of young Bridges, the V.C. man.

"What do you think of heroes, Doctor?" I asked humbly.

The old warrior limped up and down the verandah, and his grizzled moustache seemed to stiffen suddenly. "I always avoided conspicuously brave men," he said sharply. "The loafer and the dirty man often find that a bit of heroism is the quickest way to promotion. I like plucky men, you understand, but"— he almost glared at me— "some heroes are like snakes."

I put down his sudden outburst to an attack of liver, or jungle fever. Then he turned up his white pants, and showed me a livid weal that ran from shin to thigh.

"I was poking about the firing-line, when something like a brick house smashed into my shin-bone. I dropped to the ground, feeling a bit rattled. I was certain that the ambulance would hunt me up in a few minutes, so I got hold of a cigar and held on. The enemy were licking their lips over us just then, and the shells were spitting and snarling across the beer commissariat and the piano stores. Raising my head, I saw a big rooster of a Tommy running towards me. He knew that the eyes of the column were on him, and as he came nearer I smelt the dirt of weeks on his clothes and body.

" 'Hold on, Doctor,' he shouted to me. 'I'll carry you back to the lines on me back.'

" 'Will you!' I said. 'By God! if you stick your back in front of me I'll put a
bullet through it!'

" 'Eh?' says Tommy. 'Can't you see where you are, sir?'

"I saw that he was one of those meddlesome V.C.-hunters, who dog their colonel's movements on the chance of being able to carry him in if a chance bullet knocks him over.

" 'See here, Tommy!' I said, sitting up. 'You want to bound along the firing-line with me hanging down your back. If you want to help me, just report to the ambulance, and say Doctor Hyndson is ready when it's his turn, and not before.'

"The Tommy ran back, ducking like an old woman at every shot, and the swine didn't report my case to the ambulance corps either. There are hundreds of men in the army who want the limelight on them in every action; they want to carry a wounded colonel on their backs, and be presented with brass and nickel ornaments. That kind of thing has killed the army. It's catering for the oleograph papers. Can't an old dog like me lie on the field for a few minutes without being hero-hunted and chased across the line by V.C.-dodgers? If a man thinks he's got the blood of the gods in him, let him sign on as a hero. Have a corps of heroes attached to every brigade, and when the colonel gets hit or the beer is captured, despatch the heroes to recover it or die."

I left the old chap early in the afternoon, and returned to my camp up the river, and promptly forgot Doctor Hyndson and Bridges the V.C. man. The flood brought us together— seven months later.

The Castlereagh was running a banker. Grey storm-clouds drifted towards the west. Wild geese and ducks trailed in from the coast to the out-back creeks and lagoons. It had rained steadily for a month, and the road from Conroy's Flat to the bridge was a swirling sea of drifting lumber and dead stock.

Now and then a bullock would float past the pub. Logs and houses ground themselves to matchwood against the bridge-piles. And the wind-driven rain beat in slopes across the flat where Moloney's stud sheep had been drowned the night before.

A crowd had gathered outside the pub watching the river, and betting that it would lift to the oldest and highest flood-mark within an hour.

A man rode in from Woolombi Station with the news that Frank Bridges' house had been swept away in the early dawn. He had heard, he said, that Bridges and his young wife were on board the house somewhere up the river.

"Sure the little woman will be arl right," said Moloney, consolingly. "A guyrl cud not be in betther keepin'. Sorry I was whin me own little Katie didn't hook the bowld soldier mahn."

Tommy Weeks, the aborigine, poked his head towards the river and grinned.

"Mine word, it go a bingy full o' warrer bymby. Mine pfeller think it too much warrer for the crik to hold."

Far up the river a stockman was waving his arms wildly. Casey, the mayor, ran along the bank shouting to us. Through the grey-sheeted rain we saw a weatherboard house plunging in mid-river, gyrating madly as the eddies caught it in the bend and swung it once more down stream.

On the roof sat Frank Bridges, white faced, cold and dull-eyed. He seemed to be wrapped in a deadly stupor. The rain streamed from his shirt, his yellow hair clung like a wet mask over his eyes. Beside him, half dead with fear and cold, crouched the woman he had married a month before. There was a sharp misery in her eyes that spoke to every man on the riverside.

"The bridge will smash thim!" cried Moloney, flinging away his coat. Moloney was fat and awkward, but his courage was a thing that big men and little children respected.

"Give me the line, b'ys," he said quietly. "Quick an' aisy now. Sure the divil himself would laugh to see a fat man like messilf on top av the water."

He plunged in, and with the knowledge born of many flood experiences, allowed the stream to bear him under the lee of the floating house.

Another splash followed. The black-fellow was in the water swimming towards the rear of the house. He seemed to march through the flood with long trudgeoning strokes, and his white teeth flashed good humoredly through the blinding rain.

Frank Bridges did not look at the two men battling to reach him. The cold fear of death by drowning seemed to have penetrated his soul. His leaden eyes stared at the river. The woman beside him might have been dead; never once did he look her way. His fierce grip on the roof joist showed that the instinct of self-preservation had not deserted him,

"Frank, Frank; look up!" For the first time the woman turned her eyes in his direction. "They are coming from the shore. Look up. Be brave!" she whispered.

"Eh, what?" he choked. The house lurched violently, and his face grew ashen. With fingers, and toes and chin, he clung to the derelict homestead.

The blackfellow was swept side by side with Moloney under the lee of the house, and in a flash both men were clambering up the half-submerged verandah to the open window above. Moloney, panting with fat and exertion, lifted the white-faced woman from the roof, and clung to the verandah post.

A boat shot out suddenly from the bank to meet them in mid-stream. The black-fellow climbed to the roof and shook Bridges from his death-like torpor.

"You come along, Missa Bridges. You get um cold feet early this mornin'."

When the boat brought the squelching man and his shivering wife ashore, a crowd of women hurried her into Casey's homestead and to bed. Frank Bridges stared, white-faced, at the crowd, and his lips grew dry and hard. One man turned to him jeeringly, but the others said:

"Damn you, shut up!"

IN THE AFTERNOON a drunken blackfellow staggered from the hotel verandah and half ran towards the bridge. He stopped suddenly, and found himself staring into the flaming eyes of Doctor Hyndson, the battle-scarred old army veteran.

"You black dog! where did you steal THAT?" The man who followed Roberts across the Himalayas into Afghanistan snatched the Victoria Cross, dangling from the aborigine's coat, and held it between thumb and finger.

"Where did you steal it, you?" he thundered.

"Me pull um Missa Bridges off um house," gasped Tommy. "Me brave pfeller. Him plurry coward. Me take um Victoria Cross off um coat. Him get cold feet, boss."

___________

7: The Dancer in Red

Fergus Hume

1859-1932

Collected in: The Dancer In Red and other stories, 1906

SO INCREDIBLE is this tale that I expect few to believe it. Nevertheless, it is not only true, but happened within the last decade. The names of the places and the characters are changed, it is true; I write, too, under a nom-de-plume; but the incidents are set down just as they took place. I can vouch for their truth, for I was an eye-witness of many. The rest I heard from the chief actor in this drama— or perhaps I should say melodrama, if not tragedy— for it is as moving as the most sensational play. And true! Do not forget that— absolutely true. That is the horror of the thing.

As a busy London physician, I have a great deal of hard work to get through; and it is always a pleasure when I can take an occasional holiday for the recuperation of body and mind. Being a bachelor and well-to-do, I have less difficulty than I otherwise would have in making extended trips, so that frequently I go far afield in search of enjoyment and relaxation.

One night in June I was seated in my study, turning over the leaves of a Continental Bradshaw, and wondering what country I should explore on my coming holiday, when the door opened and Hugh Tancred entered hurriedly. Tancred is my cousin, and as we were at school and college together has been free of my house these many years. I was surprised to see him just then, as two months before he had gone to Spain, and I had no idea that he was back in town.

"My dear fellow," I cried, jumping up with outstretched hands, "I am glad to— Good God, man, what is the matter?"

And indeed it was no wonder I was startled, for his appearance was such as to dismay a person much less nervous than myself. The ruddy-faced hale young man I had known was as white as any ghost, and every whit as spare. His cheeks were wan, his eyes had in them a startled expression, and the clothes hung loosely on his once stalwart figure. Two months before, when he had started for Spain, he had been the very picture of health; now he might have been, if not a spectre, a patient convalescent from the nearest hospital. He was in a sad state of fright, too— I saw that at once; for his breath came and went in quick gasps, and he hastened to lock the door. Then he flung himself into my arms and gripped me in a mortal terror.

"Dick," he gasped, glancing back at the door, "Dick, save me!"

"What on earth is the matter?"

"Hell has broken loose!" was his extraordinary reply. "Do you hear the guitar? Listen!"

He paused, but no sound broke the stillness. With a sob of relief he pitched forward into the nearest chair.

"They have missed me!" he said under his breath. "Thank God!"

I stared at the shaking figure in bewilderment. The sudden appearance of Tancred, his inexplicable agitation and his sickly appearance, amazed me beyond measure. When I was able to collect my scattered wits sufficiently for action, the professional habit came uppermost. I must calm him. Going to my medicine chest, I mixed a stiff dose of valerian and bromide, and handed it to him.

"Drink this, Hugh. Tut! tut! you are spilling it man." And so he was; for his hand shook so with nervousness that I had to hold the glass to his lips. When he had got it down I fingered his pulse, and found it leaping and throbbing in the most extraordinary way. His whole body trembled, and his teeth were chattering. I saw well enough that the man had not been drinking, yet from his appearance and behaviour he might have been recovering from a prolonged debauch.

"You'll take care of me, Dick," he whispered, with a scared look at the door.

"Yes, yes; no one shall hurt you here. Lie down for a few moments,"

Hugh nodded, and leaning on my arm staggered to the sofa. Then, as I expected, came a nerve storm which shook him to the very core of his being. He cried and choked hysterically, trembled in every limb, gripped at the cushions, and swung his head from side to side with his teeth rattling like castanets. It was a terrible sight even to a hardened doctor like myself. Hugh had always been highly strung and prone to nervous attacks, yet I had never seen him quite so bad as he was on this night.

In time the drug did its work, and he became sufficiently calm to explain the cause of his agitation. He told me the story in whispers, clutching my hand the while; and the matter of his narrative was so extraordinary that I was half-inclined to put a good deal of it down hallucination. Nevertheless, what was credible sufficiently accounted for his terror.

"Six weeks ago, I was in Seville," he said "all alone. I did not want any chattering companion to spoil my pleasure. I put up at a good hotel, and hired a guide to show me the sights of the city. I saw them all— the Cathedral, the tobacco factories, the Giralda and the famous Torre del Oro of Don Pedro. Then I was anxious to see the gipsy quarter, as I had heard so much of the beautiful women to be found there. My guide was willing to take me, but mentioned that I had better not be too attentive to any of the girls, as the Gitane are excessively jealous of strangers, and as likely as not I should get into trouble. I promised to be careful. But you know Dick how inflammable I am where a woman is concerned."

"I know; so you got into trouble?"

"Of the worst." He shuddered. "Trouble which has made me the wreck you see; trouble which is not yet over." He put his lips to my ear. "They mean to murder me!"

"The gipsies? Nonsense!"

"It is true. The Mosaic law, Dick: 'An eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth.'" After a pause, Hugh added slowly, "I killed a man."

"You— killed— a— man?" I cried, horrified.

"It was this way, Dick," continued my unfortunate cousin, rapidly. "In the gipsy quarter, I went to a kind of open-air theatre. A girl was dancing— a beautiful Gitana with large black eyes and a most wonderful figure. She was dressed in red— red as blood. I should have been warned by the colour." He wiped the perspiration from his forehead, and panted. "But I was foolish. She smiled on me, and I— well I lost my head, I suppose. I never saw so beautiful a woman. She had some kind of mesmeric influence over me. When she smiled I took a flower out of my coat, and cast it at her feet. There was a man near me, handsome, but savage in his looks and bearing. He said something under his breath, and looked angrily at me. The guide laid his hand on my arm, and tried to get me away. I shook him off, as I wished to speak with Lola before going."

"Was her name Lola?"

"Lola Fajardo. The audience called out her name as she danced. I called it out, too."

"You must have been mad or drunk, Hugh."

"The latter, I think. It was after dinner, and I am not used to fiery Spanish wines. Yet I can carry a good deal, as you know. I was merely excited, but the beauty and alluring glances of Lola threw me into a kind of intoxicated state. For the time I could see no one but her. She swam before me in her strange dance, like Salome before Herod."

"Rubbish. I want prose, not poetry."

"I am telling you facts!" cried Tancred, vehemently. "She danced with a dried human head in her hands. It was the dance of Salome— the daughter of Herodias. And she juggled with the head as she swung and swayed to the music. Ah!" he uttered a sharp cry— "the music! That's what haunts me. There were words to it— horrible words. I got the guide to translate them to me. I have made a verse of them in English. Listen!"

Hugh rose from the sofa, and balancing the cushion in his hands, danced about the room to his own singing. The music he sang was weird enough; the words as he sang them nothing short of horrible!

"See in the dance pass, repass,

My hands, my feet, my garments red;

The daughter of Herodias,

And this my John the Baptist's head;"

"Hugh! Hugh!" I stopped the terrible performance, and pulled him down on to the sofa. "Be calm, man," I said; "you will make yourself thoroughly ill. Tell me how the trouble occurred."

"Lola caused it," he said. "She finished her dance, and stepped down to collect money. As she held out her tambourine to me she looked into my face with an alluring smile. I dropped a gold piece into it. Then— I was mad, I think— I kissed her arm."

"In such a place! You fool!"

"She drew it away angrily, and the young man bounded forward. He had a knife in his hand— a navaja. Lola shrieked, and the crowd shouted. I don't know how it happened, but I got possession of the navaja, and— and— and I killed him!"

"Great God! You killed him!"

"Yes; the knife pierced his heart, Dick. I remember as in a dream the shouting, swaying crowd, the yellow lights, and the man lying dead there, with the blood spurting in jets from his breast. Lola flung herself on his body, and my guide catching me by the arm hurried me away. Some one extinguished the lights, and so we escaped. The police came, and there was a terrible riot, but I was safe."

"Did not your guide deliver you up?"

"I paid him a hundred pounds not to do so. He made me leave Seville that night, and took me to Gibraltar. But the gipsies found me out, and followed."

"Did you see them?"

"No; I heard the music— the music of the dance. It haunted me all the time. I caught a P. and O. steamer for Malta, and on board I heard that infernal guitar. Then again in Malta I heard it. Thence I crossed to Sicily— to Italy— went to Germany, to Switzerland, to Paris, but go where I would, the sound of that music still rang in my ears. To-night, as I was getting my luggage at Victoria, there it was again. I could see no one in the crowd, but I heard the music. I— I came on here, and— the music; Hark!"

His voice leaped to an alto, and he fell back into my arms. As I am a living man, I heard the notes of a guitar in the street. The music was like that which Hugo sang— wild, strange and fascinating. I tried to get to the window, but Tancred clutched me. "No, no," he implored. "Don't open it, don't—" His voice died away in his throat, and he rolled limply on the floor in a faint. There was no time to waste. I sprang to the window. As I opened it the guitar ceased; and when I looked down into the moonlit street, no one was about. Unstrung and puzzled I returned to the unconscious man.

FOR THREE WEEKS Hugh lay in my house, hovering between life and death. The excitement consequent on his crime, and the haunting of the guitarist brought on brain fever. I called in another medical man, and we did all in our power to save him. In the end we succeeded; yet it was almost a pity we took the trouble to drag him back from the grave. Others, more powerful and unscrupulous than we, were bent on his death. All we did was to retard the fatal moment. It was bound to come, as the guitar had warned us.

There was no hallucination about that music. I heard it distinctly. So did my confrère. But by placing Hugh in a back room we managed to keep it from his ears. The sound of it would have killed him. I tried to catch the player. Knowing that Hugh had murdered a man, I did not think it wise to seek the aid of the police. It is best to let sleeping dogs lie; and since Tancred had managed to escape from Spain, I did not care to risk the chance of his being extradited back again, to answer for his crime. I felt terribly worried by my position. It is no light matter, first to have to save a man's life and thereafter to have to protect it.

I never saw the player. At times, both by night and day, I heard the strum, strum, strum of that infernal tune, until I knew it every note backwards. Once I even caught myself whistling it. Whenever it struck my ear I would rush out into the street and make a search for the musician. But it was always in vain. Once or twice I asked a policeman, and was informed that the guitar was played by a hunchback accompanied by a very beautiful woman. I had no doubt but that this latter was Lola, and that she was on the track of her lover's murderer. Hugh had told me that the dead man had been her lover. That she was not here without design I felt certain, though it was impossible exactly to surmise what it might be. When later on I learned it I marvelled at its cruelty.

In due time Hugh recovered, and with his returning health and reason came the thought of his sin in Seville. In answer to his questions about the guitar music, I swore, God forgive me, that I had never heard it since the night he was taken ill. I was apprehensive that if he remained in England and in my house he would certainly hear it, and then I feared lest he might lose his reason permanently. Such a situation required very strong measures, so I took two passages to the Cape and arranged to accompany Hugh there on a long holiday. So that he should not by any chance hear the thing, I drugged him before we left the house, and it was in a quasi insensible condition that he was taken on board the steamer. And it was as well I had taken this precaution, for sure enough, as we drove round the corner of Harley Street there came the sound of it.

"Now we are safe!" said I, as the liner breasted the waves of the Channel. "Here at least your gipsy friends cannot follow us."

"I hope not!" murmured Hugh, anxiously, "God grant indeed they may give it up and go back to Spain. Why does Lola persecute me so, I wonder! It was a pure accident I killed her lover. He attacked me first; he—"

"Old man," I said seriously, "I want you not to talk about this at all. Try and forget; get the thing out of your mind altogether if you can."

And I believe he did try his best, but I am pretty sure he did not succeed. However, knowing it vexed me, he did not refer to it at all, and when we arrived in South Africa, the novelty of the country and the surrounding life gave him other interests. His wasted form filled out well, and again his face became ruddy, and he began to show every sign of recovered health. There were times even when he was quite merry, and laughed like he used to do. At the end of six months he was completely restored; and although not infrequently a dark shadow rested on his face, he was for the most part cheerful.

"And now, Hugh," said I to him one day, "it is about time I returned to my patients, whom I think I have neglected long enough. But you take my advice and remain here."

"No!" he said obstinately. "I have quite got over all that folly. The death of that gipsy was due to pure accident; and even if Lola haunts me with that music, I can laugh at it and her now. I am sane again. I expect she has long since given up her pursuit of revenge, and returned to Spain."

I thought so, too, and said as much. Still I suggested that Hugh should not remain in London on his return. His fever had left him even more excitable than he had been before, and I thought it best in every way that he should live in the country.

"You are right, Dick," he asserted. "I shall go down to 'The Cage.' This was a lonely mansion placed amidst the Essex fens at no great distance from the sea, and which descended to Hugh from an ancestor. It was a dreary and desolate dwelling, and this I remarked to Hugh.

"It is not cheerful," replied Hugh, indifferently.

"But it is quiet, and far from civilisation; so I don't think Lola, even if she be still in England, which I doubt, will follow me there. I can ride and read, and use my camera. Peace is what I require, and at 'The Cage' I shall secure it."

As Tancred was now well, and strong, and sane, I made no further opposition. We returned to England, and he remained a week in my house. Then he went down to Essex; and I am glad to say that in spite of my apprehensions not a note of that cursed guitar was heard. Evidently Hugh was right. Lola had given up her vengeance.

Within a month I was undeceived on this point. A hastily scrawled letter from Hugh informed me that he had heard the guitar music. "Not only that" went on the note, "but I have seen the red dancer— seen Lola— with a head in her hands. It is the head of the man I killed. Come down, for God's sake. I am going mad."

To this despairing appeal there was but one answer possible for me. I hastily packed a portmanteau, slipped a revolver into my pocket, and caught the first train. My cousin's factotum, Jabez Crane, met me at the station with the dogcart, and forthwith we started upon the twelve-mile drive to "The Cage."

I never could bring myself to like Jabez. He was the man who looked after the Essex property, and with his hag of a wife, lived at "The Cage." They were a couple of ogres— misanthropes— savages. They resembled strongly those atrocious characters in that remarkable book "Wuthering Heights." There was little of humanity about either of them; and they both hated Hugh on account of some fancied injury which his father had done them. Often and often I had advised Hugh to discharge them, but he continued to employ them, which was surprising, considering their malice and stupidity. I think it was sheer indolence on his part. Embedded like toads in a rock they had vegetated at "The Cage" for twenty years or more. Only when it was too late did I know what I had done in sending Tancred to keep company with these ourangoutangs.

"Is Mr. Tancred ill?" I asked Jabez, as the cart swung out of the station.

"Ees, he be!" grunted the creature.

"Have you seen any gipsies about "The Cage?"

"Naw, I ain't."

"A hunchback and a woman, for instance?"

"I've seed nowt."

"Have you heard any music?"

"Ees, I have."

"And you have seen no one? Nothing?"

"I've seed nowt!" repeated Jabez, who all through this conversation had replied in three words. Clearly there was nothing to be got out of the sulky brute. It may be he knew more than he chose to confess. I was aware that he bore no goodwill towards his master. On the other hand, he might be as ignorant as he professed to be. I could catch no glimpse of Tancred's persecutor in London, so why should Jabez be more fortunate in Essex. All the same, on glancing at the animal face of the man, on recollecting the lonely position of "The Cage" and the invisible presence of the gipsies, I congratulated myself on the possession of my revolver. That at least was useful defence against the perils amid which I was about to enter.

The first glance assured me that Tancred had slipped back into his old state of half-insane fear. His white and haggard face, his shifting, glittering eyes, betrayed the torture of his mind, and as we sat over the fire after dinner he told me about the coming of the gipsy devils.

"They mean to drive me mad!" he whispered, huddling in abject fear to my side. "Lola no doubt deems death too light a punishment for my crime. It is her intention to wreck me body and soul. Oh, that music— that music!" And he began to sing:—

" 'See in the dance I pass, repass,

My hands, my feet, my—' "

"Drop it Hugh," I interrupted, throwing my arm round his shoulder. The poor fellow was shaking like a leaf. "Tell me; have you seen her?"

"Yes; in the long gallery, under the painted window. At midnight last week the music drew me out of bed. I followed it to the gallery, and in the moonlight Lola danced, with that head in her hands. I saw the face; it was that of the man I killed."

"How could you recognise the face in the moonlight?"

"She rolled the head towards me like a ball. It bounded and spun along the gallery, and twirled like a top at my feet. The moon showed me the features of the dead. I fainted, and when I came to myself it was gone. She was gone; the music was gone,"

"Hugh, you must get away from here in the morning."

"No, I shall stay. I've had enough of this torture. Here I shall await my doom. These devils have cornered me."

"Then show fight."

Tancred whimpered.

"I can't show fight," he cried fretfully. "I am worn out— done for. The end is coming, and I shall await it here."

From this determination I couldn't move him. Terrified and ill as he was, he refused to leave "The Cage." Had I possessed the power, I would have removed him by force; but Jabez and his wife would do nothing, and I could not leave him, to get assistance. My absence even for a day would only have precipitated the end, and that was to come soon enough.

Constantly that weird music buzzed and hummed about the house. It was here, and there, and everywhere; and in spite of all my searching the musician eluded me. "The Cage" was a rambling ruinous mansion, full of secret doors and passages and hiding holes. Jabez knew them all; and seeing that the gipsies contrived to remain invisible, I strongly suspected him of being in league with them. He denied the charge when I made it, and I had no means of proving my words. So here I was shut up in a half-furnished lonely barrack of a house, with a terrified creature who would not leave it, with invisible foes to combat on his behalf, and with the knowledge of a devilish conspiracy against the reason of an unfortunate man. The situation was uncanny enough to shake even my hardened nerves.

I did the best I could with Hugh. I dosed him with sedatives, kept him from over indulgence in drink, made him eat well, and forced him to take plenty of exercise. In his company I explored the neighbourhood, in the hope of coming upon Lola and her hunchback accomplice, but all in vain. The dreary fens, the sandy dunes, were bare of humanity. Once or twice on the beach of a little bay I found the marks of tiny feet, and again the indentation of a boat's keel driven into the slushy sand. Evidently these demons came from the sea to pursue their nefarious work; but they never appeared in the day-time, and I could not discover where they lurked. It was no use asking Jabez. He gave no sign, either by word or deed, of his knowledge of these things. Neither did his wife; yet I had a firm conviction that the pair had been bought over to lend their aid to the accomplishment of Lola's vengeance.

After a week of fruitless search and constant music-hauntings, I resolved to inveigle Hugh over those twelve miles to the railway station, and carry him back to London— by force, if needs be. To this end I announced one night at dinner that I intended to return to town. As I anticipated, Tancred objected, "For God's sake do not leave me, Dick."

"My dear Hugh, I cannot remain here for an indefinite period. My practice makes it imperative that I return to London, but I will come down again shortly."

"To find me dead!"

Mrs. Crane was waiting at the table, and I fancied the old witch chuckled at these words. However, when I looked round sharply, her face was as devoid of expression as the wall. So thinking that I was mistaken, I resumed my conversation with her master.

"If you're afraid of dying, Hugh, come with me to London."

"No, no; I'll face death here."

"At least you will see me off to-morrow at the station?"

Tancred seemed to wince at this. "Then you are bent on going?"

"I must go. Man alive! Think of my patients. I have done what I could."

"I know, I know. You have been very good, very kind; but you will return?"

"Oh, yes; in ten days or so I will come down for a spell."

"In that case I don't mind so much being left now."

"You'll come and see me off to-morrow, Hugh?"

"Certainly. That is a small thing to ask."

In this way the matter was settled, much to my relief; for I had determined that when I got Hugh to the station I would do everything in my power to induce him to come to London. If necessary I would use force. Anything rather than that he should remain here at the peril of his reason and his life.

That night a great storm came up from the sea. The wind roared and moaned round the empty shell of the house, the rain whipped the streaming panes, and the moon was obscured by a rack of ragged clouds.

Hugh's room was next to mine, and about midnight I entered, to find him sleeping peacefully. The man's nerves were worn out. His slumber was that of sheer exhaustion. Nevertheless I was glad that nature had come to his relief at so critical a moment. I turned away to seek my bed again. In the dark passage I could hear the weird music of the guitar, and the sound, coming as it did in the lull of the storm, struck at my heart.

Determined to find and face the gipsies, I hastily threw on some clothes, grasped my revolver, and with a small lamp proceeded to explore the house. Overhead the storm again began to shriek and whistle; then, occasionally, came the pad, pad, pad of bare feet. Like Ferdinand in "the Tempest," I followed the strain that mocked and sang in the darkness ahead.

The invisible musician knew the house better than I, for he or she eluded me at every turn. At times the strain would die away in the distance, again it would sound so close to my ear as to make me jump, and then I would hear a hard chuckle. Round and round the house I followed it— downstairs to the hall, through the empty drawing-room, up the vacant attics, but never did I get any closer to it. It twanged and hummed that devilish melody till my nerves ached with reiteration of it. I stole along cautiously in its wake; I ran into dark corners, hoping to seize the player, but in vain. It might have been a thing of air that played. I heard, but I could not see.

Suddenly, with the twang as of a snapped string, it ceased, and the silence closed in. Even the wind had ceased to roar, and was now moaning round the gables as a thing in pain. With sudden resolution I flew down to the quarters of Jabez and hammered at the door. Both he and his wife came to it in their nightdresses, just as they had sprung out of bed. My suspicions of the pair vanished.

"Did you hear the music?"

"Ay— I heard 'un."

"Come with me then, to look for these gipsies."

"I know nowt o' gipsies. They be devils I tell 'ee."

"All the same you must help me to find them."

Jabez grumbled, but my tone was peremptory, so he shuffled on his trousers and came with me. For a time there was silence; then the thrumming of the guitar recommenced overhead.

"It's in the gall'ry!"whispered Jabez, and grasped more tightly the stick he carried.

Without answering, I ran up the stairs, with the man at my heels. We burst into the long gallery, and there we saw a sight of dread. The moon clear of clouds, poured in floods of silver light through the windows, making the gallery like day. At the far end, where the radiance was strongest, a tall figure leaped and spun to music, coming from I know not where. I crept near enough to see that the dancer was a beautiful girl in red garments. She was grasping a human head by the hair, and juggled with it as with a ball.

The sight of that ghastly dance made my heart sick. To add to the horror of it the woman began to sing, in a low sweet voice. I could bear it no longer, and with a shout I ran forward, raising my revolver as I ran. In a moment, as it seemed, the woman vanished, and my bullet smashed the glass of the window beneath which she had spun and leaped.

"Maister, maister," roared Jabez, grasping my arm, "she be pixy for sure."

"Let go my arm, you fool!"

But he held on, his face grey with terror, urging me to retreat. I shook him off. I ran forward, and at the end of the gallery I found an open door. Through this I sprang, hurled myself down some stone steps, and emerged into the garden. Two figures leaped and ran, making for the beach. I tried to follow; but clad as I was, the stones and brambles cut my feet and I stumbled and fell at the hedge. When I got up again the two figures had dipped behind the sandhill, and were beyond reach. But I had no doubt that I had seen Lola and her hunchback accomplice at their devilish work.

The thought recalled Hugh, and I ran back. Jabez was waiting for me at the door with the lamp, and his face wore an expression of abject fear. I was afraid of the effect this midnight alarm would have on Hugh, and snatching the lamp from the man's shaking hand I hurried into the house and up the stairs.

"Hugh, Hugh, are you there?"

The figure on the bed gave no answer, made no movement. I thought that he had fainted perhaps, and I held the lamp to his face. There was no face; no head. The man had been decapitated.

TWO YEARS after the death of Tancred I was in Spain for the second time. My first visit had been made with the object of discovering Lola Fajado, and bringing her to book for the murder of my cousin. But although I had taken an English detective with me, and although every assistance had been afforded me by the Spanish Government, she could not be found. I fancy she must have gone to the gipsies of Hungary or Russia, or lost herself somewhere beyond the Balkans. At all events my search was in vain, and for the time being she escaped the penalty of her crime.

The Cranes likewise got off free. I was certain that Jabez had been bribed by Lola to show her the secret passages and exits of "The Cage" but he swore, and his wife swore, that they had neither of them ever set eyes upon the gipsies. I must say that, although I believed it was the misanthropical hatred Jabez had for Hugh that led him to play into Lola's hands in order to frighten him, as well as the factotum's desire to get his master away from the house, yet I believe he was horrified as was I myself at the terrible tragedy. But whatever the two of them had had to do with the matter they had been wise enough to hold their tongues, and were discharged, as the saying is, without a stain upon their characters. I heard afterwards that they had gone to America; but whether this was true or not, I could not be certain. However, as by the death of Hugh I became the owner of "The Cage" I did not permit them to return there, being satisfied in my own mind that they were indirectly concerned in the crime. They vanished into the darkness best suited to their brutish natures, and I never saw them again.

As was afterwards discovered by detectives, Lola and her hunchback companion had made a fishing village some miles away their headquarters. Thence they came round in a boat at night to the little bay, on the sands of which I had found their footmarks. How they discovered "The Cage" or how they carried on their horrible conspiracy, I did not know then. But I learned the truth during my second visit to Spain.

It was a vague idea that Lola might return to Seville that drew me there. I knew that Spanish justice was lax, and that the Gitane were more or less independent of the law, so it was not unlikely that when the affair was forgotten the woman might venture back among her kinsfolk. I wished to see her, both to bring home the crime, and to recover Tancred's head, which she had taken with her on that fatal night. For all I knew, she might be using it for her dance. She had certainly juggled with it in the long gallery. But I did not know that until it was too late.

On arriving in Seville I sent for the guide who had been with Hugh on the evening Lola's lover was killed. He came immediately, and was very frightened when I told him the object of my second visit. As luck would have it, Lola had stolen back, and was in the gipsy quarter at that time; but her accomplice had died in Hungary. The woman, with characteristic insolence, had changed neither her name nor her dance; and as all memory of the affair had died out, no attempt was made to arrest her. Moreover, I strongly suspected that the police had been bribed; but, of course, on this point I could not be certain. At all events she was free, and in Seville; and nightly danced her John the Baptist ballet, with whose head I trembled to think.

Manuel the guide implored me not to see Lola, as she was powerful in the gipsy quarter and there would be trouble. But I compromised the matter by agreeing to go in the character of a tourist, and to make no disturbance. The fact is I wished to see the woman for myself, and be quite certain as to her identity. I determined, too, that when I next went it would be with a posse of police to arrest her. However, with the second visit, Manuel, as I assured him, would have nothing to do.

Thus persuaded, and somewhat heavily bribed, Manuel one night escorted me to the gipsy quarter, and to a small open-air theatre. The seats were ranged in the form of a semi-circle, facing a low platform which was lit with flaring oil lamps. I placed myself directly in front of this, as close as I could get There was no fear of recognition. Lola had never seen me really.

The theatre was filled with gipsies— a most picturesque-looking lot they were— they were drinking, laughing, singing, and smoking the eternal cigarette. What with the colours of their ragged dresses, the yellow lustre of the lamps, and the purple arch of the starry sky roofing in the theatre, the scene was fascinating in the extreme. But I was too intent upon seeing my cousin's murderess to take much interest in my surroundings, novel as they were.

There was first of all some singing of love ballads, which was followed by dancing with castanets. A gipsy violinist played like an angel and looked like a devil, and there was a famous Tziganda orcshetra from Buda-Pesth. About nine o'clock I heard the thrum of the guitar, and I had considerable difficulty in concealing my agitation. It played the weird music I knew so well— the music of that accursed dance.

To the sound of tumultuous applause Lola Fajardo glided on to the stage. She was a tall and beautiful woman, with large black eyes and a brown complexion. Her figure was superb, and she was lithe as a serpent in her movements. From head to foot she was swathed in a gauzy red garment, with a shawl of crimson silk floating from her shoulders. Golden sequins shone round her neck, her waist, and jingled in her streaming black hair, and at every movement she sparkled like a stream at noon-day. I never saw a more lovely and dangerous woman, and I no longer wondered that poor hot-blooded Hugh had lost his heart on that night.

Standing well to the front of the stage, she began to sway and swing to the music without moving her feet. This part of the dance was not unlike the Indian nautch. First she moved her head, then her body; her arms began to wave, and after a time her feet took part in these graceful movements. Quicker and quicker rang the music as the violins added their sweetness to the more mellow notes of the guitars, and with swift bounds and extraordinary twistings of her agile body Lola threw herself about the stage. Suddenly she came spinning down to the footlights in a circle; and with the glare full on her excited face and red garments, she snatched a head from under her shawl. As she held it up by the fair hair, and the light struck on its appaling whiteness, I sprang to my feet with a cry. It was the head of Hugh Tancred.

Lola, taking my cry as a tribute to her dramatic action, looking down on me with a gratified smile. But the smile died away in a look of horror; she dropped the head with a shriek, and rolled forward across the oil lamps. Before the audience could grasp the situation, a tongue of flame shot up the red dress, and in another moment she was reeling round the little stage, a pillar of live flame. Shriek after shriek pealed from her throat as the fire bit into her beautiful body. She fell prone and blazing like a funeral pyre: the audience surged forward on to the stage, and Manuel, grasping my arm, hurried me out of the theatre. He was terrified out of his wits at the danger we had escaped, so was I; but my terror was due to being an eye-witness of the horrible doom which had befallen that cruel woman.

The next morning a gipsy carrying a bag came to my hotel. On being shown into my room, he shook Hugh's head out of the bag, and most earnestly advised me to leave Seville.

"Your life is not safe here, Señor," he said hurriedly. "Lola bade me bring you this. She has paid for her wickedness— she is dead. If our people knew you were the cause of her accident they would surely kill you."

"Lola dead?"

"Yes, she died at six o'clock this morning. She bade me urge you to fly. She was unwilling to have another man's death upon her soul."

"How did she recognise me?"

"She saw you with the man she killed, both in London and in the English country."

"Why did she torture my cousin so?"

"To punish him for having slain her lover. She and Pepé the hunchback followed him to Gibraltar, to Malta, to Italy, to England. When you went away with the Señor whom they killed they waited in London and watched your house."

"I know; I know. But how did they gain admission to it?"

"By paying much money to those who looked after it, Señor."

So I was right after all. Jabez and his wife had been concerned in the matter, and no doubt had paid their own passages to America with the money they had received from Lola.

"The people showed Lola and Pepé all the secret places of the house; and so, Señor, they were able to watch you and yet remain hidden themselves. Lola grew tired of torturing the Señor. She was told by the woman that you would take him to London; so she made Pepé play you over the house while she cut off the Señor's head."

"Did she kill him in his sleep?"

The gipsy looked at me with an ambiguous smile.

"Nay, Señor; how should I know? Lola was cruel; it may be that she woke him to taunt him before she cut his throat."

"Horrible! horrible!"

"Lola Fajardo was a terrible woman, Señor, and she is beyond your English law. Leave Seville, Señor, or you also will die. I go, Señor; good-bye."

I took his advice. There was nothing more to detain me in Seville. There was one question, though that I wished now I had asked; I had quite forgotten it: Why did Lola dance in the long gallery on that night? It may have been nothing but sheer devilry.

I wished now most fervently that I had shot her there and then. But that was not to be. She was preserved for a more terrible death even than that. She died in agony in the prime of her beauty, and all I can say is that she richly deserved her fiery doom. I took back Hugh's head to England, and placed it in his coffin, poor soul. And then I did my best to forget the Red Dancer and her devilries. But, as this story is sufficient to show, I have not yet succeeded.

_______________

8: Captain Black

Charles E. Carryl

1841-1920

Scribner's Magazine Oct 1891

Author  and also stockbroker on the New York Stock Exchange; most of his output was children's stories.

MR. GEORGE FARNHAM, counsellor-at-law, having devoted ten years of his life to the remunerative toil of entangling certain persons in, and extricating certain others from, the meshes of the law, found himself, at the age of thirty-five, with a respectable balance in bank and a pronounced craving for rest and recreation. Summer was coming on, the courts would soon be closed, and a torpor was settling down upon the field of litigation, and the idea of a vacation abroad presented itself to his mind with alluring force. He was weary of briefs and bills of exceptions; his office was taking on, to his jaded eyes, an aspect of dreary dinginess that promised to become unendurable in the near future, and the long rows of buff-clad digests and revised statutes seemed to glare down upon him from their shelves, like wolves in sheep's clothing, with grim suggestions of long nights of toil. Under these impelling influences he turned his back upon the law, packed a portmanteau, and found himself upon a bright morning in June on the steamer Servia, fairly committed to a three months' sojourn in foreign parts.

As the hour of sailing drew near he stood on the hurricane deck, leaning against the rail and watching with lively interest the animated scene on the pier below. A double line of passengers and their friends was thronging up and down the gangway giving access to the lower deck, a crowd of spectators, idlers, and itinerant vendors of steamer-chairs and other comforts of the sea was swarming below him on the pier, and a number of agile cabin-stewards in blue jackets were rushing up and down a supplemental gang-way, bringing aboard an endless variety of steamer-trunks, hand-bags, and bundled rugs. Carriages drove up, discharged their living freight and made their way back through the surging crowd amid volleys of imprecations; while the decks of the steamer swarmed with people chattering, scolding, and weeping farewells with the feverish vehemence peculiar to such occasions. Farnham, enjoying the spectacle with all the relish of a school-boy abandoning his books for a time, turned to a fellow-passenger who stood beside him at the rail, and remarked, "A busy scene, sir."

"I should call it a bedlam," said the other, without looking up. "I never could understand the insane curiosity that impels people remaining at home to subject themselves to the most unpleasant feature of going abroad."

"Meaning the crowd?" inquired Farnham.

"Yes," replied the other, shortly, "the rabble, the deafening racket, the infernal discomfort of the whole business;" with which he turned abruptly and walked away as if not in the mood for further conversation.

Farnham, at complacent peace with himself and with the world, looked after him with good-humored surprise. He was a tallish man of powerful build, with a full brown beard and hair slightly marked with gray, exceedingly well dressed, and having the unmistakable bearing of a man of the world. By a momentary glimpse of his face as he turned away, Farnham saw that he had regular features, a dark complexion, and a certain self-contained expression that was not altogether prepossessing. As he disappeared in the crowd Farnham turned again and resumed his watch of the scene below.

At this moment the bell for "all ashore" was rung, and the crowd on the gangway began to resolve itself into a stream bound shoreward, occasionally broken by a belated passenger hurriedly making his way upward through the living tide. Then the stream dwindled to a few stragglers, and finally to the inevitable last man, scrambling downward while the gangway was swinging in the slings; the long plank was lowered and cast off, a mighty pulse began to throb beneath Farnham's feet, and the great ship backed majestically out of the slip amid a tempest of shouts of farewell.

It was at this instant that Farnham's attention was attracted to a cab that came rattling along the pier, scattering the crowd in every direction. As it drew up at the gangway opening, a man sprang out and crying frantically, "Stop! stop!" rushed to the edge of the pier and began running back and forth upon the string- piece as if meditating a desperate attempt to leap out and clutch at the side of the receding ship. A roar of derisive laughter burst from the bystanders as this preposterous intention became evident, and two of the wharf hands seized the distracted man and roughly dragged him back, struggling and protesting, until he was lost to view in the crowd that surged about him. Farnham fancied, from a sudden expression on his face as he was dragged away, that he had recognized some one on the upper deck, and glancing around involuntarily, discovered the bearded passenger standing beside him at the rail, gazing down upon the scene with an angry scowl. At this moment they came abreast of the end of the pier, where a scene of waving handkerchiefs and tossing sun-umbrellas of every hue and shade burst upon them like a mighty kaleidoscope, and at the same instant the belated traveller appeared in the surging mass of people, hatless and dishevelled and clutching wildly at the air, as if he would stay the departing ship. "Intolerable ass!" muttered the bearded man in a savage whisper, and striking the rail furiously with his clenched fist, he strode angrily away.

The sail through the river and down the bay was enough of a novelty to keep Farnham busily observant, and it was not until the Hook had been passed and the pilot taken off that he bethought himself of going below to don his steamer-cap and shoes, and otherwise prepare himself for a week of seafaring leisure. He had secured a berth in an outside room in the double row just aft the saloon companion-way, and as he entered the passage leading to it he met his bearded acquaintance just coming out of the room. "Mr. Farnham?" said the dark man, interrogatively. "That is my name," replied Farnham. "I am Captain Black," said the other, bowing stiffly; "I believe we are booked as room-mates," and, pushing by him, walked away without pausing for a reply.

"I hope you'll pan out better than you promise, my good fellow," said Farnham to himself, philosophically; and entering his room, he was soon busily occupied in making a convenient disposal of his modest belongings.

The door stood open, and Farnham presently became aware of the presence, in the room directly opposite, of a fellowpassenger similarly occupied. He seemed to be of about the height and build of Farnham's room-mate, but his face, of which Farnham caught an occasional glimpse as he moved about, was as unlike that gentleman's as could well be imagined. He was clean shaven, of a pallor that was almost unearthly, and had a hideous scar extending from one corner of his mouth down across his chin. To all this was added a certain wildness of eye that was so distinctly repellent that Farnham inwardly congratulated himself that Captain Black had fallen to his lot instead of this unprepossessing stranger; and completing his arrangements, loaded himself with cigars and went on deck.

Events proved that if Captain Black was not companionable, he was at least unobtrusive. Except for the mere knowledge to the contrary, Farnham had the room virtually to himself. His companion rose, had his tub, dressed, and went on deck long before the overworked counsellor-at-law had finished his supplemental morning doze, and retired at night so late and so quietly that Farnham never so much as knew when he came into the room. As for the rest, the man was singularly preoccupied in manner, acknowledging with the merest nod and with an absent air Farnham's salutation when they chanced to meet, and keeping aloof from him and, with one exception, from the other passengers as well, with a persistence that was too marked to permit any attempt at a closer acquaintance.

The exception, to Farnham's surprise, was the uninviting-looking occupant of the opposite room. What made this remarkable selection still more surprising was the fact that the acquaintance between the two had evidently been made aboard ship, as Farnham had seen them passing and repassing each other without the slightest sign of recognition during the afternoon of the day of sailing; yet before twenty-four hours had elapsed an intimacy had been formed and matured between these strangely contrasted men, so close that they seemed to be inseparable. Morning, noon, and far into the night they sat and smoked together in secluded corners, the man with the scar constantly talking in a smothered undertone, with a certain fierce vehemence and violence of gesture, and the captain listening with a brooding look upon his dark features and an observant eye upon the other's face. Farnham was puzzled, and, for a while, found a singular fascination in furtively watching the two men and mentally speculating as to what strange community of interest had brought them together. The few passengers with whom he chanced to fall into conversation knew as little about the scar-faced man as he himself knew about Captain Black, and beyond the fact that his name was Leath, learned incidentally from the cabin-steward, no information of any kind was obtainable. Farnham's interest in the matter, being rather antipathetic than otherwise, was short-lived, and in the course of a day or two subsided into a mere glance at the two men when he chanced to come upon them.

The weather was fair and promised to hold; but shortly after passing the Banks the ship ran into a rough sea rolling heavily from the southward, evidently the tail of a storm that had passed up from the tropics. As the day wore on the sea continued rising, and by nightfall the ship was rolling heavily, and Farnham, who had thus far fared well, began to experience certain premonitions that impelled him, after a proud struggle against fate, to forego his after-dinner cigar and turn in at an unseemly hour, in the hope that a night's rest would set him right. He lay in his berth, occasionally falling into a doze and then being roused by an unusually violent plunge as the ship labored in the heavy sea, getting up from time to time to secure and make fast the various toilet articles that had drifted from their moorings, and then tumbling into his berth again with a qualmish apprehension that the supreme moment he was fighting against was upon him.

It was just after one of these excursions that the door opened and Captain Black came into the room. The curtain of the berth was drawn so that he was concealed from view, but Farnham, half dozing, was vaguely aware, above the creaking of the ship, of his movements about the room; and an occasional rattle of keys and the snapping of a lock indicated the opening of some article of luggage. These trifling noises not being disturbing in themselves, Farnham finally dropped asleep and was presently involved in a contested will case of extraordinary magnitude, with his most important witness a fugitive in the wilds of Madagascar. The details progressed with astonishing velocity, accompanied by distracting complications heretofore unheard of in law practice, and matters were assuming a portentous aspect with tremendous pecuniary penalties impending, when he awoke and started up with a sudden consciousness that the curtain had been drawn aside and that he had been looked upon as he lay sleeping in his berth. He pushed it back and looked out, and as he did so the door of the room was softly closed and he heard the heavy footsteps of Captain Black going out through the passageway. The incident was sufficiently annoying in itself, but Farnham found it doubly so from the manifest impossibility of resenting it at the moment, and after fuming over it to no purpose he lay down again, resolving to give his room-mate a bit of his mind in the morning; and bracing himself with his knees against the rolling of the ship, tried to compose himself to sleep. But sleep would not come. The sudden awakening and the resulting irritation had excited him, and he rolled and tossed about, dropping off into fitful naps and waking with every violent plunge of the ship, and occasionally muttering unseemly imprecations against the evil chance that had broken in upon his night's rest.

It was just after one of these wakings that he heard the sound of a hurried step descending the companionway, and some one came aft through the open cabin and turned into the passageway almost on a run; the door of the opposite room was opened, closed again and locked, apparently with feverish haste, and all was still again. Farnham, listening with alert attention, heard six bells strike a moment after, and concluding from the hour that Captain Black would soon follow his friend, prepared to speak his mind then and there; nursing which amiable intention he presently fell sound asleep.

"BEG PARDON, SIR," said a voice, and Farnham started up. It was morning, and the bath-steward was standing in the doorway. "Beg pardon, sir," said the man again, with a startled look upon his face; "but Captain Black isn't here, sir, and his berth hasn't been used."

"Well, I'm not responsible for his not coming to bed," said Farnham, testily. "What time is it?"

"Just gone seven bells, sir," said the steward.

"Very good, I'll get up," said Farnham, after a moment's deliberation. "See if you can get me a bath," and the man withdrew.

Farnham, reflecting upon the steward's rather startling announcement, found his irritation giving way to a vague foreboding of evil, with which came a disturbing recollection of Leath's hurried return to his room the night before. Could the man tell anything? He looked out into the passageway, but the door of the opposite room was closed and Farnham could not bring himself to knock and learn he knew not what; and he dressed with feverish haste, and went on deck with an increasing sense of an agitation which he could not shake off. He made a complete tour of the ship, examined every part of the decks, looked into the smoking-room, and finally went into the dining-saloon, where a vacant chair marked Captain Black's place at the breakfast-table; and then, coming across his cabin-steward, questioned him, and learned that the man had been off watch the night before and could tell him nothing. The matter began to assume an ugly look, and Farnham went direct to the purser, and in ten minutes the ship was being thoroughly searched from stem to stern. Not a trace of the missing man could be found; Captain Black had vanished as absolutely as if he had been absorbed into the atmosphere.

When Farnham related the events of the preceding night it was determined to question Leath at once; and on the steward's report that the man was ill and was still in his berth, Farnham and the purser went to his room and knocked for admittance. Leath unlocked the door without parley and was back again in his berth as they entered the room, leaning on one elbow and glaring angrily at them as he demanded their business. The man was evidently ill and looked horrible. His face, apparently tanned by the sea air, had taken on a swarthy hue that made his extraordinary pallor even more ghastly than before, and the scar on his chin blazed with an angry flush as though he had been freshly branded on the face.

He listened to the purser's statement, manifesting extreme agitation as the story proceeded, and at its conclusion fell back upon his pillow and covered his face with his hands. "I can tell you nothing," he said, after a brief silence, speaking in a smothered voice that was singularly discordant. "I left him, smoking and leaning on the rail near the turtle-back, and came below at eleven o'clock. You must have heard me," he added, appealing to Farnham, who nodded assent. "What followed is as dark to me as it is to you. I had been drinking and my recollection is confused; I only remember that the sea was horrible to look at!" and with a shudder he turned his face to the wall, and Farnham and the purser, exchanging a significant glance, left him.

"We must go to the old man with this," said the purser, with an ominous shake of the head, and requesting Farnham to follow him, led the way to the captain's room. The news had already spread about the ship, and as they passed along the deck, little groups of passengers were discussing the tragedy with repressed voices, and Farnham observed, with great annoyance, that they glanced curiously at him as he went by, and felt that he was being connected with the affair in a thoroughly unpleasant manner.

The captain heard the grim story through and reflected for a few moments with a disturbed countenance. "There's nothing to be done," he said at length; "when we get in I shall ask this gentleman and the other to remain aboard until we can communicate with the authorities. If Leath refuses," he continued, fixing on the unfortunate man with the same suspicion that possessed both Farnham and the purser, "I shall take the responsibility of detaining him. Meanwhile, take charge of the missing man's effects and tell the men not to talk."

And now that the dark premonition had grown into a gruesome fact, Farnham began to experience a depression of spirits that promised to put an end to his enjoyment of the remainder of the voyage. As the day wore on, the gloom fastened upon him like a pall, until he was impelled, just before nightfall, to go to the purser and ask to be given another room, where he could be free from the disquieting associations of his late quarters, and away from the immediate proximity of Leath, for whom he had conceived an unconquerable aversion. The purser fell in with his humor without demur, and Farnham found himself transferred to a stuffy inside cabin on the main deck with a positive sense of benefaction. His former apartment was abandoned to the goods and chattels of Captain Black, and Leath, locked in his room, was left alone with his secret, if he had one.

It was with a sense of infinite relief that Farnham, coming on deck one morning, saw the Skelligs rising like mammoth teeth from the sea, and soon afterward the green cliffs of the Irish mainland. His spirits rose as the steamer ran along the coast, passed inside the Fastnet Rock, and finally turned into the mouth of Queenstown Harbor; and he watched with lively interest the arrival alongside of the rakish little tender and the transfer of an interminable number of mail-bags to her ample deck. The procession of bag-bearing stewards having finished their labors, he crossed to the opposite side of the ship, and was engaged in serene contemplation of the whitewashed glories of the Roche's Point light, when he was touched on the shoulder, and turning, saw the purser at his side with two strangers.

"We are beginning to get a little light on our affair, Mr. Farnham," said the purser. "These gentlemen are officers from Scotland Yard with a requisition and a warrant for the arrest of Captain Black on a charge of forgery. Mr. Lethbridge and Mr. Darke— Mr. Farnham," and the two detectives touched their hats and regarded Farnham with a professional air, as if longing to take him into custody in the absence of their legitimate prey.

"No statement to make, I suppose," said Mr. Lethbridge, a sharp-featured, fresh-faced man with light hair.

"None," said Farnham. "Mr. Neal knows all I can tell you."

"Very good, sir," said Lethbridge, affably. "Now, then, Mr. Neal," he added, turning to the purser, "if you'll be good enough to show us below, we'll take a look at the effects;" and touching their hats again, the two officers followed the purser, leaving Farnham to resume his interrupted observation of the lighthouse. Meanwhile, with a prodigious ringing of bells, the tender cast off and paddled up the harbor, the great pulse began to throb again, and the steamer, turning her prow seaward, went on her way up the Channel.

Farnham, slowly pacing the deck, presently saw the purser and Lethbridge emerge from the companionway and come toward him. "Mr. Farnham," said the former, "I'm afraid you and I, without saying much about the matter, have been doing that poor devil Leath a great injustice. Read this," and he handed Farnham an unsealed envelope. It was addressed "To whom it may concern," and opening it, Farnham found enclosed the following letter:

In the almost absolute certainty of being apprehended upon my arrival, I have chosen the only means open to me of avoiding the disgrace and punishment that would inevitably follow. I had hoped to escape, with the firm intention of never resting until I had made restitution for the only crime that has ever stained my life; but it was not to be. The appearance, at the moment of departure, of a man upon whose blind confidence and dull apprehension I had relied, for such a tardy discovery of my betrayal of trust as would give me ample time for escape, has told me that the cable would assuredly carry the intelligence abroad long before I could reach English soil.

I had at first no intention of leaving New York. I expected, with incredible fatuity, to delay exposure until some lucky chance should permit me to cover, for all time, the traces of my wrong-doing; but the mental strain consequent upon continued and complicated falsifying of accounts, became unendurable, and in an evil moment I appropriated certain funds from a quarter where immediate examination and discovery were improbable, and ventured all upon that mirage of defaulters— faro. I lost. There was no time for resort to the expedients of disguise and concealed identity which might have saved me. I attempted to deceive my associate by the desperate subterfuge of a forged cable message calling me abroad on family affairs; made up my luggage and boarded the steamer almost at the hour of sailing, only to find myself unmasked at the last moment.

I feel no longing for the life I am about to end, nor do I leave a single soul who will mourn my death. I regret, alone, that restitution is beyond my power. The sea is merciful to me in all else.

Lansing Black.

"Poor fellow!" said Farnham. "How bad a matter was it?"

"Extensive forgeries and about sixteen thousand pounds in hard cash, supposed to be with him," replied Lethbridge. "That's all we know. Particulars by mail."

"I am glad Leath is out of it, at all events," said Farnham, heartily enough.

"So am I, sir," echoed the purser; "but I'm blessed if it didn't look ugly for a while." With which reminiscence he and Mr. Lethbridge went below again to resume their examination of Captain Black's effects.

LEATH KEPT HIS ROOM with extraordinary persistence until the last moment. Farnham, with a vague idea of making amends for his recent suspicions by some sort of friendly advances, looked for him on the tender the next morning, but failed to find him in the crowd of passengers; nor did he get a sight of him until the very last of the number were disembarking, when Leath, wearing a mackintosh reaching to his heels, and with a muffler or scarf swathed about the lower part of his face, suddenly appeared at the head of the gangway leading to the landing-stage, and paused irresolutely, as if loath to come ashore. Farnham, who was awaiting his luggage on the landing-stage and chatting meanwhile with the two detectives, was about to attract his attention by a sign of recognition, when Leath, as if suddenly mastering his indecision, strode rapidly down the gangway, and began roughly pushing his way through the throng of waiting passengers. At this moment Lethbridge touched Farnham on the arm and pointed significantly to a woman who was standing at the foot of the gangway with her eyes intently fixed upon Leath. She was a sad-faced woman, plainly clad, and Farnham noticed that she was holding her hand tremulously to her mouth, as if endeavoring to control excessive agitation. As Leath passed her without a glance of recognition, her eyes dilated as with a sudden sickening terror, and then, apparently moved by an uncontrollable impulse, she flung herself before him with her hands against his breast, crying, "Roger! Don't you know me?" Leath's face, for an instant, looked as if it had been turned to stone, then, catching sight of Farnham's astonished gaze, he instantly passed his arm about the imploring figure before him and said hurriedly, "I did not see you. Come away," and pushed on with the woman, sobbing convulsively, on his arm.

"Rather a rum meeting, that," observed Mr. Lethbridge, dryly, and Farnham, who had witnessed the scene with an immediate revival of his former antipathy, shrugged his shoulders in infinite disgust, and washing his hands of Mr. Leath and his affairs, went off to look after his own effects.

No further incidents of importance marked Farnham's sojourn abroad. He traversed the beaten road of insular and continental sightseeing for his allotted time, and returned to his legal grindstone with such agreeable recollections of his vacation, that the following June found him again in London with the pleasant prospect of further rambles before him during the summer months. He had heard the particulars of the forgery while at home, but it was simply the old story of securities raised from their face value, followed by the coarser crime of actual theft, and ending with a ruined firm and a beggared partner; and the affair had almost passed from his memory, when it was suddenly recalled by an incident of the most startling character.

Farnham, waiting for a friend, was standing at the window of that depressing apartment, the smoking-room of Her Majesty's Hotel, gazing aimlessly into the side street and observing the grimy wall of a noble lord's grounds on the opposite side of the way, when his attention was attracted to two men who came from the direction of the neighboring thoroughfare, and stopped, conversing leisurely, at the entrance to the hotel. With the man who faced him Farnham had no concern; but he was instantly and strangely interested in the other, who stood with his back toward him. The subtile individuality which occasionally asserts itself in the human back told him that he knew this man, and the consciousness sent an unaccountable thrill through his veins. A moment after, the other of the two walked away and the owner of the expressive back turned to enter the hotel. As Farnham caught sight of his face his first impression was that he had been mistaken; then there arose in his memory, like a flash of light, a vision of the deck of the Servia a year ago and the two consorting men who had so unpleasantly impressed him, and he recoiled as though he had been shot. The full brown beard had disappeared, and a carefully waxed gray mustache and pointed goatee had replaced it; but if Captain Black ever walked upon the earth he stood in the flesh before Farnham at that moment. As this astounding fact divulged itself the man disappeared through the doorway, and Farnham sank breathless into a chair.

The apparition, for it seemed little more to Farnham's excited fancy, came directly into the smoking-room, glanced casually at him as he sat quaking in his chair, and went out without a sign of recognition. Farnham breathed again. He had grown stouter and wore a beard, and it afforded him unspeakable relief to feel that these changes in his outward man had effectually concealed his identity. He sat still, watching through the open doorway the man who had apparently risen from the sea, and saw him stop for a moment at the office window and then pass through the hall and up the stairs. He was evidently staying at the hotel, and Farnham, presently recovering his composure, sauntered out of the room with as much unconcern as he could assume and inquired of the hall-porter who the gentleman was who had just come in.

"His name is Pelham, sir," said the man; "Mr. Francis Pelham, I think. He's not stopped here before, sir."

"Thank you," said Farnham. "Be good enough not to mention that I inquired; he might consider it an impertinence;" and impressing this injunction upon the porter by a judicious bestowal of a shilling, he went out and, oblivious of his appointment, hailed a hansom and was driven to Scotland Yard as fast as an indifferent horse could take him.

Lethbridge was absent, but upon Farnham's assurance that his business was urgent, he was sent for and presently came in, and Farnham was again reassured by finding that even the detective's keen eye failed to recognize him in his altered personality. A reference to the events of the preceding summer, however, immediately recalled him to Lethbridge's memory, and he told, as concisely as possible, the extraordinary discovery which he believed he had made. Lethbridge heard him through and then shook his head incredulously. "I've come across strange things in my line, Mr. Farnham," he said, "but this is the toughest yarn I've ever heard yet. It can't be, sir, it can't be. Darke and I prodded every corner of the ship, and I tell you the man wasn't there."

"And I tell you that the man is in London at this moment," said Farnham, vehemently. "Apply any test that you please, and you'll find I'm right."

Lethbridge pondered dubiously for a moment, and then asked Farnham to repeat to him, in their consecutive order, all the details of Captain Black's disappearance from the steamer. This Farnham did with scrupulous exactness, Lethbridge listening attentively and checking off the narrative from time to time with affirmative nods of his head.

"Now," said Lethbridge, "go over the business on the landing-stage in the same way, so I may be sure I've got the thing straight in my head."

Farnham complied as before, and was carefully reciting the sequence of events, when he became suddenly aware of a change in the detective's manner. Lethbridge was leaning forward in his chair in an attitude of the most alert attention, and with a strange gleam in his eyes that betokened extraordinary emotion; and as the story ended, he brought his hand down upon his knee with a resounding slap and exclaimed exultingly, "By George, I have it!"

"Now look here, sir," he continued, before Farnham could speak; "you can help us if you will. If this is the right man, he is an extraordinary cool hand, and we mustn't touch him until we are ready for him. That won't be until day after to-morrow, as I must send a man out of town to bring up another party that we shall need."

"But suppose—" said Farnham, who would have preferred immediate action; "suppose, meanwhile, our man takes it into his head to leave."

"Then I'll stop him at a venture," said Lethbridge, with a grim smile, "but I don't want to move a minute too soon if I can help it. Now, I want you to take a table near him in the coffee-room— say to-morrow at breakfast."

"But I'm not staying there," objected Farnham.

"Take a room there over-night," said Lethbridge, promptly, "and give 'em a wrong name."

"I don't fancy doing that," said Farnham, after a moment's reflection.

"There isn't a bit of 'arm in it," said Lethbridge, "and it will help us a lot."

"And what then?" said Farnham.

"Why, then," continued Lethbridge, with a reassuring smile, "when you're ready to go in to breakfast, just step out of the 'otel door for a moment so I can see you, and then leave word if any one asks for you, to have him shown in direct to your table. That'll give me a chance for complete observation of your party without attracting any attention whatsoever, and without anybody being any the wiser but me. After that you can go off and leave the business in my hands until everything's ready. I suppose you'd like to see the end of it, sir?" concluded the detective, with a confident interrogation.

"Well— yes; after having gone so far— I would," said Farnham.

"Very good, sir, I'll look you up," said Mr. Lethbridge, cheerfully. "Mind you sit with your back to him."

Farnham went away with a disquieting sense of having been cleverly impressed into the English detective service; but an irrepressible desire to follow up the unravelling of the mystery that lay before him enabled him to stifle certain stirrings of conscience by the self-assurance that he was merely furthering the ends of justice. He wandered aimlessly about, avoiding the vicinity of the hotel until bedtime, when he sneaked in, carrying a satchel, and with a humiliating consciousness of imposture lying heavily on his mind, and was allotted a gloomy back room at the top of the house. Here he passed a horrible night, largely occupied in running down preposterous criminals of all grades, and awoke with a pardonable feeling of repugnance for his self-invited breakfast company.

PELHAM WAS already seated in the coffee-room when he went down-stairs, and having bespoken the adjoining table, he went to the entrance door of the hotel as agreed and looked up and down the street. Not a sign of Lethbridge could be seen, and Farnham, with a cheering hope that the appointment had miscarried, went in to breakfast and seated himself with his back to his unsuspecting neighbor. He had ordered his customary eggs and bacon and breakfast tea, and was looking through the morning paper, when a dark-complexioned man with a profusion of black hair, and wearing spectacles, was shown in to his table, and, before Farnham could utter a protest, seated himself, and taking from his pocket a bundle of documents, began, "I have looked into the matter of the mining prospectus, and I have all the figures here as you requested." With this there came a warning pressure of his foot beneath the table, and Farnham knew that Lethbridge sat before him.

Farnham was already sufficiently out of humor to be excessively annoyed by what he considered a useless and ridiculous masquerade, and ate his breakfast in sullen silence, while Lethbridge rattled on with amazing volubility, giving the most astounding statistics about the mining property, and keeping meanwhile a stealthy watch upon the suspected man at the adjoining table, until having presumably familiarized himself to the proper standard, he gathered up his papers and took his departure, to Farnham's infinite relief. That thoroughly disgusted gentleman dawdled over his breakfast until he heard Pelham leave the room, and seeing him presently pass the coffee-room window, took his own departure, satchel in hand, mentally vowing never to be caught again in a similar mess.

The next morning, just as he had finished breakfasting at his own lodgings, Lethbridge, fresh-faced and fair-haired again, made his appearance in such confident humor that Farnham's spirits revived somewhat under the buoyancy of the detective's manner, and he inquired what was the next step to be taken.

"I'm going to bait a hook," said Lethbridge, with an expression of infinite relish, "and if your man doesn't rise to it you can call me a Dutchman. It may be a long fish, but if we catch anything it will be as good a day's work as ever I did in my life."

The baiting of the hook, which Farnham awaited with considerable curiosity, proved to be a simple matter enough. Lethbridge merely wrote the words "Captain Lansing Black" in a large bold hand on a sheet of note-paper, enclosed it in an envelope addressed "Francis Pelham, Esq.," and with an air of extreme confidence invited Farnham to accompany him to the hotel and witness the landing of the fish.

They strolled back and forth upon the Piccadilly pavement in a line of observance of the hotel entrance, until Mr. Pelham, gloved and well apparelled, was seen to go out. Then Farnham, acting under Lethbridge's instructions, walked into the hallway, and explaining that he was awaiting a friend, seated himself at one side of the entrance door and became absorbed in perusal of a morning paper. Presently Lethbridge strolled in and, after a brief interview with the manager in that gentleman's private office, placed the envelope in Pelham's letter-box in the hall, and seating himself on the opposite side of the entrance door, became a silent rival of Farnham in the matter of looking up the day's news. The hall-porter, a pompous fellow with a double chin and wearing a black skull-cap, seated himself in his leather-covered bath-chair, all unconscious of the drama that was developing under his very nose, and dropped off into a nap— and the watch began.

It was a long one, as Lethbridge had surmised, and the hours wore slowly on. Farnham having digested the exhaustive details of events in Her Britannic Majesty's realm, and the scant references to other portions of the globe peculiar to the British press, was endeavoring to concentrate his attention upon the advertisements and occasionally relapsing into a doze, when Lethbridge coughed, and at the same moment Pelham opened the door and walked into the hall. Farnham, with his heart thumping like a trip-hammer against his ribs, glanced at his companion; but that imperturbable individual was so absorbed in the news that Farnham, for a moment, feared that he had not noticed that their man had arrived. The next instant, however, Lethbridge's eyes appeared, gleaming like coals of fire over the top of his newspaper, and Farnham, following their gaze, saw that the supreme moment had come. Pelham was at the letter-box.

A lump suddenly rose into Farnham's throat, and he was conscious that he was trembling violently from head to foot as Pelham took the envelope from the box, glanced carelessly at the address upon it, and then opened it. As his eyes met the name on the enclosed sheet he recoiled, glanced like lightning about the hall, and then, crumpling up paper and envelope, he thrust them into his pocket and was in the street again almost before Farnham could realize what had happened. Lethbridge, alert and as agile as a cat, was after him and at his side before he had taken a dozen steps, and Farnham, looking through the window, saw that there was a brief colloquy, followed by a shrug of Pelham's shoulders, and then the two men entered a cab and were driven away. "Now for it!" said Farnham to himself, and, calling a cab in his turn, he followed at all speed, in a curious whirl of speculations as to how the matter would end.

He was evidently expected at Scotland Yard, and on giving his name was shown without inquiry into a well-lighted room, where Lethbridge and a military- looking official, who proved to be the inspector, were conversing in a low tone in a corner. Pelham, who had apparently quite recovered his composure, was looking out of the window with his back toward them, standing with his legs well apart, and swinging his walking-stick with an air of supreme unconcern. He glanced indifferently at Farnham as he entered the room, and then, apparently relegating him to the obscurity of the official staff, resumed his former attitude at the window and gazed steadily into the court-yard until the inspector said, "Now then, Mr. Pelham, if you please," when he turned, showing a face deadly pale, but with features evidently under full command.

"Mr. Pelham," continued the inspector, with extreme urbanity, "it is probably unnecessary to inform you that we have no power to compel you to give us any information. In fact, it is quite within your discretion to preserve absolute silence if you choose, until you have taken legal counsel. At the same time, as it is quite possible that this is a case of mistaken identity, you can readily avoid further complications, and perhaps your further detention, by answering a few questions." Here the inspector paused, and Pelham, after a moment's deliberation, inquired haughtily, "What are the questions?"

"First," said the inspector, "are you Captain Lansing Black?"

"Captain Black was lost at sea a year ago," replied Pelham, without manifesting the slightest emotion. "The papers were full of the affair, and you must have known of it through them, if not through the investigations of your own department. The question strikes me as an absurdity."

"Next," said the inspector, with unruffled composure, "were you a passenger on the Servia, on her homeward passage in June of last year?"

"I was not," replied Pelham.

"This gentleman—" said the inspector, quietly, indicating Farnham by a motion of his head— "is prepared to swear that you were."

Pelham instantly concentrated his gaze upon Farnham, and regarded him intently for a moment with knitted brows, much to that gentleman's discomposure. The recognition that must have followed this scrutiny was, however, effectually concealed. Beyond a momentary flush upon his face, Pelham evinced no discomfiture whatever, and, turning to the inspector, said, with a contemptuous smile, "Then this gentleman is prepared to swear to a lie," adding, with a sudden burst of anger, "what rot all this is!"

"Possibly," replied the inspector, coolly, "but our description of the man we want tallies so closely with your appearance that the mistake is pardonable. Read it, Mr. Lethbridge," and Lethbridge, taking a folded paper from his pocket, read as follows, Pelham, meanwhile, fixing his eyes upon the ceiling, and resuming his former expression of nonchalance:

"Height, about five feet ten; erect, military carriage, broad shoulders, small hands and feet; brown eyes, stern in expression, regular features, dark complexion; reserved and haughty manner; wore, when last seen, a full brown beard—" here the detective paused.

"That doesn't help me," remarked Pelham, with cool effrontery; "a man's beard may turn gray in a twelvemonth, and shaving is, I believe optional."

"Go on, Lethbridge," said the inspector, with his eyes steadily riveted on Pelham's face; and Lethbridge continued— "Had on his left forearm two crossed arrows in India ink—" when Pelham, removing his gaze from the ceiling, broke in sharply with "What's that?"

Farnham, who chanced to be watching Lethbridge as he read, saw him exchange a significant glance with the inspector, which for an instant puzzled him; but as he turned his eyes upon Pelham and noticed the expression of his face, the truth burst upon him like a flash. The man had been betrayed into surprise by the mention of this mark in a description of himself.

Pelham instantly saw his mistake, and his features moved convulsively for a moment before he could bring them under control. In the death-like silence that ensued the ticking of the clock was distinctly audible, and it seemed to Farnham's excited fancy to be solemnly marking off the few minutes that remained before the closing in of the net. Then, with a sang-froid which under the circumstances was amazing, Pelham began to unbutton the sleeve-link on his left wrist. "That is not necessary, Mr. Pelham," said the inspector, with his deadly gaze still upon the other's face. "Your word will be sufficient in this case," with an unpleasant inflection upon the last words which caught Farnham's alert attention at once. By this time the tension on his nerves had become almost unbearable, and as he moistened his dry lips and clinched his hands, he felt that he was perhaps the most agitated man in the room. Pelham, whose angry flush under the examination had given place to his former deadly pallor, had recovered his nerve and, but for the great beads of sweat upon his forehead, was holding himself well in hand.

The inspector spoke again. "We have one more test to apply, Mr. Pelham," he said, with an ominous accentuation of the name; and making a sign to Lethbridge, the detective left the room and almost instantly returned, followed by a woman, who stood just within the door gazing at the group with startled eyes. One glance at her showed Farnham a sad, worn face, and a trembling hand shielding the quivering lips, and he recognized the poor creature who stood on the landing-stage a year before, and stayed Leath with her hands against his breast. With this scene thus suddenly recalled to memory, he turned his eyes upon Pelham, who had fixed his gaze with terrible intensity upon the woman's face, and a strange horror came over him as he saw the semblance of Captain Black apparently fading into a contorted likeness of Leath as if a metempsychosis were unveiling itself before his eyes. The inspector's voice again broke the silence, addressing the woman. "Mrs. Leath, do you know this man?"

"Stop!" said Pelham, imperiously, before she could reply. "Don't question her. This lies between ourselves, and you have no concern in it. There is no use in further subterfuge. I shall make proper amends to this injured and deserted woman, and I believe there is no law requiring the detention of a man who has merely absented himself from his home and his wife."

"None whatever," replied the inspector, with a grim smile.

"And this gentleman," continued Pelham, turning with a ghastly smile to Farnham, "will, I hope, pardon the rudeness of a man caught in a hole. The confusion of my face with that of Captain Black was natural enough. We were not altogether unlike, and the lapse of a year might well mislead anyone;" and with this he turned to Mrs. Leath with an assumption of heartiness and held out both his hands. But the woman recoiled with horror in her eyes and with her hands held up to repel him. "God save me!" she cried, tremulously, "it's like him and it is not. I don't know him."

"It's the beard that confuses you," said Pelham, anxiously insisting upon his identity. "See, Margaret!" and separating the hair upon his chin, he revealed the hideous scar running downward from the corner of the mouth. "Isn't that enough?" he added appealingly to Farnham, who could only stare in utter bewilderment at this seemingly incontestable proof; and then realizing that his protestations were being received in ominous silence, he turned to the two officers and cried passionately, "What more, in God's name, do you want?"

"Well, if it isn't asking too much," said the inspector, quite unmoved by this outbreak, "it would be a little more satisfactory to have your wife recognize you."

"She does recognize me. She must!" exclaimed the suspected man, with desperate eagerness. "We had not met in eighteen years when she saw me land at Liverpool, and I left her there almost without a word. The woman is simply misled by her absurd emotion. Can't I be allowed even to know who I am?"

"Certainly," said the inspector, coolly, "but you have been several persons lately. If you are quite sure who you are now, you may expose your left arm. It was Leath who had the mark of the crossed arrows."

Farnham, glancing at the man who had been so adroitly unmasked, saw him recoil as though he had been stung, and averted his eyes to avoid witnessing the distressing spectacle of collapse which he thought was at hand; but the other, nerving himself for a final defiance, turned his back upon Mrs. Leath with brutal indifference and said, with cool insolence, "I seem to have fallen into your clumsy trap, and," he added, with a vindictive scowl at Farnham, "I congratulate this gentleman upon his police work as a spy, in running me down. I am Lansing Black. Is there anything more?"

"Yes," said the imperturbable inspector, "What became of Roger Leath?"

Black glared at him wildly for an instant, and then sank back into a chair and covered his face with his hands, while Mrs. Leath, with a heartrending cry, fell heavily to the floor.

THE NEXT MORNING Farnham was nervously pacing the floor of his breakfast-room, suffering from what may be concisely described as a surfeit of detective work, when Lethbridge was shown in; and a glance at that astute gentleman's face assured him that matters were not altogether as they should be in the affair of Captain Black. "He swears he never touched Leath," said the detective, "and we haven't anything to go on but the circumstantial evidence. I hoped he would break down and confess, but he is as hard as a flint."

"What explanation does he offer?" inquired Farnham. "The business couldn't possibly look blacker for him as it stands."

"Well, his story is pretty straight as it goes," said Lethbridge. "He says his attention was first attracted to Leath by the scar on his chin, having one precisely like it himself. Then he saw there was enough resemblance between them to pass among strangers if he took off his beard. He swears he wrote the note then without any definite plan and put it into his portmanteau simply to have it already there if he had to act without premeditation. Likewise, he says his idea was to buy up Leath to act with him in some way. That may be or it may not. As luck would have it, Leath drank heavily that night, and Black got his keys from him on pretence of going down to get him some cigars or something of that sort; and when at last they went out of the smoking-room, Leath, who was as full as a lord, put on the other man's ulster by mistake; so you see things seemed to work pretty handsomely for Captain Black. Now he says the end of it was that Leath insisted on sitting upon the rail, and, by George, the first roll the ship took, over he went."

"I shouldn't fancy standing trial on such a yarn as that," said Farnham.

"No more would I," said Lethbridge, with a fine idiom, "but there it is. When he was locked up in Leath's room, of course he read over his papers and was prepared to meet his wife, and by the way, sir, it was his dropping of Mrs. Leath as gave me the clue. He took her out to a cab and told her he'd go and look after his luggage, and that was the last she saw of him. Having been on the ship, I was called in to look him up, but he seems to have an extraordinary way of making way with himself, and I couldn't find a trace of him. Says he boarded an outgoing sailing-ship and went to Copenhagen, which is likely enough. Now," continued Mr. Lethbridge, who seemed to have conceived a marked admiration for Farnham's detective abilities, "I've another little thing on hand which perhaps you'd like to follow up with me."

"Thank you," said Farnham, dryly; "I believe I've had enough."

__________

9: Mr. Donah

Tom Gallon

1866-1914

The Strand Magazine, Feb 1904

"IF there is one matter about which I am more particular than another," said Sir Leopold Kershaw, with much emphasis, "it is that due recognition should be given to the absolute equality of man with his fellow-man. Show me my fellow-man"— Sir Leopold was very defiant at this point— "and I will grasp him by the hand and hail him as 'Brother.' And I defy anyone to prevent me!"

Sir Leopold Kershaw— big, portly, and somewhat brow-beating— stood in front of the blazing fire in his comfortable dining-room and addressed these remarks to his son. Some eight or nine winters only having passed over the head of that young gentleman, it must be presumed that his father addressed him for lack of a better audience. Master Teddy Kershaw, for his part, gazed solemnly up at his father from the depths of an easy chair, and took in the ponderous phrases like gospel.

"Then I suppose, papa, that Wilkins is my brother?" said the child, slowly, after some moments of deep thought. Wilkins, it should be said, was the butler.

Sir Leopold Kershaw coughed. "My child, there are certain distinctions absolutely necessary to be observed. Wilkins, although nominally your brother, has already, I am given to understand, an abnormally large following of relatives, and needs no addition to them. When I touched upon the principles of brotherhood just now, I did not speak so much of distinct individuals as of man in the abstract. Wilkins, I trust, knows his place"— Sir Leopold frowned a little, and seemed to suggest that, if Wilkins did not, there were those capable of teaching him— "and is, in a sense, provided for. In an ideal condition of society men would share and share alike: one man would not be permitted to partake of roast pheasant while his less fortunate fellow gnawed the humble trotter; feather beds would be unknown among the classes while the masses continued to court repose upon doorsteps."

Now, the mind of a child is a peculiar thing— having a tendency, by some strange gift of the gods, to retain the true and to cast aside the worthless. So it happened that the mind of little Teddy Kershaw, by some subtle process, eliminated from his father's speech all that was mere verbiage, and began to construct for itself a glorious fabric called Universal Brotherhood. Setting aside those who were well fed and prosperous, the child came to see in every houseless wanderer of the streets— in every toil-worn, white-faced man or woman— some being who had a right, not only to his pity, but to every luxury which he himself enjoyed. And the idea grew and grew until it filled his childish mind, and until— like a small and gallant Crusader— he began to feel that he must do something, more than mere thoughts and words, to carry the thing into effect. He began for the first time to notice, with a sort of pained wonder, that little children, smaller and weaker even than himself, shivered in the streets while he rolled along in his father's carriage; that women carried heavy baskets, while his own mother would scarce put her delicate feet to the ground and was buried in furs and wraps. The incongruity of it came full upon him; and he determined at last, in an inspired moment, to do something to remedy the matter.

To carry out his desires in the presence of those who were responsible for him was, of course, out of the question; instead, he watched his opportunity, and slipped out of the house one day unobserved.

The town house of Sir Leopold Kershaw was in a very fine and extremely aristocratic square; but quite near to it— crouching and hiding under the wing of its grandeur— was a terrible nest of slums. And into this, by some natural instinct, drifted Master Teddy Kershaw.

With that newly-kindled love of humanity fairly bursting out of him he was prepared to seize the first likely wastrel by the hand and give instant effect to his father's many speeches; and he had not far to seek.

Just on the borderland, where the genteel streets began to grow more shabby and where untidy women and children seemed to be overflowing out of every house, stood a costermonger's barrow, the proprietor of which was leaning, in a dejected attitude, against it. It was the poorest barrow imaginable, with one of its shafts mended with string, and with a few sorry-looking vegetables, which never by any chance could have grown in any imaginable garden, displayed upon it.

The costermonger himself had evidently come to the conclusion that it was quite useless to attempt to impose his wares, at any price, even in that most poverty-stricken market; despair sat heavily upon him, and lurked even in the empty bowl of his cold pipe. Yet he was comparatively a young man, and not ill-looking; and the woman who leaned near him, with her elbows on the barrow and her chin propped in her hands, had once, and not so long ago, been quite pretty, despite the gaudy hat which drooped disconsolately over her eyes.

Here, surely, was a forlorn brother indeed! Teddy hesitated for but an instant, and then advanced towards the man. He felt that it would be wiser not to shake hands with him at once, as that smacked too much of familiarity; so he merely bowed and put a casual question— suggested by the barrow— as to the state of trade.

"Can't you sell anything?" he asked.

The costermonger looked Teddy up and down in astonishment, and then looked round at the woman and jerked his head sideways in a very curious fashion; drew the back of his hand slowly and elaborately across his mouth, and looked at Teddy again.

"No, yer 'Ighness, I can't," he replied, slowly and emphatically. Turning to the woman, with another jerk of the head, he muttered something about a "rum start."

"But wouldn't people buy the things if you shouted?" asked the boy. "Other people shout what they have to sell." Which was evident by the babel of noise about them.

The costermonger, who appeared to have got over his surprise, and who seemed to be rather a friendly sort of fellow, proceeded to explanations. "You see, yer 'Ighness, it's this 'ere way," he began. "I've 'ollered an' 'ollered till there ain't a puff of bref left in me; an' it's me private opinion that if yer was to bring sparrergrass tied up wiv pink ribbin into this 'ere street an' chuck it at 'em, they'd chuck it back agin. As fer this little lot"— he indicated the contents of the barrow with a backward jerk of his thumb— "they'll see me blue-mouldy afore they'll lay out a bloomin' farden on 'em."

Having so far relieved his mind, the man looked into the bowl of his pipe and, finding nothing there, returned the pipe to his pocket; then took up the handles of the barrow and prepared to move away.

Now it happened that Master Teddy knew that his father and mother were out and were not expected to return until late; it was probably owing to that circumstance that he had escaped from durance so easily. Further, the boy knew that, in a household where he ruled supreme as the only child of a rich man, he could practically do as he liked. True, he had never attempted so bold a scheme as that which was at the present moment seething in his small brain; but he felt not the slightest doubt that he could carry it through successfully and without opposition. Accordingly, in the most casual fashion possible, he asked the costermonger if he would come and have some lunch.

The unfortunate man almost upset the barrow in the shock of the moment; but, recovering himself, began to perform the most extraordinary antics Teddy had ever seen. First he straightened himself from the hips and gave a sudden tilt to his hat with both hands, which threw it dexterously over one eye; next he twisted up the collar of his coat and stuck his thumbs in the arm-holes of his waistcoat; then took a little skip backwards and a little skip forwards; put his tongue into his cheek and ejaculated the single word: "Walker!"

Perceiving from these signs, in a dim fashion, that the man doubted the honesty of his intentions, Teddy became more emphatic, assuring the man that he lived quite near at hand, and that lunch would be just about ready; that he would be quite alone with them; even going so far as to enumerate some of the dishes which might be expected. But the costermonger evidently still had his doubts.

The woman, however, with the keenness of her sex, saw farther into the matter than the man. She spoke in a lower voice.

"Sam, there may be summink in it, arter all. 'E's a little swell, by the looks of 'im, an' 'e don't look 'ard-'earted enough to go for to guy us, do 'e?"

The man, who appeared, even under the most distressing circumstances, to have some latent spark of humour about him, scratched his head for a moment, and then addressed the boy with extreme politeness.

"Seein' as 'ow you're so pressin', yer nibs, I dunno but what we won't take a snack wiv yer— me an' me Donah"— he indicated the woman with one hand. "Do yer fink I might leave the barrer in yer front garding?"

Teddy was wise enough to see that the carrying out of the latter suggestion might cause tongues to wag in the aristocratic square, so it was finally decided that the barrow should be left in the care of a worthy man, of disreputable appearance, who lived in a yard near at hand, and who, for its better protection, agreed to sleep in it until their return.

It is probable that, had Master Teddy Kershaw brought in a travelling menagerie with him— including the elephant— to lunch, Wilkins the butler would scarcely have expressed surprise, whatever his private feelings might have been. Therefore, when the boy introduced his two new friends into the house, gravely referring to them as "Mr. and Mrs. Donah," and announcing that they would partake of lunch with him, Wilkins merely bowed and murmured "Very good, Master Edwin"; discreetly waiting until he had gained the seclusion of his pantry before exploding.

Mrs. Donah was very much subdued and decidedly ill at ease; but Mr. Donah, on the other hand, made himself quite at home with much rapidity. He addressed the appallingly stiff footman pleasantly as "Calves," and taunted him with the suggestion that he was quite big enough to be "put into trahsis." Finally, having appeased his appetite, he lounged easily about the room and admired its appointments.

"I say, yer nibs, is this 'ere yer guv'nor's chivvy?" he asked presently, stopping in front of a full-length portrait of Sir Leopold Kershaw— a portrait which, by the way, appeared to frown down upon him with anything but a brotherly expression.

"I beg your pardon?" said Teddy.

"I sed: 'Is this yer guv'nor's chivvy?' 'Chivvy' bein' parlyvoo for face," replied Mr. Donah.

"Oh, I see," said the boy. "Yes, that's my father."

Mr. Donah surveyed the portrait for some moments, with his head on one side; finally turning to Mrs. Donah, with that curious sideways jerk of the head.

"Twig 'is dial, ole gal? Lor' luv us— 'e's a 'ot 'un— I giv' yer my word. 'Eard 'im spout once, abaht every bloke bein' 'is bruvver. That was abaht 'lection time las' year. Ain't 'eard nuffink from 'im since, an' I don't fink 'e's bin ter tea dahn our court, 'as 'e?"

"You're quite right about what my father says," broke in Teddy, proudly. "Every man is his brother, and everyone has the right to exactly the same things that he enjoys."

"Yuss; if 'e can git 'em," responded Mr. Donah, with fine scorn. "But if I 'ooked it wiv a dozen or two of 'is spoons 'e wouldn't 'ave nuffink to say abaht it— bless yer eyes— not 'e!"

Mr. Donah was becoming so particularly scornful, and he jerked his head so threateningly in the direction of the portrait, that Teddy deemed it wise to change the subject; accordingly he said:—

"It's because I believe that my father is right that I asked you and Mrs. Donah to come in to lunch to-day. I'm not quite sure— but I think my father would have been delighted to welcome you."

"Take yer oaf of it!" replied Mr. Donah, with a chuckle. "'E'll be that upset w'en 'e finds 'e's missed us, there won't be no 'oldin' 'im. As to me— I'm fair bowed down wiv it— an' the missis— w'y, ole gal, wot yer blubbin' for?"

Mrs. Donah, who had really eaten very sparingly of everything put before her, had suddenly begun to dab her eyes in a most suspicious manner with the corner of her shawl. Mr. Donah's question, however, appeared at once to rouse her; she got up hurriedly and jerked her hat straight with some fierceness, and told him angrily to— "Come aht of it!"

"'Ere we've bin a-settin' and shovin' grub into ourselves, like beasts, and that poor little nipper at 'ome wivaht so much as a bite!"

Mr. Donah, appeared instantly to droop; his fine spirits were gone in a moment. Indeed, Teddy had a suspicion that he saw the man draw his sleeve hurriedly across his eyes. Curiously, too, there was a sort of dull, heavy anger upon him as he made for the door.

"Come back ter the barrer, ole gal," he said, in a voice more husky even than usual. "An' don't fink that I was fergettin' the nipper— 'cos I wasn't." Stopping awkwardly at the door, he came back to the boy. "As fer you, my nibs— you're a nobleman— that's wot you are. There ain't no flam abaht you, an' no partic'ler gas-works. It's a deal pleasanter ter fill a man's stummick than to fill 'is bloomin' 'ed. If yer don't mind, I'd be prahd ter shake a fin wiv yer."

Understanding by this that Mr. Donah desired to shake hands, Teddy promptly responded. He had but dimly understood the half of what they said, or he might have pressed something further upon them; but they were gone before he had had time to make up his mind what to do; and the house returned to its normal condition.

With a curious distrust of that loud-voiced father of his, the boy refrained from saying anything about his extraordinary guests; so that nothing of the matter came to the ears of Sir Leopold Kershaw.

Some three nights later little Teddy Kershaw had a dream. He thought in his dream that he had just sat down comfortably to dinner, and that in some extraordinary fashion the dining-room was open to the street; and that first one hungry child and then another crept in upon him unawares, and snatched desperately the very food from before him; that although Thomas, the large footman, and Wilkins, the equally large butler, and even his father, Sir Leopold, strove hard to drive the famished mites away, they swarmed thicker and faster— until at last, by some subtle dream-change not to be explained in waking hours, his seat at the table was usurped and he had taken the place of a shivering street-boy, who seemed the hungriest of them all; so that he stood outside the house, among the ragged ones, shivering with cold and hunger. Waking suddenly he still seemed to shiver, and found, to his astonishment, that the window of his room was wide open.

While he was meditating sleepily upon this circumstance a stranger thing happened— the head and shoulders of a man appeared against the light of the sky, and the man himself dropped, with a soft thud, into the room.

Teddy started up in bed and opened his mouth with the full intention of giving vocal effect to his alarm; but in an instant a hand— rough, and not particularly sweet-smelling— had closed over it, and a gruff voice, which seemed in the darkness curiously familiar, whispered huskily in his ear:

"Lie dahn, will yer! If yer so much as breave I'll be the death of yer!"

Teddy Kershaw could see nothing distinctly in the darkness; only the dim form of the man seemed to hover above him. On the man releasing his grip Teddy lay down passively, and tried to breathe as little as possible.

"'Oller, an' I'll be back afore yer can say 'knife' an' do fer yer," whispered the man again. Then, quite noiselessly, he crept to the door and opened it, and glided out into the house.

Master Teddy Kershaw, consumed by curiosity, waited for a few moments and then slipped out of bed and went through the door also. Outside on the stair-case a dim light was burning; and, leaning over the stair-head, Teddy could see the man gliding down and keeping as much as possible within the shadow of the wall. A door creaked on its hinges and the man disappeared.

Teddy, mindful of the threat which had been breathed into his ear, was just about to creep back again when he heard another door open more noisily than the first, and then a quick challenging voice; the sound of running feet— a scuffle— and a fall: then other doors opening and more running feet; and lights seemed to flash up all over the house. Unable to restrain himself any longer, Teddy scuttled downstairs in his small pyjamas and headed straight for the fray.

In the dining-room he burst in upon a curious group. In the centre was Mr. Donah, struggling feebly and ineffectually between the grasp of two of the footmen; standing by the fireplace, looking at Mr. Donah sternly, was Sir Leopold Kershaw, appearing dignified even in a dressing-gown and with his hair rumpled; while the room was half-filled by a crowd of semi-clad, startled servants.

"Yer 'Ighness," exclaimed Mr. Donah, with some poor show of cheerfulness, as the boy appeared, "yer 'umble is a fair gorner!"

Sir Leopold, apparently not hearing the remark or not understanding, proceeded to improve the occasion.

"You have been caught, my fine fellow, in the perpetration of one of the most heinous crimes possible to imagine— that of purloining, after forcible entry, goods to which you have no right. Now, sir, I am a Justice of the Peace, and, while I must warn you not to say anything which will tend to incriminate you at your public trial, I am willing to hear any remarks you may make with reference to your purpose in being here or your reason for selecting my abode for your nefarious practices."

Mr. Donah looked all round him, somewhat helplessly; fixed his eye on Teddy, and winked with some cheerfulness; gave that peculiar jerk to his head which seemed to express any emotion of the moment; and spoke.

"Guv'nor, and yer 'Ighness, it's a thousand to one in canary birds that I'm up the wust gum-tree as ever you see! Fair nabbed, wiv me dukes on the bloomin' 'all-marked ladles and corfee-pots, I am, an' don't yer fergit it! As fer alibis an' sich-like fings, yer won't find one abaht me, if yer search me till Easter Monday. It's a fair cop, an' no error. Same time I should jist like to say as 'ow this is the fust time I've been on the rails in all my natural, an' it ain't exactly my fault."

"Pray explain yourself," said Sir Leopold, loftily.

"Righto, ole Poker-back, just 'arf a shake! I'm a-comin' to it. I've got a little nipper at 'ome, wot's wasted away to a mere shadder— yer might let go a bloke's arm an' let him rub 'is dial-plate, Calves— 'an 'e's a-lyin' in one room, an' most of the bed-clothes is up the spout. I've 'ollered 'Fine 'earty cabbage!' till I've got it on my brain, an' 'tain't no good. Then, comin' in 'ere wiv the missis t'other day ter lunch (leastways they called it lunch, but it was abaht a full week's grub fer us) wiv 'is 'Ighness—"

"To lunch? What is the man talking about?" broke in Sir Leopold Kershaw, sternly.

"W'y, 'is nibs comes aht w'en me and the ole gal was a-standin' by the barrer, and ses 'e, quite friendly-like, 'Come in an' 'ave lunch alonger me,' ses 'e. Not 'avin' me party frock on, in consequence of it bein' kep' at the wash, I 'ung back; but 'is nibs was that pressin' there was no gettin' over 'im, an' very 'andsome 'e done us, I mus' say." Thus Mr. Donah, with much emphasis.

"It is perfectly right," said Teddy, coming a little farther into the room. "I had heard what you said, father, about every man being my brother, except Wilkins" (the unfortunate butler blushed hotly on finding himself brought into such prominent notice), "and Mr. Donah, as well as Mrs. Donah, looked so miserable and so hungry that I thought you wouldn't mind. So I brought them in here, and we had quite a good time."

"You brought them in here?" ejaculated the master of the house, in amazement.

"Yes," said Teddy, boldly. Then, beginning to feel dimly and miserably that Mr. Donah was in a very tight place, Teddy, for the first time in his brief career, began to lie. "In fact, I told Mr. Donah that I thought he had a perfect right to everything which we had, and I'm afraid I even suggested that it wouldn't matter very much if he just helped himself to—"

"'Ere, stow it, yer 'Ighness; no perjury," exclaimed Mr. Donah. "Yer won't never sing wiv the angels if yer go on in that way." He turned suddenly towards Sir Leopold, and spoke with a certain despairing fierceness upon him: "Look 'ere, guv'nor— I don't want 'is nibs to be tellin' no crams abaht it. I come in 'ere, an' I 'as a jolly good feed— fair wallers in it, I does— till the ole gal breaks dahn, an' reminds me abaht our little nipper at 'ome, wivaht a crust. I goes 'ome that night an' meets the parish doctor on the stairs. 'Dockery'— that's me name w'en I goes a-ridin' in the park— 'Dockery,' ses 'e, 'that kid o' yourn wants nourishment— beef tea— good eggs; and you did ought ter get 'im away into the country.' Lor' luv us— w'y didn't 'e tell me to take 'im to 'ave tea alonger the Queen at Buckingham Pallis while 'e was abaht it?"

"You were not able to provide these necessaries for your child?" said Sir Leopold, somewhat unnecessarily.

"I were not," responded Mr. Donah, doggedly. "So that night I sits a-thinkin', an' a-thinkin', till me head fair buzzes, an' all next day I thinks a bit 'arder, till at last it comes over me that it ain't right, arter wot you've said abaht me bein' yer bruvver, that 'is nibs 'ere should be 'avin' roas' duck an' tomater sauce, so ter speak, an' my pore kid a-chewin' 'is fingers fer comfort. An' this mornin', seein' 'im look a bit finner than usual, I got fair desp'rit', an' couldn't stan' it no longer. So I made up me min' as 'ow I'd 'elp meself to a bit of me bruvver's silver stuff."

"To use one of the vulgarisms familiar to your class, my friend," interposed Sir Leopold, "I am afraid that your statement won't wash."

"It'll wash a lump better than some er yer spoutings," retorted Mr. Donah, with some indignation. "Wot's the good er tellin' a man one minute 'e's yer bruvver an' 'as a right ter share everyfink wiv yer, an' lockin' 'im up the nex' fer 'elpin' 'isself? There, I've 'ad me little jaw; now send fer the bloomin amberlance."

Sir Leopold Kershaw was thinking very hard indeed. It would be too much to say that he was in any sense converted; such sudden conversions are rare. But he had a wholesome dread of seeing his principles derided or himself made a laughing-stock; and Mr. Donah's remarkably caustic mode of speech would, he felt, suit the humour of the evening papers to a nicety. Sir Leopold had a mental vision of himself prosecuting in a police-court, and writhing under Mr. Donah's remarks in defence of his crime— the while busy reporters scribbled as if for their lives. Moreover, the man, to do him justice, had a certain honesty of purpose beneath all his ponderous phrases; his only fault lay in the fact that he did not, in any sense, understand the class about whom he talked so much. After a moment or two of thought he sternly dismissed the whole of the servants, cautioning them against chattering about the matter for the present; and was left alone in the room with his little son and Mr. Donah.

"Now, Dockery: I think you said that was your name—"

"C'ristened Sam, at Sin George's in the Borough, on a Toosday— wiv me a 'owlin' proper an' bitin' the parson's little finger," broke in Mr. Dockery.

"Well, Dockery, the circumstances attending your offence are somewhat peculiar, and I am disposed to take a lenient view of the matter. I am impelled to this course by the remembrance that my son is, to an extent, concerned in the affair"— Sir Leopold Kershaw felt that he must really make an excuse of some kind or other— "and I am unwilling that he should imagine that the principles I have so strongly laid down in his hearing are sentiments merely, and that I am not prepared to carry them out when opportunity occurs. I deny your right to purloin my property, but I will have inquiry made into your case, and if I find that you are really deserving I will carry my principles into effect. Leave me your name and address— and then go."

Sam Dockery looked all about him for a moment in sheer amazement, put his hat on, and then took it off in a great hurry; took those queer little dancing steps of his, first backwards and then forwards, made a feint of squaring up to Teddy, and finally put his arm before his eyes and broke into unmistakable tears.

"Yer 'Ighness," he observed, in a shaky voice, when he had somewhat recovered, "parss no rude remarks! This is me one an' only; I was thinkin' of the nipper an' of 'ow 'e might 'ave bin wivaht 'is daddy fer a munf er two. Guv'nor"— he turned to Sir Leopold— "I've sed a few fings wot I didn't orter; let it parss. Yer ain't sich a bad sort as yer look— an' Gawd knows yer didn't make yer own chivvy! Ask for Sam Dockery dahn in Dock's Buildings, an' anyone will direck yer to me 'umble cot. An' I'll interdooce yer to the missis an' the nipper."

Despite his levity Mr. Dockery appeared to find some difficulty in getting out of the door. Sir Leopold— amazing man!— opened the hall-door himself, and Teddy fancied he heard the quick chink of money. Curiously, too, Sir Leopold, when he came back into the dining-room, wore a smile on his usually stern face, and told Teddy, in quite a pleasant tone of voice, to "cut away to bed."

Nor did Sir Leopold Kershaw forget his promise. Sam Dockery and his wife were startled the very next day by a visit from the great man himself, accompanied by "'is Ighness" and by a footman bearing a hamper. Nor was this all: for, a lodge-keepership falling vacant on Sir Leopold's country estate, Sam and his wife and the "nipper" were installed in it in comfort; on which occasion Mr. Dockery gave himself airs in Duke's Buildings, before his departure, and informed all and sundry that he was going down to his country house "ter pot the bloomin' dicky-birds."

Sir Leopold Kershaw is as great a man as ever; but he talks less about the equality and brotherhood of man.

______________

10: Saintin's "Madame."

Ambrose Pratt

1874-1944

The Australian Magazine, 17 Aug 1899

SHE WENT every evening at nine to the Café Surat, and, arrived there, drank her small cup of steaming, black coffee with all the nonchalance and indifference to criticism of a man. The long, low-ceiled basement room, with its countless small tables and still more innumerable high-backed, quaintly-carved chairs, interested and charmed her; while the vague light from the multi-coloured lamp shades, the blue-wreathed clouds of smoke rising constantly from the tables of the smokers, and the waving green leaves of the great brown-stemmed fan palms spread here and there, lent an air of irresponsible Bohemian freedom to the scene. She loved to revel in it and speculate upon it in lazy dream fashion, lolling back in her leathern cushions as was her custom, a fragrant Egyptian cigarette held lightly between her scarlet lips. The habitues of the place knew her and passed her by with a half nod, on their way to their favourite places, or as they went, on leaving, to pay their scores to the little Arab proprietor who stood so constantly behind the stained old mahogany counter by the stairs. Newcomers and visitors stared at her and sometimes addressed her, but she neither answered them nor took particular notice of their curiosity ; so that at last she became known as "the beautiful mute,"— for beautiful she certainly was in strange outlandish fashion, with her slant Oriental eyes and clear olive skin; and mute she seemed to be, for never had she opened her lips to a soul in the Café, nor had any one ever seen her arrive at, or leave, the basement save alone.

For months she had seldom failed a single night to present herself with airy grace and insouciant manner before the entrance of the room, always pausing a moment to ascertain if the special table she affected was unoccupied, then gliding down the tiled floor to her accustomed chair, alone, yet self-possessed as a fairy, graceful as a sprite.

The little Arab proprietor had come to regard her as one ofhis best customers, and never failed to bid her a smiling good-night in execrable French as she departed, sometimes evenattempting a conversation. This, however, she invariablyavoided, though her smile made ample amends for her silence; for her smile was expressive as a thousand words and made her face friendly, affectionate, polite or contemptuous as the very thoughts themselves, which flitted and wandered so carelessly and rapidly behind her sparkling, intelligent eyes.

The poets who frequented the table in the darkest corner spoke often of her among themselves, describing her to each other for some psychological reason, unknown to outsiders, as "Madame" a nickname which gradually spread to the journalists' table, then to the artists', and finally to the whole Café. The poets had each written several poems to her and about her. Besides "Madame" they called her "the mysterious unknown"; and the prettiest verse-writer of the lot had managed to discover a romantic and marvellous past history for Madame from the depths of her eloquent eyes, during a contemplative glance she had once favoured him with as he regarded her. Ever after that glance he raised his hat to her as he passed, instead of nodding, as did the others; and presently he affected an intimacy with her totally unshared by his companions. The journalists, being more daring and assertive than the self-conscious poets, had one by one attempted to make acquaintance with Madame, but each had immediately been politely snubbed for his pains: so they took the only revenge on her unresponsiveness in their power, and one and all made copy of her for their different magazines.

Du Cluoet, for instance, satirised her as a demi mondaine made respectable by marriage, yet retaining her old free-lance longings for Bohemianism. He entitled his article "A Converted Courtesan."

M. Lemaire descanted at length, in his column in the "Gloire," on the potency for evil in cigarettes when affected by the gentler sex, making special reference to Egyptian cigarettes, and citing instances in support of his assertions.

Ronfort, writing with acidulous pen, drew a cruel comparison between the manners of a married woman of society and a lady of the demi-monde , reversing their positions and putting one in the every day circumstances of the other; needless to say his irony left little to choose between the two.

All these and many other attacks were made upon Madame sometimes containing references to her so pointed that a poet would occasionally remonstrate with a writer whom he knew— a circumstance which intensely delighted the author, containing intrinsic evidence as it did that the remonstrator, at all events, beyond doubt, had read his effusions.

Madame alone seemed unconscious of the discussions she had created, and the journalists writhed like worms beneath her indifference. It was impossible that she could have neither noticed nor understood the significance of their remarks, they argued, for had not each of them left marked copies of their papers with the little Arab proprietor for Madame with his compliments—and Madame had always borne away with her these monuments of their genius, sometimes even thanking them with a fleeting smile for their attentions.

"She is a clever little actress," they agreed, with knowing smiles— "she affects indifference, but she suffers in silence"; yet, nevertheless, this same indifference and silence were very real worries to the gentlemen who had attacked Madame.

The artists had each taken many sketches of her in his note-book, and already several fairly good likenesses of Madame had appeared in some of the illustrated weeklies of the city. She was an excellent model, for her face was strikingly quaint; and, besides, she sat always so still; but, above all, she was a cheap sitter and never dunned them for her fees. It is probable, therefore, that Madame was most popular in the Café Surat among its artistic patrons.

One evening the poet who had been affecting the extraordinary intimacy with Madame was invited to the artists' table to explain himself. He settled himself uncomfortably in an arm-chair and combed his long hair with ten bony fingers, a sign of more than slight embarrassment with him.

"What we want to know is, do you really know Madame?" said a red-haired artist, inquisitorially.

An affirmative series of "Yes's" passed around the table.

The poet, for answer, slowly shook his head; having a powerful imagination, he hated actually to speak the truth; it was hard enough to signify it, in that fashion even, except that he fancied he could rely on his present audience to misinterpret a denial of such a description; for artists, being essentially men of the world, believe only what they wish.

The artists gave incredulous sniffs, as the poet had hoped, and, in fact, anticipated.

"We are all comrades here, there can be surely no harm in telling us," said the red-haired one, insinuatingly.

The poet shook his head again, but his eyes wore a far-away look, as if he were composing a poem or a romance.

"Several others know all about it already. Ramus tells us she is an old friend of yours. You tell him, you don't tell us," lied the red-haired one, reproachfully. Ramus was another poet, absent that evening, a fact which the red-haired one had been careful to ascertain before making use of his name. The poet could not be expected to withstand such a temptation to leave the barren hedgerows of truth and enter the fruitful bye-lanes and jungles of perjury. All his instincts impelled him in the one direction. "Ramus should not have told you; it is a secret," he declared, plunging headlong into vice, it must be confessed, however, with some tremors of conscience; for the man was a poet, and every poet possesses a conscience as well as an imagination. In fact, it is the possession of these two attributes combined that alone constitutes a man a poet.

"A secret," chorused the artists, settling themselves comfortably to listen (the red-haired one mentally congratulating himself on the success of his mendacity), for, having confessed a thing to be a secret, there is always but one course to be pursued by the penitent, namely to disclose it.

"Precisely; a secret," whispered the poet, looking with apprehensive eyes towards the table which ought soon to accommodate Madame.

"Yes, yes," said the artists, encouragingly, drawing their chairs closer.

"You must promise never to mention it to anyone in the world."

"Of course," cried the artists, contemptuously; " a secret is an affair of honour "

"There is a mystery about her," announced the poet impressively.

The artists were glad to be assured of a fact they already knew, and gazed admiringly on the storyteller.

"A mystery," they said, appreciatively.

"Madame is the wife of the Baron von Beulenstein," whispered the poet. The artists gasped for breath. Here was a mystery indeed, for the Baron must have been unknown to them all, being indeed a man created, and so distinguished, for their diversion that instant by the poet himself.

"Why does one never see the Baron?" asked the red-haired one, more for the sake of saying something than else.

The poet regarded him with fine contempt. "Is it possible you do not know where the Baron is?" he asked superciliously.

The other artists condemned their friend instantly, lest they should be similarly despised for ignorance of the Baron's whereabouts. "Do not interrupt again, Jean, if you please, and M. Saintin will perhaps inform you," they said, indignantly. "Pray proceed, M. Saintin."

The poet turned to the now crushed and humble red-haired artist. "M. the Baron for the present immures himself constantly in his castle on the Rhine," he said. "Is it possible that you have not heard of his romantic marriage with the beautiful daughter of the Princess of Nikof and the German Ambassador of Japan, whom he met in Yeddo on his travels! I imagined that all the world well knew the circumstances of this marriage, although I alone am acquainted with the tragic end of the romance." He turned to the other artists. "You, gentlemen, assuredly have heard of the Baron Von Beulenstein's marriage?"

The artists hastened to re-assure M. Saintin. "Of course, we have heard," they said. "Jean must carry his head in the clouds —why, it was in all the papers."

"I never read it then— and I read the papers," said the red-haired one, trying to defend himself.

"Absurd," cried the others. "You must skim them only, Jean."

The poet smiled a superior smile of gratified vanity, and drained his cup. "Waitress! more coffee for all," cried Jean, willing to atone for his ignorance by his liberality. The artists waited in breathless silence while a pretty girl filled their cups from an iron can, whose spout was situated underneath and which was worked by a tap ; but the poet masterfully utilised the period to his best advantage in perfecting the details of his plot.

"M. the Baron brought his pretty wife to Europe," he continued presently, "and introduced her to the gay world of Paris, London, Vienna, Berlin."

"Yes," said the artists.

"She was much admired."

"Assuredly," said the artists.

"Artists, leading artists," emphasised the poet cruelly, "were commissioned to paint her portrait in all the great cities."

"Yes," said the artists, humbly.

" I was commissioned to write a poem in her praise," said the poet, grandly.

"Ah!" cried the artists, gazing with a sudden reverence at the great man.

"M. le Baron happened to read a poem of mine in the Gloire, and happily it pleased him, hence he employed me," went on the poet. " He paid me a large sum, which I squandered afterwards with Celeste in Brussels. You remember Celeste, gentlemen?"

"Ah yes, poor Celeste! what has become of her?" asked the artists.

"The devil alone knows," answered the poet, piously.

"She was a constant inspiration, was Celeste, so variable, so charming. Alas, she went off with an Englishman last, I believe. However, to resume our story: After three months spent in flitting from capital to capital, M. the Baron brought his wife to reside in our Paris. Here the lady met with much admiration from a certain officer of artillery, a gentleman of noble birth, but little means. He contrived, nevertheless, to see a great deal of her. I was often at the house at this time, for M. the Baron was so kind as to take a great fancy for my society, and his dinners pleased me  his wines were particularly good," said the poet with a reflective air, combing his hair the while meditatively with his lingers.

"And Madame?"

"Madame, I must admit, scarcely noticed me," confessed the poet; "All her attentions were devoted to the young captain. M. the Baron as well as I noticed this, although he pretended to see nothing. However, one night a plan was laid by the lovers but, unhappily, it succeeded badly, and M. the Baron suddenly removed his wife with him to his castle on the Rhine. The young captain at the same time disappeared from Paris, and has not since, I believe, been heard of."

"But you, of course, know what became of him," suggested the artists.

The poet shook his head mysteriously. "It is possible that he still lives shut up in some dark dungeon of M. the Baron's castle," he answered, "but in that case he would be more fortunate to be dead; you must know that a German nobleman has vast powers in his own demesne."

The artists were profoundly impressed, and regarded the poet with a respect bordering upon veneration.

"But Madame— is Madame (indicating the vacant table with his finger) the wife of M. le Baron von Beulenstein asked the red-haired one after a while.

"She is no one else," answered the poet solemnly.

"How did she contrive to escape?" chorused the artists.

The poet shrugged his shoulders. "She is a woman," he replied, and his audience appeared quite satisfied with that explanation.

"What I cannot understand," observed the red-haired one, "is that Madame speaks to no one at all; indeed it is a fact that we have never even heard her voice."

"Perhaps I can explain that," suggested the poet.

"Yes, yes," cried the artists enthusiastically.

"M. le Baron on one occasion, when I was dining tete-a-tete with him at his house —assured me that he feared nothing so much as a woman's tongue."

"Ah!" chorused the artists sympathetically.

"We were speaking at the time about the constancy of women," said the poet; " I had observed that it was impossible at any time to be absolutely satisfied of one's mistress's fidelity— and M. le Baron agreed with me. 'lf you find a woman in the act of being unfaithful and you should happen to be in love with her,' said he, 'there is but one means left for you to take to prevent yourself from being soon convinced that your eyes have deceived you, a condition into which you will inevitably be persuaded if you are rich enough to be of consequence to the lady.'

" 'What means is that?' I questioned.

" 'Cut her tongue out of her mouth before she has time to say a word,' replied M. le Baron."

The artists looked shocked. "What a scoundrel!" cried the red-haired one indignantly. "Poor Madame, and so that is the reason of her silence!" "What a fate!" chorused the others.

Whilst they were absorbed in contemplating M. le Baron's barbarity, Madame herself had been descending the stairs and now stood with her accustomed vivacious air scanning the Café from the entrance. Presently she sauntered down the tiled floor with graceful undulating tread to her usual seat, to rest in a moment with her profile turned towards the men who had been discussing her and who now regarded her in a flutter of sympathy and commiseration.

"There is no possibility you could be mistaken— she is certainly Madame the Baroness von Beulenstein?" asked the red-haired artist.

"Is it likely I could mistake the woman over whom I have spent hours in composing so many madrigals and sonnets?" demanded the poet.

"A thousand pardons, but it seemed so strange," apologised the red-haired one.

"Truth is stranger than fiction," replied the poet sententiously, and he rose to return to the table of the poets who were now clamouring for him.

From that night forward the poet, M. Saintin, enjoyed a reputation and a reflected glory which delighted him. Each of the artists had immediately confided the secret which had been so artistically disclosed to him, to his own set of intimates, of course under a similar pledge of secrecy; so that in a week the entire literary and artistic population of the city knew intimately all Madame's past history, a history which certainly lost nothing in the process of repetition. The poet at that time thought it necessary to publish in a widely read weekly journal, a set of verses inscribed "To the Baroness von B—" and shortly after they appeared, Paris went wild with enthusiasm over the loves and sufferings of the unfortunate Baroness.

The Café Surat became each night more thronged with people curious to glut their eyes on the features of Madame, and as to do this it was necessary to drink coffee in excuse for their impertinence, the little Arab proprietor drove a roaring trade and thought his fortune was made. The editors of various journals sent for the poet, making him lucrative offers for the information he possessed; but the poet only nibbled at these baits as a means of working off at fabulous prices on the enquiring journals whole volumes of verses which they had been impertinent enough to reject before. It was his boom. He rode along at the top of his notoriety with an air of melancholy in public, but a smile often turned the corners of his lips when no one happened to be by, and soon he opened an account at a bank. Fancy a poet with a banking account! What an idea!

Meanwhile Madame began to be disturbed at the amount of attention she was receiving. So many people stared at her and ogled her in the Café that she seriously contemplated seeking another form of entertainment altogether, and resigning to the next one the seat which she had affected so long, She determined at last to absent herself for at least a week. The first night she remained away the disappointment of the vast audience who waited for her was intense, crowds actually lingering on until the Café was closed. The second night many were reduced to tears, for a report had spread that M. le Baron had been seen in Paris— and it was not unlikely that he would try to recapture his wife. The third night the poet, M. Saintin, was called upon to make a speech to quiet the fears of the people. The fourth night a thousand persons waited around the doors of the Café, unable to gain admittance, and the Arab proprietor tore his hair and volubly cursed the day he was born in three languages because his accommodation was so inconsiderable as not to be able to contain the whole city. Of these crowds who waited there was not one who would not gladly have assisted in tearing M. le Baron limb from limb had he come along, as they foolishly expected and hoped that he would. The fifth night saw Madame, who had grievously missed her hour at the Café, return to the bosom of her admirers. A lane was formed by the crowd for her to pass to the stairs, and she found on entering the Café that although the room was elsewhere densely packed, her table was waiting unoccupied for her. A long sigh of relief went up from the people as she seated herself, just as though some great weight had been lifted from the public mind.

"See how pale she looks," they whispered one to another.

"She has been hiding from him, afraid to come out."

A man passing to the stairs brushed against her chair.

"A thousand pardons, Madame the Baroness von Beulenstein," he entreated humbly in French. Madame smiled and bowed, and the crowd almost cheered, so enthusiastic were they to observe that she had actually recognised her title.

At that instant a young Englishman piloted by a friend forced his way down the steps of the stairs, trying to see through the haze of the smoke.

"They say she has come back— she is here to-night," said his friend, a little volatile Frenchman with a tire-bouchou moustache and beard.

A bystander who waved an empty cup in his hand turned to the pair. "Poor child— yes, she has returned," he said to them, with tears in his eyes.

"These effervescent French, one would think this woman was the favourite daughter of every one of them instead of a little jilt of a creature who has probably vilely treated her husband," muttered the Englishman.

The little Frenchman, agile as a monkey, meanwhile climbed the banisters, and from his elevated position peered over the heads of those who surrounded him.

"Mon Dieu, I see her," he whispered excitedly, "she is lighting her cigarette."

"Ah," sighed all those who could not see Madame, with a burst of intense sympathy.

"She puffs her cigarette!" cried the Frenchman.

"The poor child," sighed the crowd.

"She sips her coffee."

"God bless her," said the crowd fervently.

"It is an Egyptian cigarette," announced the Frenchman. "I can tell, because it is so fat."

"Can it be true?" asked the crowd.

"She appears to be thinking!"

"Is it possible?" cried the crowd.

The announcement of these exciting details might have continued for the entire evening but for the action of the Englishman who, getting impatient, lifted his friend bodily from his perch to the floor. "I want to have a look at her myself," he exclaimed to the indignant little gentleman, who hated to be interrupted.

"What a beast!" cried the crowd, eyeing the Englishman unfriendlily.

"He is an Englishman," exclaimed the little Frenchman.

"Sacré ros-bif," observed the crowd.

The Englishman, unheeding, climbed on to the banister and peered through the smoke wreaths to the table where sat Madame. Her face was turned towards him, and was easily distinguishable against the dark chocolate colour of the wall behind her, so that he had an excellent opportunity to observe her. The Englishman gazed at her as if he could not believe his eyes, then gave an excited exclamation and descended quickly. He seized his friend by the arm and whispered something in his ear.

"Nonsense," replied the little Frenchman amazed, "it is impossible, I assure you."

"It is a fact," replied the Englishman.

"Is it possible— but no, you are dreaming!"

"I tell you I am sure of it— absolutely sure."

The little Frenchman appeared staggered: "What strange people you English are," he cried, shrugging his shoulders. "Let us go then to Madame."

"Not me," said the Englishman, "I'll wait for her outside. I don't want a scene."

"At your pleasure," said the other, shrugging his shoulders again, and they ascended the stairs arm in arm.

Presently Madame la Baroness von Beulenstein rose and made her way out of the Café. Her departure resembled a triumphal march until she reached the street, where her admirers, too polite to follow her, gradually drifted away. The Englishman who had visited the Café to get a look at Madame presently sauntered up alone with lifted hat. Madame gave a start and turned a little red.

"Hello, Charlie ! where have you come from?" she asked in good English.

"Café Surat. Where have you been?" he asked.

"Why?" asked the lady.

"I just wanted to know."

Madame examined the man's face a little before she replied.

"Did you see me at the Café Surat?" she asked.

"I did," replied the man.

"Well!"

"I think you should have an escort, my dear, if you want to go to places like that; in fact you should always have some one with you in Paris after dark "

"I guess I can take care of myself, thank you," said Madame in accents which strongly indicated an American origin.

"What did you go there at all for?" asked the man magisterially.

"Now, look here, Charlie, don't you put on airs, there's a good hoy. I just want to get a good French accent to take home with me, and you yourself said the best way to acquire it is to go to a Café for an hour a day and listen to the people talking; and you bet that's just what I've been doing."

The Englishman's face relaxed into a smile. "You little scamp," he said softly. "Don't do it again, that's all, or I'll divorce you."

Madame laughed heartily. "Why, you silly boy, it's a man's Café, women are not allowed there; it cost me a little mint to buy over the old Arab. I knew I couldn't come to any harm in a man's place, and I haven't: they've all been as polite as pie to me, wait on me like a lot of servants, and I haven't spoken a word to one of them yet. I'm frightened of my French yet, you see. All the litterateurs of Paris go there, so it's the place of places to pick up the accent— now ain't it?"

The man smiled still, but persisted. " Don't go there again, pet— by yourself, at all events," he said.

" Very well, dear. Of course, I won't if you don't like it," replied Madame, with a pout, and this promise was destined to lay Paris desolate for quite nine days thereafter; for never again did the Baroness von Beulenstein visit the Café Surat, spite of all the sighs which her admirers sent supplicatingly to Heaven for her return.

Many reports were invented to account for the disappearance of the ill-fated lady—but it was finally universally conceded that her ogreish husband had recaptured her, and this belief became certainty when the Gloire Magazine published some verses signed " Saintin, " which described with tenderest pathos the sad reunion before death of two lovers in a dungeon on the castled Rhine.

M. Saintin, whose reputation as a poet is on the increase, is now, upon the authority of a certain Parisian journal, whose business it is to chronicle the doings of celebrities, engaged upon a tragic poem of some magnitude, which it is expected will establish for its author a fame similar to that of Corneille. "This poem," writes this journal, "is composed upon the loves, sufferings and romantic death of the late celebrated Baroness von Beulenstein, whom many of our readers will recollect to have seen during her recent sojourn in Paris and remember as one of the most beautiful and unfortunate of her sex."

De mortuis nil nisi bonum— this is a maxim which is fast becoming powerless to protect even the perfect dead. The journalists who had been snubbed by the unfortunate Baroness upon being assured of her death, now attempted to cast aspersions upon her character; and before long there were not wanting many aspirants for notoriety, who in spite of Madame's well-known blameless conduct affirmed that they had been specially favoured by the dead lady's regard. A certain little Frenchman there was also who submitted personally an article written by himself to all the editors in Paris, in which article he stated that Madame la Baroness was an American lady who was mute merely on account of a poor acquaintance with the French tongue; but this person was always rightly treated as a swindler, or a madman, and indignant editors, annoyed at such bare-faced conduct, sometimes even materially assisted his exit from their little kingdoms, so that he presently desisted from his efforts to obtain a publisher for so absurd a narrative.

A monument, always, however, against her traducers, at all times ready to testify to the virtue, the beauty and the fame of his creation, the Baroness von Beulenstein, and winning golden opinions from the world for his steadfast loyalty to her memory extending even after death, stands the now famous poet M. Auguste Victor Aloysius Jean Saintin.

_____________

11: The Model

W. W. Jacobs

1863-1943

Collected in: Sea Whispers, 1926

IT WAS GETTING TOO DARK to work, and the artist, a cigarette between his lips, was sitting restfully at the open window, lazily scanning through his half-closed lids the languid life of the old Italian city below. As the objects in his studio retired farther and farther into the shadows, he arose, and taking his hat from a peg, passed slowly down the long staircase into the street. The air, which had been almost stifling during the day was now freshening, and he passed from street to street with the aimless enjoyment of the man to whom the mere exercise of his cramped limbs is a luxury.

Standing idly at a lighted corner preparatory to turning back, his gaze fell upon a middle-aged woman of poor appearance who was passing. He started violently, and in an undecided fashion stood gazing after her retreating figure until it disappeared down a small by-street. Then, on a sudden impulse, he threw away his cigarette and started in pursuit.

At first he gained but little on her, and once or twice nearly lost her in the rapidly increasing darkness, but in the end his youth and strength told, and the woman, who had been conscious for some time that her steps were dogged, slackened her pace and walked with her hand pressed to her side, breathing distressfully. In the centre of the old stone bridge which leads from the narrow streets of the town to the open country beyond, he overtook her.

"Pardon, signora," he said softly.

The woman halted, her hand on the low stone parapet, and confronted him.

"You walk fast," he continued, smiling.

She murmured an indistinct something, and made as though to go.

"No, I have followed you some distance," said the artist, "I can't afford to lose you. Will you let me see your face? I have a reason for the request."

With a startled gesture, and not without looking right and left as though for assistance, should it be needed, she threw her head back, her pale features showing clearly in the light of an adjoining lamp.

"Beautiful!" said the artist joyfully, "beautiful!"

"Signor," said the woman with dignity, conscious of forty years and sundry wrinkles, "you mock me."

"By no means," he said anxiously; "you have the face I have sought for years. You will sit for me, will you not?"

"The signor is an artist then," said the woman, breathing more freely.

He nodded, and for the first time perceived that he had frightened her. "I was too abrupt," he said regretfully. "I saw your face and forgot all else."

The woman smiled faintly, a slight glow tinged her face and her eyes brightened. "I shall be pleased to sit, if I am any use."

"Can you come to-morrow?" asked the enthusiast.

"Yes."

"At eleven then, to this address. You will not fail me."

Smiling at his earnestness, she gave the desired assurance, and with a soft good-night left him, and passed swiftly over the bridge into the darkness beyond.

For a moment the artist glanced after her as though desirous of obtaining further pledges of fidelity, and then abandoning the idea, seated himself on the parapet, and, lighting another cigarette, fell into a smoker's reverie. The river went by with a soft swish against the piles of the old bridge, the air was cool and the ghostly outlines of the old buildings on either bank, indistinct in the darkness, appeared to be nodding in sleep. All these drowsy influences combined were beginning to have a soporific effect upon the smoker, the buildings nodded more violently than ever, the river murmured more sweetly.

"He who sleeps on the parapet awakes in the stream," said a voice at his elbow in feigned solemnity.

"Ah! Rossa," said the artist, slipping to his feet, and smiling as he recognised the speaker, "I was just wishing for company home. I have news for you; at last I have been successful in my search, and my picture can be finished."

"It is time," remarked the other as he walked by his side; "and where is she who has succeeded in satisfying your exacting fancy?"

"I parted from her on the bridge," replied his friend. "Such a face, such an expression, the perfect type of bereaved maternity."

"Charming!" said Rossa drily. "It must have been a pleasant task, the acquiring of that self-same expression."

The artist, somewhat nettled at his tone, made no reply, and they traversed the narrow ill-lighted streets almost in silence until they reached his dwelling. Then with a hearty handshake Rossa took his leave, and the other climbed the steep stairs which led to his bed to lie awake half the night, thinking of his great work and the face of his model.

Ii

THE WOMAN was tired and hot when she reached his studio, for the sun was nearly at its height, and its heat, imprisoned in the narrow street, was stifling to those wayfarers who could not move at leisure and take advantage of such shade as offered. She greeted the artist timidly, and gazed, not without curiosity, at the littered floor and the sketches upon the walls.

"That is what I want you for," said the artist, indicating with a nod a large unfinished canvas which stood upon an easel in the full light of the window.

His visitor crossed over, and stood looking at the roughly outlined figure of a woman upon her knees, bending over the calm, awful face of the dead Christ. She stood for some time in silence, and then as she understood what her part was to be, turned to the artist to receive his instructions.

And never had man a more devoted model.

True to time, cheerful and willing, she appeared day by day, and it required but little discernment on the part of the artist to see that her heart was in the work. Quiet and undemonstrative in manner, it was yet easy to see her devout joy at the fact that her face should have been chosen to represent that of the Virgin. Slowly but surely the work grew in strength and clearness, bit by bit the shadowy figure of the woman took life, and a weary earth-worn face now bent over the crucified Saviour.

It was while sitting at the window one morning, waiting for the appearance of his model, that the artist was surprised by a visit from his friend Rossa.

"Are you amiable to visitors this morning?" inquired the latter.

"It depends upon their criticisms," replied the artist smiling.

"I feel at peace with all mankind at present," said Rossa.

"In that case you are welcome," said the other, "but you are the only man I allow to see it in its unfinished state."

"Always hungry for my suggestions," murmured Rossa complacently, as he advanced to the easel.

"Well?" asked the artist impatiently, after allowing plenty of time for his friend's praises.

"It is the best you have done, as good as you will ever do," said Rossa with gratifying energy. "Ah! when will you cease wasting your strength on these old-world superstitions, and use your brush on nobler themes?"

"There is none nobler," said the other gravely.

Rossa shrugged his shoulders and smiled scornfully. "Bah! you spend your strength in painting advertisements for the priests, and what do the smug-faced black-gowns do for you in return? Give you their blessing, or recommend you to wealthy patrons? Are there no noble deeds of to-day to bring the blood to a man's cheek and the water to his eyes, that you must go back to that hackneyed theme of eighteen centuries ago?"

"You are speaking too freely," said the artist sternly.

"Freely!" repeated Rossa. "You paint pictures to foster and encourage ideas which are against all reason, and one may not even speak of it. And the materials, bah! Do you ask for certificates of character from the women you paint as Madonnas, or do you take the first that suits?"

"To tell the truth, I have never thought of it," said the other, "but in this case the woman's face is her best certificate."

"It certainly supported her for many years," said Rossa drily.

"What, do you know her? She told me she had never sat before," said the artist in surprise.

"Years ago I knew her well," said his friend, "but not as a model. It was in Naples. She had a large circle of acquaintances, and was commonly known as 'The Doll.' Even to an atheist there seems to be an incongruity somewhere in painting her in this character."

"Is this a jest?" asked the artist, struggling between amazement and anger.

"Ask her," said Rossa quietly. "Poor devil; I'm sorry I spoke though. She certainly has got a sad face, and I suppose it doesn't matter to you how she got it."

The artist shook his head.

"Come," said the repentant Rossa, "don't spoil your picture and rake up this poor thing's past for nothing; perhaps I am mistaken."

His friend smiled faintly, and bidding his visitor "good-bye" sat himself down in the window-seat in a brown study. A devout man, his heart was troubled. Art and religion strove within him for the mastery. He sat in perplexity until a light tap at the door announced the arrival of the model.

"It is hot, signor," said she, smiling— "scarce a breath of air in the streets, but it is cool here."

True to the minute, interested in his work, she had toiled through the heat. He looked at her coarse, work-stained hands and gentle face, and faltered.

"I told you that the picture is intended for a gift to the cathedral, did I not?" he inquired after a pause.

"Surely, signor." She smiled again. Already she saw her face and that other looking down from the cathedral wall on to the hushed crowd beneath.

"I chose your face," continued the artist, "because it seemed to me to contain all that I required for my subject; but there is one little matter of which I should have spoken before. The face that I have chosen for the Holy Mother, which is to remind the people of her divine goodness and great sorrow, must be that of a good woman. I dare not portray any other."

There was no smile on the woman's lips now, and in her face, pale one moment and flushed with shame the next, he saw that she guessed the extent of his knowledge.

"I did not think it mattered," she said at length in a low voice. "I never thought of it. There— there were two Marys, signor, and He loved both."

She looked at him humbly, with blurred eyes, but he had averted his face. He raised it at length at the sound of a door closing, and found that he was alone.

For a long time he sat motionless. At last, with the air of a man who has an unpleasant task before him, he arose and looked long and close at the nearly finished picture. Then he took it from the easel, and placing it on the floor with its face to the wall, he too went out.

iii

SINCE THE WOMAN left the studio a year had passed. The neglected canvas still stood on the floor, its place on the easel being filled by a picture of "The Draught of Fishes." The artist, disappointed in his favourite work, had done little that was worthy since, though he was as determined as ever not to complete it. Of the woman he had seen nothing, and he had abandoned as hopeless the task of finding a substitute.

He was sitting listlessly before his easel, brush in hand, when he was interrupted by a gentle tap at the door. It opened, and a priest— an old man with white hair and brown, rugged face— entered and stood on the threshold.

"The Signor Paoli?" he inquired.

The artist rose and bowed.

"I'm afraid I intrude," said the old man. "You are busy, I see. I desired to see your pictures. Perhaps another time— "

"I am not busy," said the artist, throwing down his brush. "There are but few here. I wish there were more."

He closed the door, and stood by the old man's side as he inspected the studies on the walls and such few completed works as were left in the studio. He paused at length before the easel, and after inspecting the canvas there, turned and pointed with his stick at the one which leaned against the wall.

"May I see it?" he asked.

"It is not finished," said the artist. He hesitated a moment, and then removing the canvas from the easel, crossed the room, and returning with the other, silently placed it before his visitor.

An exclamation of delight burst from the old priest's lips as he leaned on his stick and gazed on it.

"A noble work," he murmured at length, without removing his eyes. "A noble work. When will you finish it?"

"It is not to be finished," said the artist. "I discovered by accident that the woman who sat to me had led an infamous life; that the lines which I thought were caused by bereavement owed their birth to sin; that the woman who I thought mourned her dead children mourned instead her dead innocence."

"She will sin no more," said the priest gently. "Nay, I hope and believe she will mourn no more. She died last night."

"Last night," said the startled artist. "You know of the affair, then— she told you?"

"I have known her for years," said the old man; "known her and loved her. She came to this city, and left her wickedness like a soiled garment behind her. Her father cursed her, and her mother bewailed the hour she was born; brothers and sisters forgot that she had ever been. Years ago, weary of sin, she came here, and maintained herself by hard and ill-paid toil."

"Her hands said so," muttered the artist.

"For a long time," continued the priest without noticing the interruption, "she lived alone, without the love or sympathy of a single soul; and lived a good life. But one day she saw in the streets a blind, weary old man, hustled by boys. Him she took home and nursed and fed. He told her that he had lost wife and children, wealth and sight, and had no man left to call him friend; and yet, for fear that he should not accept her bounty, she never told him that he had one child left. So that he might be fed she worked late into the night and rose with the dawn, always haunted by the fear— for her early life had left in her the seeds of death— that he might outlive her and become destitute."

He paused and looked at the artist.

"So it went on, and only I knew the story. Last night she lay dying, and the old man on his knees by her bedside kissed her hand and said that she was to him as a beloved daughter, and prayed to God for sight that he might behold her ere she died."

"It must have been a painful moment when she made herself known," said the artist.

"It might have been," answered the priest; "who knows? But she died with her poor lips sealed, though I think it was almost more than she could bear. I have seen many sad sights, may God in His mercy keep me from such another."

"Why not have told him, then?" inquired the artist after a long pause.

"There was a reason," said the old man; "she had scraped together a small sum for her father's use when she should no longer be able to work for him. It was possible, at least she thought so, that he might refuse it if he knew the donor."

The air in the room was close, and the artist opened the window. He came back to the canvas and sat for some time slowly regarding it. More slowly still he filled his brush with colour and leaned forward. Then checking himself suddenly, he looked up at the priest.

The priest smiled.

____________

12: The Rival Ghosts

Brander Matthews

1852-1929

Harper's New Monthly Magazine May 1884

Collected in: Tales of Fantasy and Fact, 1886

American Author, University professor, and literary critic

THE GOOD SHIP sped on her way across the calm Atlantic. It was an outward passage, according to the little charts which the company had charily distributed, but most of the passengers were homeward bound, after a summer of rest and recreation, and they were counting the days before they might hope to see Fire Island Light. On the lee side of the boat, comfortably sheltered from the wind, and just by the door of the captain's room (which was theirs during the day), sat a little group of returning Americans. The Duchess (she was down on the purser's list as Mrs. Martin, but her friends and familiars called her the Duchess of Washington Square) and Baby Van Rensselaer (she was quite old enough to vote, had her sex been entitled to that duty, but as the younger of two sisters she was still the baby of the family)— the Duchess and Baby Van Rensselaer were discussing the pleasant English voice and the not unpleasant English accent of a manly young lordling who was going to America for sport. Uncle Larry and Dear Jones were enticing each other into a bet on the ship's run of the morrow.

"I'll give you two to one she don't make 420," said Dear Jones.

"I'll take it," answered Uncle Larry. "We made 427 the fifth day last year." It was Uncle Larry's seventeenth visit to Europe, and this was therefore his thirty-fourth voyage.

"And when did you get in?" asked Baby Van Rensselaer. "I don't care a bit about the run, so long as we get in soon."

"We crossed the bar Sunday night, just seven days after we left Queenstown, and we dropped anchor off Quarantine at three o'clock on Monday morning."

"I hope we sha'n't do that this time. I can't seem to sleep any when the boat stops."

"I can, but I didn't," continued Uncle Larry, "because my stateroom was the most for'ard in the boat, and the donkey-engine that let down the anchor was right over my head."

"So you got up and saw the sun rise over the bay," said Dear Jones, "with the electric lights of the city twinkling in the distance, and the first faint flush of the dawn in the east just over Fort Lafayette, and the rosy tinge which spread softly upward, and— "

"Did you both come back together?" asked the Duchess.

"Because he has crossed thirty-four times you must not suppose he has a monopoly in sunrises," retorted Dear Jones. "No; this was my own sunrise; and a mighty pretty one it was too."

"I'm not matching sunrises with you," remarked Uncle Larry calmly; "but I'm willing to back a merry jest called forth by my sunrise against any two merry jests called forth by yours."

"I confess reluctantly that my sunrise evoked no merry jest at all." Dear Jones was an honest man, and would scorn to invent a merry jest on the spur of the moment.

"That's where my sunrise has the call," said Uncle Larry, complacently.

"What was the merry jest?" was Baby Van Rensselaer's inquiry, the natural result of a feminine curiosity thus artistically excited.

"Well, here it is. I was standing aft, near a patriotic American and a wandering Irishman, and the patriotic American rashly declared that you couldn't see a sunrise like that anywhere in Europe, and this gave the Irishman his chance, and he said, 'Sure ye don't have'm here till we're through with 'em over there.'"

"It is true," said Dear Jones, thoughtfully, "that they do have some things over there better than we do; for instance, umbrellas."

"And gowns," added the Duchess.

"And antiquities."— this was Uncle Larry's contribution.

"And we do have some things so much better in America!" protested Baby Van Rensselaer, as yet uncorrupted by any worship of the effete monarchies of despotic Europe. "We make lots of things a great deal nicer than you can get them in Europe— especially ice-cream."

"And pretty girls," added Dear Jones; but he did not look at her.

"And spooks," remarked Uncle Larry, casually.

"Spooks?" queried the Duchess.

"Spooks. I maintain the word. Ghost, if you like that better, or specters. We turn out the best quality of spook—"

"You forget the lovely ghost stories about the Rhine and the Black Forest," interrupted Miss Van Rensselaer, with feminine inconsistency.

"I remember the Rhine and the Black Forest and all the other haunts of elves and fairies and hobgoblins; but for good honest spooks there is no place like home. And what differentiates our spook— spiritus Americanus— from the ordinary ghost of literature is that it responds to the American sense of humor. Take Irving's stories, for example. The 'Headless Horseman'— that's a comic ghost story. And Rip Van Winkle— consider what humor, and what good humor, there is in the telling of his meeting with the goblin crew of Hendrik Hudson's men! A still better example of this American way of dealing with legend and mystery is the marvelous tale of the rival ghosts."

"The rival ghosts!" queried the Duchess and Baby Van Rensselaer together. "Who were they?"

"Didn't I ever tell you about them?" answered Uncle Larry, a gleam of approaching joy flashing from his eye.

"Since he is bound to tell us sooner or later, we'd better be resigned and hear it now," said Dear Jones.

"If you are not more eager, I won't tell it at all."

"Oh, do, Uncle Larry! you know I just dote on ghost stories," pleaded Baby Van Rensselaer.

"Once upon a time," began Uncle Larry— "in fact, a very few years ago— there lived in the thriving town of New York a young American called Duncan— Eliphalet Duncan. Like his name, he was half Yankee and half Scotch, and naturally he was a lawyer, and had come to New York to make his way. His father was a Scotchman who had come over and settled in Boston and married a Salem girl. When Eliphalet Duncan was about twenty he lost both of his parents. His father left him enough money to give him a start, and a strong feeling of pride in his Scotch birth; you see there was a title in the family in Scotland, and although Eliphalet's father was the younger son of a younger son, yet he always remembered, and always bade his only son to remember, that this ancestry was noble. His mother left him her full share of Yankee grit and a little old house in Salem which had belonged to her family for more than two hundred years. She was a Hitchcock, and the Hitchcocks had been settled in Salem since the year One. It was a great-great-grandfather of Mr. Eliphalet Hitchcock who was foremost in the time of the Salem witchcraft craze. And this little old house which she left to my friend, Eliphalet Duncan, was haunted."

"By the ghost of one of the witches, of course?" interrupted Dear Jones.

"Now how could it be the ghost of a witch, since the witches were all burned at the stake? You never heard of anybody who was burned having a ghost, did you?" asked Uncle Larry.

"That's an argument in favor of cremation, at any rate," replied Dear Jones, evading the direct question.

"It is, if you don't like ghosts. I do," said Baby Van Rensselaer.

"And so do I," added Uncle Larry. "I love a ghost as dearly as an Englishman loves a lord."

"Go on with your story," said the Duchess, majestically overruling all extraneous discussion.

"This little old house at Salem was haunted," resumed Uncle Larry. "And by a very distinguished ghost— or at least by a ghost with very remarkable attributes."

"What was he like?" asked Baby Van Rensselaer, with a premonitory shiver of anticipatory delight.

"It had a lot of peculiarities. In the first place, it never appeared to the master of the house. Mostly it confined its visitations to unwelcome guests. In the course of the last hundred years it had frightened away four successive mothers-in-law, while never intruding on the head of the household."

"I guess that ghost had been one of the boys when he was alive and in the flesh." This was Dear Jones's contribution to the telling of the tale.

"In the second place," continued Uncle Larry, "it never frightened anybody the first time it appeared. Only on the second visit were the ghost-seers scared; but then they were scared enough for twice, and they rarely mustered up courage enough to risk a third interview. One of the most curious characteristics of this well-meaning spook was that it had no face— or at least that nobody ever saw its face."

"Perhaps he kept his countenance veiled?" queried the Duchess, who was beginning to remember that she never did like ghost stories.

"That was what I was never able to find out. I have asked several people who saw the ghost, and none of them could tell me anything about its face, and yet while in its presence they never noticed its features, and never remarked on their absence or concealment. It was only afterwards when they tried to recall calmly all the circumstances of meeting with the mysterious stranger that they became aware that they had not seen its face. And they could not say whether the features were covered, or whether they were wanting, or what the trouble was. They knew only that the face was never seen. And no matter how often they might see it, they never fathomed this mystery. To this day nobody knows whether the ghost which used to haunt the little old house in Salem had a face, or what manner of face it had."

"How awfully weird!" said Baby Van Rensselaer. "And why did the ghost go away?"

"I haven't said it went away," answered Uncle Larry, with much dignity.

"But you said it used to haunt the little old house at Salem, so I supposed it had moved. Didn't it?" the young lady asked.

"You shall be told in due time. Eliphalet Duncan used to spend most of his summer vacations at Salem, and the ghost never bothered him at all, for he was the master of the house— much to his disgust, too, because he wanted to see for himself the mysterious tenant at will of his property. But he never saw it, never. He arranged with friends to call him whenever it might appear, and he slept in the next room with the door open; and yet when their frightened cries waked him the ghost was gone, and his only reward was to hear reproachful sighs as soon as he went back to bed. You see, the ghost thought it was not fair of Eliphalet to seek an introduction which was plainly unwelcome."

Dear Jones interrupted the story-teller by getting up and tucking a heavy rug more snugly around Baby Van Rensselaer's feet, for the sky was now overcast and gray, and the air was damp and penetrating.

"One fine spring morning," pursued Uncle Larry, "Eliphalet Duncan received great news. I told you that there was a title in the family in Scotland, and that Eliphalet's father was the younger son of a younger son. Well, it happened that all Eliphalet's father's brothers and uncles had died off without male issue except the eldest son of the eldest son, and he, of course, bore the title, and was Baron Duncan of Duncan. Now the great news that Eliphalet Duncan received in New York one fine spring morning was that Baron Duncan and his only son had been yachting in the Hebrides, and they had been caught in a black squall, and they were both dead. So my friend Eliphalet Duncan inherited the title and the estates."

"How romantic!" said the Duchess. "So he was a baron!"

"Well," answered Uncle Larry, "he was a baron if he chose. But he didn't choose."

"More fool he!" said Dear Jones, sententiously.

"Well," answered Uncle Larry, "I'm not so sure of that. You see, Eliphalet Duncan was half Scotch and half Yankee, and he had two eyes to the main chance. He held his tongue about his windfall of luck until he could find out whether the Scotch estates were enough to keep up the Scotch title. He soon discovered that they were not, and that the late Lord Duncan, having married money, kept up such state as he could out of the revenues of the dowry of Lady Duncan. And Eliphalet, he decided that he would rather be a well-fed lawyer in New York, living comfortably on his practice, than a starving lord in Scotland, living scantily on his title."

"But he kept his title?" asked the Duchess.

"Well," answered Uncle Larry, "he kept it quiet. I knew it, and a friend or two more. But Eliphalet was a sight too smart to put 'Baron Duncan of Duncan, Attorney and Counselor at Law,' on his shingle."

"What has all this got to do with your ghost?" asked Dear Jones, pertinently.

"Nothing with that ghost, but a good deal with another ghost. Eliphalet was very learned in spirit lore— perhaps because he owned the haunted house at Salem, perhaps because he was a Scotchman by descent. At all events, he had made a special study of the wraiths and white ladies and banshees and bogies of all kinds whose sayings and doings and warnings are recorded in the annals of the Scottish nobility. In fact, he was acquainted with the habits of every reputable spook in the Scotch peerage. And he knew that there was a Duncan ghost attached to the person of the holder of the title of Baron Duncan of Duncan."

"So, besides being the owner of a haunted house in Salem, he was also a haunted man in Scotland?" asked Baby Van Rensselaer.

"Just so. But the Scotch ghost was not unpleasant, like the Salem ghost, although it had one peculiarity in common with its transatlantic fellow-spook. It never appeared to the holder of the title, just as the other never was visible to the owner of the house. In fact, the Duncan ghost was never seen at all. It was a guardian angel only. Its sole duty was to be in personal attendance on Baron Duncan of Duncan, and to warn him of impending evil. The traditions of the house told that the Barons of Duncan had again and again felt a premonition of ill fortune. Some of them had yielded and withdrawn from the venture they had undertaken, and it had failed dismally. Some had been obstinate, and had hardened their hearts, and had gone on reckless to defeat and to death. In no case had a Lord Duncan been exposed to peril without fair warning."

"Then how came it that the father and son were lost in the yacht off the Hebrides?" asked Dear Jones.

"Because they were too enlightened to yield to superstition. There is extant now a letter of Lord Duncan, written to his wife a few minutes before he and his son set sail, in which he tells her how hard he has had to struggle with an almost overmastering desire to give up the trip. Had he obeyed the friendly warning of the family ghost, the letter would have been spared a journey across the Atlantic."

"Did the ghost leave Scotland for America as soon as the old baron died?" asked Baby Van Rensselaer, with much interest.

"How did he come over," queried Dear Jones— "in the steerage, or as a cabin passenger?"

"I don't know," answered Uncle Larry, calmly, "and Eliphalet didn't know. For as he was in no danger, and stood in no need of warning, he couldn't tell whether the ghost was on duty or not. Of course he was on the watch for it all the time. But he never got any proof of its presence until he went down to the little old house of Salem, just before the Fourth of July. He took a friend down with him— a young fellow who had been in the regular army since the day Fort Sumter was fired on, and who thought that after four years of the little unpleasantness down South, including six months in Libby, and after ten years of fighting the bad Indians on the plains, he wasn't likely to be much frightened by a ghost. Well, Eliphalet and the officer sat out on the porch all the evening smoking and talking over points in military law. A little after twelve o'clock, just as they began to think it was about time to turn in, they heard the most ghastly noise in the house. It wasn't a shriek, or a howl, or a yell, or anything they could put a name to. It was an undeterminate, inexplicable shiver and shudder of sound, which went wailing out of the window. The officer had been at Cold Harbor, but he felt himself getting colder this time. Eliphalet knew it was the ghost who haunted the house. As this weird sound died away, it was followed by another, sharp, short, blood-curdling in its intensity. Something in this cry seemed familiar to Eliphalet, and he felt sure that it proceeded from the family ghost, the warning wraith of the Duncans."

"Do I understand you to intimate that both ghosts were there together?" inquired the Duchess, anxiously.

"Both of them were there," answered Uncle Larry. "You see, one of them belonged to the house, and had to be there all the time, and the other was attached to the person of Baron Duncan, and had to follow him there; wherever he was, there was that ghost also. But Eliphalet, he had scarcely time to think this out when he heard both sounds again, not one after another, but both together, and something told him— some sort of an instinct he had— that those two ghosts didn't agree, didn't get on together, didn't exactly hit it off; in fact, that they were quarreling."

"Quarreling ghosts! Well, I never!" was Baby Van Rensselaer's remark.

"It is a blessed thing to see ghosts dwell together in unity," said Dear Jones.

And the Duchess added, "It would certainly be setting a better example."

"You know," resumed Uncle Larry, "that two waves of light or of sound may interfere and produce darkness or silence. So it was with these rival spooks. They interfered, but they did not produce silence or darkness. On the contrary, as soon as Eliphalet and the officer went into the house, there began at once a series of spiritualistic manifestations— a regular dark séance. A tambourine was played upon, a bell was rung, and a flaming banjo went singing around the room."

"Where did they get the banjo?" asked Dear Jones, sceptically.

"I don't know. Materialized it, maybe, just as they did the tambourine. You don't suppose a quiet New York lawyer kept a stock of musical instruments large enough to fit out a strolling minstrel troupe just on the chance of a pair of ghosts coming to give him a surprise party, do you? Every spook has its own instrument of torture. Angels play on harps, I'm informed, and spirits delight in banjos and tambourines. These spooks of Eliphalet Duncan's were ghosts with all modern improvements, and I guess they were capable of providing their own musical weapons. At all events, they had them there in the little old house at Salem the night Eliphalet and his friend came down. And they played on them, and they rang the bell, and they rapped here, there, and everywhere. And they kept it up all night."

"All night?" asked the awe-stricken Duchess.

"All night long," said Uncle Larry, solemnly; "and the next night too. Eliphalet did not get a wink of sleep, neither did his friend. On the second night the house ghost was seen by the officer; on the third night it showed itself again; and the next morning the officer packed his gripsack and took the first train to Boston. He was a New Yorker, but he said he'd sooner go to Boston than see that ghost again. Eliphalet wasn't scared at all, partly because he never saw either the domiciliary or the titular spook, and partly because he felt himself on friendly terms with the spirit world, and didn't scare easily. But after losing three nights' sleep and the society of his friend, he began to be a little impatient, and to think that the thing had gone far enough. You see, while in a way he was fond of ghosts, yet he liked them best one at a time. Two ghosts were one too many. He wasn't bent on making a collection of spooks. He and one ghost were company, but he and two ghosts were a crowd."

"What did he do?" asked Baby Van Rensselaer.

"Well he couldn't do anything. He waited awhile, hoping they would get tired; but he got tired out first. You see, it comes natural to a spook to sleep in the daytime, but a man wants to sleep nights, and they wouldn't let him sleep nights. They kept on wrangling and quarreling incessantly; they manifested and they dark-séanced as regularly as the old clock on the stairs struck twelve; they rapped and they rang bells and they banged the tambourine and they threw the flaming banjo about the house, and, worse than all, they swore."

"I did not know that spirits were addicted to bad language," said the Duchess.

"How did he know they were swearing? Could he hear them?" asked Dear Jones.

"That was just it," responded Uncle Larry; "he could not hear them— at least, not distinctly. There were inarticulate murmurs and stifled rumblings. But the impression produced on him was that they were swearing. If they had only sworn right out, he would not have minded it so much, because he would have known the worst. But the feeling that the air was full of suppressed profanity was very wearing, and after standing it for a week he gave up in disgust and went to the White Mountains."

"Leaving them to fight it out, I suppose," interjected Baby Van Rensselaer.

"Not at all," explained Uncle Larry. "They could not quarrel unless he was present. You see, he could not leave the titular ghost behind him, and the domiciliary ghost could not leave the house. When he went away he took the family ghost with him, leaving the house ghost behind. Now spooks can't quarrel when they are a hundred miles apart any more than men can."

"And what happened afterwards?" asked Baby Van Rensselaer, with a pretty impatience.

"A most marvelous thing happened. Eliphalet Duncan went to the White Mountains, and in the car of the railroad that runs to the top of Mount Washington he met a classmate whom he had not seen for years, and this classmate introduced Duncan to his sister, and this sister was a remarkably pretty girl, and Duncan fell in love with her at first sight, and by the time he got to the top of Mount Washington he was so deep in love that he began to consider his own unworthiness, and to wonder whether she might ever be induced to care for him a little— ever so little."

"I don't think that is so marvelous a thing," said Dear Jones, glancing at Baby Van Rensselaer.

"Who was she?" asked the Duchess, who had once lived in Philadelphia.

"She was Miss Kitty Sutton, of San Francisco, and she was a daughter of old Judge Sutton, of the firm of Pixley & Sutton."

"A very respectable family," assented the Duchess.

"I hope she wasn't a daughter of that loud and vulgar old Mrs. Sutton whom I met at Saratoga one summer four or five years ago?" said Dear Jones.

"Probably she was," Uncle Larry responded.

"She was a horrid old woman. The boys used to call her Mother Gorgon."

"The pretty Kitty Sutton with whom Eliphalet Duncan had fallen in love was the daughter of Mother Gorgon. But he never saw the mother, who was in Frisco, or Los Angeles, or Santa Fé, or somewhere out West, and he saw a great deal of the daughter, who was up in the White Mountains. She was traveling with her brother and his wife, and as they journeyed from hotel to hotel Duncan went with them, and filled out the quartette. Before the end of the summer he began to think about proposing. Of course he had lots of chances, going on excursions as they were every day. He made up his mind to seize the first opportunity, and that very evening he took her out for a moonlight row on Lake Winipiseogee. As he handed her into the boat he resolved to do it, and he had a glimmer of suspicion that she knew he was going to do it, too."

"Girls," said Dear Jones, "never go out in a rowboat at night with a young man unless you mean to accept him."

"Sometimes it's best to refuse him, and get it over once for all," said Baby Van Rensselaer, impersonally.

"As Eliphalet took the oars he felt a sudden chill. He tried to shake it off, but in vain. He began to have a growing consciousness of impending evil. Before he had taken ten strokes— and he was a swift oarsman— he was aware of a mysterious presence between him and Miss Sutton."

"Was it the guardian-angel ghost warning him off the match?" interrupted Dear Jones.

"That's just what it was," said Uncle Larry. "And he yielded to it, and kept his peace, and rowed Miss Sutton back to the hotel with his proposal unspoken."

"More fool he," said Dear Jones. "It will take more than one ghost to keep me from proposing when my mind is made up." And he looked at Baby Van Rensselaer.

"The next morning," continued Uncle Larry, "Eliphalet overslept himself, and when he went down to a late breakfast he found that the Suttons had gone to New York by the morning train. He wanted to follow them at once, and again he felt the mysterious presence overpowering his will. He struggled two days, and at last he roused himself to do what he wanted in spite of the spook. When he arrived in New York it was late in the evening. He dressed himself hastily, and went to the hotel where the Suttons were, in the hope of seeing at least her brother. The guardian angel fought every inch of the walk with him, until he began to wonder whether, if Miss Sutton were to take him, the spook would forbid the banns. At the hotel he saw no one that night, and he went home determined to call as early as he could the next afternoon, and make an end of it. When he left his office about two o'clock the next day to learn his fate, he had not walked five blocks before he discovered that the wraith of the Duncans had withdrawn his opposition to the suit. There was no feeling of impending evil, no resistance, no struggle, no consciousness of an opposing presence. Eliphalet was greatly encouraged. He walked briskly to the hotel; he found Miss Sutton alone. He asked her the question, and got his answer."

"She accepted him, of course?" said Baby Van Rensselaer.

"Of course," said Uncle Larry. "And while they were in the first flush of joy, swapping confidences and confessions, her brother came into the parlor with an expression of pain on his face and a telegram in his hand. The former was caused by the latter, which was from Frisco, and which announced the sudden death of Mrs. Sutton, their mother."

"And that was why the ghost no longer opposed the match?" questioned Dear Jones.

"Exactly. You see, the family ghost knew that Mother Gorgon was an awful obstacle to Duncan's happiness, so it warned him. But the moment the obstacle was removed, it gave its consent at once."

The fog was lowering its thick, damp curtain, and it was beginning to be difficult to see from one end of the boat to the other. Dear Jones tightened the rug which enwrapped Baby Van Rensselaer, and then withdrew again into his own substantial coverings.

Uncle Larry paused in his story long enough to light another of the tiny cigars he always smoked.

"I infer that Lord Duncan"— the Duchess was scrupulous in the bestowal of titles— "saw no more of the ghosts after he was married."

"He never saw them at all, at any time, either before or since. But they came very near breaking off the match, and thus breaking two young hearts."

"You don't mean to say that they knew any just cause or impediment why they should not forever after hold their peace?" asked Dear Jones.

"How could a ghost, or even two ghosts, keep a girl from marrying the man she loved?" This was Baby Van Rensselaer's question.

"It seems curious, doesn't it?" and Uncle Larry tried to warm himself by two or three sharp pulls at his fiery little cigar. "And the circumstances are quite as curious as the fact itself. You see, Miss Sutton wouldn't be married for a year after her mother's death, so she and Duncan had lots of time to tell each other all they knew. Eliphalet got to know a good deal about the girls she went to school with; and Kitty soon learned all about his family. He didn't tell her about the title for a long time, as he wasn't one to brag. But he described to her the little old house at Salem. And one evening towards the end of the summer, the wedding-day having been appointed for early in September, she told him that she didn't want a bridal tour at all; she just wanted to go down to the little old house at Salem to spend her honeymoon in peace and quiet, with nothing to do and nobody to bother them. Well, Eliphalet jumped at the suggestion: it suited him down to the ground. All of a sudden he remembered the spooks, and it knocked him all of a heap. He had told her about the Duncan banshee, and the idea of having an ancestral ghost in personal attendance on her husband tickled her immensely. But he had never said anything about the ghost which haunted the little old house at Salem. He knew she would be frightened out of her wits if the house ghost revealed itself to her, and he saw at once that it would be impossible to go to Salem on their wedding trip. So he told her all about it, and how whenever he went to Salem the two ghosts interfered, and gave dark séances and manifested and materialized and made the place absolutely impossible. Kitty listened in silence, and Eliphalet thought she had changed her mind. But she hadn't done anything of the kind."

"Just like a man— to think she was going to," remarked Baby Van Rensselaer.

"She just told him she could not bear ghosts herself, but she would not marry a man who was afraid of them."

"Just like a girl— to be so inconsistent," remarked Dear Jones.

Uncle Larry's tiny cigar had long been extinct. He lighted a new one, and continued: "Eliphalet protested in vain. Kitty said her mind was made up. She was determined to pass her honeymoon in the little old house at Salem, and she was equally determined not to go there as long as there were any ghosts there. Until he could assure her that the spectral tenant had received notice to quit, and that there was no danger of manifestations and materializing, she refused to be married at all. She did not intend to have her honeymoon interrupted by two wrangling ghosts, and the wedding could be postponed until he had made ready the house for her."

"She was an unreasonable young woman," said the Duchess.

"Well, that's what Eliphalet thought, much as he was in love with her. And he believed he could talk her out of her determination. But he couldn't. She was set. And when a girl is set, there's nothing to do but to yield to the inevitable. And that's just what Eliphalet did. He saw he would either have to give her up or to get the ghosts out; and as he loved her and did not care for the ghosts, he resolved to tackle the ghosts. He had clear grit, Eliphalet had— he was half Scotch and half Yankee and neither breed turns tail in a hurry. So he made his plans and he went down to Salem. As he said good-by to Kitty he had an impression that she was sorry she had made him go; but she kept up bravely, and put a bold face on it, and saw him off, and went home and cried for an hour, and was perfectly miserable until he came back the next day."

"Did he succeed in driving the ghosts away?" asked Baby Van Rensselaer, with great interest.

"That's just what I'm coming to," said Uncle Larry, pausing at the critical moment, in the manner of the trained story-teller. "You see, Eliphalet had got a rather tough job, and he would gladly have had an extension of time on the contract, but he had to choose between the girl and the ghosts, and he wanted the girl. He tried to invent or remember some short and easy way with ghosts, but he couldn't. He wished that somebody had invented a specific for spooks— something that would make the ghosts come out of the house and die in the yard. He wondered if he could not tempt the ghosts to run in debt, so that he might get the sheriff to help him. He wondered also whether the ghosts could not be overcome with strong drink— a dissipated spook, a spook with delirium tremens, might be committed to the inebriate asylum. But none of these things seemed feasible."

"What did he do?" interrupted Dear Jones. "The learned counsel will please speak to the point."

"You will regret this unseemly haste," said Uncle Larry, gravely, "when you know what really happened."

"What was it, Uncle Larry?" asked Baby Van Rensselaer. "I'm all impatience."

And Uncle Larry proceeded:

"Eliphalet went down to the little old house at Salem, and as soon as the clock struck twelve the rival ghosts began wrangling as before. Raps here, there, and everywhere, ringing bells, banging tambourines, strumming banjos sailing about the room, and all the other manifestations and materializations followed one another just as they had the summer before. The only difference Eliphalet could detect was a stronger flavor in the spectral profanity; and this, of course, was only a vague impression, for he did not actually hear a single word. He waited awhile in patience, listening and watching. Of course he never saw either of the ghosts, because neither of them could appear to him. At last he got his dander up, and he thought it was about time to interfere, so he rapped on the table, and asked for silence. As soon as he felt that the spooks were listening to him he explained the situation to them. He told them he was in love, and that he could not marry unless they vacated the house. He appealed to them as old friends, and he laid claim to their gratitude. The titular ghost had been sheltered by the Duncan family for hundreds of years, and the domiciliary ghost had had free lodging in the little old house at Salem for nearly two centuries. He implored them to settle their differences, and to get him out of his difficulty at once. He suggested that they had better fight it out then and there, and see who was master. He had brought down with him all needful weapons. And he pulled out his valise, and spread on the table a pair of navy revolvers, a pair of shotguns, a pair of dueling-swords, and a couple of bowie knives. He offered to serve as second for both parties, and to give the word when to begin. He also took out of his valise a pack of cards and a bottle of poison, telling them that if they wished to avoid carnage they might cut the cards to see which one should take the poison. Then he waited anxiously for their reply. For a little space there was silence. Then he became conscious of a tremulous shivering in one corner of the room, and he remembered that he had heard from that direction what sounded like a frightened sigh when he made the first suggestion of the duel. Something told him that this was the domiciliary ghost, and that it was badly scared. Then he was impressed by a certain movement in the opposite corner of the room, as though the titular ghost were drawing himself up with offended dignity. Eliphalet couldn't exactly see those things, because he never saw the ghosts, but he felt them. After a silence of nearly a minute a voice came from the corner where the family ghost stood— a voice strong and full, but trembling slightly with suppressed passion. And this voice told Eliphalet it was plain enough that he had not long been the head of the Duncans, and that he had never properly considered the characteristics of his race if now he supposed that one of his blood could draw his sword against a woman. Eliphalet said he had never suggested that the Duncan ghost should raise his hand against a woman, and all he wanted was that the Duncan ghost should fight the other ghost. And then the voice told Eliphalet that the other ghost was a woman."

"What?" said Dear Jones, sitting up suddenly. "You don't mean to tell me that the ghost which haunted the house was a woman?"

"Those were the very words Eliphalet Duncan used," said Uncle Larry; "but he did not need to wait for the answer. All at once he recalled the traditions about the domiciliary ghost, and he knew that what the titular ghost said was the fact. He had never thought of the sex of a spook, but there was no doubt whatever that the house ghost was a woman. No sooner was this firmly fixed in Eliphalet's mind than he saw his way out of the difficulty. The ghosts must be married!— for then there would be no more interference, no more quarreling, no more manifestations and materializations, no more dark séances, with their raps and bells and tambourines and banjos. At first the ghosts would not hear of it. The voice in the corner declared that the Duncan wraith had never thought of matrimony. But Eliphalet argued with them, and pleaded and pursuaded and coaxed, and dwelt on the advantages of matrimony. He had to confess, of course, that he did not know how to get a clergyman to marry them; but the voice from the corner gravely told him that there need be no difficulty in regard to that, as there was no lack of spiritual chaplains. Then, for the first time, the house ghost spoke, a low, clear, gentle voice, and with a quaint, old-fashioned New England accent, which contrasted sharply with the broad Scotch speech of the family ghost. She said that Eliphalet Duncan seemed to have forgotten that she was married. But this did not upset Eliphalet at all; he remembered the whole case clearly, and he told her she was not a married ghost, but a widow, since her husband had been hanged for murdering her. Then the Duncan ghost drew attention to the great disparity in their ages, saying that he was nearly four hundred and fifty years old, while she was barely two hundred. But Eliphalet had not talked to juries for nothing; he just buckled to, and coaxed those ghosts into matrimony. Afterwards he came to the conclusion that they were willing to be coaxed, but at the time he thought he had pretty hard work to convince them of the advantages of the plan."

"Did he succeed?" asked Baby Van Rensselaer, with a woman's interest in matrimony.

"He did," said Uncle Larry. "He talked the wraith of the Duncans and the specter of the little old house at Salem into a matrimonial engagement. And from the time they were engaged he had no more trouble with them. They were rival ghosts no longer. They were married by their spiritual chaplain the very same day that Eliphalet Duncan met Kitty Sutton in front of the railing of Grace Church. The ghostly bride and bridegroom went away at once on their bridal tour, and Lord and Lady Duncan went down to the little old house at Salem to pass their honeymoon."

Uncle Larry stopped. His tiny cigar was out again. The tale of the rival ghosts was told. A solemn silence fell on the little party on the deck of the ocean steamer, broken harshly by the hoarse roar of the fog-horn.

_____________

13: The Viscount's Cub

J. S. Fletcher

1863-1935

Northam Advertiser,  4 Feb 1911

"I WAS NEVER SLOW to back my opinion," said the Viscount softly, as he watched a spiral of fragrant smoke make its way towards the ceiling of the smoking room. "And," he added, still more softly, "I'm willing to back it now."

"And lose your money," grunted Sir John. "Don't, be an ass, St. Elvis! The thing's preposterous!"

"I say I am willing to back my opinion," repeated the Viscount. "I am, moreover, willing to give odds— and long odds. I will lay you five hundred pounds to fifty that I can pick a young man off these London streets, out of the London gutters, London slums, London lodging-houses, off the embankment, and despite whatever state of poverty, degradation, and so on he may be in, introduce him to society within one month of my taking him in hand, and run him through a London season under my wing without anybody guessing his origin, and with success to my training of him. My dear Patten, it's a mere question of sound tutelage, the best of raiment, and good cooking."

Sir John Patten shrugged his shoulders and lighted another cigarette.

"Bosh, St. Elvis!" he exclaimed. "It's only another of your mad ideas. Never heard of such nonsense. "A gutter-snipe to be transformed into a — well, into something that will pass muster with society— in a month! I say emphatically— bosh!"

"Will you take my bet?" asked Viscount St. Elvis, in a softer voice than ever.

"Oh, if it comes to that," answered St. John, "yes, I'll take you. But you'll lose your money— though that, of course, doesn't matter in the least to you."

"Very well. There is, however, one proviso I must insist on," said the Viscount.

"A proviso? Well?"

"That I have carte blanche in picking my man."

Sir John's eyebrows went up.

"That rather alters matters," he said. "You might find a youngster of- family and of education down on his luck: they do find that sort, I'm given to understand, in the doss-houses and shelters. And, of course—"

"No," replied the Viscount. "I don't mean that. I'll have nobody but a man  whom we should call a decided inferior. Nothing better than a young man of the class from which we get our footmen, gamekeepers, chauffeurs, you know. No, I want a free hand in choosing my material for just one reason. "

"And that?"

"He must be handsome," said the Viscount with one of his inscrutable smiles.

"Going to rely on the beauty-boy dodge,'' said Sir John, with a smile which was almost a sneer. "All right, St. Elvis, you bet me five hundred to fifty that you run your man through a season without any thing happening in the way of a faux- pas— that is, of course, a serious one. Right-Oh! But you'll lose. And. now let's chuck that rot and have a hundred or two at billiards. I'm not so keen on social problems and experiments, and I wish you joy of yours. Take care to disinfect your raw material, St. Elvis."

"I shall present a polished article to you," murmured the Viscount languidly rising from the depths of his easy chair.

"I've no doubt you think you will," said Sir John. "I never knew such a self-confident beggar as you in all my life. But in this case, my dear chap, call me a Dutchman if you don't come in hopelessly nowhere."

"Instead, I will send you a cheque," laughed the Viscount.

"Well, I'll give you fair warning . I shan't hand it over to any charities or bazaars, or any of that rot," retorted Sir John.

ON THE morning following this conversation Viscount St. Elvis came out of  his house in Hill-street attired in a very plainly-made lounge suit of dark grey tweed. He was at that time about thirty-five years of age— a tall, well-set-up man of fine presence and handsome features, who still bore the undeniable stamp of the soldier though it was then some years since his retirement from one of the crack cavalry regiments. In spite of his military appearance, however, there was something in his dark, luminous deeply-set eyes, and in the general expression of his face, which gave one the impression that he was not a little of a visionary and a dreamer.

Those of his friends who knew him best said that St. Elvis was a faddist who neither would nor could be happy unless he was exploiting some more or less ridiculous notion. Once he had fitted out an expedition to find a Spanish treasure ship which he was certain lay embedded in the ice of the Arctic regions; once he had persuaded some other kindred spirits to join him in endeavouring to locate the exact site of the mines from which Solomon the Wise derived so much treasure; once he had never ceased talking, in season and out of season, about the possibilities of aviation, and had broken his arm in making a practical experiment with a machine of his own construction.

But when one is holder of an ancient title, and master of much land and money, and, moreover, unmarried, and therefore an object of great interest to many mothers and daughters, one is easily forgiven for little eccentricities such as these, and Lord St. Elvis was one of the most popular men in society.

His lordship felt well pleased with himself as he made his way into Piccadilly. For one thing, he was out for a day of his own, and he had Something that might be new before him— an important consideration to one who had seen and known pretty everything seeable and knowledgable in the whole world.

He stood for a moment at the corner of the Berkeley Hotel, staring, absent-mindedly along Piccadilly; then, hailing a hansom, he gave its driver a slip of paper and bade him -drive to one after another of the addresses written upon it: The driver drove off with great joy in his heart. He knew his Lordship very well and had driven him before, and he foresaw an excellent morning's work.

The morning's work lasted well into the afternoon. The cabman came to the conclusion that Viscount was going into the philanthropic business; that occasioned him no surprise, because, he reflected so many swells did it nowadays. They visited various shelters, refuges, labour tents, and similar institutions; they crawled along the Embankment and made an inspection of Kingsway and its purlieus.

At two o'clock the Viscount went into the Gaiety to lunch, and the cabman retired to do himself uncommonly well at a certain coffee-shop he knew of. At half-past three he took his Lordship up again and they resumed their, wanderings.

It was not until five o'clock that Viscount St. Elvis found what he wanted.   In the common room of a Rowton House, over which he was being conducted by its manager, he saw a young man of apparently twenty-one years of age who was wolfing down bread and butter and tea. He was dressed in a threadbare suit of dark blue serge his boots were in their last stages, and instead of a collar he wore a cheap handkerchief knotted about his throat. He was obviously as much down on his luck as he could be, short of actual starvation; and he was handsome as a young Greek god.

The Viscount drew the manager aside— to ask him if he knew anything about this boy with the handsome face, set in a frame of curling blue-black   hair. But the manager, shrugging his shoulders, said, he knew next to nothing.  The young man had come there for weeks . Certainly he had noticed that he was growing, shabbier of late— and some nights he had not made an appearance. Out of work, of course. Could his Lordship have some, conversation with him? Certainly, nothing easier.

In the manager's room Viscount St.; Elvis asked the young man some questions. He was conscious of a feeling of satisfaction when he found, that the youngster possessed a very pleasant voice and a direct glance. What had he been, and how had he got to this? That was easily answered— he had, since the death of his father and mother, seven years before, worked in a bicycle; and motor-car factory in the Midlands, and the firm failing he had been thrown out of employment and had come to London to find fresh. He was qualified as a chauffeur, he said, but— and then he looked down at his worn clothes and cracked boots.

"Yes, I understand," said the Viscount. "Have you anything left— in money, I mean?"

"No, sir.  I  shall have nothing after to-morrow morning. I have enough for my bed and breakfast."

"I think I can do something for you," said the Viscount. "Come this evening to my house in Hill Street, and ask to see Mr. Vaudrey, my valet. He will give you further instructions; and you will afterwards see me and there will be no necessity to return here. I think you will do exactly what I want. "

The youngster thrust a hand into his breast pocket.

"I have letters as to character, sir," he said. "And—"

The Viscount waved his hand.

"Never mind— never mind," he said. "I am quite satisfied with your appearance. Call upon Vaudrey this evening."

Then his lordship went home and summoned his valet to his presence, and told a good deal which astonished that stolid-faced gentleman very much, accustomed as he was to his master's little fads.

"Now you fully, understand, Vaudrey," he wound up. "You must have the whole of them here first thing to-morrow morning— tailor, bootmaker, shirtmaker, hatter— everybody. I leave it in your hands— you're not to spare expense in any way. But impress upon them that they must work night and day to get the things ready. And for tonight you must fit him up in such a way that he will be fit to meet them to-morrow."

"Quite so, my lord — if your lordship will leave it to me," said Vaudrey.

Then the valet retired, and Viscount St. Elvis sat down and wrote the following note to Sir John Patten:—

596 Hill Street, Mayfair,

March 30th, 1908.

My Dear Patten,

I wish to inform you that I have this afternoon found my man, and that exactly a month from to-day I shall present him to society on some occasion on which you, of course, will be sure to be present.

Very truly yours,

St. Elvis.

During the next month Viscount St. Elvis's friends and acquaintances saw nothing of him. The blinds were down at Hill Street, and somebody who had been in the neighbourhood of his famous country seat in Worcestershire said that he was certainly not there. Then, of course, everybody said that he had started off at a moment's notice in pursuit of some new chimera.

ii

IT HAD BEEN a very busy, season, and most people were glad that it was nearly over and that the moors and the sea were drawing within sight. Yet there were plenty of people in town, and the old Duchess of Barraston, who was giving; her second— and final— garden party of the season had no reason to complain of the emptiness of the famous grounds of Barraston House, nor of the gay scene on their tree-shaded lawns.

True, the foliage of the trees was inclining towards a yellowish tinge, and the turf was not as emerald as it had, been two months earlier, and the mentor women who sat or strolled about were all showing a little trace of the fatigues of fashionable life; but summer was still in the land; and the frocks and frills were butterfly-like as ever.

"All the same," said Sir John Patten, suddenly, voicing the feelings within him as he stood with Viscount St. Elvis at one of the buffets , drinking claret-cup made from the famous Barraston recipe, the secret of which had never been revealed even to a crowned head— "all the same, there isn't a soul here who won't be glad to get away. There's nothing drearier, duller, more desolate than the end of the season."

The Viscount smiled— his slow, inscrutable smile.

"The end of the season!" he repeated. "Ah, of course, the season is coming to an end. I had forgotten that. My dear fellow, what do you personally consider to be the end of the season? Because, so far as I know, the end of the season is a vague term. Christmas Day, now, is always on the 25th day of December, and New Year's Day on the first day of January.  I do know that, but—"

"I always call Goodwood the end of the season," said Sir, John, speaking somewhat testily.

"Other people can do what they like, but after Goodwood; hanged if I stay in Town a day longer. Goodwood's the wind-up for me."

"Ah, then, as soon as Goodwood is over you will owe me fifty pounds," said the Viscount softly. "I was wondering, when the period of our bet will terminate."

Sir John pulled his moustache. "Goodwood isn't until next week," he said.

"No," replied the Viscount. "But, as the youngster has gone through with flying colors up to now, it's not very likely that anything will happen within the next six days."

Sir John lighted a cigarette and took a thoughtful pull at it. He suddenly turned to his companion with a puzzled expression.

"Look here, St. Elvis," he said. "Honour bright, this hasn't been one of your queer practical jokes? You always were up to something, you know.   Everybody in London has accepted your story that this boy is the son of an old friend of yours who went out to Australia, made a spot of money there, and that you've practically adopted the youngster, and went as far as Naples to meet him. But I know from you that you picked him up in a Rowton lodging-house, destitute; that his father and mother were little trades-people—"

"You know the real truth, my dear fellow," interrupted the Viscount. "Well,  its confoundedly queer!" said Sir John, forcibly. "Confoundedly queer! How do you know that he hasn't deceived you— that he isn't some youngster who's got wrong with his people, or been, sent down from Oxford, or—"

"Because I made the fullest enquiries," said the Viscount. "His story was absolutely true. And if you would like to know something that even you don't know, the name he's gone by since I brought him out is his real name— Richard Miles."

"The deuce it is!" said Sir John. "Well, all I can say of the whole business is that it's strange. Why, the young rascal carries himself with all the assurance of a well-accustomed man of the world... Look at him, talking to Lady Letty over there! He certainly does, you credit, St. Elvis, but, 'pon my honor, I'll tell you what I think his success is due to— it's his handsome face. You know what women are."

"I told you I must have proper material," said the Viscount. "But I still hold to the theory that out of an ordinary sensible man who may have fallen to the depths you may, with the help of good clothes, good food, good training, quickly make an individual who will pass muster in society— especially in these days, when one's expected to meet the son of your father's bootmaker at dinner, as I've done. I confess that I found unusually good material on which to work. But you admit that I've fairly won my bet."

"I've seen many a race lost on the post," said Sir John. "I'll pay when the numbers go up."

Finding himself left alone, Viscount St. Elvis moved leisurely off into the crowd, exchanging nods, smiles and words here and there, until he found himself near an oldish lady, who motioned him to a seat on the basket lounge in which she sat beneath a copper beech. Knowing her for the greatest and most amusing gossip in town, he sat down beside her.

"And what is the latest news, Mrs. Blake?" he said. "Everything has been so dull lately that one does nothing but yawn."

"Well, I should think that if there's anybody in London ought to have some news it's you, Lord St. Elvis," she said, showing all her teeth in the famous Blake Smile; "But then, some of you men are so close."

"Ah, I suppose we are, Mrs. Blake," said the Viscount; "all the same, I haven't the slightest notion of what you mean. Oh, no— I've no news. of any sort; doesn't seem to be any just now."

Mrs. Blake displayed the teeth again and laughed.

"A little bird," she said, in the tone of a mother who is reproving a child for: evasion or falsehood, "a little bird has whispered to me that there is likely to be an interesting development in the history of that handsome young ward of yours; though, of course, nobody does know anything very much about his history, do they?"

The Viscount fixed his monocle in his eye and favoured his companion with a stare.

"Eh?" he said. "What do you mean, Mrs. Blake?"

"The little bird," answered Mrs. Blake, "says that we shall shortly hear that a marriage has been arranged between Mr. Richard Miles and the Honorable Mary Winsforth-Sandham, only sister of the Viscount St. Elvis."

The Viscount St. Elvis, startled out of his usual imperturbable state of mind, uttered a sharp exclamation. Then he favoured Mrs. Blake with a longer stare.

"What a lot of utter nonsense!" he said at last.

Mrs. Blake wagged the small garden which was poised on her false hair.

"Possibly!" she said. "But, all the same— look there. You're a bit short-sighted, aren't you, Lord St. Elvis?"

Lord St. Elvis re-fixed his monocle more firmly than ever and gazed across the lawn in the direction which Mrs. Blake's, glance indicated. And there, intensely wrapped up in each other, he saw his protégé, Mr. Richard Miles, immaculately attired and more of a beauty-boy than ever, and a tall, handsome, fair-haired, violet-eyed girl in whom he recognised him own sister, Mollie. They were ostensibly examining a great bank of roses, but their eyes continually sought each other's.

"Aren't they a handsome couple!" said the high-pitched voice at his side. "They put all the other young people in the shade. I'm afraid the little bird is right, Lord St. Elvis. Why, of course you know they're always together— riding in the park of a morning, walking in the park of an afternoon, dancing together a great deal— oh! it's being talked of all over; now do tell me if it isn't true?"

But the Viscount suddenly dropped his monocle, muttered something about having to meet a man, and bade Mrs. Blake a hurried farewell. His adieux to the Duchess were scarcely less hurried, and he was barely conscious of what he was doing until he had reached his club, and had swallowed the greater part of a stiff whisky and soda.

iii

THE VISCOUNT had to confess to himself, as he sat there in very quiet corner of the club smoking-room, that if what Mrs. Blake had said were true he was in a very unpleasant predicament. Naturally, when he introduced his protégé to society he introduced him to his sister; naturally, the two young people had constantly met. Now there were only the Viscount himself and his sister left of their family; their mother and another sister were dead some time before, and the Honourable Mary Winsforth-Sandham, who was twenty-three years of age and of a particularly, independent spirit, and a very considerable fortune which no one but herself could control or touch, preferred to have a ménage of her own in South Audley Street to living with her brother in the family town houses There— though she certainly had a duenna in the shape of a former governess— she kept up a sort of bachelor establishment, and was somewhat celebrated amongst her set for doing pretty much as she liked. She was a very fearless and independent girl, with a will of her own, and as her brother ran over his recollections and realisations of her he felt himself grow hot and cold alternately.

"By gad!" he said to himself. "Mollie really has taken a fancy to the boy she'll be a stiff nut to crack. But it can't be; it's preposterous!"

Then he gulped down the rest of the whisky and soda, and while the smoking-room steward was fetching another he screwed up his mind to steady thinking over a cigar.

Was it so preposterous, after all? It was he himself who had introduced Miles to his sister; he himself who had told her the mythical history of the boy which he had told to a few others. Now he felt inclined to punch his own head.

"This just shows what asses people are for doing and sayings things without thinking!" he groaned. "Of course, Mollie would believe every word I told her, and she thinks the boy is a gentleman. And she's so determined that; if she's fond of him, an appeal to the family pride will do no good. Family pride, indeed! I think it's about extinct!"

For the Winsforth-Sandhams until this generation had been counted a very proud and exclusive family, and the late peer had carried on the traditions in good fashion. But his children had somehow developed democratic ideas, especially as to going their own way in life, and the Honourable Miss Winsforth-Sandham was more radical than, her brother. And yet—

"Oh, hang it all!" said the Viscount, "she couldn't marry a man that I picked up out of a Rowton House— impossible! I'll have to speak to Miles to-night and tell him the game's gone far enough. What a confounded ass I am!"

MR. RICHARD MILES— who had never exactly understood his benefactor's exact notions as regards himself— found Lord St. Elvis somewhat taciturn and thoughtful at dinner in Hill Street that night, and as there were no guests things were slightly dull. It was not until they wore in the coffee-and-cigarette stage that his lordship decided to unbosom himself there and then.

"Look here, Miles," he said. "You've being going about a tremendous lot with my sister, and people are beginning to talk."

Richard Miles flushed, and the Viscount thought to himself that it was a pity the lad was so handsome.

"Don't you think you'd better go away?" said the Viscount.

"Where do you wish me to' go,-sir?" asked Richard. The Viscount walked about, the room, thinking hard.

"Look here, my boy," he said at last. "Let's be sensible. Go out to Canada, or to Australia, and settle down there, and I'll give you five thousand pounds to start life with. Come; we've had this little experiment here and you've satisfied me fully. If you accept my offer you see— well, I shall only have to say that you've decided that Colonial life suits you best. Eh?"

"When do you wish me to go, sir?"

"Well— er, don't you think it would be wise to go at once?" suggested his lordship.

"I suppose it would, sir," said Richard.

Very soon afterwards he went out to keep an engagement, leaving the Viscount immensely relieved.

"If it hadn't been for Mollie," he said to himself, "I should have felt tempted to keep him altogether. A very sensible lad, and I'll make that five thousand into eight."

Mr. Richard Miles did not return to Hill Street that night, but before noon next day he sent a man round from the Ritz Hotel with a note to the faithful Vaudrey asking him to send him two portmanteaux filled with certain garments and articles of dress, which instructions Vaudrey promptly carried out.

As for Viscount St. Elvis, he did not know of his protégé's absence from the house until lunch time, nor did he attach any importance to it then. In fact, he knew nothing particular until early in the evening, when coming in to dress for dinner, he found a letter bearing his sister's well-known handwriting, which had been posted at King's Cross.

He opened it and read these sentences, hastily scrawled in pencil:

King's Cross Railway Station,

Thursday,

Dear Bob,—

It was all very well trying to bribe Dick to give me up, but I'm not going to give him up, because I love him. You may as well know that we were married this morning at St. Hedwige's, by special license, and we're off to the North of Scotland for our honeymoon. We'll see you when we come back.

Your loving "Molly Miles.

P.S. — Dick told me the whole truth weeks ago. It doesn't matter to me if his father was a tinker. And it needn't matter to you, nor to anybody. I've got him now."

The Viscount read this epistle twice over, and at last folded it, up and put it in his pocket.

"Of course," he said, "that's Mollie all over."  Then he stroked his moustache and looked hard at himself in the glass. And suddenly his face, became clouded by a vast perplexity.

"By gad!" he exclaimed. "I wonder whether I owe Patten that £500 or whether I don't!"

____________

14: Us

Owen Oliver

Joshua Albert Flynn, 1863-1933

Express and Telegraph (Adelaide) 27 July 1907

PEOPLE THINK I'm no end of a Johnny, but I'm not. I once did a really clever  thing. I admit that she made me; but some fellows never do a clever thing at all. Nobody could make them.

To begin with myself, I'm Lord Charles Hansom, and I'm pretty well off. The governor tied my money up till I was twenty-five. When a fellow gets as old as that he begins to grow, sensible, if he's ever going to be. Hawke and Solomon thought I wasn't.

They may have had some grounds for their suspicion. When they showed me the draft prospectus of "The Royal Iceland Gold Mining Company, Limited," I don't mind owning that I thought it was a really good thing. The prospectus said it was, and print looks so convincing. There were a lot of figures, showing how much ice you melted, how much gold you got, what it cost, and what was profit— 50 per cent., I think the profit was. It looked such a nice company that I thought I'd like to have a cut in.

"H'm!" I said. "I suppose the shares will all be snapped up? 'Pon my word, I

"My dear fellow," said Hawke, "if you should like—"

"Of course I should," I said.  "Then leave it to me."

"We'll see you through," said Solomon. "How many shares do you want?"

"Well," I said, "I couldn't draw more than £10,000 without letting old Vance know; and he'd be sure to go to my mother and make a fuss."

Vance is our solicitor.

"So I can't have more than 10,000."  They were £1 apiece.

"My dear boy," said Solly, "you shall have them. In a month they'll be up to £2 and then you can sell out."

Afterwards they altered the prospectus a bit, and put me in as chairman. I didn't see the use; but they explained it was on account of my being a lord, and-well-known as a cricketer.

"I can't make speeches," I pointed out, "or do much of the management."

"Not at all," Hawke promised. "Solly and I are the managing directors. Of course, we shall be glad of your advice at all times."

"What shall I do first, then?" I asked. "The chairman ought to have a voice in the concern?"

"Oh— er— certainly," said Hawke. "Come round the offices with us this afternoon, and see the staff. Perhaps you can suggest some improvements."

We went to the offices accordingly. When we entered the clerks' room, Hawke said:—

"This is Lord Charles Hansom, our chairman."

They all stood up. It made me feel deuced awkward. However, I professed to be very interested in the work, and asked them ill what they did. They seemed to do everything so well that I couldn't for the life of me see anything to improve."

Then we went into another room, where there was a very nice young lady in a very neat blouse. She had one of those pretty Irish faces— half innocent, half- saucy— and she made a dainty little bow.

"This is Miss Reilly, our typist," they said.

"Pray don't let me disturb you," I said. "It's— er— a very fine day." It was a beastly day, as a matter of fact.

"It is finer than it was," she assented.

"Er— how do you like typewriting?"

"It is my living, my lord. I've hardly thought whether I like it or not."

"Miss Reilly does her work admirably," Hawke informed me.

"Then," I said, "I hope she's well paid."

"Certainly," said. Hawke— "certainly!"

"What— er— salary does Miss Reilly get?" I demanded.

"Umph!" said Hawke. "I think—" He looked at Solomon.

"Well," said Solomon, "for the moment—"

"Do you mind my asking you, Miss Reilly?"

"Certainly not, my lord. Twenty-five shillings a week."

"Really," I said firmly, "this seems a matter in which some improvement might be made."

"Of course," said Hawke— "of course. I'd no idea that it was so little."

"Shall we say thirty shillings?" Solomon asked me.

"Thirty-five shillings," I suggested.

"I will instruct the cashier at once," Hawke promised. "You will find his lordship always ready to appreciate good work, Miss Reilly."

She looked so pleased and thanked me so prettily that I was sorry I hadn't said a couple of pounds. It seemed a jolly shame that such a nice girl should have to typewrite. I went in once or twice afterwards to see that she had her rise all right and tallied to her. She was an officer's daughter, but her father was dead; and her mother was an invalid, so she had to work.

One afternoon I was having a stroll in the park before dinner when she happened to come along. I'd heard her say that she went home that way. I was wondering whether she would object to my walking with her when she suddenly stopped.

"May I have a few words with you, my lord?" she asked. -

"As many as you like," I said.

"You are an honorable gentleman?"

"Well," said I, "I hope so."

"I rely upon your not mentioning what I am going to say. I can't afford to lose my place."

"You may certainly rely on me," I assured her. She hesitated a moment, studying her tiny shoes.

"I don't think you are aware," she said at last, "that your company is only a paper one."

"Why," I ejaculated, "the prospectus—"

She laughed so suddenly that I laughed, too.

"The prospectus! Surely you don't believe that?"'

I asked her to sit down.

"I suppose you mean there isn't much gold?" .

"There isn't any gold. There never will be any gold. The company is a mere device to get the money of foolish people. Of course, you probably won't believe me; but—"

"No one could help believing you," I assured her. No one could. "But I thought Hawke and Solomon were too sharp ?"

'They are. Much, too sharp."

"They've taken a lot of shares," I demurred.

"They, with a few of their friends, and you hold them practically all."

"Then they'll lose their money."

"Scarcely, as they paid themselves for the shares. Shall I tell you what they will do?"

"Please. You're awfully good."

"They have just given instructions to brokers to buy largely, knowing that there is practically not one to sell. When they have bought a few shares at high prices, people will think that there is a fortune in the company. They will see that its chairman is a gentleman of position, with a reputation as an honest English sportsman."

I bowed, not knowing what else to do.

"So, Hawke, Solomon, & Co. will gradually dispose of their shares, and you and the new shareholders will he left with an, utterly worthless concern."

"I've evidently been a precious fool! I don't see what I can do now."

"Don't you? I do. When they have given sufficient orders to buy largely, sell them your shares."

I laughed aloud.

"Upon my word, Miss Reilly," I said; "you are as clever as you are— er— pretty."

"Oh, no!" she said, with a blush.

"Well," I admitted, "perhaps not so exceedingly clever as that."

"I didn't mean that at all," she said. "You— you really shouldn't, my lord."

"Please don't be offended," I implored, "because I meant it— both things."

She explained that intention made my offence worse.

We arranged that she was to let me know when to tell my brokers to sell. We were just shaking hands for good-bye, when I had an idea.

"I say, Miss Reilly," I said, "if I get rid of my shares to Hawke &. Solomon, won't they sell them to some poor wretches who can't afford the loss as well as I can?"

"You can't, help that," she answered slowly.

"By Jove, I can!"

"You promised to do what I told you."

"I'd do almost anything you told me— jump into the water, or—"

"Probably you can swim," she remarked sarcastically.

"Ye-es. Well, into the fire. l can burn!"

"Don't be so silly! I beg your pardon, my lord. But really you are—"

"A bit of a fool," I said regretfully; "but I hope, as you said, an honorable one."

"I know what you can do," she said, with sudden animation. "As soon as you've sold them your shares, send a notice to the papers that you have severed your connection with the company."

"Miss Reilly," I said, "you are splendid."

Finally I sold all the shares to Hawke and Solomon, through their various brokers, gaining about £7,000 over the transaction. Then I sent my letter to the papers. When it appeared next morning I laughed till I nearly choked myself.

After breakfast I went round to the office to give Hawke and Solly— or both, if they liked— a chance to punch my head. They hadn't arrived, so I went in and sat on Miss Reilly's table, and told her she must share the profits; but she wouldn't. Presently they came in.

"Oh!" sneered Hawke. "Here is the pretty dear who has sold us. Mind she doesn't sell you a worse one, you mean, underhand—"

"That's enough," I said, getting up.

"We shall not require Miss Reilly any more," said Solomon suavely, "now that her dear friend the chairman has left us."

"Put on your hat, Miss Reilly," I directed; and she obeyed without a word.

"No doubt," said Hawke, with an evil grin, "his lordship will provide more pleasant occupation—"

I knew he'd beat me in argument, so I knocked him down. I would have knocked Solomon down, too, but he bolted. So she and I went out together.

On the quiet landing half-was down I put my arm about her, and told her she'd have to marry me. She tried to push me away; but, of course, she couldn't, so she sobbed on my shoulder instead.

Yes, she did love me, since I was so cruel as to make her tell. That was just why she wouldn't marry me. She would let me help her out of my profits, perhaps, for her mother's sake, till she had found another place, if I meant what I said about throwing the money away otherwise.

When I got home my Uncle John, who has the brains of the family, was with my mother, and I told them the whole story. I thought there would be an awful row, but there wasn't.

"You want someone to take care of you," said Uncle John grimly. My mother dropped a few tears, in her lap before she spoke.

"Is she a lady, Charlie?" she asked.

I assured her that she was an angel just dropped down from heaven. Then Uncle John laughed.

"He might do worse, Frances," he said. "She's brought him a dowry already."

"And he loves her," said my mother softly.

My mother and I went round to Lucy's lodgings that afternoon. She came forward to greet us with flushed cheeks and a plucky little attempt at a smile. My mother kissed her.

"I have come to see my clever little daughter that is to be," she said. And Lucy jumped at her and put her head on her shoulder, and cried— by Jove, she did cry!

We form a company of our own now, and if she is managing director, I am chairman. It is a very limited company— made up of her and me.

____________

15: An Occult Experience

Anna Nicholas

1849-1929

In: An Idyl of the Wabash and Other Stories, 1898

Indianapolis newspaperwoman and author of 2 collections of short stories

MRS. ABNER HALE and Mrs. Silas Adams walked slowly out Main street after the regular Thursday meeting of the Branchville Ladies' Literary Circle. When these ladies organized their society they decided to call it a circle instead of a club, because the latter word sounded "so mannish, somehow."

"That was a beautiful paper of Alfaretta Miller's on theosophy," Mrs. Hale remarked, in rather a questioning way.

"Oh, lovely!" said her companion, in the tone women use when they wish to be agreeable, no matter what their real thoughts may be concerning the matter under discussion. "Yes, Alfaretta can write on most any subject. She's got a good mind. She's a credit to our Circle."

"What idea did you get from the paper?" pursued Mrs. Hale, hesitatingly, and then, with an impetuous outburst, "Martha Adams, what is theosophy, anyway?"

"Land! Mrs. Hale, don't ask me. I haven't the faintest idea, and never expect to have, if I should hear a dozen papers. Alfaretta wanted me to be prepared to discuss the subject and loaned me a book to read up in, but it made me dizzy. I did copy a sentence or two out, though, that I meant to recite off at the proper time, just to show that I wasn't ignorant, but I forgot it. To tell the truth, I kind of lost track of what she was saying in studying out just how the trimming was fixed on Jennie Wilson's new silk waist. I'm making one for my Sis, you know. Near as I can get at it, from all I've read and heard, theosophy is a sort of spiritualism that the heathen believe in and that our folks have taken up out of curiosity— sort of a moony, spooky thing, with spheres and mahatmas— whatever they are— and astral bodies, and ever-so-many-times-on-earth, and all that kind of foolishness. I ain't sure that it's quite the thing to talk about in our Circle. Some that's not so well balanced as you and me might be influenced by it. Not but what there's deep things that it would be real satisfying to know about. Sometimes I think there's something genuine about spiritualism— the rapping and slate-writing kind."

Mrs. Hale looked at the speaker with an expression of severe disapproval, but had no chance to utter a word of protest before that voluble lady began again.

"Yes, I do, Mrs. Hale. Lemme tell you something." Here Mrs. Adams's voice was lowered to a confidential whisper, although no one was within sight or hearing. "The most of it's foolishness, I'll allow, and there's a lot of humbuggery about it, but there's queer, unaccountable things, too. Cousin Jim Lawson's wife was telling me one of 'em the last time I was in Indianapolis. She'd been to visit a slate-writing medium and had had a communication from her mother, who'd died suddenly not long before when she was away from home on a visit. Cousin Jim's wife couldn't reconcile herself to having no last word, and so she went to this medium, who, it seems, is no common person, but a real lady. She'd always had the power, but only a few knew about it, and she never thought of earning money by it until after she was left a widow and had to do something to make a living for herself and little girl."

"Well"— and here the whisper grew more impressive— "Cousin Jim's wife, she went and never told her name or anything, and right inside of that double slate, with the medium's hands laid flat on top in plain sight, came a message signed by her mother, Eunice Bascom, telling her she (Mrs. Bascom) was very happy, was glad to have the opportunity to talk to her and urge her to be reconciled, and also to tell her to give her (the mother's) cashmere dress and her wrappers and aprons to Jane, the other daughter, and to keep the new black silk and the fur collar herself. Cousin Jim's wife said you could a' knocked her down with a feather. The thought had come to her several times that that would be a fair way to divide their mother's things, seeing she had so much more use for dressy clothes than Jane, who lived in the country and never went anywhere, but she hadn't had the clothes in mind that day at all, and had no notion anything would be said about them. It was a real comfort to her, though, to have what you might call official authority for disposing of the garments, for she'd been a little afraid Jane would be inclined to complain; so she bought the slate with the writing on and took it home with her. Now, Mrs. Hale, wasn't that remarkable?"

"It seems to me," protested that lady in reply, "that I shouldn't like to have my mother come back from the other world to talk about clothes," but as she was going on to express her fixed objection to such doings, such unholy tampering with sacred things, as she considered it, they reached Mrs. Adams's gate, and that sprightly person, after unavailingly urging her companion to enter, hurried in, saying she would sew a little on Sis's waist before dark.

Mrs. Hale, who was not really a townswoman at all, but a farmer's wife, and lived nearly a mile beyond the point where the highway ceased to be a street and became the pike, went leisurely on her way over the quiet country road, saying to herself, with a shake of the head, that Martha Adams was a good soul, but too ready to believe everything she heard. Then her mind drifted to other matters. She always remembered her wandering thoughts of that afternoon, and sometimes spoke of them long after, as showing how little foreknowledge has the human mind. She thought complacently of her own paper on the French Revolution, which she had read before the Circle the week previous. She was sixty years old and had never done such a thing before, and it was a great event in her life, but she told her husband, when it was over, that she didn't see but what her piece was "full as good as the average." She owned frankly that she got the most of it from the encyclopedia and the rest from an old magazine belonging to Joe, "but, of course, they couldn't expect me to write a thing like that out of my own head," she said, "and if I used the same language, why, what's the difference? I'm sure I couldn't have said it as well, and, anyway, it was all new to the Circle."

But the Circle soon passed into the background on this autumn afternoon, and Joe, never far from the front in the mother's mind, occupied her thoughts exclusively— Joe, the son of her old age, she called him. He was a young civil engineer, and through the influence of an instructor in the school of which he was a graduate had had the good fortune, as he considered it, to be made one of a government surveying party to Alaska that summer, starting in April. He was on his way home now. A letter had come from Seattle saying he had left the party,  which was coming east over the northern route, and was about to go down the coast in a small sailing vessel, whose captain had happened to take a liking to him. He did this because it was inexpensive and he wanted a glimpse of California, not knowing when he should visit the western coast again. He must have reached San Francisco by this time, his mother reflected, and another letter was nearly due, though possibly he would not think it worth while to write, he was coming so soon himself. Mrs. Hale's fond heart beat faster at the very thought of seeing her boy once more, and as she looked about her over the fields, golden with the September sunshine, the sight, dear from long association, seemed to take on a new charm. It was a beautiful world, she thought, not realizing that it was the contentment of her soul that made the Indiana landscape doubly fair.

She entered the door of her home with a song in her heart and upon her lips. She put her bonnet carefully away, and, with a look at the clock to assure herself that she had yet a few minutes before it was time to prepare supper for Abner and the hired man, she sat down to rest and to glance at the paper she had brought from the post-office. She opened the sheet and looked over it with mild interest. What fate turned her eyes straight upon the obscure paragraph that in times of much news would have found no space in the inland paper? Thus blindly and unsuspectingly are we led into the tragedies of our lives. It was a brief dispatch, dated at San Francisco, and mentioning the sinking of the schooner Yakima through being run down by the steamship Montana. The Yakima was bound for San Francisco with a cargo of coal, and filled and sank so rapidly after the collision that only one person on board escaped. The Montana put out her boats and picked up one sailor, who reported that in addition to the crew the schooner had had on board one passenger, a man from Indiana named Hale. The cause of the accident would be investigated and the responsibility fixed, said the dispatch.

The mind comprehends slowly the full meaning of death when a loved one has gone. It is only as weeks and months pass that the loss, the desolation, the awful loneliness are realized. Sitting with her paper in her hand that afternoon, Mrs. Hale saw her husband coming through the orchard, and her first conscious thought was one of pity for him that he had no son. Concerning her own bereavement she had, as yet, no sensation; the sudden blow had made her numb. She watched him come slowly and heavily through the gate and up the walk— a gray-haired man, with bent shoulders, who had not kept his youthful elasticity as had his wife.

"He has not many years of grief to bear," she said, as she went out to him, bearing the message of evil.

THE HISTORY of the next few days she could hardly have told later. She went about her household tasks mechanically, for the living must eat and drink, though the best loved lie dead, but her mind wandered far and scarce knew what her hands did. There was a sending of telegraphic messages, a writing of letters and the gathering of all the information that could be secured, but this was little more than the first newspaper dispatch had contained. The Yakima had sunk, only one person on board had been picked up at the time— which was just after midnight on the 20th of September— and the sea being rough that night there was no probability, even had any one been overlooked in the careful search made, that a survivor could have remained afloat till morning.

Hope, catching at the faintest chance, died hard, but when weeks went by and brought no word Joseph Hale's death was accepted as a certainty. His mother put on a black gown; his father went to and fro about his work with a look that made the neighbors say he was aging fast; they tried to bear their affliction with the fortitude and resignation becoming to their Christian professions, but they knew that for them the zest of life had passed with their son's going, and that the years to come must be endured, not enjoyed. They read the grief in each other's eyes, but spoke little of it, Abner being taciturn at all times, and his wife, like so many men and women of the Anglo-Saxon race, never having learned to express her deepest emotions in words.

One day in October services in memory of the young man were held in the Presbyterian church. Sympathy with the bereaved parents was deep, and the curious, but not unkindly, desire of their friends to see how they were affected by the remarks of the minister, and how they bore their sorrow, caused the emotion of a young woman near the door to go unnoticed. She was Nellie Hamilton, a teacher in one of the village schools. She and Joe Hale had known each other all their lives, and were on such friendly footing and so free from self-consciousness that no one had thought of them as lovers. She had been aware for a long time of the state of her own affections, but it was only a few days before his departure that Joe had begun to learn where his heart belonged. She had seen the awakening in his eyes; she had felt it in the subtle change of manner; she had read his secret through the prescience of her own love, and her heart leaped in her bosom and was glad. He had not spoken before he went away, but she did not feel the less secure, for she saw also that he had not discovered her secret, and was in that state of doubt where he feared to test his fate. Maiden-like, and with a touch of coquetry, she had refrained from betraying a hint of the truth, coyly holding back, confident in the knowledge that when she chose to offer a sign he would come. Not long since had come a letter telling her that on his return he had a question to ask— one which he had "always thought a man ought to be brave enough to put to a woman face to face, and not by letter." A reply would not have reached him had she written it, and now he was dead; he was dead and would never know; was dead and she had not the right to weep for him, but must go about with calm face, for she had not let him speak, and he was not hers in the sight of the world. She envied his mother the liberty of tears, of outspoken grief and of unsmiling face. Life was bitter.

The days went on drearily. Mrs. Hale neglected the Ladies' Circle, the Missionary Society and all the various interests that had made her social world, and, shut in her rural home, brooded over her loss. October passed and November came, with heavier rains and more lowering clouds, it seemed, than ever November had had before. Thanksgiving day approached, and Mrs. Hale grew restless. On that day it had been the custom to invite to dinner all the kinfolk living thereabout, but this time she and her husband could not make festivity for themselves or others. When the morning came Mrs. Hale arose and went about her tasks with an unusual look of determination.

"Father," she said to her husband at breakfast, "I don't feel as if I could go to our church this morning, and I am going into the city. I know you don't want to go, so I sha'n't ask you. I'll come out on the one-o'clock train, which will give me time to have dinner by three. It'll be a good dinner. I've fixed ready for it."

Abner offered no objection to the plan, but hitched up the horse and took his wife to the train, meeting her, also, upon her return. Her face bore a different expression, he noticed, from that it had worn in the morning— a brighter, more cheerful look. They chatted of various things on their way home— of Rev. Mr. Willetts's sermon, which Abner had heard; of the music by the new choir, which Abner did not like, because he didn't know what was being sung— tunes or words.

"That Hamilton girl— Nellie is her name, isn't it?— took sick in meeting," he said casually. "Screamed and had to be helped out to the air. Hystericky, I guess."

"Poor thing!" commented his wife. "I expect she's overworked and run down. I must ask her out to spend some Sunday. She and Joe used to be good friends."

They ate their Thanksgiving dinner rather silently and their thanks were not fervent, but perhaps the Lord forgave them, knowing their sore hearts. It was not till dinner was over and Abner's chores done that Mrs. Hale disclosed the purpose of her morning's visit to Indianapolis and its result. It had not occurred to her husband's rather slow-moving mind, until that moment, that she had as yet said nothing about it. He had assumed that she had attended a city church and had received consolation from the words of the pastor. If she was nervous over the confession of a different course of action she did not betray the feeling, but went boldly about it.

"Father, I've got something to tell you. I went in town to-day and visited a spiritualist medium— a slate-writer. She didn't know I was coming. She didn't know my name. She didn't ask a question, but she sat down at a little table, took this little folding slate that Johnny Miller left here (I carried it with me), laid her hands on it, never a minute out of my sight, and while I was looking the little pencil inside began to scratch, and when it stopped here was this writing," and Mrs. Hale produced the slate and began to read from its pages.

"Dear Mother," the writing ran. "Dear Mother: I am so glad you have come at last. Have been looking for you anxiously. I knew you grieved because I passed into the spirit world before you, and because you knew so little of the going, but I knew you never believed that one who had gone could ever return and talk to his friends, so was afraid the truth would not be impressed on you and you would not come. But it is true, mother. This is your own Joey boy. It was all true about the shipwreck; we went down without warning and were drowned. I didn't have time to think about it, and you will be glad to know I didn't suffer. I shouldn't have wanted to go if I had known beforehand what was to happen, but it's all right now. I am happy— perfectly happy. Everything is beautiful here. I can't tell you just how it is, because we are not permitted, but you will know some day. Father isn't looking well. Now that that affair of Lester's is off his mind he ought to cheer up. Tell him not to fret about me. It's all right. Come and talk to me again some day soon. Your loving son, Joseph Albert Hale."

Down in one corner was added: "What have you done with old Major? I don't see him about."

Mrs. Hale read this communication, as she called it, slowly and impressively, but with visible excitement and elation. Then she paused a moment for her husband to speak, but he remained silent, and she burst out:

"Isn't it wonderful, Abner? I know you never believed in spiritualism, and neither did I, but you can't deny that there's something in this. Why, here's Joe's very own handwriting, and his signature, with the quirl at the end that he always makes and his middle name written out in full. That was a notion he picked up when he was at school, but I never could get into the fashion of addressing his letters any other way than 'Joseph A.' And in the letter he calls himself 'Joey boy.' I used to call him 'Joey,' you know, for a pet name. And who but Joey could have mentioned that trouble with his cousin Lester, when only we four ever knew you got the young rascal out of a scrape, and you know very well none of us ever mentioned it— Lester least of all. Then, father, he says you are not looking well, which is true, and shows he must have seen you. Think of that! And he missed old Major. I never wrote to him that the dog had died; kind of hated to. I tell you, father, it's wonderful, wonderful! I never would have believed that I could have an atom of faith in spiritualism, and I must say that I wish Joe could communicate with us at first hand, and not through a total stranger. But this way is better than nothing, and what I've got here's a great comfort to me. I'm going again, and if you— "

Abner's face had slowly assumed an expression that caused his wife to pause suddenly and observe him with some apprehension. He looked at her fixedly and sternly, then spoke with a voice trembling with anger:

"Sarah Jane!" They addressed each other in the sweet, old-fashioned way, as "father" and "mother," except on those occasions when storms loomed in the domestic sky. "Sarah Jane Hale, has it come to this, that you, a professing Christian for forty years, a member of the Presbyterian church in good standing; that you, the wife of a ruling elder, have taken up with this abominable witchcraft, and have the indecency to glory in it? Have you not read that the wrath of God comes upon those who practice such vile arts? Have you forgotten your religion? Do you care nothing for the safety of your immortal soul? I am shocked, Sarah Jane! I am astonished and grieved, and I insist that there shall be no more of this idolatrous business. It was thoughtlessness that led you to the den of the witch this time, may be, but the visit must not be repeated. I want you to promise not to go again, and I should like to hear you say you are sorry for this visit."

Mrs. Hale, after a gasp of surprise, got her breath and her bearings.

"She is not a witch, but a respectable lady, I'd have you know, Abner Hale, and she doesn't live in a den, but in a house that's better than this one, and she's a member of the Baptist church. And I wouldn't be as narrow-minded and stiff-necked as you are for a farm. There's things in this world that you haven't found out yet, if you are a ruling elder; and, anyway, I won't be dictated to just as if I were a disobedient child and had no judgment or rights of my own. You don't seem to understand how I miss Joe. It was a real comfort to me, that letter from him, and I'm not sorry I went, and I shall go again if I want to. So there!"

After which feminine outburst she threw herself upon the lounge and sobbed with as much abandon as if she were ten years old instead of sixty. Abner was not moved to compassion by her tears.

"Sarah Jane," he said, solemnly, "I am disappointed. I have always considered you a sensible woman— one not likely to be led away from true Christian principles, though at times you haven't been as faithful to the means of grace as would be becoming in an elder's wife. I know Joe's death was hard on you. He was my son, too, but I haven't found it necessary to consort with Satan's emissaries for comfort. This taking up with evil things is a matter that calls for church discipline. It ought to be laid before the session, but I ain't ready to do that yet, Sarah Jane. I want you to have time to consider the iniquity of your course before it is made public, and until you can realize it I sha'n't speak a word to you, not a word from this hour."

Mrs. Hale dried her tears suddenly and sat up, looking at her husband with curiosity.

"Are you six years old or sixty-five, Abner Hale, getting mad and 'not speaking?'" she inquired, sharply.

Abner deigned no reply, but wound the clock, kicked the cat out and slammed the door with more energy than was becoming to a ruling elder, then stalked majestically off to bed in silence.

Mrs. Hale was not especially overcome by this exhibition of conjugal authority. The neighbors were wont to speak of Mr. Hale as "terribly set in his ways and domineering." On account of these traits the women were inclined to congratulate themselves on not being married to him, but this feeling was not really a sound basis for an adverse verdict on his character. The disposition of women to wonder how other women can "put up" with their respective husbands arises, perhaps, out of feminine inability to comprehend thoroughly the idiosyncrasies of more than one man at a time. Not all wives are martyrs who seem so to outside eyes. At all events, Mrs. Hale had never so regarded herself, and did not now. She had lived with Abner for forty years and understood him. He had "ways," and she had adapted herself to them, bringing him, in the long run, to her way of thinking; or, at least, so modifying his asperities of thought and character as to make him quite satisfactory to her. She had never run so directly counter to his prejudices as in this case, but was not alarmed at his wrath and only moderately resentful.

"I didn't suppose he'd take it so hard," she said long afterward, "but I might have remembered that he hadn't been thinking the matter over for a month or so, as I had. I ought to have talked it up to him in advance and got him into the notion by degrees. Poor soul! He tried not to show it, but he grieved for Joe every day and all day while he was alone at his work, and his nerves were all wrought up. Women ain't the only ones that get cross and crabbed from nervousness. However, I wasn't going to give in right at once. I didn't want him to think he could dictate to me that way. It doesn't do to give a man such an advantage, even once."

Down in the village that Thanksgiving night, while this domestic episode took place in the farm-house, pretty Nellie Hamilton lay upon her bed with wide-open eyes, staring into the dark, her mind intent upon the experience of the morning. The choir had performed its final "voluntary," the minister had just given out his text, "Let us come before His presence with thanksgiving," and the congregation was settling itself into the pews, when choir, minister and people faded out of sight and she looked upon a far different scene— not only looked upon it, but seemed a part of it. There before her, almost at her feet, was a lake, half shadowed by a mountain, whose bare and rocky summit pierced the sky. A vivid green forest, whose appearance was strange and tropical, circled the water and was thick about her. In a little opening were two or three huts, and near them, swung between two trees, was a hammock, in which lay her lover, Joe Hale. Pale and ill he looked, but was unmistakably Joe. As she stood, or seemed to stand, ready to step forward to his side, so softly as not to awaken him, she became aware of a swarthy, half-clothed foreign-looking man slipping toward the hammock from the further side. His face wore an evil look, and he glanced furtively about. His hand crept toward the pocket in the breast of the flannel shirt worn by the occupant of the hammock, but the movement, soft as it was, roused the sleeper, and he started up. Quicker than it could be told, a bright blade flashed in the air, blood spurted over the sick man's breast and he fell back as if dead. It was at this moment that Nellie Hamilton startled the congregation with a scream, and was assisted to her home under the belief that she was suddenly taken ill.

Lying there, puzzling over it, she could not solve the mystery. It could not be a dream. She had just seated herself when the vision came, and had had no time in which to grow drowsy if she were so inclined. She was thinking of Joe at the time; it was seldom in those days that he was far from her mind, but she pictured him as battling with fierce waves, and as sinking slowly, surely, and, at last, despairingly, into their cruel depths— a hideous vision that haunted her, awake or asleep. She had never associated him with far southern lands; she had never been outside of her own state of Indiana, yet she knew that an actual tropical landscape could never be more real to her than this phantasmal scene of the morning. She could almost see it yet— the shining green of trees, whose names she did not know, the vines that stretched from branch to branch like great serpents, the rank undergrowth, the intense blue of the sky, the mountain, with its upper height a bare, stony peak. What did it mean? She remembered hearing her Scotch grandfather talk mysteriously of second sight, but had never troubled herself to know just what he meant, and she had never before had an experience like this. Besides, if Joe had been drowned in the Pacific, and he must have been drowned, or he would have been heard from long ago, this vision must have been a delusion. Could she be losing her mind? she wondered drearily, and fell at last into troubled sleep.

The days and weeks dragged slowly by, Abner Hale kept strictly to the letter of his threat to speak no word to his wife until she showed signs of repentance for what he considered her ill conduct. She addressed him freely when occasion required, and sometimes when it did not, but he made the hired man his medium of communication, directing his remarks ostensibly to that personage, but really to Mrs. Hale; and the hired man, being but a stupid creature, concerned more with eating all that was set before him than with what went on in the house, never discovered that he was used as a convenience. With neighbors who dropped in Abner talked freely and even eagerly, which, in view of his usual taciturnity, caused them some surprise. Once his wife detected him furtively examining the slate containing Joe's letter, which she kept in a drawer of Joe's old desk, but he showed no sign of interest when she made another visit to the city, and he had reason to assume that she again visited the woman he had denounced as an agent of the evil one.

She did, in fact, visit that person, not once, but twice or more, as the holidays drew near, and she felt the need of aid in resisting the depressing influences of other people's gayety. Each time was repeated, with somewhat greater amplification, the story that had been told on the slate the first day. Each time some allusions were made or questions asked which convinced her anew that Joe's spirit must inspire the pencil's movements, since none but he and herself had knowledge of the matters involved. Each time came the assurance afresh that the unseen writer was Joe, her son, come back to her in this way from the other world. She could not doubt that this was true, but somehow the slate writings did not continue to be the comfort to her that she had first found them. There was a consciousness of something lacking, something unsatisfactory; there was a barrier between her and her son that she could not overcome. He told her so little, after all. It dawned on her one day that he had really written nothing that she had not herself known or believed before. She was thinking of this as she left the station one afternoon on her way home from one of these visits, and had wondered if it would not be just as well to fall in with Abner's notions and tell him she was willing to give up the medium. "But I won't do it just yet," she decided. "He hasn't been behaving well, and I don't want to encourage him in such doings by giving in so easily. He ought to come half way, anyhow, and I think he will before long. He's getting very uneasy."

Nevertheless, she sighed as she thought of her silent home, and when she chanced to meet Nellie Hamilton, something wistful in the girl's face attracted her notice and she urged her to accompany her to the farm. Visitors were always welcome now.

"Come out and spend the afternoon with me, and if, as you say, you must be home to-night, Abner will bring you."

It was the last day of the year, but the clear, crisp air and the bright sunshine brought suggestions of spring, and both women felt cheered in a vague way when they reached the country home. Mrs. Hale talked to Nellie of her lost son that afternoon, and found a sympathetic listener. She related anecdotes of his boyhood; she brought out the tintypes and photographs he had had taken at various stages of his career; she showed specimens of his handiwork about the house; she told how thoughtful and considerate he was always and what a source of comfort. But with all the confidences bestowed she did not mention her visits to the medium or the story on the slate; all that was too intimate an experience to relate to this girl, who, for all her evident appreciation of Joe, might have an ignorant prejudice against spiritualistic manifestations. She had had it herself not so long ago. Nor did Nellie Hamilton venture to tell the elder woman of her vision on Thanksgiving day, nor of the later one the day before Christmas.

It rained on the latter occasion, and as she stood on the school-house step, looking up the dreary street, after the children had gone home, suddenly street and houses vanished, the dark sky cleared, and before her stretched a wide sweep of gray, sandy desert, patches of gray-green vegetation only adding to the dreariness; not far distant were barren hills, and beyond them arose mountains, gray, too, and craggy, with lines of white near their summits, glittering in the pitiless sunshine. Almost at her feet lay a horse, gasping as if for breath, his tongue, cracked and bleeding, hanging from his mouth. Near him a man was stretched face downward on the sand. As she looked he raised his head, and, with dull eyes, gazed drearily about, but she had not needed the movement to know that the man was Joe Hale. He was gaunt of frame, but his face was brown, not white, as she had seen it the other time, and there was a red scar on his forehead not there before. The gray desert stretched away until it melted into the horizon line, and no other creature was in sight in all its space. But while she looked, and before she could take the one step forward that seemed to divide her from the man she loved, the scene was changed, and she stood upon the school-house steps, staring blankly into the muddy street of Branchville.

She began to be afraid of herself, and would have liked to take Joe's mother into her confidence and ask what these visions could mean, but had not the courage. So the two women talked together about one who was so dear to both, and each kept from the other her closest thoughts concerning him. After supper, when the guest would go, pleading duties that demanded her attention in the early New Year's morning, Abner entreated delay, and as they sat about the fire he, too, conscious of sympathy, fell to relating stories of the dear lost son. And while they talked the gate opened, a step was heard on the walk, then on the porch, and Mrs. Hale, her face suddenly radiant with hope and joy, rose swiftly, and before he could touch the latch opened the door to her son. The intuition of the mother rose superior at this moment to the mysterious power that brought visions from far off to the younger woman.

There were laughter and tears, kisses and embraces, and if the visitor shared these neither father nor mother stopped to wonder. There were incoherent questions and answers when all talked at once and no one listened; there was silence of deep emotion as the parents looked upon their boy, who had been lost and was found, and put their hands upon him again and again to be convinced anew that he was truly in the flesh. And when the excitement quieted they all gathered close while Joe told them the story of his adventures; how he had been shipwrecked, as they had read in the papers; how the steamship had made little effort instead of much to save its victims; how he had clung to a floating plank till morning and had been picked up by a tramp boat which had mysterious errands, whose nature he did not inquire, to Central American ports, and was anxious to avoid California harbors for reasons that he suspected to have connection with customs officers.

He told how, at his own solicitation, he was put ashore at the first Guatemalan port, and how, instead of being able to work his way back to San Francisco, as he had hoped, being without money after the shipwreck, he fell ill with fever and would have fared badly but for a party of American miners and prospectors, themselves scant of funds, who ran across him, doctored him, and took him far into the interior before he fairly realized their kind purpose. They were going north overland in search of one of the famous lost mines of Mexico, to whose location they thought they had a clew. It was a wild country they traveled through, and their journeying was slow. They did not come near the civilization of which railroad trains and telegraph wires were a part, and so he wrote no letters, but looked forward to the day when he should reach home in person, and fretted that progress was so slow.

"I had one or two close calls," he said lightly, with the disregard for dangers past common to the young. "While I was lying in a hammock one day (it was the Thanksgiving day here, by the way, and I was dreaming of home), a Mexican thief crept up and gave me this," touching a scar on his forehead, "and another on my shoulder. He aimed at my heart, of course, and it's a wonder he missed. And only last Monday, just a week ago to-day, I thought I was gone. I had left my friends to their rainbow chasing and started to make the rest of the way to Tucson alone. I wandered off the trail, my skeleton of a horse broke down— we were both famished for water— and I thought for a bit that the jig was up. But while I was on the sand thinking the matter over, what did I hear— or, rather, feel— but the faint jarring of a railroad train and the echo of a far-off whistle! It was miles away, but I knew I was all right. It was the sweetest music I ever heard. Actually, the old horse pricked up his ears, scrambled to his feet and jogged on. We struck the track after two or three hours and followed it to a station. From there I got to Tucson, where Tom Bailey, my old room-mate, is, and he lent me money to get home with. So here I am."

The women shuddered at the tale, and looked upon this youth, who talked so carelessly of his perils, as a hero of heroes.

The hour grew late, and Nellie, making a movement of withdrawal, found Joe eager with his proposal to accompany her. She was unwilling to disturb the family group, but read entreaty in the young man's eyes, and so declined her hostess's invitation to remain. They scorned the thought of driving, and went out gayly to walk the short mile on the highway, that was to them that night a path to paradise. Under the moonlit sky Joe asked her the question he had said ought never to be written, and she whispered her answer so low that even the owl blinking in the tree overhead could not hear. But Joe heard.

As they loitered down the road, unmindful that it was the season of frost and not of roses, she told him of her visions, and a wonder fell upon them that she had seen so true. Yet, after all, they reflected, with the beautiful confidence of youth in the supreme power of love, it was not so strange that two souls in such harmony as theirs should come to each other across the world. As they looked up at the starry sky, thinking of this, heaven seemed very near, and they caught a glimpse of its mysteries. Then the bells rang that ushered in a new year, and they felt that it was the beginning of life for them.

BACK IN THE FARM-HOUSE another subject was under discussion. Mrs. Hale had stood in the doorway looking after her son with a pang at her heart in spite of her joy at his return. Sudden insight had come to her, and she knew that though the lost was found he would never be all her own again. She sighed as she shut the door and turned, with absent-minded gaze, toward her husband. He sat by the fire, with a hand on each knee and a puzzled expression on his face. Through all the confusion and excitement of the evening he had remained faithful to his promise, and had not addressed a word to his wife, but now, without preamble, and as if no silence had intervened, he began:

"Mother, what do you reckon it was that made the writing on them slates at Madame Victorine's?"

"I don't know," she answered. "It certainly wasn't Joe, for he didn't get drowned and he wasn't dead, and still some of the things written were family matters no one could have knowledge of but one of us three. But it wasn't Madame Victorine; it was Mrs. Mary Ellen Johnson who was the medium." Then, with the swift intuition of a woman who reads her husband like a book: "Abner Hale, I believe you went to visit Madame Victorine yourself to get slate writings, or you wouldn't know anything about her! You did. I know by your sheepish look you did. Madame Victorine, of all creatures, too! Why, she isn't a decent woman, if all they say's true; five or six husbands, and nobody knows where one of 'em is, or whether they're alive or dead. You ought to be ashamed of yourself— an elder in the church. And all the time holding off from speaking to your own wife."

Abner got in a word here.

"I wanted to investigate a little on your account, and I thought you mentioned Madame Victorine," he urged, feebly.

"My account— nothing!" was her scornful ejaculation. "You were just filled with curiosity, for one thing, and a desire to hear from Joe, for another— don't deny it! And not speaking a word to me for a whole month, and talking of church discipline! Huh!"

Abner had risen to his feet and affected a dignity it was obvious he did not altogether feel.

"Well, mother," he said, in a conciliatory tone, but with the masculine reluctance to owning himself in the wrong clearly apparent; "well, mother, I guess we haven't either of us done anything we want to talk about before folks. It looks as if the devil was in the thing, anyway, as I told you at first. I guess we'd better say nothing about the matter to any one— to any one, not even to Joe."

She looked at him intently and reflected for a moment, then laughed a little, not being without humor.

"I guess so, too," she said.

And she never did mention the affair to any one but Joe, who, of course, told his wife.

___________

16: Lifebuoy

Ernest O'Ferrall

1881-1925

Smith's Weekly (Sydney) 4 Oct 1924

AFTER a long silence...

"Have some more wine," said the host and pushed the decanter across the table.

The guest grasped the neck of the cut glass ornament with a trembling hand and the lip of it rang musically against the edge of the wine-glass. Clink-clink— Clink-clink it chimed like a distant ship's bell.

The guest seemed to shudder at the sound. His gaze wandered furtively round the richly-furnished room and came back reluctantly to the mask-like face of his host. What did this gentleman with the easy, pleasant manners want with him, a poor devil of a ship's fireman? Why had he searched for him through the Seaman's Mission and then brought him to his house and plied him with food and drink?

Sly and suspicious by nature, he sensed some sinister purpose in it and fought against his natural craving for drink, only filling his glass when practically ordered to do so. With a sense of despair, he felt the wine fumes mounting to his brain, lulling his racked nerves to sleep, impelling him to talk unguardedly. And he knew that he must not talk. Not here, anyhow! He remembered that he had blabbed in dingy waterside pubs— swilled beer and blabbed until the story he dreaded spilled out of him in all its shame and horror, and his careless, half-drunken acquaintances drew apart and left him brooding in his own private hell.

Damn the booze! And yet a man had to drink— especially a homeless man who wanted to forget. But he mustn't talk here! Heavens, no! He mustn't talk here.

"Drink up, man!" The smooth voice cut across his half-maudlin thoughts. He roused himself to find a strong, white hand with a signet ring on the third finger filling his glass with wine— wine as red as fire, as red as hell.

Automatically his own right hand that had betrayed him so often and would do so to the end reached out. He watched with a curious detached interest the cracked knuckles as the calloused fingers closed on the stem.

Drunk already! Drunk, and presently to be shamed!

"Drink up!"

It was a command. Without daring to meet his host's gaze, he lifted the glass and drank the rare wine— drank it greedily in great gulps. And no sooner had his glass been set down again than it was filled once more with liquid ruby fire that flushed and winked at him like— God! It was like the port light of the Norseman as she turned over and sank on that night of agony! Why hadn't he drowned like a man and come up on the beach like the other poor devils?

"Weren't you the only survivor of the Norseman?"

So it was out at lost! He tried to force his leaden eyes to meet those of his inquisitor. But it could not be done. He half-reclined in his chair, left hand convulsively gripping the arm-rest and right hand on the table with fingers curled round the wineglass stem. If only a man could muster sufficient courage and strength to hurl the thing at this smooth-spoken swine and rush out of the place before it was too late!

"Yes." (In spite of himself he was answering, sullenly but respectfully.)

"I wish you'd tell me the story. It must have been a terrible experience."

Terrible! Less terrible than this polite torture he was enduring!

"Yes." (Again that fiat affirmation! Why couldn't he shout "No!")

"Toll me!— I am waiting!"

And so the helpless guest began.

"You know how she ran into the storm and how the sea beat her. I was below at the fires — until the water rose and put them out. When I came on deck the two lifeboats wore gone— only the splinters of 'em left. The skipper called us up so that we could drown in the open. It didn't look as if we'd have to wait long. Presently a big sea hit her and she heeled over and started to leave us. There was a passenger there."

(He faltered and stopped).

"Yes," came the prompting voice, "a passenger."

"This passenger had a ship's lifebuoy in his hand, and—"

"And when a wave washed you both away—"

"I came up alongside him."

"Then you did something, didn't you?"

This was deliberate torture! The guest made a convulsive movement, met his host's gaze for an instant and subsided, cowed. "Yes— I took the lifebuoy from him. My belt had been washed off— hadn't been properly secured, sir."

"You took it by force."

"Yes, sir, but how could I—?"

"You took it by force!"

"Well—"

"By force, I say! Answer me, you curl"

"Yes."

"And you were saved and he drowned. Isn't that so?"

"Yes, sir!" (Was that really his own voice whining?)

"All night long you drifted inshore under the light at Discovery Point— the big white light?"

"Oh, God! Yes-yes-yes! Let a poor devil alone, can't you!"

"Not till I am finished with you!... Look at me, Anderson!...Look at me, I tell you!"

The cowering guest looked and trembled. The eyes that burned into his hold no mercy. Very far off he heard a judicial voice.

"The man you cruelly murdered was my younger brother. Here!"

His host took something from Its hiding place under the table— something round and white. He seized the water bottle and splashed the circular thing so that it glistened and dripped.

"Stand up!"

Andersen stood. His movements were those of a clockwork figure. "Take this in your hands! Read the name!"

The helpless survivor took it and groaned. It was a battered lifebuoy. The name on it was Norseman.

"That is the lifebuoy you murdered my brother for!" The murderer was beyond speech. He could only tremble and stare at the relic in his hands as he fought for breath. A switch snapped, and the electrics blinked out. He swayed dizzily in the pitch dark, beads of cold sweat on his brow.

"Do you hear me, James Andersen?" (How far away that voice sounded— far away and relentless!) "Look at me!"

With an enormous effort Andersen raised his head and focussed his gaze on a white face illumined from below by some sort of pocket torch.

"Look into my eyes!"

How they burned! Why did he stare so— and so long?...

"You are at sea, Andersen! You are on the Norseman.

"The seas have put the fires out, and she is drifting, waterlogged and helpless. Listen to the wind!"

Andersen clung to the last rags of his self-control. No, no! He would not give in! He was on land in a dark room, safe except for this man who was playing devil's tricks with his mind.

"Listen to the wind, Andersen! How it howls!"

There was a malevolent screaming and walling in Anderson's ears. It gathered force till it utterly drowned the faint voice of Reason crying out against this outrage.

"Muster all hands on deck!"

Good God! That was the voice of the poor old skipper whose battered body had been laid to rest nine months ago!

"Aye, aye, sir." Ebbway, the first mate! The dead men of the sea were all around him in the dark!

"All-hands-on-deck!"

In response to that long-drawn call, Andersen went sobbing up the slippery ladder, clawed his way on to the glistening deck and at once felt the icy clutch of the hurricane that was torturing and driving the night sea. A great toppling wave raced up and struck the doomed little steamer so that it quivered and rolled. He hung on desperately, watched his chance and ran forward a few steps till he joined the others in the lee of the deck house. The white hopeless faces of the dead looked at him imploringly.

There was old Bassley, the donkeyman, Petersen and Larson, Ebbway, young Devon, and— and—

Through the scream of the storm came the compelling voice, speaking from the riven, starless skies.

"Turn and look! He is here! To-night the Norseman's dead must drown again!"

The murderer turned and met the questioning gaze of the little steamer's only passenger— the travelling consumptive for whom every man on board had been sorry. In his thin hands he held listlessly something round and white— the ship's lifebuoy which young Devon had thrust upon him.

As the steamer staggered dizzily on the crests and rolled wearily in the trough, they rubbed shoulders, the pale passionless dead and the terrified living. He could see the powerful figure of the Captain on the bridge. He was gripping the rail and staring into the storm that was slowly drowning them all.

What was that?

Andersen turned his head and peered into the stormy dark.

Small and bright it soared up little way from the sea, gleamed whitely an Instant and sank again. The light on Point Discovery!

Behind that blind, unwinking eye were people safe and warm in their homes for whom the scream of the wind and the rolling drums of the surf were a lullaby. Later when the papers came from Sydney they would read about this night's terror and tragedy. Some of them would see the wreckage and the poor, battered dead. Who would find him? God, why must he drown and be torn by sharks and the rocks? Why should this poor devil with the buoy cling to the life that had almost left him? He couldn't last long in the water when the end came...

"Jump, boys! She's going!"

The shadowy figures clambered clumsily on to the rail (the steamer was now lying inert on her starboard side), jumped clear and were snatched away by a hissing hillock of black water, laced and crested with white. As he spun, chilled and gasping, on a little hillock of sea, he saw far away a dull red light and a ship of shadow slip wearily into the depths. The wind whistled an ocean requiem as the sea took its own. All gone!— all but himself and this pitiful white face that clung to the other side of the buoy!

As he fought the careless seas that hurled them both about, lifting and dropping them alternately in clumsy giant's play, that damned light ashore played Jack-in-the-box. Was it only imagination or could that be a great black arm raising and lowering the lighthouse? No, no! It must be the loom of the land.

"Drown!" shouted the storm in an enormous voice that filled the black and angry heavens. "Drown, you murderer!"

His senses were fast leaving him, but he fought on, that dreadful white face opposite his. If only he could get rid—

"Your bolt is gone!" roared the wind. "Give him the lifebuoy! It is his turn to live!"

Instinct made the coward clutch the lifebuoy tighter. On the instant a hand buffeted him in the face and the buoy was snatched away and lost.

"Drown!" yelled the storm.

He threw up his arms. The mocking light glared once on the edge of the night of terror and then went out for ever.

The seas closed over his head and he went down— down.....

Extract from an evening paper:—

SUDDEN DEATH SOLE SURVIVOR

OF 'NORSEMAN' WRECK COLLAPSES

JAMES ANDERSEN, sole survivor of the Norseman, which was lost last July on the North Coast, died suddenly last evening at the house of Mr. William Northrivers, whose younger brother was the only passenger on the ill-fated vessel. Mr. Northrivers had entertained Anderson at dinner, and was listening with melancholy interest to his guest's story of the disaster when Andersen collapsed and died, apparently of heart failure brought on by over-excitement. The unfortunate man was examining the Norseman's lifebuoy by which he floated ashore, when he gasped and fell. Mr. Northrivers was naturally shocked by the sad occurrence and has cancelled all arrangements for a lecture on hypnotism which he had arranged to deliver.

____________

17: The Break of Day

Joseph Altsheler

1862-1919

Munsey's Magazine, Sep 1895

A story of the American Civil War

"AND YOU FEEL SURE that the attack will be made before morning?" asked Carson.

"Undoubtedly," replied Beltone. "They know that our defenses are imperfect and that we have lost heavily. They will not give us time to strengthen ourselves."

"Can we beat them off?"

"I do not think we can stop them. I would not say this before the men, but I will to you. They appear to be in force much superior to ours. Besides, they are just as good, man for man, as we are. They have shown that here as well as many a time elsewhere. Did you notice the tall, slender man, with the scar across his face, who was in the front of the charge they made this morning?"

"The one who climbed upon the breastwork at the left angle?"

"Yes. Right in the mouth of our guns. Even after the attack was repulsed he leaned over and chopped at our cannoneers with his sword until some of the men seized him and dragged him inside, a prisoner. When they have the advantage of numbers and of darkness to render our aim ineffective we cannot overcome such desperate courage as that."

"But we may be reinforced."

"Improbable. We have been tangled up a long time in the wilderness. The movement was well intended, but it has failed; and now we are like a mislaid and forgotten package in this lonely and isolated spot. Remember how long it has been since we have heard from the army. We do not even know which way it has gone."

"You don't take a cheerful view of the matter."

"I was merely presenting the facts. But don't look upon me as a croaking raven, predicting evil, old fellow. There are no cowards in our party, and I dare say we shall give a good account of ourselves. Only, as the last hand in the game is to be played soon, I wish our hand was as good as theirs."

The two young officers shrank close to the rude and hastily thrown up earthwork as they whispered together. The darkness, heavy, clammy, and thick with the exhalations from the slimy ooze of the swamps, oppressed them. Behind them they could see indistinctly the recumbent forms of some of their comrades catching a little sleep upon the ground. To the right and to the left were the sentinels. In front was the little clearing, and beyond the forest in which the enemy lay. The moon cast down a few pallid rays which apparently served only to make the darkness visible.

"What a black night!" whispered Carson. "This darkness and the swamp ooze creep into my marrow and numb my courage. I have to reinforce my nerves with my will."

"Many a brave man before you has had to do that when old Father Sun has gone down the other side of the earth," returned Beltone. "Fighting is bad enough at any time, but a night attack, barring the noise, is like a battle among the ghosts. Can you see anything over there in the wood?"

"No," said Carson; "I can barely make out the outline of the wood itself. The moon is of very little use tonight. I suppose it is so much ashamed of the war and bloodshed here that it does not consider it worth while to pay any serious attention to this portion of the earth."

"Never mind," said Beltone; "it's the same moon that's shining, or rather not shining, for the enemy over there. So long as the darkness is as thick as this they will not attack. They could not tell friends from enemies."

"They are silent in the wood," resumed Beltone, a moment later. "Such a considerable force lying so very near us makes no noise that we can hear. I should say that circumstance certainly portended an attack. They are resting before the rush. Ah, what is that?"

"You have nerves as well as I," chuckled Carson, "when the hoot of a swamp owl, which you have heard many and many a time before, would disturb you like that."

"I don't deny it," said Beltone, "nor am I ashamed of it. It is hard enough work to lie down with the reserves in a big battle and wait your turn to be called, while you hear the cannon thundering in front, and the wounded are taken by you to the rear, and the Minié balls are zip-zipping over your head. But then you have the bright sun shining over you, and there is no friend like the daylight. Here you crouch in the darkness and wait for a hand to cleave the black veil and strike you."

There was perfect silence in the camp. In the distant wood, the notes of the night owl rose higher and higher and grew more mournful the higher they rose.

"Isn't that a brooding raven?" whispered Carson. "He makes the lines of that old poem sing through my head."

"It may be the dirge of some brave man," returned Beltone; "again, he may be lamenting man's folly."

"Confound it, I wish he would stop, whatever he means. The swamp and the darkness and the owl together may be too much for me," said Carson.

Beltone did not reply. A faint breeze sprang up, but it brought to them nothing but the rustling of the leaves, and the owl's melancholy measure. The two young men still sat by the earthwork, and tried to pierce the darkness. Presently Beltone said,

"The moon is getting brighter; can you see anything in the wood there now?"

"Nothing except the trees that compose it," returned Carson. "We might send a cannon ball into it. That would stir them up."

"It's not worth while," said Beltone. "They would simply draw further back, if they are not already out of range. There's nothing for us but to wait."

"Beltone," said Carson, "I don't mean to be melodramatic or sentimental, but if I fall you will tell them at home what became of me?"

"Certainly," replied Beltone calmly, even cheerfully, "if you are the one taken and I am the one left. If it is the reverse, I ask you to do as much for me. If we both fall, probably enough of our comrades will be left to make all the history of it the world needs."

They relapsed again into silence, but remained beside the breastwork, voluntary and vigilant sentinels. Old Time moved on with heavy step. The owl's hoot died away, and only the rustling of the wind through the leaves was heard.

"It seems a week since the sun set," said Carson.

"And that means that it will be another week until the sun rises again," returned Beltone. "It must be about midnight now. Do you see anything in the wood yet?"

"No, only the trees swaying in the wind. I think I shall climb upon the breastwork and get a better view."

"Don't do it."

"Why?"

"Sharpshooters. Some of them can see like owls, and the shadows will not protect you."

"I'll chance it."

Cautiously he climbed the earthwork. There was a report from the wood, followed by the familiar singing noise that a Minié ball makes, and Carson rolled back into the camp.

"It is nothing, or rather a narrow escape only," he said getting up. "I felt the swish of his bullet past my cheek. I am not hurt."

Beltone made no comment. By and by he asked again,

"Can you see anything yet in the wood?"

"No; nothing but the black wall of trees."

"But don't you hear a sound that is not the rustling of the leaves?"

"I think so, but I can't tell yet whether it's reality or the imagination."

"There, again; don't you hear it?"

"I seem to hear something; but still it may only be imagination playing one of her tricks at the sunset of life."

"If I do not really hear it, then imagination is very strong, even for such a night and such a situation as this."

"The balance is certainly inclining to the side of reality."

"Listen!"

They lay perfectly quiet for a minute, straining every sense to hear. Then Beltone drew his pistol belt a little tighter.

"There can be no doubt of it," he said. "The wind is blowing from the wood towards us, and in the stillness of the night sound comes a long distance with great distinctness. I have heard such sounds too often before to be mistaken. That steady, regular pulsation could not be made by anything but marching troops."

"It isn't possible that they are withdrawing! Beltone! Do you think they are?"

"No. They have been reinforced. That sound was made by troops coming to join them. It means heavier odds against us when the rush comes. There—do you hear that? Am I not right?"

A cheer, far away and faint, but unmistakable, came to them. In a moment it was repeated, and then again and again, each time swelling with increased volume.

"I don't see why they should make so much noise about it," said Carson, a little pettishly.

"It's their time to cheer," returned Beltone quietly.

After the cheers came silence, and for a long time the listening men could hear nothing. Then a confused hum and murmur of voices came from the wood; but this, too, soon died away, and the stillness of the night settled down again. It might have been a half hour afterwards when a plaintive but clear note pierced the air and startled the listening men. As it continued, the sound grew louder and fuller. Mellow and sweet, it filled the darkness around them.

"A violin!" said Carson. "On the eve of battle. How strange!"

"I never knew anything like it before in all my experience of war," returned Beltone. "But hush, listen. Don't you recognize the tune?"

Through the heavy night air floated the solemn strains of "Home, Sweet Home," and the music rose and fell as if the hand of a master held the bow.

"Perhaps the forest is haunted," whispered Carson.

"If it's not, the force out there has a strange commander!" returned Beltone. "He has an odd method of rousing the spirits of the men for battle."

"Beltone," said Carson gravely, "don't forget your promise about telling them at home, if I fall in the morning."

Before Beltone could reply a voice, deep in the wood, took up the strain of the violin and blended with its notes. Over them and around them, clear and sweet, floated the words and the echo of the song:

Home, home, sweet home,
Be it ever so humble,
There's no place like home.

THE ATMOSPHERE had cleared and the moon shone bright. Beltone could see a tear glisten on the eyelid of his companion.

"Do not be ashamed of it," said Beltone, with a nervous little laugh, as Carson raised his hand to wipe the tear away. "When we lose our feelings we cease to be men."

He stopped, for now a dozen, twenty, even fifty— yes, a hundred voices, far away in the wood, joined in the song of home.

Then the melody ceased. Beltone heard a sigh of regret, like an echo, from Carson.

Neither spoke for some time. Then Carson said,

"Beltone, what does it mean?"

"I cannot say. Perhaps it was for amusement. But I would choose another kind of music for troops who expected to make a bloody assault in an hour or two. Still, you never can tell what a commander will do. The sternest of them grow sentimental sometimes."

Beltone shrugged his shoulders, and the two again relapsed into their silent waiting. But they heard the music no more.

"What we shall hear next will be music of a different sort," said Carson.

The night crept on with heavier steps than ever.

"Daylight cannot be far away. The enemy's rush is near at hand. We are as well prepared for him as we can be in this camp here. But I wish it were all over."

"I believe I hear their footsteps now," said Carson. "Listen. Are they coming?"

But the sound, if there was any, died away, and the two men crouched against the soft earth, waited, and heard nothing.

A slight gray streak appeared in the east. It broadened, and soon bars of light shot up over the forest.

"He will come now," whispered Beltone, "when there is just light enough for him to see our camp, and too little for us to take aim by."

But the wood was still silent. No human forms could be seen among the trees. The bars of light broadened. The red edge of the sun arose above the horizon. A full throated bird in a tree began to sing.

"Strange," said Beltone. "Where is he? He is not wont to be lax like this."

The morning grew, until camp and forest and swamp were flooded with the yellow sunlight.

Suddenly Carson grasped Beltone's arm.

"There is some one," he said. "They are coming at last!"

A man appeared at the edge of the clearing. He held up his hands and walked towards the camp. He was unarmed.

Beltone and Carson watched him intently. The rifles of the sentinels covered him.

"I wonder what he is after? Does he want to play with us after the cat-and-mouse fashion?" muttered Beltone.

The man came on towards the camp. Other men fell in behind him, but came no further than the edge of the wood. The stranger walked with an easy step, straight and firm, toward the earthwork where Beltone and Carson stood, awaiting his approach.

"An officer of rank. A colonel, at least," said Beltone.

The stranger saluted.

"I wish you a pleasant morning, sirs."

"We are indebted to you. I trust you are well," said Beltone, with equal politeness. "May I ask you who has honored us with this visit?"

"Certainly." He spoke with great dignity. "I am Colonel Walton of the Louisiana troops, commander of the forces out there."

"I have heard of you often, colonel," returned Beltone. "We have not forgotten how you held us back that fierce day at the bend of the river."

"I have done the best that I could for what I thought was right," said the colonel simply.

Then Beltone asked,

"Have you any message that I may take to our commander?"

"Yes," said Colonel Walton. "We were joined by Tennessee troops last night. Their officers are fine fellows, and they bring us news. Perhaps you heard us singing in the night?"

"Yes," said Beltone wonderingly.

"Well, then," the stranger continued, "say to your commander that I and my officers would be greatly pleased and honored if he and his staff would take dinner with us today. It is true that we have little to offer, but I dare say we can treat you well."

"Why, sir," said Beltone angrily, "what sort of jesting is this? We are aware that you are in overwhelming force, but before we go into your camp as prisoners you must first come and take us. War is bad enough, sir, without such ill timed jokes as this."

"War?" said Colonel Walton calmly. "Why do you speak of war? General Lee and his army surrendered three days ago. The war is over."

_____________

18: The Pool of Honor

Elinor Mordaunt

Evelyn May Clowes, 1872-1942

The Lone Hand, Sydney, 1 June 1912

A Story of Mauritius, by an English author and traveller

IT is thirty miles— the full length of the Island of Mauritius indeed— from the port to L'Etoile; fifteen of them up the sheer side of a wall of mountains hung with a thick growth of old forests, broken only by precipices, up and up, till the sea— like a blue girdle— can be seen all around, with its fold of white on the reef. Toy-like are the villages lying beneath, shimmered over by a veil of distance and heat; toy-like the green patches of canes, and even the factories and their belching chimneys. But most toy-like and ineffectual of all appear the efforts of man from there on the crest of the mountains; from the lap of the gods, whence the crawling atoms that rule the world below are not even seen, much less heard, for all their loud brag and bustle.

Topping the ridge of the mountains, for one precious moment, humanity drops away from one, like an unclean garment, and the nature of the gods enfolds one. There, between heaven and earth, the sordid life of the plains, the reluctant agony of birth and death seems but a dream, and the pure ecstasy of the spirit the only vital force. But the road that has climbed so high that it turns back a little upon itself as if in hesitation starts again, and drops, fold upon fold, into the basin that the mountains hold, there beneath their shoulders, not deeply sunk, but merely hollowed from breast to breast.

Down the side of the heights, opposite to the road, pours a river, which drops in a gleaming fall to the very heart of the valley— not two miles across in either direction— so that the depth of it is ever overhung with a veil of spray, and murmuring with the deep-mouthed voice of many waters. In the hollow the river spreads widely, and flows, overhung by drooping, wide-leaved palms, round many rocks and boulders, in a white and amber stream till it pushes its way through a cleft in the mountain side and into the sea. There live a little colony of Indians and Creoles, growing their own canes, existing on their own produce, making rare and difficult journeys, perhaps twice a year, in some fisherman's boat from the border of the land beyond the mountains to the sea front, for seeds and clothing, and such implements as are absolutely necessary to life. There, too, is a little Catholic chapel, and a padré, who is a man of dreams also; and partly perhaps a Pagan, having taken for his Lady Chapel— and enshrined there a white Virgin of rare marble— a forest grove lined with ferns, and roofed with growing palms. There also is old Monsieur de Frevel, so old that life itself has become to him nearly all sleeping, and all dreaming; and there is John Daring, who has built his life's fabric on the shifting sands of dreams.

Against the western slope of the basin of L'Etoile lies the tea plantation which by some chance he has dreamed into a sort of half-being. It is a beautiful place, beautiful beyond all words— but it will not grow good tea, as Daring now knows. He has not sufficient energy really to work the land, to force it to profit by sheer sweat and good husbandry; neither has he determination enough to leave it and start elsewhere. So each year the leaf is plucked and dried in the sun, on primitive bag-covered racks, and packed in tins and sent to town, and sold— perhaps— to those who can afford no better. I stayed with the padre once for shooting; for the valley and the mountains and forests are alive with deer. And we went and saw John Daring's tea plantation; and sat in a little arbor, and drank pale clear tea that might have been made from cabbage leaves, and ate peaches and fresh honeycomb, waited upon by' the entire staff of slender, smooth-headed Indian men and women, who appeared more like the spirit of the place than flesh and blood.

John Daring himself seemed not so much a dreamer as the embodiment of a dream. About the daily routine of his work he was the mere figment of a man. His business transactions had no body; they were but vague shadows of commercial enterprise, and came to nothing; his ruling of the tiny estate was perfunctory and mechanical. As long as everything went right he repeated his day's lesson like a well-drilled child; but if the need of any sudden effort or change of plans arose he, psychologically if not actually, hands to his face and ran away.

There was a three-roomed bungalow, with a little kitchen and servants' cas, near the tea gardens where he lived. It was surrounded by a hedge of brilliant rose-tinted begonias, as high as a tall man's shoulder, broken in front only by a little narrow path that led down to a pool set deep in palms. All the long hours of daylight John Daring seemed to be at work at one thing or another, in his ineffectual way, and seldom came home till near sunset.

Returning he would stay neither to eat nor drink; he would speak to nobody; but like a man asleep would take his towels and pass down the little path to the pool.

The foliage grew close as a wall on either side, yet even the very path, trodden as it was each day, was grown thick with maidenhair ferns, which clung to the stems of the palms and fringed the water's edge. At the margin stood a rough little bench, and on this, each night, was laid ready by Daring's Hindu servant— who regarded him as half-insane, and therefore wholly sacred— a pile of clean white garments.

John Daring would undress and wade deep, straight to the middle of the pool till the surface lay right under his chin. He did not splash about, or play with the water to exercise his muscles in the way most men would have done; but just stood there, taking no count of time, while the cool water and the mystery of evening and the peace of the place enfolded him. It seemed indeed a sacrament, by the power of which all his weariness and indecision dropped from him, and he became alive, the vital creature of his dreams. Sometimes the moon would rise, sheer above the encircling curtain of leaves, and shine down upon him, so that he stood in a bath of milky whiteness. Then his life was at its zenith. But in any case, as he drew his dripping limbs from the water and dressed in his clean white linen, he was a new man.

The John Daring of the day had blue eyes, so light as to be almost colorless; his hair and beard were pale and dull also; he stooped, he moved slowly and awkwardly. If you questioned him he hesitated long before replying, and prefaced his answers with, "I think," or "perhaps," or "maybe." But the man who climbed up the little hilly path from the pool walked erect and with a spring, and his eyes were clear, bright and alert. He was often singing curious rhythmic songs of his own making; but the words came crisp and clear, each in its own place. You could not have imagined such a man hesitating for a moment, either in thought or speech.

His dinner was set always in the verandah, lighted but dimly by a native lamp, its wick swimming in scented oil. The servant, a slender Calcutta man, served the simple dinner noiselessly. The fare varied but little, fresh river fish, curry or venison, an omelette and fresh water. But this finished, he would clear the table and place fruit upon it, two glasses and a flask of white wine. Then, if the moon shone, he would tip-toe up to the little lamp which stood upon a bracket, extinguish it— blowing gently with shading hand— and vanish among the shadows.

There was a shrub of white trumpet flowers growing close against the verandah; and the posts and eaves of it were hung with stephanotis. It was a riot of perfume. Through dinner it had passed unnoticed, but at that moment it seemed always as if it grew vocal; as if it sang to the soul and the senses— songs that no notes, no words could ever express.

And in the midst of it all a woman would move out on to the verandah and lift the glass that John poured for her to her lips—only touching it, never drinking. But the man would drain his at a draught, all the ardor of an unquenchable love-thirst in his eyes, and, moving towards her, take her in his arms and draw her down to his side on the verandah steps, where the white trumpet flowers brushed their cheeks.

She was a small, slender creature— appealingly small, swathed in white draperies like any native woman. But her face, though a little more golden in hue, was as pale and clear as many Europeans; and her bare feet and hands, all a-tingle with their bangles, were, though tiny, rounded, and not long and narrow like an Indian woman's. The shape of her features, the turn of her head, the coquetry of her movements were pure Parisian; only the passion of her dark eyes and the curious broken patois seemed to link her in any way with the Island people.

But having once been drawn to worship her beauty by its subtle suggestion of Europe and reminder of woman of long ago, Daring straightway forgot it. It had been the means only of starting the dream which now enfolded his life. He had married the girl indeed, by one of the eight rituals of Mohammedan marriage, he did not even remember which; her mother had arranged it all. It had happened during the dull daylight hours, and was indeed the last occasion on which she had any definite daylight existence for him. An unexpected return to his bungalow might reveal a half-known woman bending over her needle or her spindle, or, later, dandling a strange, pale-faced baby on the verandah steps. But there was nothing real about her! It all seemed like the shadow of a dream. "His wife," people said; but the words had no definite meaning for him. The footlights were out, the theatre grey and dreary, and, after all, she was only the understudy, given her part because of a chance likeness.

With the quick wit of a half-caste, she realised the limitations of her position. Not being a true European, she did not stand upon her dignity; also she delighted in mystery— it all helped. Besides, her simple soul had breathed out its passion to him as unrestrainedly as the trumpet flower its perfume; and what other woman was ever so loved, so loved— in the evening ! What matter that through the, day she was nothing to him? The Oriental mind is philosophic as well as fervid; and one cannot have everything. Each day brought its evening; nothing ever cheated her of that. She could not give him companionship or intellect, or culture, but she could give him what he needed— a complement to his half of the dream, a woman's folding arm, soft breast and responsive lips.

But, ah, the tragedy of it. Perhaps its one saving point was that she never really knew—never really realised that he merely worshipped in her the memory of a woman he had always loved, a memory which so obsessed him that each evening he came afresh, not to Rosa Lahern, the French Creole, but to the first love of his youth. Perhaps it did not really matter, for, after all, giving more she had more than the real woman would have ever received. With her there might have been reservations, timidity, self-distrust in the manifestation of Daring's love. Her northern nature could hardly have responded as did Rosa's to the ardent flame of passion which each evening burnt clear away all traces of John Daring, the planter, leaving only the poet and the master of dreams. A European woman might have shrunk half-frightened, half-revolted from the fervor of it all; but to Rosa it was the very breath of life.

"Was there ever such a love as ours?" he would ask. "It is as if it had annihilated the entire world for us, and left us hanging in space— us, and only us, with eternity wrapping us round like a garment. Us— only us. What foolish words are 'you' and 'I,' telling of a divided and half life. There is no 'you' and 'I' possible, when I cannot even tell where your hand touches my hand, or how deep the curve of your cheek lies in the hollow of mine. This is all of life; not having or getting or ruling, but this perfect welding of two into one. Even death will call us together, one soul with one voice, one immortality for the two in one— Rosa, Rosa, Amorosa."

The other had been an English Rose— rounded, perfect, pink and fragrant. Yet this strange bloom, grafted upon Daring's root of love— exotic, drooping, palely tinted— was as much a Rose in name, in fragrance. So it went on for a year or more. Several times I crossed the shoulders of the mountains, and felt that there, in the hollow of their curving bosoms, Time had dropped asleep.

Then there came a season when the Padré had visitors; not an uncommon occurrence, for the district boasted no rest house, and he was glad enough to eke out his very meagre salary with the help of occasional sight-seers or sportsmen.

There were two men and two women, on this occasion, who arrived early one morning. Directly the sun abated a little the men set out to explore, eager for sport, one of the women accompanying them, and the Padré, eager as a boy, with his cassock girded up round his waist.

For some time the other woman lay in a long chair, in the narrow verandah wrapped in the dreams that the place brought ; and gazed and gazed at the palms and the rounded bosoms of the hills, quite alone, save for the old Creole housekeeper and a couple of Indian boys, all busy preparing the evening meal, plucking fowls, grinding spices for curry, and drawing water.

The mountains seemed to have something to say to the woman. Their silence was heavy with unuttered words; they drew her eyes so that she could not keep them away, then her thoughts. It was like putting one's face into the hollowed cup of a chloroformist, once to let those hills draw one— the least little morsel of self-forgetfulness, and one's whole consciousness was gone.

The woman at last could bear the silent appeal of them no longer; and, rising, she went into the house, pinned on her hat, took her parasol, and passed down the flaming little garden and out of the gate. First, she skirted some cane squares, then some drowsing native huts; then crossed a little stream, stepping surely on the large flat stones which continued the path, and so on, till the way wound in among a grove of palms.

She was small and slender, all delicate pale browns and pinks; but, perhaps because she had Gaelic blood in her veins, she moved in a way that was not quite English, with a sureness and spiing, and held her flowerlike head very upright on her slender neck. At first the palms were scattered; then, gradually, they gathered in a thick phalanx at either side of the narrowing path, massed closely round their stems with undergrowth. The path itself must have been worn by wild creatures, deer or wild pigs going down to drink, for no Indian ever passed that way. It led to the pool of the mad Sahib, and, though they did not fear him, he was sacred, a man apart.

The evening was gathering greyly as the woman at last reached the pool, so deep-set in its greenery that the light from the few rose-tinted clouds left in the sky did not even touch it as it lay there waiting. The woman dropped down on the brink, and turning back her sleeves, plunged first one arm, then another, deep in its coolness; dried then on her handkerchief, folded her hands on her lap, and sat there in a mood of curious quiescence, waiting as the pool waited.

A man came down to the other side, a tired, pale man, fair to greyness. The woman rose suddenly to her feet. And their eyes clashed and caught across the water. There was no mistake about it, no straying of glances, and as their eyes met the man's whole being seemed suddenly to flame into life— he was a creature of brilliant vitality, of color. It seemed strange that the water could lie still beneath such a passion of feeling as swept across it.

The woman spoke first, with a sudden deep breath. "We are divided— still. Is there no way round—John?" The name was a caress as she said it.

"It is a long, long way round— a lifetime's journey. But I can pass through; it is not deep." There was meaning in his words, and she caught it.

"It may be deep— it is deep, I— drowning deep. It looks but a tiny, peaceful pool, but there are lots of things like that— love and life and marriage."

"That is folly— sheer folly. I will come! Rose, Rose, do you think I will let anything divide us after all these years? I will come— let me come, Rose." The words were a cry, voicing every entreaty that could he wrung from a man's soul by an agony of longing. "Tell me I may come— just one word— one sign."

"No, no! At first I wished it, now— ah, John, you wish it too much. It is a little pool, as yet untroubled— the little pool of honor— so easy to cross! I am bound still— bound more than ever— by years, by trust, by most tender affection. And you— are you free?"

There are eight Mohammedan rituals of marriage. In a sudden flash Daring remembered every detail of the only one he had ever seen, and the girl in the white draperies, with the child she sometimes held against her heart.

And the woman saw his look, and understood it.

"A little quiet pool, and yet it guards the honor of four souls— my path is here— yours there. Let the pool be, my dear, my dear." And flinging her hands before her face in a passion of tears, like a scared child she turned and ran, and ran, up the straight, the narrow path.

After a little pause the man turned too, and set his foot on his, straight and narrow also, yet leading upwards, leaving there, folded upon the little bench the pile of fresh white clothes as Ramdor had placed them, the panoply of a dream that had passed.

He seemed to have lived a life time down at the pool's edge, yet he returned far sooner than was his general custom; the dinner table was not even set, and on the verandah steps sat the woman with the child on her knee.

She rose, hesitating, debating whether to slip back into the house, or merely press a little closer against the bush of trumpet flowers and let him pass her unnoticed. There was a whole world of tragedy in her gesture of self-effacement, in the plain showing that she realised her little hour had not yet come. And for the first time Daring realised it.

And more. That the child's eyes were blue, and drew him with a solemn gaze of kinship. That the dream was shattered for ever, that duty could no longer be twisted to fancy's liking, that the past and the present were as far apart as are the east and the west. And yet that this— this remained— his wife, his child.

____________

19: The Parliament at Thebes

Donn Byrne

1889-1928

Pictorial Review June 1923

Collected in: Changeling and Other Stories, 1923

All around us, now, is the occult night of Egypt, and we sense that we are in a place we have known in dreams and desires, and perhaps seen a drawing of in some childhood's book. Before us we sense— we do not see, so little light does the moon behind the rolling clouds give us— an immensity of sand. In some places there are little hills; and in others billows as of the sea, and here a rude terrace, and there a minute cliff. Everywhere is the sand; live sand, not dead. And westward, we know, it rolls onward like the sea, through the width of Africa, through the Sahara, reaches Timbuktu, the secret city, and the jungle takes up the land, and rolls to the Gold Coast, where the Atlantic booms in great, curling surf.

And south of us is Africa, too, the crags of Abyssinia, the great belt of Rhodesia, and the plains where Kaffirs dig for diamonds, and the great veldts the Boers have tamed, and Table Mountain, that old navigators know, and the cape they have called Good Hope. And southward and eastward is the pearly haze of Madagascar.

And north of us the desert slopes away to where Alexandria was, to where the still Mediterranean is, which has no tides, and Tyre and Sidon flourished, that now are dead; and Carthage of the Phoenicians was, whence black Hannibal set forth against the eagles of Rome— and was conquered and yet lives, so great his name is. And here was the empire of the Moors, the slim bronze people who struck Spain in a great shattering wave, and from whom Charlemagne got glory in battle.

All these are dead now, and the moon shines over dead cities, dead heroes, and great empires that are dead, and buried under shifting silver sands. But the land we are in is not dead; eternal Africa, eternal Egypt.

And where we are now, it is old, the events of history being like the trivialities of a summer day. We sense that Egypt is older than Mohammed, whose revelation is law there now, and older than the Little Lord who fled hither from Palestine with Joseph and Mary, older than the painted kings who sleep in pyramids; older than the pyramids themselves; older than the Hebrews who helped build them; older than Moses, who revolted and used black magic against the Pharaoh of his time; older than the tradition of yellow shaven priests; older than Isis and Osiris whom they worshiped with polished ritual— older, and younger, than this; eternal.

Above our heads now there is an occasional beam of the moon, and in front of us the plain of sand that extends to the little hillocks and minute cliffs the wind has made. And back of us is the broad and shallow Nile, where we hear an occasional lap of a little wave, and a splash as of some small fish jumping. And here and there are isolated palm-trees.

And there are no men, anywhere, but there is a sense of men. We know there are men in the cities to the north of us, men and women dancing in great blazing hotels, men on great liners going eastward through the canal De Lesseps made, men south of us at camp fires in the jungle, men west of us on caravans to Timbuktu. But here, and near here, men there are none.

There is a pocket of clearness in the clouds for a second and the moon shines through, and we see on the plain before us such assembly of life as only Noah saw when he took the creatures of the world in seven by seven and two by two, on board his great ship. In a great orderly gathering they are there, patient, silent. The bears are there, the brown bear, and the little black bear. And the moorland ponies, and the deer are there, great elks with horns like sails, and the little deer of parks, and they of the cat tribe, with sleek furs and green eyes, and the fox with his brush, and the lanky, wide-eyed hare, and the rabbit children do be loving. They are all gathered there.

And the kine of the field are there, patient, stupid-looking. And the great monster of the river, the hippopotamus, and the armored creature that has the horn on its nose. And the last of the buffaloes. And the great springing thing of Australia that carries its young in a pouch, it is there. And the solemn sheep.

And back of that is an infinity of little creatures, the furry little creatures of the woods, who run when approached. They are there. All, all are silent, patient, a little puzzled, one fancies.

In front of this gathering, forward and a little apart, is a manner of deputation. The lion, who pads around a little, and in whose eyes there is anger. The great black and amber tiger, who is still but for the significant movement of the immense tail, and the elephant, that seems like some gigantic carven thing. And the crocodile lies in the sand, like some black sea-beaten log. And the polar bear is there with black dots for eyes. And the horse is still as in a stall. And next to the elephant the dog sits.

And they are all there, gathered for some occult reason, in the night of Egypt, under the thin twilight of the clouded moon.

And another beam of moonlight comes, and we see that the Angel of the Lord has appeared somewhence and stands before them.

As we see the Angel of the Lord, one of the illusions of our childhood vanishes. He is not a shining figure armed with terror and majesty. True, he has wings and a sword and a white robe, and is of stature above mortal. But, on the other hand, he has a great red beard, and his fingers are gnarled. There is something shy in his appearance, and kindly. And about him there is something of disappointment. One gets the impression that once he was a very great angel indeed, but in latter centuries he has drifted into a sort of back-water.

If he were a man and not an angel, with his red beard and gnarled fingers and shy ways, he might be an old-fashioned farmer who cared more for his land than for the price of corn, and who would allow no tractors or mechanical appliances on his place, still having faith in the firm hands of workmen, and the strength and canniness of horses. He is evidently embarrassed, and not quite at home, and it is easily seen that he is more accustomed to looking at the crack in a horse's frog, and tending sick ewes, and herding homeless dogs, than facing emotional tension such as seems to be present.

He comes forward shyly, his brow wrinkled in an embarrassed smile. And the dog smiles back at him, opening a laughing mouth and wagging its tail. And the horse gives a little whinny. But the rest are silent. The elephant regarding him with a sort of kindly contempt, and the crocodile watching him with ophidian distrust. But the lion is warm with anger and the tiger dangerously cold with it. The great white bear is serious.

The Angel of the Lord speaks. His voice is soft and his speech halting. And we have a sudden chill of horror as we recognize his accent as Irish. Not quite Southern Irish, and not distinguishably Northern Irish— neutral Irish.

"Well, now, this is an unusual thing, an out-of-the-way thing, I might say.... I... I hope I see you all well?"

There is a rustle of the little creatures back of the deputation. And in the circle before the angel the dog is wagging his tail, and the horse throwing up his head. But silence.

"I take it there is something on all your minds, so! Well, let you speak up, now, and let me hear what it is. It isn't the weather: that's elegant. And it can't be the crops. I was talking to the Angel of the Crops last night, and devil a better season has he seen since the night of the big wind."

He gets no answer.

"It's queer and shy youve got all of a sudden. And why should you be shy with me? Sure there 's never anything come between us since I was put over you. And have n't I always been your friend? Let one of you speak up, now. How about yourself?" He turns to the lion. "The king of beasts, they call you. Let you be speaking, now, for the crowd."

All around us now is the occult night of Egypt. Live sand and the little wind among the hillocks, and back of us the antique Nile. Here first was magic. And here first the half-gods were worshiped under the guise of beasts; of the cat and of the crocodile, and of others. And here is the monument of the half-god, the Sphinx, that is woman and animal, beauty and terror.

And as we listen, the beasts speak, and to our human mechanics the deep vibrations are translated into human sounds, and the voice of the lion is as the voice of some great one of our race speaking in anger. And in the deep rumble we can hear thunder:

"In the place where I live by the great lake there is lately come a man." So the lion! "He is a trading man. His legs are bandy. He is rarely shaven. In the morning his eyes are bleary. He blinks at the green light of dawn.

"And in the green glade where he is come he has builded a house. He has littered the ground with mangled boughs of trees, with papers, with tin cans which are emptied of his food. And the winds cannot clean that place, nor the rains wash the obscenity away.

"And all day long this man sits behind his counter in the little shop and barters with the black man, giving knives and beads and cloth for the skins of the animals whom it is allotted to the black man to kill. And giving him white man's liquor.

"And the white man drinks his own liquor, and when his heart is high with it, he takes his rifle and comes to seek me— for he has to seek me; I and all the clean things of the land avoid him, so little kin is he to us.

"And if he kills me for his sport, my lioness will come and he will kill her, too, and what shall become of our little tawny cubs?

"Why should this man come into our clean land, and make unbeautiful the dells, and stalk me that he may boast to other drinking men: 'I have killed the king of beasts'?"

"Ay! Ay!" The angel is disturbed. "He does make the place look bad. And true for you, he does go after you. I understand. I understand fully, but— "

And now the tiger has arisen, and his speech comes sibilant, with a little snarl:

"They who come up the Hooghly are not unshaved but clean. They are precise, languid men. They come for gain in the country. They do not barter in shops, but gain comes to them. They govern, and for being governed the brown men of India pay tribute and tax.

"And when the languid men from over the sea grow tired of governing, they go out to seek adventure. They send out the brown Indian men on foot to rouse me from the jungle sleep. And they follow with guns on our brother the elephant, and when I am driven into the open, and stand there dazed with the sun, they shoot at me from the back of our brother the elephant.

"And was it for this I was made, given great emerald eyes, given amber skin with great black stripes, given silken muscles, and claws like knives, to be driven out of my warm green jungle into the blinding sun, and be killed by languid men?"

"Well, now, you know what they say; if they did n't kill you, you 'd kill them."

"How many have I killed, except in defense? Is it sport for me to leave the cool, moonlit glades, and come to the hot cities to kill men? If I want fighting, are there not the wild boar and my brother the elephant? And if I want food, is man as succulent as the young kid?"

"Ay, there 's a lot in that. And what is your complaint?" He turned to the great carven elephant.

"I am the wisest, the strongest, the most dignified of all. I live on the shoots of young trees, and raid sometimes the crops, but I kill nothing except in terror or defense. And once they sought me out in the secret places for great ivory teeth, and there was great danger. And it was either kill or be killed.

"And now they trap me with cunning. Now there are helot elephants trained to decoy the brethren of the warm woods, and traps to hold us. And when they have made us fast they starve us cruelly. And they bring us across waters and exhibit us, and the clown and the yokel pay their copper pennies to gaze at the wise and strong in captivity. And some greasy man pouches the wages of our prison. Was it for this we were made wise and kindly and strong?"

The angel is embarrassed. He looks right and left. He turns in relief to the great white bear:

"Sure, now, what complaint can you have? There 's nobody going to shoot at you from the back of the elephant. And there's no man going to open a shop where you are. Begor, 't is few customers he 'd have barring the sea-gulls. And whenever you get killed, 't is your own fault. It's your curiosity brings you to where they can get a shot at you. If you 'd stick around your icebergs you 'd be better off. Sure, you lead the life of a lord's lady. What brings you here at all?"

"I come for the little seals, and our sister the whale. They cannot walk. And they are in great trouble."

"I know. I know. Sure, my heart's just in chains for them."

"The seals huddle on the rocks with their young. They huddle and tremble, and each sinister boat in the Arctic seas is a menace. And the seas are wide, and the patrols are few."

"I know. I know."

"The black boats come, and the men with rifles."

"Ah, now, don't be talking! Don't I know!"

"And our sister the whale skulks in black seas— she who once greeted the sun in the morning. And now seldom appears— who once loved to bask like a cat. She is haunted in her own ocean until she cannot show her steaming fountains. And as a people, she is a slender people, and will soon die."

"A great and terrible loss, surely. Sure, I 'm trying to forget, and you 're reminding me. And you?"

"I have no complaint," uttered the crocodile. "They rarely kill me with guns. They seldom capture me. And there are always small black children bathing in the Nile. And boats get upset often. I have no complaint," he leered.

"Do you know— " the angel is severe— "I never liked you. And what use you are on this earth is more than I can see. Do you know," he said, "I've half a mind to hoof you back into the river. I have so. Now, here 's one has a complaint." He turned to the horse. But the horse shook its head.

"No complaint, and you the hardest-worked of them all! And the rest of these lazy devils doing nothing but lolling around in the sun. And you, my darling?"

The dog uttered a joyous bark.

"You have no complaints, either."

"Except," the dog pleaded, "that they should n't muzzle me in the heat of the day."

"Well, now, boys— " the angel was awkward with his hands— "I take it youve all got a complaint to make against man. You object, I infer, to his shooting at you with guns, except, as he is entitled to, in self-defense. And I take it our friend the elephant also objects to being exhibited. On the whole, you object to the present attitude of man. Now, what do you want me to do?"

"We want you," the lion said, "to have God make man stop attacking us."

"Well, now— " the angel shifts from one foot to the other— "well, now, youve touched on a very delicate situation. On all subjects, of course, you 'll find God kind— I might say, to a degree. But the subject of Man is just a wee bit touchy.

"God, you know, is very much interested in Man. He thinks a lot of man, and He is very much inclined to let man have his own way.

"So whether He 'd listen to a complaint against man or not, I don't rightly know. Personally, between me and you, I think it might be dangerous to put it that way.

"But I 'll tell you what I 'll do. I 'll wait until some fine day when they tell me He 's in good humor, when He's pleased about Man having thought out some new fine scheme, or made a discovery, and then I 'll tackle Him, nice and easy.

"Yes, I 'll take it up some day, and I 'll see what I can do. I 'm sure if I can get Him in a good humor, I can do something. Will that satisfy you?"

"It will not," said the animals.

"Well, then, what do you want me to do?"

"We want you," the tiger's sibilant purr came, "to go from us to God now, to-night."

"Och! have sense! You don't know what you 're asking. I suppose you think I've only got to knock at the door and ask God to come out and talk it over, and offer Him a pinch of snuff, maybe, and ask Him how the weather 's agreeing with Him. Do you know this wee earth is only one of a million? Of course you can't comprehend that, being only animals and having no reason."

There is something like a snort from the elephant. The Angel of the Lord ventures a timid glance in that direction, but says nothing. The angel is rather in awe of the elephant, as a mother might be of a genius child. He switches to a different point:

"Besides, I suppose you think there are only a few angels of us in it— myself and the Angel of the Changing Seasons, and the Angel of the Growing Crops, and the Angel of the Rivers and Streams, and the Angel of the Five Oceans. Well, let me tell you, there's archangels, and there's powers and dominions, and cherubim and seraphim, and God knows what else. And there's angels you never heard of: there's the Angel of the Progress of Education, and there 's the Angel of Economic Conditions, and the Angel of Atomic Energy. All very clever fellows— geniuses, you might say. And there 's the Angel of Arts and Crafts, a sloppy-looking lad I would n't be caught talking to.

"And there 's English angels, all very superior, and Italian angels, slick as be-damned; and Russian angels are always sighing and groaning and drinking tea; and American angels, brisk lads would convince a dying man he was the devil and all for strength and energy. And me nothing but a poor sort of fellow that knows nothing but animals; you see, I 'd better be keeping my mouth shut in that kind of assembly.

"I 'll tell you what I will do. I 'll get through my work early, and contrive to hang around the squares and gardens of heaven, and any one of these days the Grand Man Himself will be passing by and He 'll see the glint of my old red whiskers, and He 'll stop the archangels and the powers and dominions, and come over, so kindly He is."

" 'Where have you been hiding yourself, Michael John?' He 'll say. 'And how's all your care?'

" 'They 're fine, Sir. They 're grand,' I 'll say. 'Sure, 't is to the queen's taste they are— barring a wee bit of trouble that's not worth mentioning.'

" 'And, sure, what's troubling you, my poor lad?'

" ' 'T is not worth troubling your Deity about. 'T is not so!'

" 'Out with it now, Michael John!' Himself will say.

" ' 'T is that my little people, Sir, do be worrying hard that man is after them a bit strong, and if Yourself would just direct him to be a wee bit easy'— and I 'll tell Him what you all say.

"Is n't that the jewel of a plan? Is n't that the great scheme entirely?"

"We think it's rotten!" champed the crocodile.

"Well, that's all I can do," the angel told them. "If youve got a better plan— "

"We have decided," the lion rumbled, "that if you could do nothing, we could. We can stalk man as he stalks us. We will not wait for him to come out; we will descend upon him. We will lie in wait for him in the way. I shall come to the villages with my kind and the spotted leopards that purr like the rumbling of drums, and the striped hissing snakes; and the rhinoceros shall lumber through the streets, and the great river-horse shall no longer avoid his frail boats but seek them."

"And my brother the elephant will crush him beneath his terrible knees," the tiger snarled, "and trample his little houses. And the wild boar with tusks like knives will strike at him from the ground. And from the jungle I will come forth with the moon, and when dawn comes there will be wailing, if any are left to wail, and the small winged things of the jungle will assault him night and day, and there will be terror through the land."

"And there will be terror through the sea," the white bear prophesied. "Our sister the whale will no longer flee but fight, and the sails of ships will quiver and the bulwarks give. And we will push icebergs in the paths of iron ships. The millions and millions of herring and cod will help. And the swordfish will founder the life-boats. And out of the gray-green depths of the sea the devil-fish will arise, his long, seeking tentacles over the gunnels— "

"Oh, childer, childer dear!" the angel implored.

"And our cousins the birds will help us," the lion took up the litany. "The eagle and the hawk in their strength, and even the little sparrows in their number. They will buffet with wings, they will peck with their sharp beaks, the innumerable folk of the air."

"And from the North," the tiger promised, "the wolves will come out with their red eyes, their slavering fangs, and the fox will revolt, with his teeth sharp as a dog's."

"And the things of the field will revolt," the bear went on, "the patient kine, the sheep and goats, and the vibrations of battle will put panic on the horse so that he will smash his traces with his hoofs, and smash men's heads. And the turmoil will craze the dog, so that he will attack those he loves."

"For God's sake, children dear, will you stop breaking my heart!"

"Death and terror on the land!" prophesied the lion.

"Death and terror on the sea!" promised the great white bear.

"My dears, will you let me put sense at you? Will you listen to me a moment?" the angel pleaded. "'T is for your own sakes I ask. Will you just listen?

"What will become of you if you do all this?

"Don't you know that man will come against you with all his weapons and mechanical contrivances, his poison gas and his torpedoes, and wipe you off the face of your own earth? Childer dear, you have no idea of the terrible fellow he is at all. Myself, angel and all as I am, when I see some of those fellows coming hell-for-leather in their motor-cars, I leap like a hare out of their way, I do so. And oftentimes I 'm shaking in the legs for hours after it. I don't mind telling you. He 'll kill you surely, childer dear."

"He 'll kill us anyway," fluted the elephant. "What matter to-day or to-morrow or a century from now? We die. What of the Irish elk, with horns like banners, so proud in his green pastures? What of the great buffalo, lord of the plains?— where is he? If we die, let us die together, fighting shoulder to shoulder!"

"Besides, maybe it's worse than man you 'd have."

"What is worse than man?"

"Maybe God Himself would come down against you, maybe," the angel's voice falls to a sacred whisper; "maybe He will uncover His face!"

There is a movement of awe, or terror among the animals. The silent multitude back of the speakers rustles like leaves. The lion speaks:

"Even that we will brave, if we cannot have justice."

For a little while they look at one another in awed tension. The animals are frightened, the angel is frightened. One would think they were terrified by their temerity, and were awaiting the avenging thunder of God. The angel plucks up courage. He gives a little nervous laugh.

"Now, here we are, my dear little people, making fools of ourselves as usual; letting our feelings run away with us. You 'd think it was at a political meeting you were, with you giving out manifestos and ultimatums, and wanting to die.

"Let us get down, now, to facts. Let us examine what material we have, and draw deductions.

"We were all agreed that we are here by the wisdom of God, and being here in that wise, are subject to his wishes in every way. Even old Go-by-the-ground—" he looks at the crocodile— "knows that."

"Now, from what I've heard from the angels who are higher up,— from them, let me tell you, that are absolutely on the inside,— God designs to make out of man the perfect being. He intends to combine your bravery—" he turns to the lion— "and your wisdom— " to the elephant— "with your beauty"; he is addressing the tiger.

"What about me?" champs the crocodile.

"Och, be damned to you! Man," he goes on didactically, "is essentially a creature of progress. He is the only being that builds houses— "

From the background comes a shrill squeak from the beaver.

"I mean houses with rooms— "

There is the angry droning of bees.

"What I mean is this: houses with fireplaces and pots and pans and what not. None of us will deny," he finishes lamely, "the enormous progress of man."

"I deny it," the lion stormed. "Can I forget the great black armies of the South, the glistening men with the silver armlets and the short keen spears? Not even of me were they afraid, those! Their drums resounded through veldt and plain, They asked only of the earth what they needed for their good. And when they hunted they hunted fair. They matched their strength against our speed. And their knowledge against our knowledge. And at night they sang and they danced beneath the moon.

"And now they are farm servants to the men who come overseas. They are not clean, as they once were. Their bodies that once were naked and glistening are caked with mud and covered with rags. And some of them are driven into the bowels of the earth, and the sunlight and the moonlight they were born to is kept from them. And they dig diamonds for men who are not satisfied with the luster of stars. And they who once fought me in the open with a spear now skulk with a gun."

"I remember an India that was," the tiger snarled, "a land of rajahs and temples, of brown dancing girls and men who played little flutes. They grew the green sugar-cane, and cotton they might spin on great wooden wheels. And their smiths hammered brass into strange antique shapes. And they worshiped God with singing and dancing in cool temples.

"What are the rajahs now, that once were the wonder of the earth, but little helot princes? And the ranees— the cinnamon-colored queens with the minute silver bells upon their bud-like toes— but despised native women? Are the bazaars filled with the quaint work of smiths? No, but with the meretricious trinkets of the West. And black-coated men seek to turn them from native immemorial gods. And the machine that throws pictures the mummers make, fights against the music and the dancing and the temple bells.

"The beauty I stand for is passing away."

"In Burma, whence I come," said the elephant, "there are jungles deeper than the jungle of Africa, or the Indian jungles. Great mossy trees, and painted flowers, and great brown rivers rolling to the sea. And the men there are beautiful as women, and the women beautiful as flowers.

"And once they paddled down the great brown river in glistening black canoes. They wore great gaudy sashes and had a flower in their teeth or a flower in their hair. Under the shadow of the great trees they paddled. And when they saw me they made reverence, saying, 'Our lord, the elephant!' On little reeds they made sweet, plaintive music.

"And now the great ancient trees are being cut down, and floated on the bosom of the hurt brown rivers. And the peace of the jungle is disturbed with the cough of the motor-boat, and oil is heavy on the warm jungle smells. And the men, beautiful as women, are clothed in soiled white garments; the rounded child-like bodies of the brown women chafe under a huddle of clothes. And when I am observed, the white man asks, demands, the help of the little brown men to hunt me, to whom they once did reverence, and I seem to hear no more sweet, plaintive music.

"From the quiet river I have seen the painted barges of the Pharaohs move along under the sweeps of the negro slaves. Color and majesty and dignity. And the shaven priests chanted their litanies at the change of the moon. And from the Sahara the desert tribes brought tribute and treasure to Egypt, the men with the white horses and the black tents. And the nodding dromedaries and camels and their tinkling bells. And the kings raised their pyramids, and the multitude of men like ants listened at sunrise to the great masonic prayer. And they left the Sphinx to denote their mystery. And Cleopatra, who was Lilith reborn, played with Rome for a doll.

"All these things have I seen: the magic of great Moses, and the flight of the Little God of Galilee; the perfumed Pharaohs; the sinister yellow priests; the gnarled masons at their secret prayers; and Cleopatra brown as a berry, magnificent as jewels, venomous as a snake; and the sculptor at work on the Sphinx.

"And now tourists unwrap the great kings, and hucksters chaffer where once the trains of the prince-merchants of Tyre passed, and we shall never see a Cleopatra any more.

"But I am not complaining. Men do not swim as well as in the elder days, nor handle a boat as surely."

"I know nothing of painted Pharaohs," said the great white bear, "nor anything of Indian queens. In the North are neither kings nor masons, but day and night and ice, and a little people. In summer is the great sun, white light, and grass that is green for a little, and the thunder of breaking bergs, and in winter no sun but the flaming aurora and the white illimitable miles!

"And the swarthy little people were happy then. In the long nights they sang, and they bowed to the gods in boulder and stream, and set out in the little kayaks on the Arctic seas to hunt the great solemn walrus, or they set off in sledges through the pathless wastes. They were a brave people, a healthy people.

"And came the boats hunting our sister the whale, and the whales taught the little swarthy people progress, and everywhere now they are cunning and degraded and crusted with sin, and a great plague makes them spit blood, and waste to nothingness, and die."

They all looked at the horse, but the horse was silent.

"Look back in the folds of your memory," the lion prompted. "Look back well! Can you not remember the great races in the Roman circus? Listen a little! Can you not hear the trumpets of Agincourt?"

"And you, little brother— " the bear swung his ponderous head toward the dog— "was there not a time when you lay before a fire in a rush-strewn hall? And now the houses are too little. They tell me— I do not know. And did you not once run barking joyously beside man on his horse? And now horses are out of fashion, are they not, little comrade? And the cars are too fast for your short legs."

There is another silence, and the angel looks at them piteously.

"I wish to my God I had some of them clever fellows here could argue with you. I never was much good in an argument, anyway, never having had the education. But let me tell you there 's angels could prove to you you 're all wrong. I wish they 'd come here and talk to you, but I don't suppose they 'd care much about us and our wee affairs. But— but how about music," he hazarded, "and poetry? Ay, and poetry."

"As to music— " the elephant threw up his trunk in a sneer— "what music can he make comparable to the birds of summer— the sun going down, and each bird with its separate song, blending into a gently-colored symphony, and the chime of the waves with it, and the rustle of the branches in the sundown breeze?"

"Ay, but poetry."

"It will need poetry," thundered the lion, "more poetry than can be ever written, to equalize the making ugly of earth. The great cliffs shamed by mean houses, and the splendid glades ruined that a train may pass. And the mouths of rivers spoiled by the slag of mills. And great noble trees hacked down. How many an epic to pay for a great forest dying, shepherd? How many a lyric for a tree where little trusting birds had their home?"

The angel throws out his hands abruptly.

"You have me," he says. "You have me!"

He braces with decision, rises to his full height, and suddenly there is nobleness.

"Well, which is it to be?" he asked. "Will you follow my plan, or do you insist I go immediately?"

"We insist."

He pauses an instant.

"Very well. I 'll go," he says. "I 'll go."

He looks all around the gathering. In spite of his decision, and his bracing, there is a great emotion brewing in him.

"Now, before I go, let me tell some of you something. Do you, Philip— " he turns to the bear— "be getting back North as fast as you can. You poor fellow, you must be murdered with the heat entirely, and you with the Arctic furs on. You 'll catch your death here. And as for you," he warns the crocodile, "don't be obstinate, there 's a good fellow! Keep to the water, and you 'll be all right. It's only when you get out, they can get after you. And my little friends the beavers— where are they? Childer, can you hear me?"

"But what's all this about?" asks the elephant.

"It's just for fear I 'm not coming back."

"But why aren't you coming back?" the lion growls.

"Och, it's just a notion. Are the beavers there at all, at all?"

"No, just a moment!" The tiger is on his feet. "I want to hear more of this. What do you mean by notion? You aren't thinking of leaving us?"

There is a quick commotion, a little shudder among all the animals in the background.

"Well, now—" the angel is embarrassed— "it's a hard errand I have before me, and what will be at the end of the chapter no one knows. I to be arguing with the Great Man, and demanding your rights, and He to be losing His temper with me— there 's no knowing. So to be on the safe side, I 'll just say good-by to you now. Many 's the pleasant hour weve known and springtime coming, and many's the little day weve spent together and winter roaring through the chilly air."

"But He never loses His temper, does he? He 's always mild."

"Oh, childer dear, ye little know! You all know the Black Man, and when you get the cold wind of his coming you scurry away. He was an angel once, the greatest of them all. Lucifer, they called him, so I've heard old angels say, and the Hebrew or something for Him who does be bearing light, such a gorgeous angel he was. But one day he and some of his lads began to argue with the Great Man, and before the words were half out of their mouths they were tumbling through the blue spaces of the stars, condemned to eternal hell-fire. Sure, you see them yourselves on Hallowe'en, and them roaring up and down the world, and screeching fit to split the sky."

A moan of terror ran through the massed animals. The dog raised his head and howled.

"And the wee half-god we all know, him with the horns of the goat, that does the piping in the valleys of spring— sure, he was an angel once. But something went contrary on him, and now he dare n't show his face on heaven or earth, but hides in the branches as wild as a squirrel."

And a little shudder of pity arose.

"Ay, and there was others. There was a crowd of reckless fellows in the days before the flood— or after it; I don't know which— and they came from heaven to court the daughters of men, such grand women they had in those days. And the Lord God heard of it, and He stood up and looked at them, and he said just one word. They've never been heard of since. One minute they were there, and the next was emptiness.

"Mind you, I 'm not saying anything like that will happen to me, for Himself has always been kindness to me. It's always 'How are you, Michael John?' and 'Don't you ever take a rest at all?' and 'Sometime I'll have to take a day and come down and see yourself and the wee ones!' But just, if I don't come back, don't think I've taken a better job. Sure, I 'd never desert you, my wee darlings. It's just maybe I 'm getting a wee bit of discipline."

"I think—" the elephant seemed husky in the throat— "your own plan might be best— to wait for an opportunity and just suggest."

"Better say nothing at all," growled the lion.

"No, childer dear; I 'd better just go ahead. I will confess it was timid of me not to go in the first place. It was thinking of my old skin I was, and I should be ashamed of myself. Sure, there 's no disgrace in asking for fair play, and youve been sorely tried. I'll go."

"No, no, no!" wailed the animals.

"No, your own plan was wise," the elephant insisted. "If anything happened to you, what would become of us?"

"Yes, what would become of us?" the little ones wailed.

"Do you honestly think my own plan's wiser? You 're not saying that to save me from trouble?"

"We're not," the lion said. And "Of course not," added the tiger.

"Just slip in a word when you can," from the elephant.

"Honestly, now, it would be best." The angel was relieved. "I can talk about your loyalty; and, sure, I can remind him of the kine that gave shelter to the Wee Relative in Bethlehem, and the donkey that was proud to carry His weight; and I 'll remind Him, too, that I've never asked a favor yet, and if He could just see His way— "

"Well," the elephant thought aloud, "I've got to be getting back to Burma."

"I 'm going your way," said the tiger.

"There 's nothing to keep me up further," said the lion.

"I 'm very much obliged to you all—" the angel was abashed with emotion— "for not insisting. And it's lucky I am," said he, "to have decent beasts to deal with and not man. For man would have insisted I'd go, and not given a tinker's curse what would have happened me."

"Ay, man!" sneers the great white bear.

"For God's sake Philip, will you be getting home out of this, before I have you sick on my hands! And as for you, Go-by-the-Ground, get back to the river or I'll sink my foot in your tail. Go on now! Be off with you!"

There is a shuff-shuff-shuff over the sand as the beasts scatter, going east, north, west, and south. The angel stands watching them as they go. Only the horse and the dog remain, the horse nudges him on the shoulder with its mouth, the dog puts a cold nose into his hand.

"Och, my darlings!"

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20: By His Own Hand

Anonymous

Sun (Kalgoorlie) 14 Jan 1906

"PLUNGE HIM to the neck in golden pieces, and his heavy fingers shall not close on one!"

Paul Northern put down the book with a sigh, and more than a touch of impatience.

"Why on earth should that one sentence worry me now," he said to himself angrily. "I have read the book through many times, and it never impressed me in this way before. Many would say that I have an uneasy conscience. Conscience!"

He crossed the handsome library to the curtained doorway. And then he stood still, his heart beating heavily as he listened to the voice of the woman he loved, and her laugh rang in his ears like silver bells. Loved! He had sold his soul for her. He sat down heavily, hardly daring to breathe, his temples throbbing, and himself together, then he made a violent effort to pull He must be stronger than this. He must not be a coward when he needed all his strength. She— the woman he loved— was with his wife now. He could hear her saying good-bye. He knew quite well what that "good-bye" would mean, simply that she would slip round to the library to meet him there, while his invalid wife, bound to her couch, would lie and dream of a woman's friendship and a husband's love.

Poor, blind fool! Was it good fortune or ill that made her so easy to deceive? Alma Forde had said her good-byes now; he heard the door close behind her. Well, he would go to his wife to pay his duty visit, and then he would come back to the library to find Alma there. She would not mind waiting a little while, for, as a reward, he would take her in his arms and kiss her lips until all else was forgotten, and they two would live but for their love alone.

He pulled the curtain aside, and crossing a small conservatory, entered a small room overlooking an exquisite garden.

On the sofa by the window lay a woman whose delicate face showed that she was an invalid. She turned and saw him and the love that dashed into her face made it beautiful.

"Oh, Paul," she cried holding out her hands to him with a welcome gesture. "How good of you to leave your books to come to me. I was longing for you. Do you never get tired of a wife not only older than yourself, but an invalid, too whose only good point is that she loves you? Loves you!"

A smile crossed his handsome face as false as himself, but she did not read his meaning.

"Love is great," he answered gently, a look new to her in his eyes. "And Edith, you brought me wealth, and there are many who said I married you for that."

She looked at him with a smile that made her young again.

"I was always so lonely, Paul, and I used to hate my money. I distrusted everyone until you came dearest, lover and husband in one. In having you, I have all. You have made me very happy, my husband."

For a little while they sat silent, she dreaming her vain dream , and he wondering, whether the woman he loved was growing tired of waiting for him in the library. He rose suddenly to his feet.

"Forgive me, darling," he said. "I must go back to the library there are some letters I must write. I will not be long."

She looked at him wistfully. She could not understand the new brightness that was in his eyes.

"Paul," she said, "will you come back here in half an hour to have tea with me? I have a surprise in store for you."

He caught at the suggestion eagerly. He was glad of any excuse that would take him from this woman's presence back to where Alma Forde was waiting for him. So he stopped and pressed a kiss— Judas-like— upon her brow.

"In half an hour I will come back my wife," he said with the false smile that seemed so true to her. And so they parted.

With light, eager steps he crossed the conservatory, and the woman left behind lay back on her couch a smile upon her lips, and the love-light in her eyes.

A month ago the doctors had first given her hope that the use of her limbs might be restored, and she had kept the joyful thought a secret lest Paul should be disappointed. But now hope was a certainty the doctors had even said that she might walk across the room, and so she had planned the surprise that when Paul came back to tea he should find her standing by the table, and she would run to him, her arms held out just as she had done in the first days of their wedded life.

The servant came in with the tea things and withdrew, the clock struck five, and Edith struggled to her feet. Paul would soon be there now. She stood leaning against the table, her heart throbbing and thrilling like a girl's, as she listened for his tread, but it did not come, and afire with sweet impatience to give him joy she wondered if she could manage to walk to the library to surprise him there. It was quite a short cut through the conservatory. Her limbs were stiff and aching. The doctors had warned her against doing too much at first, but she forced herself onward. The conservatory was reached, the fragrance and beauty of the flowers were round, and then— then, the low murmur of impassioned voices fell on her ear. And the voices were those of Paul and Alma Forde— of Alma, who was supposed to have left the house. What did it mean? It seemed, to her that if she did not know she would die. Anything was better than the horrible doubt tearing at her heartstrings.

Tottering, she crossed the conservatory, and stood at last by the doorway, panting. There was no need to go farther. The curtains that separated the library had been carelessly closed, and she saw that her husband and her friend stood in close embrace.

For a moment she feared she would faint, as she stood with her hand on her stricken heart. So she stood and heard the words that took life and light out of her heart forever.

"If you loved me, as you say you do, Paul—"

It was the temptress who was speaking, the woman who, Delilah-like, had betrayed the man's soul.

"If I love you!" The man's voice vibrated with passion. "Oh! my love Do you know what it is to stand by day after day, and wait, knowing that there is only a life, and such a life, between you and happiness? A cripple, years older than I am! If she would only die."

Alma withdrew herself from his arms and stood before him, the light shin-ing on her wonderful beauty.

"Anything is possible to a man who loves," she said slowly, with a little laugh. "I shall have to stop coming here soon, Paul. It is too much for my forbearance to be told by her of your little love-scenes."

"Loves scenes? Why I only know love in connection with yourself. Kiss me, Alma. It shall soon be all right with us."

But she laughed and withdrew herself further from his reach.

"I will kiss you when you are free, Paul Northern," she said, laughing still, "and I will not see you again until you are. So good-night dear. Until you have proved your love for me, or good-bye forever."

With a mocking light in her eyes she blew him the caress she had denied, and said again— "When you are free, Paul Northern; when you are free."

The man stood still where she had left him; he seemed incapable of movement, and like a statue his wife stood in the conservatory, her eyes fixed on him with such an intensity that it was wonderful that he did not look her way. At length he moved. Still in her line of vision she saw him unlock his desk, take a small bottle from it, and slip it in his pocket.

"All arranged for, premeditated," thought the unhappy wife. "Only needed the spur of denial to his desires to complete his design. But though my body is weak my heart is strong. Oh! for strength now, even though I never walk again."

And Fate befriended her. She managed to reach her sofa in time. But only in time, for as she sank down she heard his step, and the next moment he entered.

"I am going to stay to have a cup with you to-day, Edie," he said.

"You always do, Paul," she answered, looking quietly at him. "unless I have Alma here. I wonder you do not like her, for I think she is the most beautiful woman I have ever seen."

"I do not care to discuss Miss Forde," he said suddenly and harshly. His nerves were all unstrung. He could not speak of the woman he loved to the woman he hated at that moment. And the wife thought bitterly of the guilty love that had kept him at home.

"There is the tea, Paul," she cried gaily. "Only two cups. We will picnic, and you shall pour it out. The man's face whitened. How easy she was making it for him. And the wife watched him with glittering eyes and parched mouth— watched him pour into the one cup the contents of the bottle he had brought and she closed her eyes. He brought her cup, and put it on the small table by her side, and stood looking into the sweet, dusky garden.

"More sugar, Paul," she said. And in the moment that he turned she changed the cups. She drank her tea and he followed suit thirstily. It was done. And then her voice came to him across the dusky room.

"Paul," she said and the new feeling in her voice struck him like a blow, "a month ago I had, what I thought then, good news given to me, what I thought would be good news for me, that I should walk again. See," she shook her coverings from her and stood up, trembling, but standing, and his face went white as death.

Her voice came in slow and cold, as a blast of death, and he could not move. What was wrong?

"I thought to surprise you, and I came to the library and found you there, any husband, with the woman I called my friend. Yes," as he would have spoken, "you were to be free— free to wed her, and I and my broken life must be pushed from your path. I saw you take the bottle from your desk. I saw you empty it into the cup. What it was you best know, for you have drunk it. The death you planned for me you are dying. There is no more light, life, or love for you, for you are dying."

His dim eyes looked into hers in the light of the one lamp. He was dying. Nothing could save him. The death he had planned for her had come to him. Wealth, no! Love, gone! And through his dazed brain ran the words he had read that day— "Plunge him to the throat in golden pieces now, and his heavy fingers shall not close on one."

And so the end came.

__________

21: On the Adavale Common

Edward S. Sorenson

1869-1939

The Bulletin, 18 Sep 1913

Adavale really exists to this day... barely.

ADAVALE is a little place, devoid of attractions to the sober traveller. I put in a fortnight there for the benefit of my horses. The common was mustered one morning, and a mob was being held near my camp by a greybeard of angry aspect, while the herdsman rode off to look for more. My two old stagers, both in hobbles, were among them, and I hurried up to catch them.

The ancient objected. He informed me that I would have to go to the yard, and there would probably be something to pay. My financial statement, as usual, showed a deficit, so I determined that my live stock should not be impounded.

A footman had taken up a residential lease close to my selection. Calling on him with much haste. I presented him with a plug of vile tobacco, and requested him to hurry round to the far side of that mob and make a disturbance.

This he did, and while the ancient was expostulating with him and turning back the runaways, I got my property safely to camp.

Another footman had arrived— a very big man he was, with a cast in one eye. and a sour expression.

"These are your horses if any questions are asked," I informed him, tying them up where he was boiling his billy for dinner.

"Right,” he agreed. “Pass out the saddles. Won’t do for them to be in your tent.”

As I had expected, the ancient one rode up soon after.

Are these your horses?” he asked me.

"No,” I answered, “they belong to that man.”

"Where’s yours?”— with suspicion.

“Why, in your mob,” I replied, as though surprised at such a question. “Didn't you just stop me from catching them?”

He rode round the tethered animals and inspected their brands.

“How long have vou been here?” he asked the sour-visaged person.

“Just come.”

“Which way did you come?”

“Thargomindah.”

“Along the road?”

“Along the road.”

“Strange thing I didn't see you?” with increased suspicion and some irascibility.

‘ ”Tis strange,” the traveller agreed. “Must a been lookin’ some other way.”

The old chap rode off then. I smiled audibly as I watched him go; but my companion looked as serious as a koala.

We had dinner— on separate plots, he having declined to share my frugal meal. Immediately afterwards he began to saddle up my horses.

“What are you doing?” I inquired respectfully.

“I’m goin’ on,” he said. “Seems too risky to turn my nags out 'ere.”

“Your nags?” I half shrieked. “Look here, mate, if you don’t want to get yourself into serious trouble, you’ll drop that silly joke right now.”

"No joke,” he said serenely, adjusting the saddle with a practised hand. “Ken produce witnesses to prove my title to this turnout.”

He put on the pack-saddle. “Karn't say as this gear's up to much,” he remarked. “S’pose that’s why yer give it to me.”

He was about to fix his swag on when I made a grab at the reins. But he grabbed me almost simultaneously, and ran me into the waterhole.

The water was cold, but I came out of it boiling. Then I rushed at him. and we fell over the firewood. We erected unanimously, and I remember jabbing him hard in the mouth; but when I came to my senses he was gone. The horses and gear had likewise evaporated.

I sat down to meditate.

“Strike me lucky!” I said, sorrowfully, addressing some disjointed remarks to myself. “I thought yer were a person of some sense and experience.... You’re a whole complete darn fool!”

After a while I beat round like a dog looking for a scent. The tracks led townwards. I followed, promising the thief an uncomfortable time in the near future, and now ard again driving mv fist into the atmosphere as I pictured the resumption of hostilities.

In front of the hotel I saw my horses, tied to the rail. The fellow was in the bar, drinking, and relating to an amused crowd what had happened to a smart joker down on the common.

I decided, in the interests of peace, not to interrupt him. I threw his leprous pack into the gutter, mounted quietly and rode away. I reckoned there would be more hilarity when they came out on the verandah, and it wouldn’t be all on the side of the big chap either.

Reaching my camn. I packed up with precipitation, mounted again, and headed for Thargomindah, 210 miles down the Bulloo. I never saw any more of that individual, but sometimes amid my dreams I hear him swearing in the distance.

___________

22: Through the Ether

Tauwarra

Gilbert Munro Turnbull, 1890–1938

Queenslander Illustrated Weekly, 1 Dec 1927

Writer, architect and civil servant, who contributed much to the development of Port Moresby, Papua, in the 1920s. He wrote numerous short stories, all set in Papua, mostly under the name "Tauwarra", which means "fighting man" in the Motu language.

"SHE'S all set, R.M.!"

Patrol officer Taylor, his freckled face glowing with eagerness, wiped the perspiration from his eyes and turned to the district magistrate. "It's a little early in the day, but I'll tune in on A.B. Brisbane. Might pick up some electioneering speeches, anyhow."

"Heaven forbid!" murmured Blake fervently.

"This is what they call a single vernier dial," went on Taylor, warming to his subject. "It's calibrated to—"

An ear-splitting whine— shrill, discordant— rewarded his tentative twist of the dial and he shut it down hastily. A gang of native convicts who had been weeding in the garden fled for the bush with yells of terror, and Blake laughed.

"Go to it, son," he jeered, "If you feel like going back to the gramophone, the records are in—"

"Oh, go to blazes!" snapped Taylor, and he bent over the cabinet with undiminished ardour.

Patrol-officer Taylor was a wireless enthusiast. For weeks he had been discoursing learnedly on such subjects as valves and batteries, transformers and amplifiers, wavelengths. and rheostats, to such purpose that he had succeeded in breaking down even the cast-iron prejudices of Blake, the district magistrate, to whom the chief charm of Avonari lay in its utter isolation from what men call civilisation. The five-valve set now installed on the front veranda of the residency was therefore something more than a mere amenity of out-station life. It represented the march of progress in Papua; the outward and visible sign of the annihilation of space in a country of vast distances.

Taylor had now reduced, the dissonance to a kind of low whistle, punctuated with animal-like yelps and what sounded like a solo on a toy rattle.

"The children's hour, I presume," remarked Blake, with heavy sarcasm. "Badly brought up little blighters, too, if I'm any judge."

"Don't rot, old chap," replied Taylor, absently, "I warned you that things might be different at first— unknown atmospheric conditions, and— er— static, you know. Give me a chance!"

Blake rose to his feet. "I'll leave you to it," he laughed. "By the way, Taylor," he went on, his face suddenly serious, "send a 'chit' to that fellow Korema Jack. I received a reply from headquarters by the mail to-day, and the sooner the job is over and done with the better I shall be pleased."

Taylor whistled softly. "Deportation?" he queried.

"Nothing so simple." answered the magistrate, "Korema Jack is too old a hand to be bluffed like that, he savvies the law, and he savvies that the case we've been preparing against him would collapse like a house of cards in a court of law.

"I'm to persuade him to leave the country. If persuasion fails, I'm to use my own discretion— come the bounce, I suppose, threaten him, roar him up until he quits in disgust."

"Good enough for him, too." There was disgust in Taylor's voice. "Do you think he'll go, R.M.? Peaceably, I mean?"

Blake snorted. "I'm quite sure he will not," he replied, "but the next time— by Jove! The next time he supplies tho natives with booze, I'll make a dead certainty of the evidence, take it from me."

KOREMA JACK was a member of the sorrowful brotherhood, derelicts of the beaches, to whom the white man's burden is a burden indeed. In the full vigour of his manhood he had been a splendid specimen of his sex, but now his shoulders were stooped, his face was blotched, and a pair of bleary, blood-shot eyes glared out suspiciously upon an unfriendly world. Unshaven and unwashed, clad only in a ragged cotton singlet that had once been white, and the sweat-stained khaki trousers, Korema Jack was the living embodiment of what happens to white men in New Guinea when they lose their souls.

He straightened his sagging shoulders as he entered Blake's office, and a suggestion of insolence insinuated itself into his bearing.

The interview was short and stormy. Blake was not in a conciliatory mood. The beachcomber was a menace to the peace and good order of the division. For years he had been a thorn in the side of successive district magistrates, but always, by hard lying and intimidation of native witnesses, he had evaded the consequences of his unlawful acts.

"Sit down," rapped out Blake, indicating a chair, "and prepare yourself for some bad news."

For a moment Korema Jack was startled, then with a laugh, half fearful,  half defiant, he slumped into the seat. Blake folded the file of papers he had been studying and tapped the cover significantly.

"Well, Mr. Korema Jack," he said, "I think we've got you well sewn up at last— for a couple of years, anyhow, and a free ticket South at the end of it."

Korema Jack's face expressed unmistakable relief, and he threw himself back in his chair, laughing derisively.

"Great Scott!" he said after a while. "Are you still chasing that booze business? Why, man, it's dead! You know it, I know it, and every nigger in this district knows it."

He leaned forward, breathing hard. "What's the game, Mr. Magistrate?" he said hoarsely. "Come on! Out with it."

He eyed the magistrate with an expression in which anxiety and confidence strove for mastery. He knew that beneath Blake's suave manner lay a threat, and he was never sure of how much the young magistrate knew of his immediate disreputable past, of how much Blake was holding back.

The magistrate smiled with a grim superiority. "The fact is, my friend," he said, "that you've come to the end of your tether. You've been an infernal nuisance in the division for years, and—" he paused— "what do you say to a trip South?"

Korema Jack shrugged, and spat reflectively through the open window.   "Nothing doing," he said at last.

"At Government expense?"

"Nothing doing, and be hanged to you!" snarled the beachcomber viciously.

"Then you are a fool," retorted Blake, "That will be all, thanks," and he made a gesture as if to dismiss him.Korema Korema Jack rose uncertainly to his feet, and a cunnirg expression came into his eyes. Then, as the magistrate made no move, he shuffled to the door.

"One moment!" Blake's voice was coolly conversational. "You hold various licenses and permits, I believe— trading and recruiting, and so forth."

Korema Jack nodded. "What of it?" he growled suspiciously.

"They will not be renewed."

Korema Jack's brow lowered, and he lurched forward, his fists clenched threateningly.

"D'you mean that, Blake?" he spat out. Then, as the significance of the magistrate's words sank into his conciousness, his face contorted and turned purple, and his lips twisted in horrible, incoherent rage.

"You— you—" he spluttered, and he poured out a stream of savage invective— beastly, obscene— like a black and deadly torrent.

Blake grasped him by the wrist, and bent forward so that his face was close to the rage-distorted countenance of the beachcomber.

"You— you blackguard !" he rasped, "You low-down beast! I've offered you a chance to get out of the sink you've been wallowing in all these years, and you've refused to be helped. Right! It's my job to keep this district clean and wholesome, and you— go— out! Savvie?" He withdrew his hand from the other's arm, and sent him reeling. Then he stood back, and as if ashamed of the sudden gust of anger that had shaken him, he said in a calmer voice. "Haven't you any people, man? No kith and kin on the other side who give a hoot for you?"

The chance shot must have gone home, for Korema Jack's face cleared, and he gritted his teeth savagely together.

"Mind your own infernal business," he snarled, "Going to run me out of the country, are you? Going to?— We'll see!"

He glared long and steadily at the magistrate, and a little shiver shook Blake as he caught a momentary impression of the bitter, malignant hate.

Then Korema Jack lurched through the door, down the steps, and into the compound.

THE sea was opalescent in the afterglow of a flamboyant sunset. The air seemed alive with mysterious sounds— the trumpeting of tree frogs, the shrill chirp of crickets, and the soughing of palm-fronds caressed by the land breeze.

But the glory of the sunset, the infinite peace and beauty of the twilight, struck in Korema Jack no responsive chord. All afternoon he had sprawled in a deck chair on the veranda of the humpy he called his trading station, consumed with bitter, red-hot rage against Blake. By his side was a whisky bottle, now three parts empty, and from time to time he raised it to his lips and swallowed the raw spirit in feverish gulps.

At first his thoughts had taken no very definte shape. He had always disliked Blake. Now, he loathed him, hated him with a deadly hatred. And Blake was determined to run him out of the country! Deprive him of a living! Ruin him ! Korema Jack gritted his teeth in impotent rage. Grim thoughts were taking shape in his drink-crazed brain. No man could threaten Korema Jack and get away with it! No man could—

Steadily he rose to his feet and his muddled brain seemed to clear. The sky was growing darker. Already the night chorus of insects had died down to a low murmur, and the sea was like a sheet of darkened glass. He shuffled into the living-room and lighted a hurricane lantern. Its flickering rays cast a ghostly light on a camphor-wood chest lying in one corner. His hands trembled as he turned the key in the rusty lock and tossed the contents on to the floor. Something glinted dully in the dim light, and he pounced upon it with a dull cry.

It was a blunt-nosed, wicked-looking automatic. He thrust the weapon into his pocket, and staggered back to the verandah.

Night descended— black, opaque. The familiar night sounds of the jungle were vague, muted, and the muttering roll of the breakers on the reef had become a haunting murmur. But Korema Jack was dead to the serene tranquillity of the tropic night. His blood-shot eyes were fixed unblinkingly on the lights of the residency, gleaming like pin-points in the darkness. He groped for the whisky bottle and drank deeply. The fiery draft sent little tingling flames coursing through his body. Momentarily he steadied himself against a veranda post, then with a hoarse cry he stumbled down the rickety steps into the night.

STRAINS OF A JAZZ BAND rose and fell with a mysterious steadiness, bringing visions of bright lights, bright eyes, and colorful movement, the brilliance of a crowded dance floor. Patrol-offiicer Taylor swayed in his chair, and shuffled nig blucher-booted feet to the capricious rhythm of a one-step. Then the music faded and seemed to die in the very air. Taylor whirled in his chair.

"Well, R.M.?" he challenged, "What about it now?" Blake was reclining on a cane lounge, pulling thoughtfully on an unlighted pipe. He started at Taylor's words, and looked up as if he had only just became aware of the other's presence.

"Fine, old chap!" he said absently. "Jolly good! Try— er— try some more."

He struck a match and applied it to his pipe, and settled back again against the cushions.

Patrol-officer Taylor stared, and a little frown of perplexity furrowed his brow. What was biting Blake? He. was not even pretending to be interested, All through dinner he had been silent, abstracted, not his normal, bantering, good-natured self at all! Taylor had always liked Blake. Senior magistrates were so often a little arrogant, a little overbearing, especially in their relations with cub patrol-officers. But Blake had always been so kind, so helpful, so decent.

Taylor's frown grew deeper. Perhaps his chief was a little off-colour; perhaps he was eoncious of that dull ache behind the eyes which portends a dose of fever. Taylor turned again in his chair.

"I say, old chap," he began solicitously, "if you're not feeling up to the mark, I'll close down. Shall I get the quinine?"

Blake smiled, and shook his. head. Then he stood up and took a turn across the veranda.

"Sorry, sonny, if I've been a wet blanket" he said, "but I'm a little— a little uneasy in my mind concerning that fellow Korema Jack."

Taylor's face reflected his relief as he bent again over his beloved cabinet.

"That waster!" he replied contemptuously. "You'll find him on your doorstep in the morning, full of apologies, and whining for another chance."

"I wonder!" commented Blake. He leaned over the veranda rail and stared into the night. There was no; moon; no stars. The air was sensuous with the odour of milk-trees and frangipanni, blended sickly sweet; with the scents of a dozen other flowering shrubs.

Blake shivered. An unwholesome night, he reflected— weird, uncanny! An intolerable feeling of physical discomfort fell upon him. It was as if something sinister, dangerous, were abroad in the night. So real was the impression that instinctively he drew back from the rail.

Something stirred in the darkness before him, and he stiffened.

"Listen !" he exclaimed in a lov voice. "What's that ?"

"The corporal's new pup, most likely," replied Taylor lightly. "I've threatened to lay a bait if Bogi does not keep him tied up o' nights."

His fingers closed over the dials, and he turned them delicately. Blake relaxed, then he almost leapt in the air as a human voice, clear and vibrant, cut through the air. It was an announcer in some far-away Australian station broadcasting his message through the ether. Blake grinned a little sheepishly, and resumed his seat.

There came a few chords of introductory music, and then a Voice— a golden Voice— a full, liquid contralto, throbbing, caressing— breathed words that seemed to let loose little memories in Blake's brain.

"Lay by my side your bunch of purple heather—"

Blake settled back and closed his eyes. He lost all count of time and place, of physical consciousness even, as the old-time, haunting melody floated upon the air.

"The last red asters of an autumn day—"

On swept the magic voice, passionate, bitterly hopeless now, so that the atmosphere seemed charged with despair. And into Blake's brain memories bitter-sweet came crowding.

"And let us sit, and talk of love together,

As once in May."

The voice faded and died away on a little sob of pain. Blake exhaled a deep breath, then he sprang to his feet with a cry of amazement.

A wild, dishevelled figure appeared at the head of the steps, clawing fantically at the veranda poet.

It was Korema Jack. His mouth was open, his eyes were wide and full of horror, and as he swayed on his feet he moaned like an animal in pain.

For a moment he stared unseeingly into Blake's face, and lips mumbled and mouthed as if trying to frame words. Blake shook him roughly.

"What does this mean, man?" he exclaimed.

Korema Jack shuddered. "Where is she?— where— where—" he croaked hoarsely. He tottered forward, and as he moved an automatic pistol fell from his nerveless fingers. Blake's face went suddenly white, and with a quick movement he kicked the weapon into the garden. Then he gripped Korema Jack firmly by the arm.

The derelict's eyes roved aimlessly, hopelessly over the verandah, to xeat at last on Patrol-officer Taylor.

"My God!" he muttered, "A— a wireless set!"

Blake shook him roughly. "What's the game?" he rapped out, his eyes cold and hard.

Korema Jack covered his face with his hands, and his shoulders shook. "I've had a shock, R.M." He jerked out the words as if they hurt him. "I'm a bit— a bit— over-wrought."

He straightened himself, and shook off Blake's restraining hand.

"I came to tell you—" as he spoke his voice grew clearer, more confident— "that I've decided to accept your offer. I'll clear out whenever— whenever you say the word. The next boat South," he added passionately. He looked up, and Blake had a sudden vision of blighted hopes and a dreary, wasted life. Then Korema Jack squared his shoulders resolutely, and with head erect he marched down the steps into the darkness.

When he had gone the magistrate turned to Taylor.

"I have a feeling, son," he said soberly, "that I nearly received my full issue this night."

Taylor snorted indignantly. "Why didn't you pinch him him? How do you know he won't—"

"Korema Jack is quite harmless— now," interrupted Blake. "By the way, who is the owner of that wonderful voice?"

Taylor seemed surprised at the sudden change of subject. "The owner?" he exclaimed. "Oh, of course! er— er Elsie— er— Miss Elsie Rainsford."

"Great Scott!" said Blake in a voice of awe. "Lord, what a sweet country this is!"  He turned to Taylor. "Korema Jack's trading station is registered in the name of John Rainsford."

Taylor whistled, shocked amazement written visibly on his face.

"And the singer—"

Blake nodded. "Korema Jack's daughter," he said, very softly.

___________

23: Shadows in Zamboula

Robert E. Howard

1906-1936

Weird Tales Nov 1935

A Conan the Barbarian novelette

1. A Drum Begins

'PERIL HIDES in the house of Aram Baksh!'

The speaker's voice quivered with earnestness and his lean, black-nailed fingers clawed at Conan's mightily muscled arm as he croaked his warning. He was a wiry, sun-burnt man with a straggling black beard, and his ragged garments proclaimed him a nomad. He looked smaller and meaner than ever in contrast to the giant Cimmerian with his black brows, broad chest, and powerful limbs. They stood in a corner of the Sword-Makers' Bazar, and on either side of them flowed past the many-tongued, many-colored stream of the Zamboula streets, which is exotic, hybrid, flamboyant and clamorous.

Conan pulled his eyes back from following a bold-eyed, red-lipped Ghanara whose short skirt bared her brown thigh at each insolent step, and frowned down at his importunate companion.

'What do you mean by peril?' he demanded.

The desert man glanced furtively over his shoulder before replying, and lowered his voice.

'Who can say? But desert men and travelers have slept in the house of Aram Baksh, and never been seen or heard of again. What became of them? He swore they rose and went their way— and it is true that no citizen of the city has ever disappeared from his house. But no one saw the travelers again, and men say that goods and equipment recognized as theirs have been seen in the bazars. If Aram did not sell them, after doing away with their owners, how came they here?'

'I have no goods,' growled the Cimmerian, touching the shagreen-bound hilt of the broadsword that hung at his hip. 'I have even sold my horse.'

'But it is not always rich strangers who vanish by night from the house of Aram Baksh!' chattered the Zuagir. 'Nay, poor desert men have slept there— because his score is less than that of the other taverns— and have been seen no more. Once a chief of the Zuagirs whose son had thus vanished complained to the satrap, Jungir Khan, who ordered the house searched by soldiers.'

'And they found a cellar full of corpses?' asked Conan in good-humored derision.

'Nay! They found naught! And drove the chief from the city with threats and curses! But—' he drew closer to Conan and shivered— 'something else was found! At the edge of the desert, beyond the houses, there is a clump of palm trees, and within that grove there is a pit. And within that pit have been found human bones, charred and blackened! Not once, but many times!'

'Which proves what?' grunted the Cimmerian.

'Aram Baksh is a demon! Nay, in this accursed city which Stygians built and which Hyrkanians rule— where white, brown and black folk mingle together to produce hybrids of all unholy hues and breeds— who can tell who is a man, and who a demon in disguise? Aram Baksh is a demon in the form of a man! At night he assumes his true guise and carries his guests off into the desert where his fellow demons from the waste meet in conclave.'

'Why does he always carry off strangers?' asked Conan skeptically.

'The people of the city would not suffer him to slay their people, but they care naught for the strangers who fall into his hands. Conan, you are of the West, and know not the secrets of this ancient land. But, since the beginning of happenings, the demons of the desert have worshipped Yog, the Lord of the Empty Abodes, with fire— fire that devours human victims.

'Be warned! You have dwelt for many moons in the tents of the Zuagirs, and you are our brother! Go not to the house of Aram Baksh!'

'Get out of sight!' Conan said suddenly. 'Yonder comes a squad of the city-watch. If they see you they may remember a horse that was stolen from the satrap's stable—'

The Zuagir gasped, and moved convulsively. He ducked between a booth and a stone horse-trough, pausing only long enough to chatter: 'Be warned, my brother! There are demons in the house of Aram Baksh!' Then he darted down a narrow alley and was gone.

Conan shifted his broad sword-belt to his liking, and calmly returned the searching stares directed at him by the squad of watchmen as they swung past. They eyed him curiously and suspiciously, for he was a man who stood out even in such a motley throng as crowded the winding streets of Zamboula. His blue eyes and alien features distinguished him from the Eastern swarms, and the straight sword at his hip added point to the racial difference.

The watchmen did not accost him, but swung on down the street, while the crowd opened a lane for them. They were Pelishtim, squat, hook-nosed, with blue-black beards sweeping their mailed breasts— mercenaries hired for work the ruling Turanians considered beneath themselves, and no less hated by the mongrel population for that reason.

Conan glanced at the sun, just beginning to dip behind the flat-topped houses on the western side of the bazar, and hitching once more at his belt, moved off in the direction of Aram Baksh's tavern.

With a hillman's stride he moved through the ever-shifting colors of the streets, where the ragged tunics of whining beggars brushed against the ermine-trimmed khalats of lordly merchants, and the pearl-sewn satin of rich courtezans. Giant black slaves slouched along, jostling blue-bearded wanderers from the Shemitish cities, ragged nomads from the surrounding deserts, traders and adventurers from all the lands of the East.

The native population was no less heterogenous. Here, centuries ago, the armies of Stygia had come, carving an empire out of the eastern desert. Zamboula was but a small trading-town then, lying amidst a ring of oases, and inhabited by descendants of nomads. The Stygians built it into a city and settled it with their own people, and with Shemite and Kushite slaves. The ceaseless caravans, threading the desert from east to west and back again, brought riches and more mingling of races. Then came the conquering Turanians, riding out of the East to thrust back the boundaries of Stygia, and now for a generation Zamboula had been Turan's westernmost outpost, ruled by a Turanian satrap.

The babel of a myriad tongues smote on the Cimmerian's ears as the restless pattern of the Zamboula streets weaved about him— cleft now and then by a squad of clattering horsemen, the tall, supple warriors of Turan, with dark hawk-faces, clinking metal and curved swords. The throng scampered from under their horses' hoofs, for they were the lords of Zamboula. But tall, somber Stygians, standing back in the shadows, glowered darkly, remembering their ancient glories. The hybrid population cared little whether the king who controlled their destinies dwelt in dark Khemi or gleaming Aghrapur. Jungir Khan ruled Zamboula, and men whispered that Nafertari, the satrap's mistress, ruled Jungir Khan; but the people went their way, flaunting their myriad colors in the streets, bargaining, disputing, gambling, swilling, loving, as the people of Zamboula have done for all the centuries its towers and minarets have lifted over the sands of the Kharamun.

Bronze lanterns, carved with leering dragons, had been lighted in the streets before Conan reached the house of Aram Baksh. The tavern was the last occupied house on the street, which ran west. A wide garden, enclosed by a wall, where date-palms grew thick, separated it from the houses farther east. To the west of the inn stood another grove of palms, through which the street, now become a road, wound out into the desert. Across the road from the tavern stood a row of deserted huts, shaded by straggling palm trees, and occupied only by bats and jackals. As Conan came down the road he wondered why the beggars, so plentiful in Zamboula, had not appropriated these empty houses for sleeping quarters. The lights ceased some distance behind him. Here were no lanterns, except the one hanging before the tavern gate: only the stars, the soft dust of the road underfoot, and the rustle of the palm leaves in the desert breeze.

Aram's gate did not open upon the road, but upon the alley which ran between the tavern and the garden of the date-palms. Conan jerked lustily at the rope which depended from the bell beside the lantern, augmenting its clamor by hammering on the iron-bound teakwork gate with the hilt of his sword. A wicket opened in the gate and a black face peered through.

'Open, blast you,' requested Conan. 'I'm a guest. I've paid Aram for a room, and a room I'll have, by Crom!'

The black craned his neck to stare into the starlit road behind Conan; but he opened the gate without comment, and closed it again behind the Cimmerian, locking and bolting it. The wall was unusually high; but there were many thieves in Zamboula, and a house on the edge of the desert might have to be defended against a nocturnal nomad raid. Conan strode through a garden where great pale blossoms nodded in the starlight, and entered the tap-room, where a Stygian with the shaven head of a student sat at a table brooding over nameless mysteries, and some nondescripts wrangled over a game of dice in a corner.

Aram Baksh came forward, walking softly, a portly man, with a black beard that swept his breast, a jutting hook-nose, and small black eyes which were never still.

'You wish food?' he asked. 'Drink?'

'I ate a joint of beef and a loaf of bread in the suk,' grunted Conan. 'Bring me a tankard of Ghazan wine— I've got just enough left to pay for it.' He tossed a copper coin on the wine-splashed board.

'You did not win at the gaming-tables?'

'How could I, with only a handful of silver to begin with? I paid you for the room this morning, because I knew I'd probably lose. I wanted to be sure I had a roof over my head tonight. I notice nobody sleeps in the streets in Zamboula. The very beggars hunt a niche they can barricade before dark. The city must be full of a particularly blood-thirsty brand of thieves.'

He gulped the cheap wine with relish, and then followed Aram out of the tap-room. Behind him the players halted their game to stare after him with a cryptic speculation in their eyes. They said nothing, but the Stygian laughed, a ghastly laugh of inhuman cynicism and mockery. The others lowered their eyes uneasily, avoiding one another's glance. The arts studied by a Stygian scholar are not calculated to make him share the feelings of a normal human being.

Conan followed Aram down a corridor lighted by copper lamps, and it did not please him to note his host's noiseless tread. Aram's feet were clad in soft slippers and the hallway was carpeted with thick Turanian rugs; but there was an unpleasant suggestion of stealthiness about the Zamboulan.

At the end of the winding corridor Aram halted at a door, across which a heavy iron bar rested in powerful metal brackets. This Aram lifted and showed the Cimmerian into a well-appointed chamber, the windows of which, Conan instantly noted, were small and strongly set with twisted bars of iron, tastefully gilded. There were rugs on the floor, a couch, after the Eastern fashion, and ornately carved stools. It was a much more elaborate chamber than Conan could have procured for the price nearer the center of the city— a fact that had first attracted him, when, that morning, he discovered how slim a purse his roisterings for the past few days had left him. He had ridden into Zamboula from the desert a week before.

Aram had lighted a bronze lamp, and he now called Conan's attention to the two doors. Both were provided with heavy bolts.

'You may sleep safely tonight, Cimmerian,' said Aram, blinking over his bushy beard from the inner doorway.

Conan grunted and tossed his naked broadsword on the couch.

'Your bolts and bars are strong; but I always sleep with steel by my side.'

Aram made no reply; he stood fingering his thick beard for a moment as he stared at the grim weapon. Then silently he withdrew, closing the door behind him. Conan shot the bolt into place, crossed the room, opened the opposite door and looked out. The room was on the side of the house that faced the road running west from the city. The door opened into a small court that was enclosed by a wall of its own. The end-walls, which shut it off from the rest of the tavern compound, were high and without entrances; but the wall that flanked the road was low, and there was no lock on the gate.

Conan stood for a moment in the door, the glow of the bronze lamp behind him, looking down the road to where it vanished among the dense palms. Their leaves rustled together in the faint breeze; beyond them lay the naked desert. Far up the street, in the other direction, lights gleamed and the noises of the city came faintly to him. Here was only starlight, the whispering of the palm leaves, and beyond that low wall, the dust of the road and the deserted huts thrusting their flat roofs against the low stars. Somewhere beyond the palm groves a drum began.

The garbled warnings of the Zuagir returned to him, seeming somehow less fantastic than they had seemed in the crowded, sunlit streets. He wondered again at the riddle of those empty huts. Why did the beggars shun them? He turned back into the chamber, shut the door and bolted it.

The light began to flicker, and he investigated, swearing when he found the palm oil in the lamp was almost exhausted. He started to shout for Aram, then shrugged his shoulders and blew out the light. In the soft darkness he stretched himself fully clad on the couch, his sinewy hand by instinct searching for and closing on the hilt of his broadsword. Glancing idly at the stars framed in the barred windows, with the murmur of the breeze through the palms in his ears, he sank into slumber with a vague consciousness of the muttering drum, out on the desert— the low rumble and mutter of a leather-covered drum, beaten with soft, rhythmic strokes of an open black hand....

2. The Night Skulkers

IT WAS the stealthy opening of a door which awakened the Cimmerian. He did not awake as civilized men do, drowsy and drugged and stupid. He awoke instantly, with a clear mind, recognizing the sound that had interrupted his sleep. Lying there tensely in the dark he saw the outer door slowly open. In a widening crack of starlit sky he saw framed a great black bulk, broad, stooping shoulders and a misshapen head blocked out against the stars.

Conan felt the skin crawl between his shoulders. He had bolted that door securely. How could it be opening now, save by supernatural agency? And how could a human being possess a head like that outlined against the stars? All the tales he had heard in the Zuagir tents of devils and goblins came back to bead his flesh with clammy sweat. Now the monster slid noiselessly into the room, with a crouching posture and a shambling gait; and a familiar scent assailed the Cimmerian's nostrils, but did not reassure him, since Zuagir legendry represented demons as smelling like that.

Noiselessly Conan coiled his long legs under him; his naked sword was in his right hand, and when he struck it was as suddenly and murderously as a tiger lunging out of the dark. Not even a demon could have avoided that catapulting charge. His sword met and clove through flesh and bone, and something went heavily to the floor with a strangling cry. Conan crouched in the dark above it, sword dripping in his hand. Devil or beast or man, the thing was dead there on the floor. He sensed death as any wild thing senses it. He glared through the half-open door into the starlit court beyond. The gate stood open, but the court was empty.

Conan shut the door but did not bolt it. Groping in the darkness he found the lamp and lighted it. There was enough oil in it to burn for a minute or so. An instant later he was bending over the figure that sprawled on the floor in a pool of blood.

It was a gigantic black man, naked but for a loin-cloth. One hand still grasped a knotty-headed bludgeon. The fellow's kinky wool was built up into horn-like spindles with twigs and dried mud. This barbaric coiffure had given the head its misshapen appearance in the starlight. Provided with a clue to the riddle, Conan pushed back the thick red lips, and grunted as he stared down at teeth filed to points.

He understood now the mystery of the strangers who had disappeared from the house of Aram Baksh; the riddle of the black drum thrumming out there beyond the palm groves, and of that pit of charred bones— that pit where strange meat might be roasted under the stars, while black beasts squatted about to glut a hideous hunger. The man on the floor was a cannibal slave from Darfar.

There were many of his kind in the city. Cannibalism was not tolerated openly in Zamboula. But Conan knew now why people locked themselves in so securely at night, and why even beggars shunned the open alleys and doorless ruins. He grunted in disgust as he visualized brutish black shadows skulking up and down the nighted streets, seeking human prey—and such men as Aram Baksh to open the doors to them. The innkeeper was not a demon; he was worse. The slaves from Darfar were notorious thieves; there was no doubt that some of their pilfered loot found its way into the hands of Aram Baksh. And in return he sold them human flesh.

Conan blew out the light, stepped to the door and opened it, and ran his hand over the ornaments on the outer side. One of them was movable and worked the bolt inside. The room was a trap to catch human prey like rabbits. But this time instead of a rabbit it had caught a saber-toothed tiger.

Conan returned to the other door, lifted the bolt and pressed against it. It was immovable and he remembered the bolt on the other side. Aram was taking no chances either with his victims or the men with whom he dealt. Buckling on his sword-belt, the Cimmerian strode out into the court, closing the door behind him. He had no intention of delaying the settlement of his reckoning with Aram Baksh. He wondered how many poor devils had been bludgeoned in their sleep and dragged out of that room and down the road that ran through the shadowed palm groves to the roasting-pit.

He halted in the court. The drum was still muttering, and he caught the reflection of a leaping red glare through the groves. Cannibalism was more than a perverted appetite with the black men of Darfar; it was an integral element of their ghastly cult. The black vultures were already in conclave. But whatever flesh filled their bellies that night, it would not be his.

To reach Aram Baksh he must climb one of the walls which separated the small enclosure from the main compound. They were high, meant to keep out the man-eaters; but Conan was no swamp-bred black man; his thews had been steeled in boyhood on the sheer cliffs of his native hills. He was standing at the foot of the nearer wall when a cry echoed under the trees.

In an instant Conan was crouching at the gate, glaring down the road. The sound had come from the shadows of the huts across the road. He heard a frantic choking and gurgling such as might result from a desperate attempt to shriek, with a black hand fastened over the victim's mouth. A close-knit clump of figures emerged from the shadows beyond the huts, and started down the road— three huge black men carrying a slender, struggling figure between them. Conan caught the glimmer of pale limbs writhing in the starlight, even as, with a convulsive wrench, the captive slipped from the grasp of the brutal fingers and came flying up the road, a supple young woman, naked as the day she was born. Conan saw her plainly before she ran out of the road and into the shadows between the huts. The blacks were at her heels, and back in the shadows the figures merged and an intolerable scream of anguish and horror rang out.

Stirred to red rage by the ghoulishness of the episode, Conan raced across the road.

Neither victim nor abductors were aware of his presence until the soft swish of the dust about his feet brought them about, and then he was almost upon them, coming with the gusty fury of a hill wind. Two of the blacks turned to meet him, lifting their bludgeons. But they failed to estimate properly the speed at which he was coming. One of them was down, disemboweled, before he could strike, and wheeling cat-like, Conan evaded the stroke of the other's cudgel and lashed in a whistling counter-cut. The black's head flew into the air; the headless body took three staggering steps, spurting blood and clawing horribly at the air with groping hands, and then slumped to the dust.

The remaining cannibal gave back with a strangled yell, hurling his captive from him. She tripped and rolled in the dust, and the black fled in blind panic toward the city. Conan was at his heels. Fear winged the black feet, but before they reached the easternmost hut, he sensed death at his back, and bellowed like an ox in the slaughter-yards.

'Black dog of hell!' Conan drove his sword between the dusky shoulders with such vengeful fury that the broad blade stood out half its length from the black breast. With a choking cry the black stumbled headlong, and Conan braced his feet and dragged out his sword as his victim fell.

Only the breeze disturbed the leaves. Conan shook his head as a lion shakes its mane and growled his unsatiated blood-lust. But no more shapes slunk from the shadows, and before the huts the starlit road stretched empty. He whirled at the quick patter of feet behind him, but it was only the girl, rushing to throw herself on him and clasp his neck in a desperate grasp, frantic from terror of the abominable fate she had just escaped.

'Easy, girl,' he grunted. 'You're all right. How did they catch you?'

She sobbed something unintelligible. He forgot all about Aram Baksh as he scrutinized her by the light of the stars. She was white, though a very definite brunette, obviously one of Zamboula's many mixed breeds. She was tall, with a slender, supple form, as he was in a good position to observe. Admiration burned in his fierce eyes as he looked down on her splendid bosom and her lithe limbs, which still quivered from fright and exertion. He passed an arm around her flexible waist and said, reassuringly: 'Stop shaking, wench; you're safe enough.'

His touch seemed to restore her shaken sanity. She tossed back her thick, glossy locks and cast a fearful glance over her shoulder, while she pressed closer to the Cimmerian as if seeking security in the contact.

'They caught me in the streets,' she muttered, shuddering. 'Lying in wait, beneath a dark arch— black men, like great, hulking apes! Set have mercy on me! I shall dream of it!'

'What were you doing out on the streets this time of night?' he inquired, fascinated by the satiny feel of her sleek skin under his questing fingers.

She raked back her hair and stared blankly up into his face. She did not seem aware of his caresses.

'My lover,' she said. 'My lover drove me into the streets. He went mad and tried to kill me. As I fled from him I was seized by those beasts.'

'Beauty like yours might drive a man mad,' quoth Conan, running his fingers experimentally through her glossy tresses.

She shook her head, like one emerging from a daze. She no longer trembled, and her voice was steady.

'It was the spite of a priest—of Totrasmek, the high priest of Hanuman, who desires me for himself—the dog!'

'No need to curse him for that,' grinned Conan. 'The old hyena has better taste than I thought.'

She ignored the bluff compliment. She was regaining her poise swiftly.

'My lover is a— a young Turanian soldier. To spite me, Totrasmek gave him a drug that drove him mad. Tonight he snatched up a sword and came at me to slay me in his madness, but I fled from him into the streets. The negroes seized me and brought me to this— what was that?'

Conan had already moved. Soundlessly as a shadow he drew her behind the nearest hut, beneath the straggling palms. They stood in tense stillness, while the low mutterings both had heard grew louder until voices were distinguishable. A group of negroes, some nine or ten, were coming along the road from the direction of the city. The girl clutched Conan's arm and he felt the terrified quivering of her supple body against his.

Now they could understand the gutturals of the black men.

'Our brothers have already assembled at the pit,' said one. 'We have had no luck. I hope they have enough for us.'

'Aram promised us a man,' muttered another, and Conan mentally promised Aram something.

'Aram keeps his word,' grunted yet another. 'Many a man we have taken from his tavern. But we pay him well. I myself have given him ten bales of silk I stole from my master. It was good silk, by Set!'

The blacks shuffled past, bare splay feet scuffing up the dust, and their voices dwindled down the road.

'Well for us those corpses are lying behind these huts,' muttered Conan. 'If they look in Aram's death-room they'll find another. Let's begone.'

'Yes, let us hasten!' begged the girl, almost hysterical again. 'My lover is wandering somewhere in the streets alone. The negroes may take him.'

'A devil of a custom this is!' growled Conan, as he led the way toward the city, paralleling the road but keeping behind the huts and straggling trees. 'Why don't the citizens clean out these black dogs?'

'They are valuable slaves,' murmured the girl. 'There are so many of them they might revolt if they were denied the flesh for which they lust. The people of Zamboula know they skulk the streets at night, and all are careful to remain within locked doors, except when something unforeseen happens, as it did to me. The blacks prey on anything they catch, but they seldom catch anybody but strangers. The people of Zamboula are not concerned with the strangers that pass through the city.

'Such men as Aram Baksh sell these strangers to the blacks. He would not dare attempt such a thing with a citizen.'

Conan spat in disgust, and a moment later led his companion out into the road which was becoming a street, with still, unlighted houses on each side. Slinking in the shadows was not congenial to his nature.

'Where do you want to go?' he asked. The girl did not seem to object to his arm about her waist.

'To my house, to rouse my servants,' she answered. 'To bid them search for my lover. I do not wish the city— the priests— anyone— to know of his madness. He—he is a young officer with a promising future. Perhaps we can drive this madness from him if we can find him.'

'If we find him?' rumbled Conan. 'What makes you think I want to spend the night scouring the streets for a lunatic?'

She cast a quick glance into his face, and properly interpreted the gleam in his blue eyes. Any woman could have known that he would follow her wherever she led— for a while, at least. But being a woman, she concealed her knowledge of that fact.

'Please,' she began with a hint of tears in her voice, 'I have no one else to ask for help— you have been kind—'

'All right!' he grunted. 'All right! What's the young reprobate's name?'

'Why— Alafdhal. I am Zabibi, a dancing-girl. I have danced often before the satrap, Jungir Khan, and his mistress Nafertari, and before all the lords and royal ladies of Zamboula. Totrasmek desired me, and because I repulsed him, he made me the innocent tool of his vengeance against Alafdhal. I asked a love potion of Totrasmek, not suspecting the depth of his guile and hate. He gave me a drug to mix with my lover's wine, and he swore that when Alafdhal drank it, he would love me even more madly than ever, and grant my every wish. I mixed the drug secretly with my lover's wine. But having drunk, my lover went raving mad and things came about as I have told you. Curse Totrasmek, the hybrid snake— ahhh!'

She caught his arm convulsively and both stopped short. They had come into a district of shops and stalls, all deserted and unlighted, for the hour was late. They were passing an alley, and in its mouth a man was standing, motionless and silent. His head was lowered, but Conan caught the weird gleam of eery eyes regarding them unblinkingly. His skin crawled, not with fear of the sword in the man's hand, but because of the uncanny suggestion of his posture and silence. They suggested madness. Conan pushed the girl aside and drew his sword.

'Don't kill him!' she begged. 'In the name of Set, do not slay him! You are strong— overpower him!'

'We'll see,' he muttered, grasping his sword in his right hand and clenching his left into a mallet-like fist.

He took a wary step toward the alley— and with a horrible moaning laugh the Turanian charged. As he came he swung his sword, rising on his toes as he put all the power of his body behind the blows. Sparks flashed blue as Conan parried the blade, and the next instant the madman was stretched senseless in the dust from a thundering buffet of Conan's left fist.

The girl ran forward.

'Oh, he is not— he is not—'

Conan bent swiftly, turned the man on his side and ran quick fingers over him.

'He's not hurt much,' he grunted. 'Bleeding at the nose, but anybody's likely to do that, after a clout on the jaw. He'll come to after a bit, and maybe his mind will be right. In the meantime I'll tie his wrists with his sword-belt—so. Now where do you want me to take him?'

'Wait!' She knelt beside the senseless figure, seized the bound hands and scanned them avidly. Then, shaking her head as if in baffled disappointment, she rose. She came close to the giant Cimmerian, and laid her slender hands on his arching breast. Her dark eyes, like wet black jewels in the starlight, gazed up into his.

'You are a man! Help me! Totrasmek must die! Slay him for me!'

'And put my neck into a Turanian noose?' he grunted.

'Nay!' The slender arms, strong as pliant steel, were around his corded neck. Her supple body throbbed against his. 'The Hyrkanians have no love for Totrasmek. The priests of Set fear him. He is a mongrel, who rules men by fear and superstition. I worship Set, and the Turanians bow to Erlik, but Totrasmek sacrifices to Hanuman the accursed! The Turanian lords fear his black arts and his power over the hybrid population, and they hate him. If he were slain in his temple at night, they would not seek his slayer very closely.'

'And what of his magic?' rumbled the Cimmerian.

'You are a fighting-man,' she answered. 'To risk your life is part of your profession.'

'For a price,' he admitted.

'There will be a price!' she breathed, rising on tiptoe, to gaze into his eyes.

The nearness of her vibrant body drove a flame through his veins. The perfume of her breath mounted to his brain. But as his arms closed about her supple figure she avoided them with a lithe movement, saying: 'Wait! First serve me in this matter.'

'Name your price.' He spoke with some difficulty.

'Pick up my lover,' she directed, and the Cimmerian stooped and swung the tall form easily to his broad shoulder. At the moment he felt as if he could have toppled over Jungir Khan's palace with equal ease. The girl murmured an endearment to the unconscious man, and there was no hypocrisy in her attitude. She obviously loved Alafdhal sincerely. Whatever business arrangement she made with Conan would have no bearing on her relationship with Alafdhal. Women are more practical about these things than men.

'Follow me!' She hurried along the street, while the Cimmerian strode easily after her, in no way discomforted by his limp burden. He kept a wary eye out for black shadows skulking under arches, but saw nothing suspicious. Doubtless the men of Darfar were all gathered at the roasting-pit. The girl turned down a narrow side street, and presently knocked cautiously at an arched door.

Almost instantly a wicket opened in the upper panel, and a black face glanced out. She bent close to the opening, whispering swiftly. Bolts creaked in their sockets, and the door opened. A giant black man stood framed against the soft glow of a copper lamp. A quick glance showed Conan the man was not from Darfar. His teeth were unfiled and his kinky hair was cropped close to his skull. He was from the Wadai.

At a word from Zabibi, Conan gave the limp body into the black's arms, and saw the young officer laid on a velvet divan. He showed no signs of returning consciousness. The blow that had rendered him senseless might have felled an ox. Zabibi bent over him for an instant, her fingers nervously twining and twisting. Then she straightened and beckoned the Cimmerian.

The door closed softly, the locks clicked behind them, and the closing wicket shut off the glow of the lamps. In the starlight of the street Zabibi took Conan's hand. Her own hand trembled a little.

'You will not fail me?'

He shook his maned head, massive against the stars.

'Then follow me to Hanuman's shrine, and the gods have mercy on our souls!'

Along the silent streets they moved like phantoms of antiquity. They went in silence. Perhaps the girl was thinking of her lover lying senseless on the divan under the copper lamps; or was shrinking with fear of what lay ahead of them in the demon-haunted shrine of Hanuman. The barbarian was thinking only of the woman moving so supplely beside him. The perfume of her scented hair was in his nostrils, the sensuous aura of her presence filled his brain and left room for no other thoughts.

Once they heard the clank of brass-shod feet, and drew into the shadows of a gloomy arch while a squad of Pelishtim watchmen swung past. There were fifteen of them; they marched in close formation, pikes at the ready, and the rearmost men had their broad brass shields slung on their backs, to protect them from a knife-stroke from behind. The skulking menace of the black man-eaters was a threat even to armed men.

As soon as the clang of their sandals had receded up the street, Conan and the girl emerged from their hiding-place and hurried on. A few moments later they saw the squat, flat-topped edifice they sought looming ahead of them.

The temple of Hanuman stood alone in the midst of a broad square, which lay silent and deserted beneath the stars. A marble wall surrounded the shrine, with a broad opening directly before the portico. This opening had no gate or any sort of barrier.

'Why don't the blacks seek their prey here?' muttered Conan. 'There's nothing to keep them out of the temple.'

He could feel the trembling of Zabibi's body as she pressed close to him.

'They fear Totrasmek, as all in Zamboula fear him, even Jungir Khan and Nafertari. Come! Come quickly, before my courage flows from me like water!'

The girl's fear was evident, but she did not falter. Conan drew his sword and strode ahead of her as they advanced through the open gateway. He knew the hideous habits of the priests of the East, and was aware that an invader of Hanuman's shrine might expect to encounter almost any sort of nightmare horror. He knew there was a good chance that neither he nor the girl would ever leave the shrine alive, but he had risked his life too many times before to devote much thought to that consideration.

They entered a court paved with marble which gleamed whitely in the starlight. A short flight of broad marble steps led up to the pillared portico. The great bronze doors stood wide open as they had stood for centuries. But no worshippers burnt incense within. In the day men and women might come timidly into the shrine and place offerings to the ape-god on the black altar. At night the people shunned the temple of Hanuman as hares shun the lair of the serpent.

Burning censers bathed the interior in a soft weird glow that created an illusion of unreality. Near the rear wall, behind the black stone altar, sat the god with his gaze fixed for ever on the open door, through which for centuries his victims had come, dragged by chains of roses. A faint groove ran from the sill to the altar, and when Conan's foot felt it, he stepped away as quickly as if he had trodden upon a snake. That groove had been worn by the faltering feet of the multitude of those who had died screaming on that grim altar.

Bestial in the uncertain light Hanuman leered with his carven mask. He sat, not as an ape would crouch, but cross-legged as a man would sit, but his aspect was no less simian for that reason. He was carved from black marble, but his eyes were rubies, which glowed red and lustful as the coals of hell's deepest pits. His great hands lay upon his lap, palms upward, taloned fingers spread and grasping. In the gross emphasis of his attributes, in the leer of his satyr-countenance, was reflected the abominable cynicism of the degenerate cult which deified him.

The girl moved around the image, making toward the back wall, and when her sleek flank brushed against a carven knee, she shrank aside and shuddered as if a reptile had touched her. There was a space of several feet between the broad back of the idol and the marble wall with its frieze of gold leaves. On either hand, flanking the idol, an ivory door under a gold arch was set in the wall.

'Those doors open into each end of a hair-pin shaped corridor,' she said hurriedly. 'Once I was in the interior of the shrine— once!' She shivered and twitched her slim shoulders at a memory both terrifying and obscene. 'The corridor is bent like a horseshoe, with each horn opening into this room. Totrasmek's chambers are enclosed within the curve of the corridor and open into it. But there is a secret door in this wall which opens directly into an inner chamber—'

She began to run her hands over the smooth surface, where no crack or crevice showed. Conan stood beside her, sword in hand, glancing warily about him. The silence, the emptiness of the shrine, with imagination picturing what might lie behind that wall, made him feel like a wild beast nosing a trap.

'Ah!' The girl had found a hidden spring at last; a square opening gaped blackly in the wall. 'Set!' she screamed, and even as Conan leaped toward her, he saw that a great misshapen hand had fastened itself in her hair. She was snatched off her feet and jerked head-first through the opening. Conan, grabbing ineffectually at her, felt his fingers slip from a naked limb, and in an instant she had vanished and the wall showed blank as before. Only from beyond it came briefly the muffled sounds of a struggle, a scream, faintly heard, and a low laugh that made Conan's blood congeal in his veins.

3. Black Hands Gripping

WITH AN OATH the Cimmerian smote the wall a terrific blow with the pommel of his sword, and the marble cracked and chipped. But the hidden door did not give way, and reason told him that doubtless it had been bolted on the other side of the wall. Turning, he sprang across the chamber to one of the ivory doors.

He lifted his sword to shatter the panels, but on a venture tried the door first with his left hand. It swung open easily, and he glared into a long corridor that curved away into dimness under the weird light of censers similar to those in the shrine. A heavy gold bolt showed on the jamb of the door, and he touched it lightly with his finger tips. The faint warmness of the metal could have been detected only by a man whose faculties were akin to those of a wolf. That bolt had been touched— and therefore drawn— within the last few seconds. The affair was taking on more and more of the aspect of a baited trap. He might have known Totrasmek would know when anyone entered the temple.

To enter the corridor would undoubtedly be to walk into whatever trap the priest had set for him. But Conan did not hesitate. Somewhere in that dim-lit interior Zabibi was a captive, and, from what he knew of the characteristics of Hanuman's priests, he was sure that she needed help badly. Conan stalked into the corridor with a pantherish tread, poised to strike right or left.

On his left, ivory, arched doors opened into the corridor, and he tried each in turn. All were locked. He had gone perhaps seventy-five feet when the corridor bent sharply to the left, describing the curve the girl had mentioned. A door opened into this curve, and it gave under his hand.

He was looking into a broad, square chamber, somewhat more clearly lighted than the corridor. Its walls were of white marble, the floor of ivory, the ceiling of fretted silver. He saw divans of rich satin, gold-worked footstools of ivory, a disk-shaped table of some massive, metal-like substance. On one of the divans a man was reclining, looking toward the door. He laughed as he met the Cimmerian's startled glare.

This man was naked except for a loin-cloth and high-strapped sandals. He was brown-skinned, with close-cropped black hair and restless black eyes that set off a broad, arrogant face. In girth and breadth he was enormous, with huge limbs on which the great muscles swelled and rippled at each slightest movement. His hands were the largest Conan had ever seen. The assurance of gigantic physical strength colored his every action and inflection.

'Why not enter, barbarian?' he called mockingly, with an exaggerated gesture of invitation.

Conan's eyes began to smolder ominously, but he trod warily into the chamber, his sword ready.

'Who the devil are you?' he growled.

'I am Baal-pteor,' the man answered. 'Once, long ago and in another land, I had another name. But this is a good name, and why Totrasmek gave it to me, any temple wench can tell you.'

'So you're his dog!' grunted Conan. 'Well, curse your brown hide, Baal-pteor, where's the wench you jerked through the wall?'

'My master entertains her!' laughed Baal-pteor. 'Listen!'

From beyond a door opposite the one by which Conan had entered there sounded a woman's scream, faint and muffled in the distance.

'Blast your soul!' Conan took a stride toward the door, then wheeled with his skin tingling. Baal-pteor was laughing at him, and that laugh was edged with menace that made the hackles rise on Conan's neck and sent a red wave of murder-lust driving across his vision.

He started toward Baal-pteor, the knuckles on his sword-hand showing white. With a swift motion the brown man threw something at him—a shining crystal sphere that glistened in the weird light.

Conan dodged instinctively, but, miraculously, the globe stopped short in midair, a few feet from his face. It did not fall to the floor. It hung suspended, as if by invisible filaments, some five feet above the floor. And as he glared in amazement, it began to rotate with growing speed. And as it revolved it grew, expanded, became nebulous. It filled the chamber. It enveloped him. It blotted out furniture, walls, the smiling countenance of Baal-pteor. He was lost in the midst of a blinding bluish blur of whirling speed. Terrific winds screamed past Conan, tugging, tearing at him, striving to wrench him from his feet, to drag him into the vortex that spun madly before him.

With a choking cry Conan lurched backward, reeled, felt the solid wall against his back. At the contact the illusion ceased to be. The whirling, titanic sphere vanished like a bursting bubble. Conan reeled upright in the silver-ceilinged room, with a gray mist coiling about his feet, and saw Baal-pteor lolling on the divan, shaking with silent laughter.

'Son of a slut!' Conan lunged at him. But the mist swirled up from the floor, blotting out that giant brown form. Groping in a rolling cloud that blinded him, Conan felt a rending sensation of dislocation— and then room and mist and brown man were gone together. He was standing alone among the high reeds of a marshy fen, and a buffalo was lunging at him, head down. He leaped aside from the ripping scimitar-curved horns, and drove his sword in behind the foreleg, through ribs and heart. And then it was not a buffalo dying there in the mud, but the brown-skinned Baal-pteor. With a curse Conan struck off his head; and the head soared from the ground and snapped beast-like tusks into his throat. For all his mighty strength he could not tear it loose— he was choking— strangling; then there was a rush and roar through space, the dislocating shock of an immeasurable impact, and he was back in the chamber with Baal-pteor, whose head was once more set firmly on his shoulders, and who laughed silently at him from the divan.

'Mesmerism!' muttered Conan, crouching and digging his toes hard against the marble.

His eyes blazed. This brown dog was playing with him, making sport of him! But this mummery, this child's play of mists and shadows of thought, it could not harm him. He had but to leap and strike and the brown acolyte would be a mangled corpse under his heel. This time he would not be fooled by shadows of illusion—but he was.

A blood-curdling snarl sounded behind him, and he wheeled and struck in a flash at the panther crouching to spring on him from the metal-colored table. Even as he struck, the apparition vanished and his blade clashed deafeningly on the adamantine surface. Instantly he sensed something abnormal. The blade stuck to the table! He wrenched at it savagely. It did not give. This was no mesmeristic trick. The table was a giant magnet. He gripped the hilt with both hands, when a voice at his shoulder brought him about, to face the brown man, who had at last risen from the divan.

Slightly taller than Conan, and much heavier, Baal-pteor loomed before him, a daunting image of muscular development. His mighty arms were unnaturally long, and his great hands opened and closed, twitching convulsively. Conan released the hilt of his imprisoned sword and fell silent, watching his enemy through slitted lids.

'Your head, Cimmerian!' taunted Baal-pteor. 'I shall take it with my bare hands, twisting it from your shoulders as the head of a fowl is twisted! Thus the sons of Kosala offer sacrifice to Yajur. Barbarian, you look upon a strangler of Yota-pong. I was chosen by the priests of Yajur in my infancy, and throughout childhood, boyhood and youth I trained in the art of slaying with the naked hands— for only thus are the sacrifices enacted. Yajur loves blood, and we waste not a drop from the victim's veins. When I was a child they gave me infants to throttle; when I was a boy I strangled young girls; as a youth, women, old men and young boys. Not until I reached my full manhood was I given a strong man to slay on the altar of Yota-pong.

'For years I offered the sacrifices to Yajur. Hundreds of necks have snapped between these fingers—' he worked them before the Cimmerian's angry eyes. 'Why I fled from Yota-pong to become Totrasmek's servant is no concern of yours. In a moment you will be beyond curiosity. The priests of Kosala, the stranglers of Yajur, are strong beyond the belief of men. And I was stronger than any. With my hands, barbarian, I shall break your neck!'

And like the stroke of twin cobras, the great hands closed on Conan's throat. The Cimmerian made no attempt to dodge or fend them away, but his own hands darted to the Kosalan's bull-neck. Baal-pteor's black eyes widened as he felt the thick cords of muscles that protected the barbarian's throat. With a snarl he exerted his inhuman strength, and knots and lumps and ropes of thews rose along his massive arms. And then a choking gasp burst from him as Conan's fingers locked on his throat. For an instant they stood there like statues, their faces masks of effort, veins beginning to stand out purply on their temples. Conan's thin lips drew back from his teeth in a grinning snarl. Baal-pteor's eyes were distended; in them grew an awful surprize and the glimmer of fear. Both men stood motionless as images, except for the expanding of their muscles on rigid arms and braced legs, but strength beyond common conception was warring there— strength that might have uprooted trees and crushed the skulls of bullocks.

The wind whistled suddenly from between Baal-pteor's parted teeth. His face was growing purple. Fear flooded his eyes. His thews seemed ready to burst from his arms and shoulders, yet the muscles of the Cimmerian's thick neck did not give; they felt like masses of woven iron cords under his desperate fingers. But his own flesh was giving way under the iron fingers of the Cimmerian which ground deeper and deeper into the yielding throat-muscles, crushing them in upon jugular and windpipe.

The statuesque immobility of the group gave way to sudden, frenzied motion, as the Kosalan began to wrench and heave, seeking to throw himself backward. He let go of Conan's throat and grasped his wrists, trying to tear away those inexorable fingers.

With a sudden lunge Conan bore him backward until the small of his back crashed against the table. And still farther over its edge Conan bent him, back and back, until his spine was ready to snap.

Conan's low laugh was merciless as the ring of steel.

'You fool!' he all but whispered. 'I think you never saw a man from the West before. Did you deem yourself strong, because you were able to twist the heads off civilized folk, poor weaklings with muscles like rotten string? Hell! Break the neck of a wild Cimmerian bull before you call yourself strong. I did that, before I was a full-grown man— like this!'

And with a savage wrench he twisted Baal-pteor's head around until the ghastly face leered over the left shoulder, and the vertebrae snapped like a rotten branch.

Conan hurled the flopping corpse to the floor, turned to the sword again and gripped the hilt with both hands, bracing his feet against the floor. Blood trickled down his broad breast from the wounds Baal-pteor's finger nails had torn in the skin of his neck. His black hair was damp, sweat ran down his face, and his chest heaved. For all his vocal scorn of Baal-pteor's strength, he had almost met his match in the inhuman Kosalan. But without pausing to catch his breath, he exerted all his strength in a mighty wrench that tore the sword from the magnet where it clung.

Another instant and he had pushed open the door from behind which the scream had sounded, and was looking down a long straight corridor, lined with ivory doors. The other end was masked by a rich velvet curtain, and from beyond that curtain came the devilish strains of such music as Conan had never heard, not even in nightmares. It made the short hairs bristle on the back of his neck. Mingled with it was the panting, hysterical sobbing of a woman. Grasping his sword firmly, he glided down the corridor.

4. Dance, Girl, Dance!

WHEN ZABIBI was jerked head-first through the aperture which opened in the wall behind the idol, her first, dizzy, disconnected thought was that her time had come. She instinctively shut her eyes and waited for the blow to fall. But instead she felt herself dumped unceremoniously onto the smooth marble floor, which bruised her knees and hip. Opening her eyes she stared fearfully around her, just as a muffled impact sounded from beyond the wall. She saw a brown-skinned giant in a loin-cloth standing over her, and, across the chamber into which she had come, a man sat on a divan, with his back to a rich velvet curtain, a broad, fleshy man, with fat white hands and snaky eyes. And her flesh crawled, for this man was Totrasmek, the priest of Hanuman, who for years had spun his slimy webs of power throughout the city of Zamboula.

'The barbarian seeks to batter his way through the wall,' said Totrasmek sardonically, 'but the bolt will hold.'

The girl saw that a heavy golden bolt had been shot across the hidden door, which was plainly discernible from this side of the wall. The bolt and its sockets would have resisted the charge of an elephant.

'Go open one of the doors for him, Baal-pteor,' ordered Totrasmek. 'Slay him in the square chamber at the other end of the corridor.'

The Kosalan salaamed and departed by the way of a door in the side wall of the chamber. Zabibi rose, staring fearfully at the priest, whose eyes ran avidly over her splendid figure. To this she was indifferent. A dancer of Zamboula was accustomed to nakedness. But the cruelty in his eyes started her limbs to quivering.

'Again you come to me in my retreat, beautiful one,' he purred with cynical hypocrisy. 'It is an unexpected honor. You seemed to enjoy your former visit so little, that I dared not hope for you to repeat it. Yet I did all in my power to provide you with an interesting experience.'

For a Zamboulan dancer to blush would be an impossibility, but a smolder of anger mingled with the fear in Zabibi's dilated eyes.

'Fat pig! You know I did not come here for love of you.'

'No,' laughed Totrasmek, 'you came like a fool, creeping through the night with a stupid barbarian to cut my throat. Why should you seek my life?'

'You know why!' she cried, knowing the futility of trying to dissemble.

'You are thinking of your lover,' he laughed. 'The fact that you are here seeking my life shows that he quaffed the drug I gave you. Well, did you not ask for it? And did I not send what you asked for, out of the love I bear you?'

'I asked you for a drug that would make him slumber harmlessly for a few hours,' she said bitterly. 'And you— you sent your servant with a drug that drove him mad! I was a fool ever to trust you. I might have known your protestations of friendship were lies, to disguise your hate and spite.'

'Why did you wish your lover to sleep?' he retorted. 'So you could steal from him the only thing he would never give you— the ring with the jewel men call the Star of Khorala— the star stolen from the Queen of Ophir, who would pay a roomful of gold for its return. He would not give it to you willingly, because he knew that it holds a magic which, when properly controlled, will enslave the hearts of any of the opposite sex. You wished to steal it from him, fearing that his magicians would discover the key to that magic and he would forget you in his conquests of the queens of the world. You would sell it back to the queen of Ophir, who understands its power and would use it to enslave men, as she did before it was stolen.'

'And why did you want it?' she demanded sulkily.

'I understand its powers. It would increase the power of my arts.'

'Well,' she snapped, 'you have it now!'

'I have the Star of Khorala? Nay, you err.'

'Why bother to lie?' she retorted bitterly. 'He had it on his finger when he drove me into the streets. He did not have it when I found him again. Your servant must have been watching the house, and have taken it from him, after I escaped him. To the devil with it! I want my lover back sane and whole. You have the ring; you have punished us both. Why do you not restore his mind to him? Can you?'

'I could,' he assured her, in evident enjoyment of her distress. He drew a phial from among his robes. 'This contains the juice of the golden lotus. If your lover drank it he would be sane again. Yes, I will be merciful. You have both thwarted and flouted me, not once but many times; he has constantly opposed my wishes. But I will be merciful. Come and take the phial from my hand.'

She stared at Totrasmek, trembling with eagerness to seize it, but fearing it was but some cruel jest. She advanced timidly, with a hand extended, and he laughed heartlessly and drew back out of her reach. Even as her lips parted to curse him, some instinct snatched her eyes upward. From the gilded ceiling four jade-hued vessels were falling. She dodged, but they did not strike her. They crashed to the floor about her, forming the four corners of a square. And she screamed, and screamed again. For out of each ruin reared the hooded head of a cobra, and one struck at her bare leg. Her convulsive movement to evade it brought her within reach of the one on the other side and again she had to shift like lightning to avoid the flash of its hideous head.

She was caught in a frightful trap. All four serpents were swaying and striking at foot, ankle, calf, knee, thigh, hip, whatever portion of her voluptuous body chanced to be nearest to them, and she could not spring over them or pass between them to safety. She could only whirl and spring aside and twist her body to avoid the strokes, and each time she moved to dodge one snake, the motion brought her within range of another, so that she had to keep shifting with the speed of light. She could move only a short space in any direction, and the fearful hooded crests were menacing her every second. Only a dancer of Zamboula could have lived in that grisly square.

She became, herself, a blur of bewildering motion. The heads missed her by hair's breadths, but they missed, as she pitted her twinkling feet, flickering limbs and perfect eye against the blinding speed of the scaly demons her enemy had conjured out of thin air.

Somewhere a thin whining music struck up, mingling with the hissing of the serpents, like an evil night-wind blowing through the empty sockets of a skull. Even in the flying speed of her urgent haste she realized that the darting of the serpents was no longer at random. They obeyed the grisly piping of the eery music. They struck with a horrible rhythm, and perforce her swaying, writhing, spinning body attuned itself to their rhythm. Her frantic motions melted into the measures of a dance compared to which the most obscene tarantella of Zamora would have seemed sane and restrained. Sick with shame and terror Zabibi heard the hateful mirth of her merciless tormentor.

'The Dance of the Cobras, my lovely one!' laughed Totrasmek. 'So maidens danced in the sacrifice to Hanuman centuries ago— but never with such beauty and suppleness. Dance, girl, dance! How long can you avoid the fangs of the Poison People? Minutes? Hours? You will weary at last. Your swift, sure feet will stumble, your legs falter, your hips slow in their rotations. Then the fangs will begin to sink deep into your ivory flesh—'

Behind him the curtain shook as if struck by a gust of wind, and Totrasmek screamed. His eyes dilated and his hands caught convulsively at the length of bright steel which jutted suddenly from his breast.

The music broke off short. The girl swayed dizzily in her dance, crying out in dreadful anticipation of the flickering fangs— and then only four wisps of harmless blue smoke curled up from the floor about her, as Totrasmek sprawled headlong from the divan.

Conan came from behind the curtain, wiping his broad blade. Looking through the hangings he had seen the girl dancing desperately between four swaying spirals of smoke, but he had guessed that their appearance was very different to her. He knew he had killed Totrasmek.

Zabibi sank down on the floor, panting, but even as Conan started toward her, she staggered up again, though her legs trembled with exhaustion.

'The phial!' she gasped. 'The phial!'

Totrasmek still grasped it in his stiffening hand. Ruthlessly she tore it from his locked fingers, and then began frantically to ransack his garments.

'What the devil are you looking for?' Conan demanded.

'A ring— he stole it from Alafdhal. He must have, while my lover walked in madness through the streets. Set's devils!'

She had convinced herself that it was not on the person of Totrasmek. She began to cast about the chamber, tearing up divan-covers and hangings, and upsetting vessels.

She paused and raked a damp lock of hair out of her eyes.

'I forgot Baal-pteor!'

'He's in hell with his neck broken,' Conan assured her.

She expressed vindictive gratification at the news, but an instant later swore expressively.

'We can't stay here. It's not many hours until dawn. Lesser priests are likely to visit the temple at any hour of the night, and if we're discovered here with his corpse, the people will tear us to pieces. The Turanians could not save us.'

She lifted the bolt on the secret door, and a few moments later they were in the streets and hurrying away from the silent square where brooded the age-old shrine of Hanuman.

In a winding street a short distance away Conan halted and checked his companion with a heavy hand on her naked shoulder.

'Don't forget there was a price—'

'I have not forgotten!' She twisted free. 'But we must go to— to Alafdhal first!'

A few minutes later the black slave let them through the wicket door. The young Turanian lay upon the divan, his arms and legs bound with heavy velvet ropes. His eyes were open, but they were like those of a mad dog, and foam was thick on his lips. Zabibi shuddered.

'Force his jaws open!' she commanded, and Conan's iron fingers accomplished the task.

Zabibi emptied the phial down the maniac's gullet. The effect was like magic. Instantly he became quiet. The glare faded from his eyes; he stared up at the girl in a puzzled way, but with recognition and intelligence. Then he fell into a normal slumber.

'When he awakes he will be quite sane,' she whispered, motioning to the silent slave.

With a deep bow he gave into her hands a small leathern bag, and drew about her shoulders a silken cloak. Her manner had subtly changed when she beckoned Conan to follow her out of the chamber.

In an arch that opened on the street, she turned to him, drawing herself up with a new regality.

'I must now tell you the truth,' she said. 'I am not Zabibi. I am Nafertari. And he is not Alafdhal, a poor captain of the guardsmen. He is Jungir Khan, satrap of Zamboula.'

Conan made no comment; his scarred dark countenance was immobile.

'I lied to you because I dared not divulge the truth to anyone,' she said. 'We were alone when Jungir Khan went mad. None knew of it but myself. Had it been known that the satrap of Zamboula was a madman, there would have been instant revolt and rioting, even as Totrasmek planned, who plotted our destruction.

'You see now how impossible is the reward for which you hoped. The satrap's mistress is not—cannot be for you. But you shall not go unrewarded. Here is a sack of gold.'

She gave him the bag she had received from the slave.

'Go, now, and when the sun is come up to the palace, I will have Jungir Khan make you captain of his guard. But you will take your orders from me, secretly. Your first duty will be to march a squad to the shrine of Hanuman, ostensibly to search for clues of the priest's slayer; in reality to search for the Star of Khorala. It must be hidden there somewhere. When you find it, bring it to me. You have my leave to go now.'

He nodded, still silent, and strode away. The girl, watching the swing of his broad shoulders, was piqued to note that there was nothing in his bearing to show that he was in any way chagrined or abashed.

WHEN HE HAD rounded a corner, he glanced back, and then changed his direction and quickened his pace. A few moments later he was in the quarter of the city containing the Horse Market. There he smote on a door until from the window above a bearded head was thrust to demand the reason for the disturbance.

'A horse,' demanded Conan. 'The swiftest steed you have.'

'I open no gates at this time of night,' grumbled the horse-trader.

Conan rattled his coins.

'Dog's son knave! Don't you see I'm white, and alone? Come down, before I smash your door!'

Presently, on a bay stallion, Conan was riding toward the house of Aram Baksh.

He turned off the road into the alley that lay between the tavern compound and the date-palm garden, but he did not pause at the gate. He rode on to the northeast corner of the wall, then turned and rode along the north wall, to halt within a few paces of the northwest angle. No trees grew near the wall, but there were some low bushes. To one of these he tied his horse, and was about to climb into the saddle again, when he heard a low muttering of voices beyond the corner of the wall.

Drawing his foot from the stirrup he stole to the angle and peered around it. Three men were moving down the road toward the palm groves, and from their slouching gait he knew they were negroes. They halted at his low call, bunching themselves as he strode toward them, his sword in his hand. Their eyes gleamed whitely in the starlight. Their brutish lust shone in their ebony faces, but they knew their three cudgels could not prevail against his sword, just as he knew it.

'Where are you going?' he challenged.

'To bid our brothers put out the fire in the pit beyond the groves,' was the sullen, guttural reply. 'Aram Baksh promised us a man, but he lied. We found one of our brothers dead in the trap-chamber. We go hungry this night.'

'I think not,' smiled Conan. 'Aram Baksh will give you a man. Do you see that door?'

He pointed to a small, iron-bound portal set in the midst of the western wall.

'Wait there. Aram Baksh will give you a man.'

Backing warily away until he was out of reach of a sudden bludgeon blow, he turned and melted around the northwest angle of the wall. Reaching his horse he paused to ascertain that the blacks were not sneaking after him, and then he climbed into the saddle and stood upright on it, quieting the uneasy steed with a low word. He reached up, grasped the coping of the wall and drew himself up and over. There he studied the grounds for an instant. The tavern was built in the southwest corner of the enclosure, the remaining space of which was occupied by groves and gardens. He saw no one in the grounds. The tavern was dark and silent, and he knew all the doors and windows were barred and bolted.

Conan knew that Aram Baksh slept in a chamber that opened into a cypress-bordered path that led to the door in the western wall. Like a shadow he glided among the trees and a few moments later he rapped lightly on the chamber door.

'What is it?' asked a rumbling voice within.

'Aram Baksh!' hissed Conan. 'The blacks are stealing over the wall!'

Almost instantly the door opened, framing the tavern-keeper, naked but for his shirt, with a dagger in his hand.

He craned his neck to stare into the Cimmerian's face.

'What tale is this— you!'

Conan's vengeful fingers strangled the yell in his throat. They went to the floor together and Conan wrenched the dagger from his enemy's hand. The blade glinted in the starlight, and blood spurted. Aram Baksh made hideous noises, gasping and gagging on a mouthful of blood. Conan dragged him to his feet and again the dagger slashed, and most of the curly beard fell to the floor.

Still gripping his captive's throat— for a man can scream incoherently even with his tongue slit— Conan dragged him out of the dark chamber and down the cypress-shadowed path, to the iron-bound door in the outer wall. With one hand he lifted the bolt and threw the door open, disclosing the three shadowy figures which waited like black vultures outside. Into their eager arms Conan thrust the innkeeper.

A horrible, blood-choked scream rose from the Zamboulan's throat, but there was no response from the silent tavern. The people there were used to screams outside the wall. Aram Baksh fought like a wild man, his distended eyes turned frantically on the Cimmerian's face. He found no mercy there. Conan was thinking of the scores of wretches who owed their bloody doom to this man's greed.

In glee the negroes dragged him down the road, mocking his frenzied gibberings. How could they recognize Aram Baksh in this half-naked, bloodstained figure, with the grotesquely shorn beard and unintelligible babblings? The sounds of the struggle came back to Conan, standing beside the gate, even after the clump of figures had vanished among the palms.

Closing the door behind him, Conan returned to his horse, mounted and turned westward, toward the open desert, swinging wide to skirt the sinister belt of palm groves. As he rode, he drew from his belt a ring in which gleamed a jewel that snared the starlight in a shimmering iridescence. He held it up to admire it, turning it this way and that. The compact bag of gold pieces clinked gently at his saddle-bow, like a promise of the greater riches to come.

'I wonder what she'd say if she knew I recognized her as Nafertari and him as Jungir Khan the instant I saw them,' he mused. 'I knew the Star of Khorala, too. There'll be a fine scene if she ever guesses that I slipped it off his finger while I was tying him with his sword-belt. But they'll never catch me, with the start I'm getting.'

He glanced back at the shadowy palm groves, among which a red glare was mounting. A chanting rose to the night, vibrating with savage exultation. And another sound mingled with it, a mad, incoherent screaming, a frenzied gibbering in which no words could be distinguished. The noise followed Conan as he rode westward beneath the paling stars.

_________

24: George Dobson's Expedition to Hell

James Hogg

1770-1835

Blackwood’s Edinburgh Magazine May 1827

Collected in: The Shepherd's Calender, 1829

THERE IS NO PHENOMENON in nature less understood, and about which greater nonsense is written, than dreaming. It is a strange thing. For my part, I do not understand it, nor have I any desire to do so; and I firmly believe that no philosopher that ever wrote knows a particle more about it than I do, however elaborate and subtle the theories he may advance concerning it. He knows not even what sleep is, nor can he define its nature, so as to enable any common mind to comprehend him; and how, then, can he define that ethereal part of it, wherein the soul holds intercourse with the external world?— how, in that state of abstraction, some ideas force themselves upon us, in spite of all our efforts to get rid of them; while others, which we have resolved to bear about with us by night as well as by day, refuse us their fellowship, even at periods when we most require their aid?

No, no; the philosopher knows nothing about either; and if he says he does, I entreat you not to believe him. He does not know what mind is; even his own mind, to which one would think he has the most direct access: far less can he estimate the operations and powers of that of any other intelligent being. He does not even know, with all his subtlety, whether it be a power distinct from his body, or essentially the same, and only incidentally and temporarily endowed with different qualities. He sets himself to discover at what period of his existence the union was established. He is baffled; for Consciousness refuses the intelligence, declaring, that she cannot carry him far enough back to ascertain it. He tries to discover the precise moment when it is dissolved, but on this Consciousness is altogether silent; and all is darkness and mystery; for the origin, the manner of continuance, and the time and mode of breaking up of the union between soul and body, are in reality undiscoverable by our natural faculties— are not patent, beyond the possibility of mistake: but whosoever can read his Bible, and solve a dream, can do either, without being subjected to any material error.

It is on this ground that I like to contemplate, not the theory of dreams, but the dreams themselves; because they prove to the unlettered man, in a very forcible manner, a distinct existence of the soul, and its lively and rapid intelligence with external nature, as well as with a world of spirits with which it has no acquaintance, when the body is lying dormant, and the same to the soul as if sleeping in death.

I account nothing of any dream that relates to the actions of the day; the person is not sound asleep who dreams about these things; there is no division between matter and mind, but they are mingled together in a sort of chaos— what a farmer would call compost— fermenting and disturbing one another. I find that in all dreams of that kind, men of every profession have dreams peculiar to their own occupations; and, in the country, at least, their import is generally understood. Every man's body is a barometer. A thing made up of the elements must be affected by their various changes and convulsions; and so the body assuredly is. When I was a shepherd, and all the comforts of my life depended so much on good or bad weather, the first thing I did every morning was strictly to overhaul the dreams of the night; and I found that I could calculate better from them than from the appearance and changes of the sky. I know a keen sportsman, who pretends that his dreams never deceive him. If he dream of angling, or pursuing salmon in deep waters, he is sure of rain; but if fishing on dry ground, or in waters so low that the fish cannot get from him, it forebodes drought; hunting or shooting hares, is snow, and moorfowl, wind, &c. But the most extraordinary professional dream on record is, without all doubt, that well-known one of George Dobson, coach-driver in Edinburgh, which I shall here relate; for though it did not happen in the shepherd's cot, it has often been recited there.

George was part proprietor and driver of a hackney-coach in Edinburgh, when such vehicles were scarce; and one day a gentleman, whom he knew, came to him and said:— "George, you must drive me and my son here out to——," a certain place that he named, somewhere in the vicinity of Edinburgh.

"Sir," said George, "I never heard tell of such a place, and I cannot drive you to it unless you give me very particular directions."

"It is false," returned the gentleman; "there is no man in Scotland who knows the road to that place better than you do. You have never driven on any other road all your life; and I insist on your taking us."

"Very well, sir," said George, "I'll drive you to hell, if you have a mind; only you are to direct me on the road."

"Mount and drive on, then," said the other; "and no fear of the road."

George did so, and never in his life did he see his horses go at such a noble rate; they snorted, they pranced, and they flew on; and as the whole road appeared to lie down-hill, he deemed that he should soon come to his journey's end. Still he drove on at the same rate, far, far down-hill,— and so fine an open road he never travelled,— till by degrees it grew so dark that he could not see to drive any farther. He called to the gentleman, inquiring what he should do; who answered, that this was the place they were bound to, so he might draw up, dismiss them, and return. He did so, alighted from the dickie, wondered at his foaming horses, and forthwith opened the coach-door, held the rim of his hat with the one hand, and with the other demanded his fare.

"You have driven us in fine style, George," said the elder gentleman, "and deserve to be remembered; but it is needless for us to settle just now, as you must meet us here again to-morrow precisely at twelve o'clock."

"Very well, sir," said George; "there is likewise an old account, you know, and some toll-money;" which indeed there was.

"It shall be all settled to-morrow, George, and moreover, I fear there will be some toll-money to-day."

"I perceived no tolls to-day, your honour," said George.

"But I perceived one, and not very far back neither, which I suspect you will have difficulty in repassing without a regular ticket. What a pity I have no change on me!"

"I never saw it otherwise with your honour," said George, jocularly; "what a pity it is you should always suffer yourself to run short of change!"

"I will give you that which is as good, George," said the gentleman; and he gave him a ticket written with red ink, which the honest coachman could not read. He, however, put it into his sleeve, and inquired of his employer where that same toll was which he had not observed, and how it was that they did not ask toll from him as he came through? The gentleman replied, by informing George that there was no road out of that domain, and that whoever entered it must either remain in it, or return by the same path; so they never asked any toll till the person's return, when they were at times highly capricious; but that the ticket he had given him would answer his turn. And he then asked George if he did not perceive a gate, with a number of men in black standing about it.

"Oho! Is yon the spot?" says George; "then, I assure your honour, yon is no toll-gate, but a private entrance into a great man's mansion; for do not I know two or three of the persons yonder to be gentlemen of the law, whom I have driven often and often? and as good fellows they are, too, as any I know—men who never let themselves run short of change! Good day.— Twelve o'clock to-morrow?"

"Yes, twelve o'clock noon, precisely;" and with that, George's employer vanished in the gloom, and left him to wind his way out of that dreary labyrinth the best way he could. He found it no easy matter, for his lamps were not lighted, and he could not see an ell before him— he could not even perceive his horses' ears; and what was worse, there was a rushing sound, like that of a town on fire, all around him, that stunned his senses, so that he could not tell whether his horses were moving or standing still. George was in the greatest distress imaginable, and was glad when he perceived the gate before him, with his two identical friends, men of the law, still standing. George drove boldly up, accosted them by their names, and asked what they were doing there; they made him no answer, but pointed to the gate and the keeper. George was terrified to look at this latter personage, who now came up and seized his horses by the reins, refusing to let him pass. In order to introduce himself, in some degree, to this austere toll-man, George asked him, in a jocular manner, how he came to employ his two eminent friends as assistant gate-keepers?

"Because they are among the last comers," replied the ruffian, churlishly. "You will be an assistant here, to-morrow."

"The devil I will, sir?"

"Yes, the devil you will, sir."

"I'll be d—d if I do then— that I will."

"Yes, you'll be d—d if you do— that you will."

"Let my horses go in the meantime, then, sir, that I may proceed on my journey."

"Nay."

"Nay?— Dare you say nay to me, sir? My name is George Dobson, of the Pleasance, Edinburgh, coach-driver, and coach-proprietor too; and no man shall say nay to me, as long as I can pay my way. I have his Majesty's license, and I'll go and come as I choose— and that I will. Let go my horses there, and tell me what is your demand."

"Well, then, I'll let your horses go," said the keeper; "but I'll keep yourself for a pledge." And with that he let go the horses, and seized honest George by the throat, who struggled in vain to disengage himself, and swore, and threatened, according to his own confession, most bloodily. His horses flew off like the wind, so swift, that the coach seemed flying in the air, and scarcely bounding on the earth once in a quarter of a mile. George was in furious wrath, for he saw that his grand coach and harness would all be broken to pieces, and his gallant pair of horses maimed or destroyed; and how was his family's bread now to be won!— He struggled, threatened, and prayed in vain;— the intolerable toll-man was deaf to all remonstrances. He once more appealed to his two genteel acquaintances of the law, reminding them how he had of late driven them to Roslin on a Sunday, along with two ladies, who, he supposed, were their sisters, from their familiarity, when not another coachman in town would engage with them. But the gentlemen, very ungenerously, only shook their heads, and pointed to the gate. George's circumstances now became desperate, and again he asked the hideous toll-man what right he had to detain him, and what were his charges.

"What right have I to detain you, sir, say you? Who are you that make such a demand here? Do you know where you are, sir?"

"No, faith, I do not," returned George; "I wish I did. But I shall know, and make you repent your insolence too. My name, I told you, is George Dobson, licensed coach-hirer in Pleasance, Edinburgh; and to get full redress of you for this unlawful interruption, I only desire to know where I am."

"Then, sir, if it can give you so much satisfaction to know where you are," said the keeper, with a malicious grin, "you shall know, and you may take instruments by the hands of your two friends there, instituting a legal prosecution. Your redress, you may be assured, will be most ample, when I inform you that you are in Hell! and out at this gate you pass no more."

This was rather a damper to George, and he began to perceive that nothing would be gained in such a place by the strong hand, so he addressed the inexorable toll-man, whom he now dreaded more than ever, in the following terms: "But I must go home at all events, you know, sir, to unyoke my two horses, and put them up, and to inform Chirsty Halliday, my wife, of my engagement. And, bless me! I never recollected till this moment, that I am engaged to be back here to-morrow at twelve o'clock, and see, here is a free ticket for my passage this way."

The keeper took the ticket with one hand, but still held George with the other. "Oho! were you in with our honourable friend, Mr R—— of L——y?" said he. "He has been on our books for a long while;— however, this will do, only you must put your name to it likewise; and the engagement is this— You, by this instrument, engage your soul, that you will return here by to-morrow at noon."

"Catch me there, billy!" says George. "I'll engage no such thing, depend on it;— that I will not."

"Then remain where you are," said the keeper, "for there is no other alternative. We like best for people to come here in their own way,— in the way of their business;" and with that he flung George backward, heels-over-head down hill, and closed the gate.

George, finding all remonstrance vain, and being desirous once more to see the open day, and breathe the fresh air, and likewise to see Chirsty Halliday, his wife, and set his house and stable in some order, came up again, and in utter desperation, signed the bond, and was suffered to depart. He then bounded away on the track of his horses, with more than ordinary swiftness, in hopes to overtake them; and always now and then uttered a loud Wo! in hopes they might hear and obey, though he could not come in sight of them. But George's grief was but beginning; for at a well-known and dangerous spot, where there was a tan-yard on the one hand, and a quarry on the other, he came to his gallant steeds overturned, the coach smashed to pieces, Dawtie with two of her legs broken, and Duncan dead. This was more than the worthy coachman could bear, and many degrees worse than being in hell. There, his pride and manly spirit bore him up against the worst of treatment; but here, his heart entirely failed him, and he laid himself down, with his face on his two hands, and wept bitterly, bewailing, in the most deplorable terms, his two gallant horses, Dawtie and Duncan.

While lying in this inconsolable state, some one took hold of his shoulder, and shook it; and a well-known voice said to him, "Geordie! what is the matter wi' ye, Geordie?" George was provoked beyond measure at the insolence of the question, for he knew the voice to be that of Chirsty Halliday, his wife. "I think you needna ask that, seeing what you see," said George. "O, my poor Dawtie, where are a' your jinkings and prancings now, your moopings and your wincings? I'll ne'er be a proud man again— bereaved o' my bonny pair!"

"Get up, George; get up, and bestir yourself," said Chirsty Halliday, his wife. "You are wanted directly, to bring in the Lord President to the Parliament House. It is a great storm, and he must be there by nine o'clock.— Get up— rouse yourself, and make ready— his servant is waiting for you."

"Woman, you are demented!" cried George. "How can I go and bring in the Lord President, when my coach is broken in pieces, my poor Dawtie lying with twa of her legs broken, and Duncan dead? And, moreover, I have a previous engagement, for I am obliged to be in hell before twelve o'clock."

Chirsty Halliday now laughed outright, and continued long in a fit of laughter; but George never moved his head from the pillow, but lay and groaned,— for, in fact, he was all this while lying snug in his bed; while the tempest without was roaring with great violence, and which circumstance may perhaps account for the rushing and deafening sound which astounded him so much in hell. But so deeply was he impressed with the idea of the reality of his dream, that he would do nothing but lie and moan, persisting and believing in the truth of all he had seen. His wife now went and informed her neighbours of her husband's plight, and of his singular engagement with Mr R——of L——y at twelve o'clock. She persuaded one friend to harness the horses, and go for the Lord President; but all the rest laughed immoderately at poor coachy's predicament. It was, however, no laughing to him; he never raised his head, and his wife becoming at last uneasy about the frenzied state of his mind, made him repeat every circumstance of his adventure to her, (for he would never believe or admit that it was a dream,) which he did in the terms above narrated; and she perceived, or dreaded, that he was becoming somewhat feverish. She went out, and told Dr Wood of her husband's malady, and of his solemn engagement to be in hell at twelve o'clock.

"He maunna keep it, dearie. He maunna keep that engagement at no rate," said Dr Wood. "Set back the clock an hour or twa, to drive him past the time, and I'll ca' in the course of my rounds. Are ye sure he hasna been drinking hard?"— She assured him he had not.— "Weel, weel, ye maun tell him that he maunna keep that engagement at no rate. Set back the clock, and I'll come and see him. It is a frenzy that maunna be trifled with. Ye maunna laugh at it, dearie,— maunna laugh at it. Maybe a nervish fever, wha kens."

The Doctor and Chirsty left the house together, and as their road lay the same way for a space, she fell a-telling him of the two young lawyers whom George saw standing at the gate of hell, and whom the porter had described as two of the last comers. When the Doctor heard this, he stayed his hurried, stooping pace in one moment, turned full round on the woman, and fixing his eyes on her, that gleamed with a deep, unstable lustre, he said, "What's that ye were saying, dearie? What's that ye were saying? Repeat it again to me, every word." She did so. On which the Doctor held up his hands, as if palsied with astonishment, and uttered some fervent ejaculations. "I'll go with you straight," said he, "before I visit another patient. This is wonderfu'! it is terrible! The young gentlemen are both at rest— both lying corpses at this time! Fine young men— I attended them both— died of the same exterminating disease— Oh, this is wonderful; this is wonderful!"

The Doctor kept Chirsty half running all the way down the High Street and St Mary's Wynd, at such a pace did he walk, never lifting his eyes from the pavement, but always exclaiming now and then, "It is wonderfu'! most wonderfu'!" At length, prompted by woman's natural curiosity, Chirsty inquired at the Doctor if he knew any thing of their friend Mr R—— of L——y. But he shook his head, and replied, "Na, na, dearie,— ken naething about him. He and his son are baith in London,— ken naething about him; but the tither is awfu'— it is perfectly awfu'!"

When Dr Wood reached his patient, he found him very low, but only a little feverish; so he made all haste to wash his head with vinegar and cold water, and then he covered the crown with a treacle plaster, and made the same application to the soles of his feet, awaiting the issue. George revived a little, when the Doctor tried to cheer him up by joking him about his dream; but on mention of that he groaned, and shook his head. "So you are convinced, dearie, that it is nae dream?" said the Doctor.

"Dear sir, how could it be a dream?" said the patient. "I was there in person, with Mr R—— and his son; and see, here are the marks of the porter's fingers on my throat."— Dr Wood looked, and distinctly saw two or three red spots on one side of his throat, which confounded him not a little.— "I assure you, sir," continued George, "it was no dream, which I know to my sad experience. I have lost my coach and horses,— and what more have I?— signed the bond with my own hand, and in person entered into the most solemn and terrible engagement."

"But ye're no to keep it, I tell ye," said Dr Wood; "ye're no to keep it at no rate. It is a sin to enter into a compact wi' the deil, but it is a far greater ane to keep it. Sae let Mr R—— and his son bide where they are yonder, for ye sanna stir a foot to bring them out the day."

"Oh, oh, Doctor!" groaned the poor fellow, "this is not a thing to be made a jest o'! I feel that it is an engagement that I cannot break. Go I must, and that very shortly. Yes, yes, go I must, and go I will, although I should borrow David Barclay's pair." With that he turned his face towards the wall, groaned deeply, and fell into a lethargy, while Dr Wood caused them to let him alone, thinking if he would sleep out the appointed time, which was at hand, he would be safe; but all the time he kept feeling his pulse, and by degrees showed symptoms of uneasiness. His wife ran for a clergyman of famed abilities, to pray and converse with her husband, in hopes by that means to bring him to his senses; but after his arrival, George never spoke more, save calling to his horses, as if encouraging them to run with great speed; and thus in imagination driving at full career to keep his appointment, he went off in a paroxysm, after a terrible struggle, precisely within a few minutes of twelve o'clock.

A circumstance not known at the time of George's death made this singular professional dream the more remarkable and unique in all its parts. It was a terrible storm on the night of the dream, as has been already mentioned, and during the time of the hurricane, a London smack went down off Wearmouth about three in the morning. Among the sufferers were the Hon. Mr R—— of L——y, and his son! George could not know aught of this at break of day, for it was not known in Scotland till the day of his interment; and as little knew he of the deaths of the two young lawyers, who both died of the small-pox the evening before.

____________

25: An Undergraduate's Aunt

F. Anstey

Thomas Anstey Guthrie, 1856-1934

Belgravia, Nov 1882

Collected in: The Black Poodle and Other Tales, 1884

FRANCIS FLUSHINGTON belonged to a small college, and by becoming a member conferred upon it one of the few distinctions it could boast— the possession of the very bashfulest man in the whole university.

But his college did not treat him with any excess of adulation on that account, and, probably from a prudent fear of rubbing the bloom off his modesty, allowed him to blush unseen— which was indeed the condition in which he preferred to blush.

He felt himself distressed in the presence of his fellow men, by a dearth of ideas and a difficulty in knowing which way to look, that made him happiest when he had fastened his outer door, and secured himself from all possibility of intrusion— although this was almost an unnecessary precaution on his part, for nobody ever thought of coming to see Flushington.

In appearance he was a man of middle height, with a long neck and a large head, which gave him the air of being shorter than he really was; he had little weak eyes which were always blinking, a nose and mouth of no particular shape, and hair of no definite colour, which he wore long— not because he thought it becoming, but because he hated having to talk to his hairdresser.

He had a timid deprecating manner, due to the consciousness that he was an uninteresting anomaly, and he certainly was as impervious to the ordinary influences of his surroundings as any modern under-graduate could well be.

Flushington had never particularly wanted to be sent to Cambridge, and when he was there he did not enjoy it, and had not the faintest hope of distinguishing himself in anything; he lived a colourless, aimless sort of life in his little sloping rooms under the roof where he read every morning from nine till two with a superstitious regularity, even when his books failed to convey any ideas whatever to his brain, which was not a remarkably powerful organ.

If the afternoon was fine, he generally sought out his one friend, who was a shade less shy than himself, and they went a monosyllabic walk together (for of course Flushington did not row, or take up athletics in any form); if it was wet, he read the papers and magazines at the Union, and in the evenings after hall, he studied 'general literature'— a graceful periphrasis for novels— or laboriously picked out a sonata or a nocturne upon his piano, a habit which had not tended to increase his popularity.

Fortunately for Flushington, he had no gyp, or his life would have been a burden to him, and with his bedmaker he was rather a favourite, as a 'gentleman what gave no trouble'— which meant that when he observed his sherry sinking like the water in a lock when the sluices are up, he was too delicate to refer to the phenomenon in any way.

One afternoon when Flushington was engaged over his modest luncheon of bread and butter, potted meat, and lemonade, he suddenly became aware of a sound of unusual voices and a strange flutter of female dresses on the winding stone staircase outside— and was instantly overcome with a cold dread.

Now, although there were certainly ladies coming upstairs, there was no reason for alarm; they were probably friends of the man who kept opposite, and was always having his people up. But Flushington had one of those odd presentiments, so familiar to nervous persons, that something unpleasant was at hand; he could not imagine who these ladies might be, but he knew instinctively that they were coming to him!

If he could only be sure that his outer oak was safely latched! He rose from his chair with wild ideas of rushing to see, of retreating to his bedroom, and hiding under the bed until they had gone.

Too late! the dresses were rustling now in his very passage; there was a pause evidently before his inner door, a few faint and smothered laughs, some little feminine coughs, then— two taps.

Flushington stood still for a moment, feeling like a caged animal; he had thoughts, even then, of concealment— was there time to get under the sofa? No, it would be too dreadful if the visitors, whoever they were, were to discover him in so unusual a situation.

So he ran back to his chair and sat down before crying 'Come in' in a faint voice. He did wish he had been reading anything but the work of M. Zola, which was propped up in front of him, but there was no time to put it away.

Your mild man often has a taste for seeing the less reputable side of life in a safe and second-hand way, and Flushington would toil manfully through the most realistic descriptions without turning a hair; now and then he looked out a word in the dictionary, and when it was not to be found there—and it generally wasn't—he had a sense almost of injury. But there was a strong fascination for him in experiencing the sensation of a kind of intellectual orgie, for he knew enough of the language to be aware that the incidents frequently bordered on the improper, even while it was not exactly clear in what the impropriety consisted.

As he said 'Come in,' the door opened, and his heart seemed to stop, and all the blood in it rushed violently up to his head, as a large lady came sweeping in, her face rippling with a broad smile of affection.

She horrified Flushington, who knew nobody with the smallest claim to smile at him so expansively as that, and he drank lemonade to conceal his confusion.

'You don't know me, my dear Frank,' she said easily; 'why of course you don't; how should you? Well, I'm (for goodness sake, my dear boy, don't look so dreadfully frightened, I don't want to eat you!) I'm your aunt— your Aunt Amelia, you know me now— from Australia, you know!'

This was a severe shock to Flushington, who had not even known he possessed such a relative anywhere; all he could say just then was, 'Oh, are you?' which he felt at the time was not quite the welcome to give an aunt who had come all the way from the Antipodes.

'Yes, that I am!' she said cheerily, 'but that's not all. I've another surprise for you— the dear girls would insist upon coming up too, to see their grand college cousin; they're just outside. I'll call them in, shall I?'

And in another second Flushington's small room was overrun by a horde of female relatives, while he could only look on and gasp.

They were pretty girls too, most of them, but that only frightened him more; he did not mind plain women half so much; some of them looked bright and clever as well, and a combination of beauty and intellect always reduced him to a condition of hopeless imbecility.

He had never forgotten one occasion on which he had been captured and introduced to a charming young lady from Newnham, and all he could do was to back feebly into a corner, murmuring 'Thank you' repeatedly.

He showed himself to scarcely more advantage now, as his aunt proceeded to single out one girl after another. 'We needn't have any formal nonsense between cousins,' she said; 'you know all their names already, I dare say. This is Milly, and that's Jane; and here's Flora, and Kitty, and Margaret, and this is my little Thomasina, keeping close to mamma, as usual.'

Poor Flushington ducked blindly in the various directions at the mention of each name, and then collectively to all; he had not sufficient presence of mind to offer them chairs, or cake, or anything, and besides, there was not nearly enough for that multitude.

Meanwhile his aunt had spread herself comfortably out in his only arm-chair, and was untying her bonnet-strings, while she beamed at him until he was ready to expire with embarrassment. 'I do think, Frankie dear,' she observed at last, 'that when an old auntie all the way from Australia takes the trouble to come and see you like this, the least— the very least you could do would be to give her one little kiss.'

She seemed so hurt by the omission, that Flushington dared not refuse; he staggered up and kissed her somewhere upon her face— after which he did not know which way to look, so terribly afraid was he that the same ceremony might have to be gone through with all the cousins, and he could not have survived that.

Happily for him, however, they did not appear to expect it, and he balanced a chair on its hind legs and, resting one knee upon it, waited for them to begin a conversation, for he could not think of a single apposite remark himself.

His aunt came to his rescue. 'You don't ask after your Uncle Samuel— have you forgotten all the beetles and things he used to send you?' she said reprovingly.

'No,' said Flushington, to whom Uncle Samuel was another revelation. 'How is the beetle— I mean, how is Uncle Samuel? Quite well, I hope?'

'Only tolerably so, Frank, thank you; as well as could be expected after his loss.'

'I didn't hear of that,' said Flushington, catching at this conversational rope in despair. 'Was it— did he lose much?'

'I was not referring to a money loss,' she said, and her glance was stony for the moment; 'I was (as I think you might have guessed) referring to the death of your cousin John.'

And Flushington, who had begun to feel his first agonies abating, had a terrible relapse at this unhappy mistake; he stammered something about it being very sad indeed, and then, wondering why no one had ever kept him better posted as to his relations, he resolved that he would not betray his ignorance by any further inquiries.

But his aunt was evidently wounded afresh. 'I ought to have known,' she said, and shook her head pathetically; 'they soon forget us when we leave the old country— and yet I did think, too, my own sister's son would remember his cousin's death! Well, well, my loves, we must teach him to know us better now we have the opportunity. Frankie dear, the girls and I expect you to take us about everywhere and show us all the sights; or what's the use of having a nephew at Cambridge University, you know.'

Flushington had a horrible mental vision of himself careering all over Cambridge at the head of a long procession of female relatives, a fearful prospect for so shy a man. 'Shall you be here long?' he asked.

'Oh, only a week or so; we're at the "Bull," very near you; and so we can always be popping in on you. And now, Frankie, my boy, will you think your aunt a very bold beggar if she asks you to give us a little something to eat? We wouldn't wait for lunch, the dear children were so impatient, and we're all ravenous! We all thought, the girls and I (didn't you, dears?) that it would be such fun lunching with a real college student in his own room.'

'Oh,' protested Flushington, 'I assure you there's nothing so extraordinary in it, and— and the fact is, I'm afraid there's very little for you to eat, and the kitchens and the buttery are closed by this time.' He said this at a venture, for he felt quite unequal to facing the college cook and ordering lunch from that tremendous personage— he would far rather order it from his tutor even.

'But,' he added, touched by the little cry of disappointment which the girls made in spite of themselves, 'if you don't mind potted ham— there's some left in the bottom of this tin, and there's some bread and an inch of butter, and a little marmalade and a few milk biscuits— and there was some sherry this morning!'

His cousins declared merrily that they were so hungry they would enjoy anything, and so they sat round the table and poor Flushington served out meagre rations to them of all the provisions he could hunt up, even to his figs and his French plums. It was like a shipwreck, he thought drearily. There was not nearly enough to go round, and they lunched with evident disillusionment, thinking that the college luxury of which they had heard so much had been sadly exaggerated.

During the meal the aunt began to study Flushington's features with affectionate interest. 'There's a strong look of poor dear Simon about him when he smiles,' she said, looking at him through her gold double-glasses. 'There, did you catch it, girls? Just his mother's profile! Turn your face a leetle more to the window; I want to get the light on your nose, Frankie; now don't you see the likeness to your aunt's portrait at Gumtree Creek, girls?'

And Flushington had to sit still with all the girls' charming eyes fixed critically upon his crimson countenance, until he would have given worlds to be able to slide down under the table and evade them, but of course he was obliged to remain above.

'He's got dear Caroline's nose!' the aunt announced triumphantly, and the cousins were agreed that he certainly had Caroline's nose— which made him feel vaguely that he ought at least to offer to return it.

Presently the youngest and prettiest of the girls whispered to her mother, who laughed indulgently. 'Why, you baby,' she said, 'what do you think this silly child wants me to ask you, Frankie? She says she would so like to see how you look in your college robes and that odd four-cornered hat you all wear. Will you put them on, just to please her?'

And he had to put them on and walk slowly up and down the room in his cap and gown, feeling all the time that he was making a dismal display of himself, and that the girls were plainly disappointed, for they admitted that somehow they had fancied the academical costume would have been more becoming.

After this came a hotly-sustained catechism upon his studies, his amusements, his friends, and his mode of life generally, and the aunt— who by this time felt the potted ham beginning to disagree with her— seemed to be unfavourably impressed by the answers she obtained.

This was particularly the case when to the question 'what church he attended,' he replied that he attended none, as he was always regular at chapel: for the aunt was disappointed to find her nephew a Dissenter, and said as much; while Flushington, though he saw the misunderstanding, was far too shy and too miserable to explain it.

The cousins by this time were clustered together, whispering and laughing over little private jokes, and he, after the manner of sensitive men, of course concluded they were laughing at him, and perhaps on this occasion he was not mistaken.

He stood by the fireplace, growing hotter and hotter every second, inwardly cursing his whole race, and wishing that his father had been a foundling. What would he have to do next? take all his people out for a walk. He trembled at the idea. He would have to pass through the court with them, under the eyes of the men who were loitering about the grass plots before going down to the boats; through the open window he could hear their voices, and the clash they made as they fenced with walking-sticks.

As he stood there, dumb and miserable, he heard another tap at his door— a feeble one this time.

'Why,' cried his aunt, 'that must be poor old Sophy at last— you may not remember old Sophy, Frankie; you were quite a baby when she came out to us; but she remembers you, and begged so hard to be allowed to come and see you. Don't keep her standing outside. Come in, Sophy; it's quite right; Master Frankie is here!'

And at this a very old person in a black bonnet came in, and was overcome by emotion at the first sight of Flushington. 'To think,' she quavered, 'to think as my dim old eyes should live to see the child I've dandled times and again on my lap growed out into a college gentleman!' Whereupon she hugged Flushington respectfully, and wept copiously upon his shoulder, which made him almost cataleptic.

But as she grew calmer, she became more critical, even confessing a certain feeling of disappointment with Flushington. He had not filled out, she declared, so fine as he'd promised to fill out. And when she began to drag up reminiscences of his early youth, asking if he recollected how he wouldn't be washed unless they first put his little spotted wooden horse on the washstand, and how they had to bribe him with a penny trumpet to take his castor oil, and how fond he used to be of senna tea, Flushington felt that he must seem more of a fool than ever!

This was quite bad enough, but at last the girls began to be restless, and there being no efforts made to entertain them, amused themselves by exploring their cousin's rooms and exclaiming at everything they saw; admiring his pipes and his umbrella rack, his buffalo horns and his tin heraldic shields, and his quaint wooden kettle-holder, until they came round to his French novel, and, as they were healthy-minded Colonial girls, with a limited knowledge of Parisian literature, they pounced upon it directly, and wanted Flushington to tell them what it was all about.

'Yes, Frankie, tell us,' the aunt struck in as he faltered; 'I'm always glad for the girls to know of any nice foreign works, as they've really improved wonderfully in their French lately.'

There are French novels, no doubt, of which it would be practicable and pleasant to give a general idea to one's aunt, but they are not numerous, and this particular book did not chance to be one of them.

So this demand threw him into a cold perspiration; he had not presence of mind to prevaricate or invent, and he would probably have committed himself in some deplorable manner, if just at that moment there had not happened to come another tap at the door, or rather a sharp rattle, as if with the end of something wooden.

Flushington's head swam with horror at this third interruption; he was prepared for anything now— another aunt, say from Greenland's icy mountains, or India's coral strand, with a fresh relay of female cousins, or a staff of aged family retainers who had washed him in early infancy: he sat there cowering.

But when the door opened, a tall, fair, good-looking young fellow in a boating-straw and flannels, and carrying a tennis racket, burst impulsively in. 'Oh, I say,' he began, 'you don't happen to have heard or seen anything of—oh, beg pardon, didn't see, you know,' he added, as he noticed the extraordinary fact that Flushington had people up.

'Oh— er— let me introduce you,' said Flushington, with a vague notion that this was the right thing to do; 'Mr. Lushington—Mrs. (no, I don't know her name)—my aunt ... my cousins!'

The young man, who had just been about to retire, bowed and stared with sudden surprise. 'Do you know,' he said slowly in an undertone to the other, 'do you know that I can't help fancying there's some mistake— are you sure that's not my aunt you've got hold of there?'

'Oh,' whispered Flushington, catching at this unexpected hope, 'do you really think so? She seems so certain she belongs to me!'

'Well,' said the new-comer, 'I only know I have an aunt and cousins I've never seen who were coming up some time this week— do these ladies happen to come from the Colonies, by the way?'

'Yes, yes!' cried Flushington, eagerly; 'it's all right, they belong to you; and, I say, do take them away; I can't bear it any longer!'

'Now, now, what's this whispering, Frankie?' cried the aunt; 'not very polite, I must say!'

'He says,' explained Flushington, 'he says it's all a mistake, and—and you're not my aunt at all!'

'Oh, indeed, does he?' she replied, drawing herself together with dignity; 'and may I ask who is this gentleman who knows so much about our family— I didn't catch the name?'

'My name is Lushington— Frank Lushington,' he said.

'Then— who are you?' she demanded, turning upon the unfortunate owner of the rooms; 'answer me, I insist upon it!'

'Me?' he stammered, 'I'm Francis Flushington. I— I'm very sorry— but I can't help it!'

'Why— why— then you're no nephew of mine, sir!' cried the aunt.

'Thank you very much,' said Flushington, with positive gratitude.

'But,' she said, 'I want to know why I have been allowed to deceive myself in this way. Perhaps, sir, you will kindly explain?'

'What's the good of asking me?' protested Flushington; 'I haven't an idea why!'

'I think I see,' put in her genuine nephew; 'you see, there isn't much light on the staircase outside, and you must have taken the "Flushington" over his oak to be "F. Lushington," and gone straight in, you know. They told me at the lodge that some ladies had been asking for me, and so when I didn't find you in my rooms, I thought I'd look in here on the chance— and here you all are, eh?'

But the aunt was annoyed to find that she had been pouring out all her pent-up affection over a perfect stranger, and had eaten his lunch into the bargain. She almost feared she had put herself in a slightly ridiculous position, and this, of course, made her feel very angry with Flushington.

'Yes, yes, yes!' she said excitedly, 'that's all very well; but why did he deliberately encourage me in my mistake?'

'How was I to know it was a mistake?' pleaded Flushington. 'You told me you were my aunt from Australia; for all I know Australia may be overrun with my aunts. I supposed you knew best.'

'But you asked affectionately after Samuel,' she persisted; 'you must have had some object in humouring my mistake.'

'You told me to ask after him, and I did,' said Flushington; 'what else could I do?'

'No, sir,' she said, rising in her wrath; 'it was a most ungentlemanly and heartless practical joke on your part, and— and I shall not listen to further excuses.'

'Oh, good gracious!' Flushington almost whimpered; 'a practical joke! me, oh, it really is too bad!'

'My dear aunt,' Lushington assured her, 'he's quite incapable of such a thing; it's a mistake on both sides; he wouldn't wish to intercept another fellow's aunt.'

'I wouldn't do such a thing for worlds!' protested Flushington, sincerely enough; he would not have robbed a fellow creature of a single relation of the remotest degree; and as for carrying off an aunt and a complete set of female cousins, he would have blushed (and, in fact, did blush) at the bare suspicion.

The cousins themselves had been laughing and whispering together all this time, regarding their new relation with shy admiration, very different from the manner in which they had looked at poor Flushington; the old nurse, too, was overjoyed at the exchange, and now declared that from the minute she set eyes on Flushington, she had felt something inside tell her that her Master Frank would never have turned out so undersized as him!

'Well,' said the aunt, mollified at last, 'you must forgive us for having disturbed you like this, Mr. a— Flushington' (the unfortunate man murmured that he did not mind it now); 'and now, Frank, my boy, I should like the girls to see your rooms.'

'Come along then,' said he. 'Will you let me give you something to eat?—I'll run down and see what they can let me have; and perhaps you'll kindly help me to lay the cloth; I never can lay the thing straight myself, and my old bedmaker's out of the way, as usual.'

The girls looked dubiously at one another— they were frightfully hungry still; at last the eldest, out of pure consideration for Flushington's feelings, said, 'Thank you very much, Cousin Frank— but your friend has kindly given us some lunch already.'

'Oh!' he said, 'has he though? That's really uncommonly good of you, old chap.'

But Flushington's modesty did not allow him to accept undeserved gratitude. 'I say,' he whispered, taking the other aside, 'I gave them what I could, but I'm afraid it— it wasn't much of a lunch.'

Lushington made a mental note that he would repeat his invitation when he had got his cousins outside. 'Well, look here,' he said, 'will you come and help me to row the ladies up to Byron's Pool— say in an hour from this— and we'll all come back and have a little dinner in my rooms, eh?'

'Yes, Mr. Flushington, do— do come,' the girls all entreated him, 'just to show you forgive us for taking possession of you like this.'

But Flushington wriggled out of it somehow. He couldn't come, he said uncomfortably; he had an engagement. He had nothing of the kind, but he felt that he had had quite enough female society for one day.

They did not press him, and he was heartily glad when the last of his temporary relations had filed out of his little room, leaving him reminiscences of a terrible half-hour which caused him to be extremely careful for months after not to lunch without ascertaining previously that his outer door was securely sported. But never again did a solitary hungry aunt invade his solitude.

End

Table of Contents

- 1: The Striding Place / Gertrude Atherton

- 2: The Family Honor / J. M. Barrie

- 3: The Search for the Lost Chord / A. E. Martin

- 4: On the Loose / C. J. Dennis
- 5: Casey / Ernest O'Ferrall
- 6: Cold Feet / Albert Dorrington
- 7: The Dancer in Red / Fergus Hume
- 8: Captain Black / Charles E. Carryl
- 9: Mr. Donah / Tom Gallon
- 10: Saintin's "Madame." / Ambrose Pratt
- 11: The Model / W. W. Jacobs
- 12: The Rival Ghosts / Brander Matthews
- 13: The Viscount's Cub / J. S. Fletcher
- 14: Us / Owen Oliver
- 15: An Occult Experience / Anna Nicholas
- 16: Lifebuoy / Ernest O'Ferrall
- 17: The Break of Day / Joseph Altsheler
- 18: The Pool of Honor / Elinor Mordaunt
- 19: The Parliament at Thebes / Donn Byrne
- 20: By His Own Hand / Anonymous

- 21: On the Adavale Common / Edward S. Sorenson

- 22: Through the Ether / Gilbert Munro Turnbull

- 23: Shadows in Zamboula / Robert E. Howard

- 24: George Dobson's Expedition to Hell / James Hogg

- 25: An Undergraduate's Aunt / F. Anstey