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THE LOCK AND KEY LIBRARY
CLASSIC MYSTERY AND DETECTIVE STORIES
EDITED BY JULIAN HAWTHORNE
MODERN ENGLISH
Table of Contents
RUDYARD KIPLING (1865-)
My Own True Ghost Story
The Sending of Dana Da
In the House of Suddhoo
His Wedded Wife
A. CONAN DOYLE (1859-)
A Case of Identity
A Scandal in Bohemia
The Red-Headed League
EGERTON CASTLE (1858-)
The Baron's Quarry
STANLEY J. WEYMAN (1855-)
The Fowl in the Pot
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON (1850-94)
The Pavilion on the Links
WILKIE COLLINS (1824-89)
The Dream Woman
ANONYMOUS
The Lost Duchess
The Minor Canon
The Pipe
The Puzzle
The Great Valdez Sapphire
As I came through the Desert thus it was--
As I came through the Desert.
The City of Dreadful Night.
Somewhere in the Other World, where there are books and
pictures
and plays and shop windows to look at, and thousands of men
who
spend their lives in building up all four, lives a gentleman
who
writes real stories about the real insides of people; and his
name
is Mr. Walter Besant. But he will insist upon treating his
ghosts--
he has published half a workshopful of them--with levity. He
makes his ghost-seers talk familiarly, and, in some cases,
flirt
outrageously, with the phantoms. You may treat anything, from
a
Viceroy to a Vernacular Paper, with levity; but you must
behave
reverently toward a ghost, and particularly an Indian one.
There are, in this land, ghosts who take the form of fat,
cold,
pobby corpses, and hide in trees near the roadside till a
traveler
passes. Then they drop upon his neck and remain. There are
also
terrible ghosts of women who have died in child-bed. These
wander
along the pathways at dusk, or hide in the crops near a
village,
and call seductively. But to answer their call is death in
this
world and the next. Their feet are turned backward that all
sober
men may recognize them. There are ghosts of little children
who
have been thrown into wells. These haunt well curbs and the
fringes of jungles, and wail under the stars, or catch women by
the
wrist and beg to be taken up and carried. These and the
corpse
ghosts, however, are only vernacular articles and do not
attack
Sahibs. No native ghost has yet been authentically reported
to
have frightened an Englishman; but many English ghosts have
scared
the life out of both white and black.
Nearly every other Station owns a ghost. There are said to be
two
at Simla, not counting the woman who blows the bellows at
Syree
dak-bungalow on the Old Road; Mussoorie has a house haunted of
a
very lively Thing; a White Lady is supposed to do
night-watchman
round a house in Lahore; Dalhousie says that one of her
houses
"repeats" on autumn evenings all the incidents of a horrible
horse-
and-precipice accident; Murree has a merry ghost, and, now that
she
has been swept by cholera, will have room for a sorrowful
one;
there are Officers' Quarters in Mian Mir whose doors open
without
reason, and whose furniture is guaranteed to creak, not with
the
heat of June but with the weight of Invisibles who come to
lounge
in the chairs; Peshawur possesses houses that none will
willingly
rent; and there is something--not fever--wrong with a big
bungalow
in Allahabad. The older Provinces simply bristle with
haunted
houses, and march phantom armies along their main
thoroughfares.
Some of the dak-bungalows on the Grand Trunk Road have handy
little
cemeteries in their compound--witnesses to the "changes and
chances
of this mortal life" in the days when men drove from Calcutta
to
the Northwest. These bungalows are objectionable places to put
up
in. They are generally very old, always dirty, while the
khansamah
is as ancient as the bungalow. He either chatters senilely,
or
falls into the long trances of age. In both moods he is
useless.
If you get angry with him, he refers to some Sahib dead and
buried
these thirty years, and says that when he was in that
Sahib's
service not a khansamah in the Province could touch him. Then
he
jabbers and mows and trembles and fidgets among the dishes, and
you
repent of your irritation.
In these dak-bungalows, ghosts are most likely to be found,
and
when found, they should be made a note of. Not long ago it was
my
business to live in dak-bungalows. I never inhabited the
same
house for three nights running, and grew to be learned in
the
breed. I lived in Government-built ones with red brick walls
and
rail ceilings, an inventory of the furniture posted in every
room,
and an excited snake at the threshold to give welcome. I lived
in
"converted" ones--old houses officiating as
dak-bungalows--where
nothing was in its proper place and there wasn't even a fowl
for
dinner. I lived in second-hand palaces where the wind blew
through
open-work marble tracery just as uncomfortably as through a
broken
pane. I lived in dak-bungalows where the last entry in the
visitors' book was fifteen months old, and where they slashed
off
the curry-kid's head with a sword. It was my good luck to meet
all
sorts of men, from sober traveling missionaries and
deserters
flying from British Regiments, to drunken loafers who threw
whisky
bottles at all who passed; and my still greater good fortune
just
to escape a maternity case. Seeing that a fair proportion of
the
tragedy of our lives out here acted itself in dak-bungalows,
I
wondered that I had met no ghosts. A ghost that would
voluntarily
hang about a dak-bungalow would be mad of course; but so many
men
have died mad in dak-bungalows that there must be a fair
percentage
of lunatic ghosts.
In due time I found my ghost, or ghosts rather, for there were
two
of them. Up till that hour I had sympathized with Mr.
Besant's
method of handling them, as shown in "The Strange Case of
Mr.
Lucraft and Other Stories." I am now in the Opposition.
We will call the bungalow Katmal dak-bungalow. But THAT was
the
smallest part of the horror. A man with a sensitive hide has
no
right to sleep in dak-bungalows. He should marry. Katmal
dak-
bungalow was old and rotten and unrepaired. The floor was of
worn
brick, the walls were filthy, and the windows were nearly
black
with grime. It stood on a bypath largely used by native
Sub-Deputy
Assistants of all kinds, from Finance to Forests; but real
Sahibs
were rare. The khansamah, who was nearly bent double with old
age,
said so.
When I arrived, there was a fitful, undecided rain on the face
of
the land, accompanied by a restless wind, and every gust made
a
noise like the rattling of dry bones in the stiff toddy
palms
outside. The khansamah completely lost his head on my arrival.
He
had served a Sahib once. Did I know that Sahib? He gave me
the
name of a well-known man who has been buried for more than a
quarter of a century, and showed me an ancient daguerreotype
of
that man in his prehistoric youth. I had seen a steel engraving
of
him at the head of a double volume of Memoirs a month before,
and I
felt ancient beyond telling.
The day shut in and the khansamah went to get me food. He did
not
go through the pretense of calling it "khana"--man's victuals.
He
said "ratub," and that means, among other things,
"grub"--dog's
rations. There was no insult in his choice of the term. He
had
forgotten the other word, I suppose.
While he was cutting up the dead bodies of animals, I
settled
myself down, after exploring the dak-bungalow. There were
three
rooms, beside my own, which was a corner kennel, each giving
into
the other through dingy white doors fastened with long iron
bars.
The bungalow was a very solid one, but the partition walls of
the
rooms were almost jerry-built in their flimsiness. Every step
or
bang of a trunk echoed from my room down the other three, and
every
footfall came back tremulously from the far walls. For this
reason
I shut the door. There were no lamps--only candles in long
glass
shades. An oil wick was set in the bathroom.
For bleak, unadulterated misery that dak-bungalow was the
worst of
the many that I had ever set foot in. There was no fireplace,
and
the windows would not open; so a brazier of charcoal would
have
been useless. The rain and the wind splashed and gurgled and
moaned round the house, and the toddy palms rattled and
roared.
Half a dozen jackals went through the compound singing, and a
hyena
stood afar off and mocked them. A hyena would convince a
Sadducee
of the Resurrection of the Dead--the worst sort of Dead. Then
came
the ratub--a curious meal, half native and half English in
composition--with the old khansamah babbling behind my chair
about
dead and gone English people, and the wind-blown candles
playing
shadow-bo-peep with the bed and the mosquito-curtains. It was
just
the sort of dinner and evening to make a man think of every
single
one of his past sins, and of all the others that he intended
to
commit if he lived.
Sleep, for several hundred reasons, was not easy. The lamp in
the
bath-room threw the most absurd shadows into the room, and the
wind
was beginning to talk nonsense.
Just when the reasons were drowsy with blood-sucking I heard
the
regular--"Let--us--take--and--heave--him--over" grunt of
doolie-
bearers in the compound. First one doolie came in, then a
second,
and then a third. I heard the doolies dumped on the ground,
and
the shutter in front of my door shook. "That's some one trying
to
come in," I said. But no one spoke, and I persuaded myself that
it
was the gusty wind. The shutter of the room next to mine was
attacked, flung back, and the inner door opened. "That's some
Sub-
Deputy Assistant," I said, "and he has brought his friends
with
him. Now they'll talk and spit and smoke for an hour."
But there were no voices and no footsteps. No one was putting
his
luggage into the next room. The door shut, and I thanked
Providence that I was to be left in peace. But I was curious
to
know where the doolies had gone. I got out of bed and looked
into
the darkness. There was never a sign of a doolie. Just as I
was
getting into bed again, I heard, in the next room, the sound
that
no man in his senses can possibly mistake--the whir of a
billiard
ball down the length of the slates when the striker is
stringing
for break. No other sound is like it. A minute afterwards
there
was another whir, and I got into bed. I was not
frightened--indeed
I was not. I was very curious to know what had become of the
doolies. I jumped into bed for that reason.
Next minute I heard the double click of a cannon and my hair
sat
up. It is a mistake to say that hair stands up. The skin of
the
head tightens and you can feel a faint, prickly, bristling all
over
the scalp. That is the hair sitting up.
There was a whir and a click, and both sounds could only have
been
made by one thing--a billiard ball. I argued the matter out
at
great length with myself; and the more I argued the less
probable
it seemed that one bed, one table, and two chairs--all the
furniture of the room next to mine--could so exactly duplicate
the
sounds of a game of billiards. After another cannon, a
three-
cushion one to judge by the whir, I argued no more. I had found
my
ghost and would have given worlds to have escaped from that
dak-
bungalow. I listened, and with each listen the game grew
clearer.
There was whir on whir and click on click. Sometimes there was
a
double click and a whir and another click. Beyond any sort
of
doubt, people were playing billiards in the next room. And
the
next room was not big enough to hold a billiard table!
Between the pauses of the wind I heard the game go
forward--stroke
after stroke. I tried to believe that I could not hear voices;
but
that attempt was a failure.
Do you know what fear is? Not ordinary fear of insult, injury
or
death, but abject, quivering dread of something that you
cannot
see--fear that dries the inside of the mouth and half of the
throat--fear that makes you sweat on the palms of the hands,
and
gulp in order to keep the uvula at work? This is a fine
Fear--a
great cowardice, and must be felt to be appreciated. The
very
improbability of billiards in a dak-bungalow proved the reality
of
the thing. No man--drunk or sober--could imagine a game at
billiards, or invent the spitting crack of a "screw-cannon."
A severe course of dak-bungalows has this disadvantage--it
breeds
infinite credulity. If a man said to a confirmed
dak-bungalow-
haunter:--"There is a corpse in the next room, and there's a
mad
girl in the next but one, and the woman and man on that camel
have
just eloped from a place sixty miles away," the hearer would
not
disbelieve because he would know that nothing is too wild,
grotesque, or horrible to happen in a dak-bungalow.
This credulity, unfortunately, extends to ghosts. A
rational
person fresh from his own house would have turned on his side
and
slept. I did not. So surely as I was given up as a bad carcass
by
the scores of things in the bed because the bulk of my blood was
in
my heart, so surely did I hear every stroke of a long game
at
billiards played in the echoing room behind the iron-barred
door.
My dominant fear was that the players might want a marker. It
was
an absurd fear; because creatures who could play in the dark
would
be above such superfluities. I only know that that was my
terror;
and it was real.
After a long, long while the game stopped, and the door
banged. I
slept because I was dead tired. Otherwise I should have
preferred
to have kept awake. Not for everything in Asia would I have
dropped the door-bar and peered into the dark of the next
room.
When the morning came, I considered that I had done well
and
wisely, and inquired for the means of departure.
"By the way, khansamah," I said, "what were those three
doolies
doing in my compound in the night?"
"There were no doolies," said the khansamah.
I went into the next room and the daylight streamed through
the
open door. I was immensely brave. I would, at that hour,
have
played Black Pool with the owner of the big Black Pool down
below.
"Has this place always been a dak-bungalow?" I asked.
"No," said the khansamah. "Ten or twenty years ago, I have
forgotten how long, it was a billiard room."
"A how much?"
"A billiard room for the Sahibs who built the Railway. I
was
khansamah then in the big house where all the Railway-Sahibs
lived,
and I used to come across with brandy-shrab. These three
rooms
were all one, and they held a big table on which the Sahibs
played
every evening. But the Sahibs are all dead now, and the
Railway
runs, you say, nearly to Kabul."
"Do you remember anything about the Sahibs?"
"It is long ago, but I remember that one Sahib, a fat man
and
always angry, was playing here one night, and he said to
me:--
'Mangal Khan, brandy-pani do,' and I filled the glass, and he
bent
over the table to strike, and his head fell lower and lower till
it
hit the table, and his spectacles came off, and when we--the
Sahibs
and I myself--ran to lift him he was dead. I helped to carry
him
out. Aha, he was a strong Sahib! But he is dead and I, old
Mangal
Khan, am still living, by your favor."
That was more than enough! I had my ghost--a firsthand,
authenticated article. I would write to the Society for
Psychical
Research--I would paralyze the Empire with the news! But I
would,
first of all, put eighty miles of assessed crop land between
myself
and that dak-bungalow before nightfall. The Society might
send
their regular agent to investigate later on.
I went into my own room and prepared to pack after noting down
the
facts of the case. As I smoked I heard the game begin
again,--with
a miss in balk this time, for the whir was a short one.
The door was open and I could see into the room.
Click--c1ick!
That was a cannon. I entered the room without fear, for there
was
sunlight within and a fresh breeze without. The unseen game
was
going on at a tremendous rate. And well it might, when a
restless
little rat was running to and fro inside the dingy
ceiling-cloth,
and a piece of loose window-sash was making fifty breaks off
the
window-bolt as it shook in the breeze!
Impossible to mistake the sound of billiard balls! Impossible
to
mistake the whir of a ball over the slate! But I was to be
excused. Even when I shut my enlightened eyes the sound was
marvelously like that of a fast game.
Entered angrily the faithful partner of my sorrows, Kadir Baksh.
"This bungalow is very bad and low-caste! No wonder the
Presence
was disturbed and is speckled. Three sets of doolie-bearers
came
to the bungalow late last night when I was sleeping outside,
and
said that it was their custom to rest in the rooms set apart
for
the English people! What honor has the khansamah? They tried
to
enter, but I told them to go. No wonder, if these Oorias have
been
here, that the Presence is sorely spotted. It is shame, and
the
work of a dirty man!"
Kadir Baksh did not say that he had taken from each gang two
annas
for rent in advance, and then, beyond my earshot, had beaten
them
with the big green umbrella whose use I could never before
divine.
But Kadir Baksh has no notions of morality.
There was an interview with the khansamah, but as he promptly
lost
his head, wrath gave place to pity, and pity led to a long
conversation, in the course of which he put the fat
Engineer-
Sahib's tragic death in three separate stations--two of them
fifty
miles away. The third shift was to Calcutta, and there the
Sahib
died while driving a dogcart.
If I had encouraged him the khansamah would have wandered
all
through Bengal with his corpse.
I did not go away as soon as I intended. I stayed for the
night,
while the wind and the rat and the sash and the window-bolt
played
a ding-dong "hundred and fifty up." Then the wind ran out and
the
billiards stopped, and I felt that I had ruined my one
genuine,
hall-marked ghost story.
Had I only stopped at the proper time, I could have made
ANYTHING
out of it.
That was the bitterest thought of all!
When the Devil rides on your chest, remember the chamar.
--Native Proverb.
Once upon a time some people in India made a new heaven and a
new
earth out of broken teacups, a missing brooch or two, and a
hair
brush. These were hidden under bushes, or stuffed into holes
in
the hillside, and an entire civil service of subordinate gods
used
to find or mend them again; and everyone said: "There are
more
things in heaven and earth than are dreamed of in our
philosophy."
Several other things happened also, but the religion never
seemed
to get much beyond its first manifestations; though it added
an
air-line postal dak, and orchestral effects in order to keep
abreast of the times, and stall off competition.
This religion was too elastic for ordinary use. It stretched
itself and embraced pieces of everything that medicine men of
all
ages have manufactured. It approved and stole from
Freemasonry;
looted the Latter-day Rosicrucians of half their pet words;
took
any fragments of Egyptian philosophy that it found in the
Encyclopaedia Britannica; annexed as many of the Vedas as had
been
translated into French or English, and talked of all the
rest;
built in the German versions of what is left of the Zend
Avesta;
encouraged white, gray, and black magic, including
Spiritualism,
palmistry, fortune-telling by cards, hot chestnuts,
double-kerneled
nuts and tallow droppings; would have adopted Voodoo and Oboe
had
it known anything about them, and showed itself, in every way,
one
of the most accommodating arrangements that had ever been
invented
since the birth of the sea.
When it was in thorough working order, with all the machinery
down
to the subscriptions complete, Dana Da came from nowhere,
with
nothing in his hands, and wrote a chapter in its history which
has
hitherto been unpublished. He said that his first name was
Dana,
and his second was Da. Now, setting aside Dana of the New
York
Sun, Dana is a Bhil name, and Da fits no native of India unless
you
accept the Bengali De as the original spelling. Da is Lap or
Finnish; and Dana Da was neither Finn, Chin, Bhil, Bengali,
Lap,
Nair, Gond, Romaney, Magh, Bokhariot, Kurd, Armenian,
Levantine,
Jew, Persian, Punjabi, Madrasi, Parsee, nor anything else known
to
ethnologists. He was simply Dana Da, and declined to give
further
information. For the sake of brevity, and as roughly
indicating
his origin, he was called "The Native." He might have been
the
original Old Man of the Mountains, who is said to be the
only
authorized head of the Teacup Creed. Some, people said that
he
was; but Dana Da used to smile and deny any connection with
the
cult; explaining that he was an "independent experimenter."
As I have said, he came from nowhere, with his hands behind
his
back, and studied the creed for three weeks; sitting at the feet
of
those best competent to explain its mysteries. Then he
laughed
aloud and went away, but the laugh might have been either of
devotion or derision.
When he returned he was without money, but his pride was
unabated.
He declared that he knew more about the things in heaven and
earth
than those who taught him, and for this contumacy was
abandoned
altogether.
His next appearance in public life was at a big cantonment in
Upper
India, and he was then telling fortunes with the help of
three
leaden dice, a very dirty old cloth, and a little tin box of
opium
pills. He told better fortunes when he was allowed half a
bottle
of whisky; but the things which he invented on the opium were
quite
worth the money. He was in reduced circumstances. Among
other
people's he told the fortune of an Englishman who had once
been
interested in the Simla creed, but who, later on, had married
and
forgotten all his old knowledge in the study of babies and
Exchange. The Englishman allowed Dana Da to tell a fortune
for
charity's sake, and gave him five rupees, a dinner, and some
old
clothes. When he had eaten, Dana Da professed gratitude, and
asked
if there were anything he could do for his host--in the
esoteric
line.
"Is there anyone that you love?" said Dana Da. The
Englishman
loved his wife, but had no desire to drag her name into the
conversation. He therefore shook his head.
"Is there anyone that you hate?" said Dana Da. The Englishman
said
that there were several men whom he hated deeply.
"Very good," said Dana Da, upon whom the whisky and the opium
were
beginning to tell. "Only give me their names, and I will
dispatch
a Sending to them and kill them."
Now a Sending is a horrible arrangement, first invented, they
say,
in Iceland. It is a thing sent by a wizard, and may take any
form,
but most generally wanders about the land in the shape of a
little
purple cloud till it finds the sendee, and him it kills by
changing
into the form of a horse, or a cat, or a man without a face. It
is
not strictly a native patent, though chamars can, if
irritated,
dispatch a Sending which sits on the breast of their enemy by
night
and nearly kills him. Very few natives care to irritate
chamars
for this reason.
"Let me dispatch a Sending," said Dana Da; "I am nearly dead
now
with want, and drink, and opium; but I should like to kill a
man
before I die. I can send a Sending anywhere you choose, and in
any
form except in the shape of a man."
The Englishman had no friends that he wished to kill, but
partly to
soothe Dana Da, whose eyes were rolling, and partly to see
what
would be done, he asked whether a modified Sending could not
be
arranged for--such a Sending as should make a man's life a
burden
to him, and yet do him no harm. If this were possible, he
notified
his willingness to give Dana Da ten rupees for the job.
"I am not what I was once," said Dana Da, "and I must take
the
money because I am poor. To what Englishman shall I send
it?"
"Send a Sending to Lone Sahib," said the Englishman, naming a
man
who had been most bitter in rebuking him for his apostasy from
the
Teacup Creed. Dana Da laughed and nodded.
"I could have chosen no better man myself," said he. "I will
see
that he finds the Sending about his path and about his bed."
He lay down on the hearthrug, turned up the whites of his
eyes,
shivered all over, and began to snort. This was magic, or
opium,
or the Sending, or all three. When he opened his eyes he
vowed
that the Sending had started upon the warpath, and was at
that
moment flying up to the town where Lone Sahib lives.
"Give me my ten rupees," said Dana Da, wearily, "and write a
letter
to Lone Sahib, telling him, and all who believe with him, that
you
and a friend are using a power greater than theirs. They will
see
that you are speaking the truth."
He departed unsteadily, with the promise of some more rupees
if
anything came of the Sending.
The Englishman sent a letter to Lone Sahib, couched in what
he
remembered of the terminology of the creed. He wrote: "I also,
in
the days of what you held to be my backsliding, have
obtained
enlightenment, and with enlightenment has come power." Then
he
grew so deeply mysterious that the recipient of the letter
could
make neither head nor tail of it, and was proportionately
impressed; for he fancied that his friend had become a
"fifth
rounder." When a man is a "fifth rounder" he can do more
than
Slade and Houdin combined.
Lone Sahib read the letter in five different fashions, and
was
beginning a sixth interpretation, when his bearer dashed in
with
the news that there was a cat on the bed. Now, if there was
one
thing that Lone Sahib hated more than another it was a cat.
He
rated the bearer for not turning it out of the house. The
bearer
said that he was afraid. All the doors of the bedroom had
been
shut throughout the morning, and no real cat could possibly
have
entered the room. He would prefer not to meddle with the
creature.
Lone Sahib entered the room gingerly, and there, on the pillow
of
his bed, sprawled and whimpered a wee white kitten, not a
jumpsome,
frisky little beast, but a sluglike crawler with its eyes
barely
opened and its paws lacking strength or direction--a kitten
that
ought to have been in a basket with its mamma. Lone Sahib
caught
it by the scruff of its neck, handed it over to the sweeper to
be
drowned, and fined the bearer four annas.
That evening, as he was reading in his room, he fancied that
he saw
something moving about on the hearthrug, outside the circle
of
light from his reading lamp. When the thing began to myowl,
he
realized that it was a kitten--a wee white kitten, nearly blind
and
very miserable. He was seriously angry, and spoke bitterly to
his
bearer, who said that there was no kitten in the room when
he
brought in the lamp, and real kittens of tender age generally
had
mother cats in attendance.
"If the Presence will go out into the veranda and listen,"
said the
bearer, "he will hear no cats. How, therefore, can the kitten
on
the bed and the kitten on the hearthrug be real kittens?"
Lone Sahib went out to listen, and the bearer followed him,
but
there was no sound of Rachel mewing for her children. He
returned
to his room, having hurled the kitten down the hillside, and
wrote
out the incidents of the day for the benefit of his
coreligionists.
Those people were so absolutely free from superstition that
they
ascribed anything a little out of the common to agencies. As
it
was their business to know all about the agencies, they were
on
terms of almost indecent familiarity with manifestations of
every
kind. Their letters dropped from the
ceiling--un-stamped--and
spirits used to squatter up and down their staircases all
night.
But they had never come into contact with kittens. Lone
Sahib
wrote out the facts, noting the hour and the minute, as
every
psychical observer is bound to do, and appending the
Englishman's
letter because it was the most mysterious document and might
have
had a bearing upon anything in this world or the next. An
outsider
would have translated all the tangle thus: "Look out! You
laughed
at me once, and now I am going to make you sit up."
Lone Sahib's coreligionists found that meaning in it; but
their
translation was refined and full of four-syllable words. They
held
a sederunt, and were filled with tremulous joy, for, in spite
of
their familiarity with all the other worlds and cycles, they had
a
very human awe of things sent from ghostland. They met in
Lone
Sahib's room in shrouded and sepulchral gloom, and their
conclave
was broken up by a clinking among the photo frames on the
mantelpiece. A wee white kitten, nearly blind, was looping
and
writhing itself between the clock and the candlesticks. That
stopped all investigations or doubtings. Here was the
manifestation in the flesh. It was, so far as could be seen,
devoid of purpose, but it was a manifestation of undoubted
authenticity.
They drafted a round robin to the Englishman, the backslider
of old
days, adjuring him in the interests of the creed to explain
whether
there was any connection between the embodiment of some
Egyptian
god or other (I have forgotten the name) and his
communication.
They called the kitten Ra, or Toth, or Shem, or Noah, or
something;
and when Lone Sahib confessed that the first one had, at his
most
misguided instance, been drowned by the sweeper, they said
consolingly that in his next life he would be a "bounder," and
not
even a "rounder" of the lowest grade. These words may not be
quite
correct, but they express the sense of the house accurately.
When the Englishman received the round robin--it came by
post--he
was startled and bewildered. He sent into the bazaar for Dana
Da,
who read the letter and laughed. "That is my Sending," said
he.
"I told you I would work well. Now give me another ten
rupees."
"But what in the world is this gibberish about Egyptian
gods?"
asked the Englishman.
"Cats," said Dana Da, with a hiccough, for he had discovered
the
Englishman's whisky bottle. "Cats and cats and cats! Never
was
such a Sending. A hundred of cats. Now give me ten more
rupees
and write as I dictate."
Dana Da's letter was a curiosity. It bore the Englishman's
signature, and hinted at cats--at a Sending of cats. The
mere
words on paper were creepy and uncanny to behold.
"What have you done, though?" said the Englishman; "I am as
much in
the dark as ever. Do you mean to say that you can actually
send
this absurd Sending you talk about?"
"Judge for yourself," said Dana Da. "What does that letter
mean?
In a little time they will all be at my feet and yours, and I,
oh,
glory! will be drugged or drunk all day long."
Dana Da knew his people.
When a man who hates cats wakes up in the morning and finds
a
little squirming kitten on his breast, or puts his hand into
his
ulster pocket and finds a little half-dead kitten where his
gloves
should be, or opens his trunk and finds a vile kitten among
his
dress shirts, or goes for a long ride with his mackintosh
strapped
on his saddle-bow and shakes a little sprawling kitten from
its
folds when he opens it, or goes out to dinner and finds a
little
blind kitten under his chair, or stays at home and finds a
writhing
kitten under the quilt, or wriggling among his boots, or
hanging,
head downward, in his tobacco jar, or being mangled by his
terrier
in the veranda--when such a man finds one kitten, neither more
nor
less, once a day in a place where no kitten rightly could or
should
be, he is naturally upset. When he dare not murder his daily
trove
because he believes it to be a manifestation, an emissary,
an
embodiment, and half a dozen other things all out of the
regular
course of nature, he is more than upset. He is actually
distressed. Some of Lone Sahib's coreligionists thought that
he
was a highly favored individual; but many said that if he
had
treated the first kitten with proper respect--as suited a
Toth-Ra
Tum-Sennacherib Embodiment--all his trouble would have been
averted. They compared him to the Ancient Mariner, but none
the
less they were proud of him and proud of the Englishman who
had
sent the manifestation. They did not call it a Sending
because
Icelandic magic was not in their programme.
After sixteen kittens--that is to say, after one fortnight,
for
there were three kittens on the first day to impress the fact
of
the Sending, the whole camp was uplifted by a letter--it
came
flying through a window--from the Old Man of the
Mountains--the
head of all the creed--explaining the manifestation in the
most
beautiful language and soaking up all the credit of it for
himself.
The Englishman, said the letter, was not there at all. He was
a
backslider without power or asceticism, who couldn't even raise
a
table by force of volition, much less project an army of
kittens
through space. The entire arrangement, said the letter, was
strictly orthodox, worked and sanctioned by the highest
authorities
within the pale of the creed. There was great joy at this,
for
some of the weaker brethren seeing that an outsider who had
been
working on independent lines could create kittens, whereas
their
own rulers had never gone beyond crockery--and broken at
that--were
showing a desire to break line on their own trail. In fact,
there
was the promise of a schism. A second round robin was drafted
to
the Englishman, beginning: "Oh, Scoffer," and ending with a
selection of curses from the rites of Mizraim and Memphis and
the
Commination of Jugana; who was a "fifth rounder," upon whose
name
an upstart "third rounder" once traded. A papal excommunication
is
a billet-doux compared to the Commination of Jugana. The
Englishman had been proved under the hand and seal of the Old
Man
of the Mountains to have appropriated virtue and pretended to
have
power which, in reality, belonged only to the supreme head.
Naturally the round robin did not spare him.
He handed the letter to Dana Da to translate into decent
English.
The effect on Dana Da was curious. At first he was furiously
angry, and then he laughed for five minutes.
"I had thought," he said, "that they would have come to me.
In
another week I would have shown that I sent the Sending, and
they
would have discrowned the Old Man of the Mountains who has
sent
this Sending of mine. Do you do nothing. The time has come for
me
to act. Write as I dictate, and I will put them to shame.
But
give me ten more rupees."
At Dana Da's dictation the Englishman wrote nothing less than
a
formal challenge to the Old Man of the Mountains. It wound
up:
"And if this manifestation be from your hand, then let it go
forward; but if it be from my hand, I will that the Sending
shall
cease in two days' time. On that day there shall be twelve
kittens
and thenceforward none at all. The people shall judge between
us."
This was signed by Dana Da, who added pentacles and pentagrams,
and
a crux ansata, and half a dozen swastikas, and a Triple Tau to
his
name, just to show that he was all he laid claim to be.
The challenge was read out to the gentlemen and ladies, and
they
remembered then that Dana Da had laughed at them some years
ago.
It was officially announced that the Old Man of the Mountains
would
treat the matter with contempt; Dana Da being an independent
investigator without a single "round" at the back of him. But
this
did not soothe his people. They wanted to see a fight. They
were
very human for all their spirituality. Lone Sahib, who was
really
being worn out with kittens, submitted meekly to his fate. He
felt
that he was being "kittened to prove the power of Dana Da," as
the
poet says.
When the stated day dawned, the shower of kittens began. Some
were
white and some were tabby, and all were about the same
loathsome
age. Three were on his hearth-rug, three in his bathroom, and
the
other six turned up at intervals among the visitors who came to
see
the prophecy break down. Never was a more satisfactory
Sending.
On the next day there were no kittens, and the next day and all
the
other days were kittenless and quiet. The people murmured
and
looked to the Old Man of the Mountains for an explanation. A
letter, written on a palm leaf, dropped from the ceiling,
but
everyone except Lone Sahib felt that letters were not what
the
occasion demanded. There should have been cats, there should
have
been cats--full-grown ones. The letter proved conclusively
that
there had been a hitch in the psychic current which, colliding
with
a dual identity, had interfered with the percipient activity
all
along the main line. The kittens were still going on, but owing
to
some failure in the developing fluid, they were not
materialized.
The air was thick with letters for a few days afterwards.
Unseen
hands played Gluck and Beethoven on finger-bowls and clock
shades;
but all men felt that psychic life was a mockery without
materialized kittens. Even Lone Sahib shouted with the majority
on
this head. Dana Da's letters were very insulting, and if he
had
then offered to lead a new departure, there is no knowing
what
might not have happened.
But Dana Da was dying of whisky and opium in the Englishman's
go-
down, and had small heart for new creeds.
"They have been put to shame," said he. "Never was such a
Sending.
It has killed me."
"Nonsense," said the Englishman, "you are going to die, Dana
Da,
and that sort of stuff must be left behind. I'll admit that
you
have made some queer things come about. Tell me honestly, now,
how
was it done?"
"Give me ten more rupees," said Dana Da, faintly, "and if I
die
before I spend them, bury them with me." The silver was
counted
out while Dana Da was fighting with death. His hand closed
upon
the money and he smiled a grim smile.
"Bend low," he whispered. The Englishman bent.
"Bunnia--mission school--expelled--box-wallah
(peddler)--Ceylon
pearl merchant--all mine English education--outcasted, and made
up
name Dana Da--England with American thought-reading man
and--and--
you gave me ten rupees several times--I gave the Sahib's
bearer
two-eight a month for cats--little, little cats. I wrote, and
he
put them about--very clever man. Very few kittens now in the
bazaar. Ask Lone Sahib's sweeper's wife."
So saying, Dana Da gasped and passed away into a land where,
if all
be true, there are no materializations and the making of new
creeds
is discouraged.
But consider the gorgeous simplicity of it all!
A stone's throw out on either hand
From that well-ordered road we tread,
And all the world is wild and strange;
Churel and ghoul and Djinn and sprite
Shall bear us company to-night,
For we have reached the Oldest Land
Wherein the Powers of Darkness range.
From the Dusk to the Dawn.
The house of Suddhoo, near the Taksali Gate, is two-storied,
with
four carved windows of old brown wood, and a flat roof. You
may
recognize it by five red hand-prints arranged like the Five
of
Diamonds on the whitewash between the upper windows. Bhagwan
Dass,
the bunnia, and a man who says he gets his living by
seal-cutting,
live in the lower story with a troop of wives, servants,
friends,
and retainers. The two upper rooms used to be occupied by
Janoo
and Azizun and a little black-and-tan terrier that was stolen
from
an Englishman's house and given to Janoo by a soldier.
To-day,
only Janoo lives in the upper rooms. Suddhoo sleeps on the
roof
generally, except when he sleeps in the street. He used to go
to
Peshawar in the cold weather to visit his son, who sells
curiosities near the Edwardes' Gate, and then he slept under a
real
mud roof. Suddhoo is a great friend of mine, because his cousin
had
a son who secured, thanks to my recommendation, the post of
head-
messenger to a big firm in the Station. Suddhoo says that God
will
make me a Lieutenant-Governor one of these days. I daresay
his
prophecy will come true. He is very, very old, with white hair
and
no teeth worth showing, and he has outlived his
wits--outlived
nearly everything except his fondness for his son at
Peshawar.
Janoo and Azizun are Kashmiris, Ladies of the City, and theirs
was
an ancient and more or less honorable profession; but Azizun
has
since married a medical student from the North-West and has
settled
down to a most respectable life somewhere near Bareilly.
Bhagwan
Dass is an extortionate and an adulterator. He is very rich.
The
man who is supposed to get his living by seal-cutting pretends
to
be very poor. This lets you know as much as is necessary of
the
four principal tenants in the house of Suddhoo. Then there is
Me,
of course; but I am only the chorus that comes in at the end
to
explain things. So I do not count.
Suddhoo was not clever. The man who pretended to cut seals was
the
cleverest of them all--Bhagwan Dass only knew how to
lie--except
Janoo. She was also beautiful, but that was her own affair.
Suddhoo's son at Peshawar was attacked by pleurisy, and old
Suddhoo
was troubled. The seal-cutter man heard of Suddhoo's anxiety
and
made capital out of it. He was abreast of the times. He got
a
friend in Peshawar to telegraph daily accounts of the son's
health.
And here the story begins.
Suddhoo's cousin's son told me, one evening, that Suddhoo
wanted to
see me; that he was too old and feeble to come personally, and
that
I should be conferring an everlasting honor on the House of
Suddhoo
if I went to him. I went; but I think, seeing how well-off
Suddhoo
was then, that he might have sent something better than an
ekka,
which jolted fearfully, to haul out a future Lieutenant-Governor
to
the City on a muggy April evening. The ekka did not run
quickly.
It was full dark when we pulled up opposite the door of
Ranjit
Singh's Tomb near the main gate of the Fort. Here was Suddhoo
and
he said that, by reason of my condescension, it was
absolutely
certain that I should become a Lieutenant-Governor while my
hair
was yet black. Then we talked about the weather and the state
of
my health, and the wheat crops, for fifteen minutes, in the
Huzuri
Bagh, under the stars.
Suddhoo came to the point at last. He said that Janoo had told
him
that there was an order of the Sirkar against magic, because it
was
feared that magic might one day kill the Empress of India. I
didn't know anything about the state of the law; but I fancied
that
something interesting was going to happen. I said that so far
from
magic being discouraged by the Government it was highly
commended.
The greatest officials of the State practiced it themselves.
(If
the Financial Statement isn't magic, I don't know what is.)
Then,
to encourage him further, I said that, if there was any
jadoo
afoot, I had not the least objection to giving it my
countenance
and sanction, and to seeing that it was clean jadoo--white
magic,
as distinguished from the unclean jadoo which kills folk. It
took
a long time before Suddhoo admitted that this was just what he
had
asked me to come for. Then he told me, in jerks and quavers,
that
the man who said he cut seals was a sorcerer of the cleanest
kind;
that every day he gave Suddhoo news of the sick son in
Peshawar
more quickly than the lightning could fly, and that this news
was
always corroborated by the letters. Further, that he had
told
Suddhoo how a great danger was threatening his son, which could
be
removed by clean jadoo; and, of course, heavy payment. I began
to
see how the land lay, and told Suddhoo that I also understood
a
little jadoo in the Western line, and would go to his house to
see
that everything was done decently and in order. We set off
together; and on the way Suddhoo told me he had paid the
seal-
cutter between one hundred and two hundred rupees already; and
the
jadoo of that night would cost two hundred more. Which was
cheap,
he said, considering the greatness of his son's danger; but I
do
not think he meant it.
The lights were all cloaked in the front of the house when
we
arrived. I could hear awful noises from behind the
seal-cutter's
shop-front, as if some one were groaning his soul out.
Suddhoo
shook all over, and while we groped our way upstairs told me
that
the jadoo had begun. Janoo and Azizun met us at the
stair-head,
and told us that the jadoo-work was coming off in their
rooms,
because there was more space there. Janoo is a lady of a
freethinking turn of mind. She whispered that the jadoo was
an
invention to get money out of Suddhoo, and that the
seal-cutter
would go to a hot place when he died. Suddhoo was nearly
crying
with fear and old age. He kept walking up and down the room in
the
half light, repeating his son's name over and over again,
and
asking Azizun if the seal-cutter ought not to make a reduction
in
the case of his own landlord. Janoo pulled me over to the shadow
in
the recess of the carved bow- windows. The boards were up, and
the
rooms were only lit by one tiny lamp. There was no chance of
my
being seen if I stayed still.
Presently, the groans below ceased, and we heard steps on
the
staircase. That was the seal-cutter. He stopped outside the
door
as the terrier barked and Azizun fumbled at the chain, and he
told
Suddhoo to blow out the lamp. This left the place in jet
darkness,
except for the red glow from the two huqas that belonged to
Janoo
and Azizun. The seal-cutter came in, and I heard Suddhoo
throw
himself down on the floor and groan. Azizun caught her breath,
and
Janoo backed to one of the beds with a shudder. There was a
clink
of something metallic, and then shot up a pale blue-green
flame
near the ground. The light was just enough to show Azizun,
pressed
against one corner of the room with the terrier between her
knees;
Janoo, with her hands clasped, leaning forward as she sat on
the
bed; Suddhoo, face down, quivering, and the seal-cutter.
I hope I may never see another man like that seal-cutter. He
was
stripped to the waist, with a wreath of white jasmine as thick
as
my wrist round his forehead, a salmon-colored loin-cloth round
his
middle, and a steel bangle on each ankle. This was not awe-
inspiring. It was the face of the man that turned me cold. It
was
blue-gray in the first place. In the second, the eyes were
rolled
back till you could only see the whites of them; and, in the
third,
the face was the face of a demon--a ghoul--anything you
please
except of the sleek, oily old ruffian who sat in the day-time
over
his turning-lathe downstairs. He was lying on his stomach,
with
his arms turned and crossed behind him, as if he had been
thrown
down pinioned. His head and neck were the only parts of him
off
the floor. They were nearly at right angles to the body, like
the
head of a cobra at spring. It was ghastly. In the centre of
the
room, on the bare earth floor, stood a big, deep, brass basin,
with
a pale blue-green light floating in the centre like a
night-light.
Round that basin the man on the floor wriggled himself three
times.
How he did it I do not know. I could see the muscles ripple
along
his spine and fall smooth again; but I could not see any
other
motion. The head seemed the only thing alive about him, except
that
slow curl and uncurl of the laboring back-muscles. Janoo from
the
bed was breathing seventy to the minute; Azizun held her
hands
before her eyes; and old Suddhoo, fingering at the dirt that
had
got into his white beard, was crying to himself. The horror of
it
was that the creeping, crawly thing made no sound--only
crawled!
And, remember, this lasted for ten minutes, while the
terrier
whined, and Azizun shuddered, and Janoo gasped, and Suddhoo
cried.
I felt the hair lift at the back of my head, and my heart
thump
like a thermantidote paddle. Luckily, the seal-cutter
betrayed
himself by his most impressive trick and made me calm again.
After
he had finished that unspeakable triple crawl, he stretched
his
head away from the floor as high as he could, and sent out a jet
of
fire from his nostrils. Now, I knew how fire-spouting is
done--I
can do it myself--so I felt at ease. The business was a fraud.
If
he had only kept to that crawl without trying to raise the
effect,
goodness knows what I might not have thought. Both the girls
shrieked at the jet of fire and the head dropped, chin down, on
the
floor with a thud; the whole body lying then like a corpse with
its
arms trussed. There was a pause of five full minutes after
this,
and the blue- green flame died down. Janoo stooped to settle
one
of her anklets, while Azizun turned her face to the wall and
took
the terrier in her arms. Suddhoo put out an arm mechanically
to
Janoo's huqa, and she slid it across the floor with her
foot.
Directly above the body and on the wall, were a couple of
flaming
portraits, in stamped paper frames, of the Queen and the Prince
of
Wales. They looked down on the performance, and, to my
thinking,
seemed to heighten the grotesqueness of it all.
Just when the silence was getting unendurable, the body turned
over
and rolled away from the basin to the side of the room, where
it
lay stomach up. There was a faint "plop" from the
basin--exactly
like the noise a fish makes when it takes a fly--and the
green
light in the centre revived.
I looked at the basin, and saw, bobbing in the water, the
dried,
shrivelled, black head of a native baby--open eyes, open mouth
and
shaved scalp. It was worse, being so very sudden, than the
crawling exhibition. We had no time to say anything before
it
began to speak.
Read Poe's account of the voice that came from the mesmerized
dying
man, and you will realize less than one-half of the horror of
that
head's voice.
There was an interval of a second or two between each word,
and a
sort of "ring, ring, ring," in the note of the voice, like
the
timbre of a bell. It pealed slowly, as if talking to itself,
for
several minutes before I got rid of my cold sweat. Then the
blessed solution struck me. I looked at the body lying near
the
doorway, and saw, just where the hollow of the throat joins on
the
shoulders, a muscle that had nothing to do with any man's
regular
breathing, twitching away steadily. The whole thing was a
careful
reproduction of the Egyptian teraphin that one read about
sometimes
and the voice was as clever and as appalling a piece of
ventriloquism as one could wish to hear. All this time the
head
was "lip-lip-lapping" against the side of the basin, and
speaking.
It told Suddhoo, on his face again whining, of his son's
illness
and of the state of the illness up to the evening of that
very
night. I always shall respect the seal-cutter for keeping so
faithfully to the time of the Peshawar telegrams. It went on
to
say that skilled doctors were night and day watching over the
man's
life; and that he would eventually recover if the fee to the
potent
sorcerer, whose servant was the head in the basin, were
doubled.
Here the mistake from the artistic point of view came in. To
ask
for twice your stipulated fee in a voice that Lazarus might
have
used when he rose from the dead, is absurd. Janoo, who is really
a
woman of masculine intellect, saw this as quickly as I did.
I
heard her say "Asli nahin! Fareib!" scornfully under her
breath;
and just as she said so, the light in the basin died out, the
head
stopped talking, and we heard the room door creak on its
hinges.
Then Janoo struck a match, lit the lamp, and we saw that
head,
basin, and seal- cutter were gone. Suddhoo was wringing his
hands
and explaining to any one who cared to listen, that, if his
chances
of eternal salvation depended on it, he could not raise another
two
hundred rupees. Azizun was nearly in hysterics in the
corner;
while Janoo sat down composedly on one of the beds to discuss
the
probabilities of the whole thing being a bunao, or
"make-up."
I explained as much as I knew of the seal-cutter's way of
jadoo;
but her argument was much more simple:--"The magic that is
always
demanding gifts is no true magic," said she. "My mother told
me
that the only potent love-spells are those which are told you
for
love. This seal-cutter man is a liar and a devil. I dare not
tell, do anything, or get anything done, because I am in debt
to
Bhagwan Dass the bunnia for two gold rings and a heavy anklet.
I
must get my food from his shop. The seal-cutter is the friend
of
Bhagwan Dass, and he would poison my food. A fool's jadoo has
been
going on for ten days, and has cost Suddhoo many rupees each
night.
The seal-cutter used black hens and lemons and mantras before.
He
never showed us anything like this till to-night. Azizun is
a
fool, and will be a pur dahnashin soon. Suddhoo has lost his
strength and his wits. See now! I had hoped to get from
Suddhoo
many rupees while he lived, and many more after his death;
and
behold, he is spending everything on that offspring of a devil
and
a she-ass, the seal- cutter!"
Here I said:--"But what induced Suddhoo to drag me into
the
business? Of course I can speak to the seal-cutter, and he
shall
refund. The whole thing is child's talk--shame--and
senseless."
"Suddhoo IS an old child," said Janoo. "He has lived on the
roofs
these seventy years and is as senseless as a milch-goat. He
brought you here to assure himself that he was not breaking any
law
of the Sirkar, whose salt he ate many years ago. He worships
the
dust off the feet of the seal-cutter, and that cow-devourer
has
forbidden him to go and see his son. What does Suddhoo know
of
your laws or the lightning-post? I have to watch his money
going
day by day to that lying beast below."
Janoo stamped her foot on the floor and nearly cried with
vexation;
while Suddhoo was whimpering under a blanket in the corner,
and
Azizun was trying to guide the pipe-stem to his foolish old
mouth.
. . . . . . . . .
Now the case stands thus. Unthinkingly, I have laid myself
open to
the charge of aiding and abetting the seal-cutter in
obtaining
money under false pretences, which is forbidden by Section 420
of
the Indian Penal Code. I am helpless in the matter for these
reasons, I cannot inform the Police. What witnesses would
support
my statements? Janoo refuses flatly, Azizun is a veiled
woman
somewhere near Bareilly--lost in this big India of ours. I
cannot
again take the law into my own hands, and speak to the
seal-cutter;
for certain am I that, not only would Suddhoo disbelieve me,
but
this step would end in the poisoning of Janoo, who is bound
hand
and foot by her debt to the bunnia. Suddhoo is an old dotard;
and
whenever we meet mumbles my idiotic joke that the Sirkar
rather
patronizes the Black Art than otherwise. His son is well now;
but
Suddhoo is completely under the influence of the seal-cutter,
by
whose advice he regulates the affairs of his life. Janoo
watches
daily the money that she hoped to wheedle out of Suddhoo taken
by
the seal-cutter, and becomes daily more furious and sullen.
She will never tell, because she dare not; but, unless
something
happens to prevent her, I am afraid that the seal-cutter will
die
of cholera--the white arsenic kind--about the middle of May.
And
thus I shall have to be privy to a murder in the House of
Suddhoo.
Cry "Murder!" in the market-place, and each
Will turn upon his neighbor anxious eyes
That ask:--"Art thou the man?" We hunted Cain,
Some centuries ago, across the world,
That bred the fear our own misdeeds maintain
To-day.
Vibart's Moralities.
Shakespeare says something about worms, or it may be giants
or
beetles, turning if you tread on them too severely. The
safest
plan is never to tread on a worm--not even on the last new
subaltern from Home, with his buttons hardly out of their
tissue
paper, and the red of sappy English beef in his cheeks. This
is
the story of the worm that turned. For the sake of brevity,
we
will call Henry Augustus Ramsay Faizanne, "The Worm," although
he
really was an exceedingly pretty boy, without a hair on his
face,
and with a waist like a girl's when he came out to the
Second
"Shikarris" and was made unhappy in several ways. The
"Shikarris"
are a high-caste regiment, and you must be able to do things
well--
play a banjo or ride more than a little, or sing, or act--to get
on
with them.
The Worm did nothing except fall off his pony, and knock chips
out
of gate-posts with his trap. Even that became monotonous after
a
time. He objected to whist, cut the cloth at billiards, sang
out
of tune, kept very much to himself, and wrote to his Mamma
and
sisters at Home. Four of these five things were vices which
the
"Shikarris" objected to and set themselves to eradicate. Every
one
knows how subalterns are, by brother subalterns, softened and
not
permitted to be ferocious. It is good and wholesome, and does
no
one any harm, unless tempers are lost; and then there is
trouble.
There was a man once--but that is another story.
The "Shikarris" shikarred The Worm very much, and he bore
everything without winking. He was so good and so anxious to
learn, and flushed so pink, that his education was cut short,
and
he was left to his own devices by every one except the
Senior
Subaltern, who continued to make life a burden to The Worm.
The
Senior Subaltern meant no harm; but his chaff was coarse, and
he
didn't quite understand where to stop. He had been waiting
too
long for his company; and that always sours a man. Also he was
in
love, which made him worse.
One day, after he had borrowed The Worm's trap for a lady who
never
existed, had used it himself all the afternoon, had sent a note
to
The Worm purporting to come from the lady, and was telling the
Mess
all about it, The Worm rose in his place and said, in his
quiet,
ladylike voice: "That was a very pretty sell; but I'll lay you
a
month's pay to a month's pay when you get your step, that I work
a
sell on you that you'll remember for the rest of your days, and
the
Regiment after you when you're dead or broke." The Worm
wasn't
angry in the least, and the rest of the Mess shouted. Then
the
Senior Subaltern looked at The Worm from the boots upwards,
and
down again, and said, "Done, Baby." The Worm took the rest of
the
Mess to witness that the bet had been taken, and retired into
a
book with a sweet smile.
Two months passed, and the Senior Subaltern still educated
The
Worm, who began to move about a little more as the hot weather
came
on. I have said that the Senior Subaltern was in love. The
curious thing is that a girl was in love with the Senior
Subaltern.
Though the Colonel said awful things, and the Majors snorted,
and
married Captains looked unutterable wisdom, and the juniors
scoffed, those two were engaged.
The Senior Subaltern was so pleased with getting his Company
and
his acceptance at the same time that he forgot to bother The
Worm.
The girl was a pretty girl, and had money of her own. She does
not
come into this story at all.
One night, at the beginning of the hot weather, all the
Mess,
except The Worm, who had gone to his own room to write Home
letters, were sitting on the platform outside the Mess House.
The
Band had finished playing, but no one wanted to go in. And
the
Captains' wives were there also. The folly of a man in love
is
unlimited. The Senior Subaltern had been holding forth on
the
merits of the girl he was engaged to, and the ladies were
purring
approval, while the men yawned, when there was a rustle of
skirts
in the dark, and a tired, faint voice lifted itself:
"Where's my husband?"
I do not wish in the least to reflect on the morality of
the
"Shikarris;" but it is on record that four men jumped up as if
they
had been shot. Three of them were married men. Perhaps they
were
afraid that their wives had come from Home unbeknownst. The
fourth
said that he had acted on the impulse of the moment. He
explained
this afterwards.
Then the voice cried:--"Oh, Lionel!" Lionel was the Senior
Subaltern's name. A woman came into the little circle of light
by
the candles on the peg-tables, stretching out her hands to the
dark
where the Senior Subaltern was, and sobbing. We rose to our
feet,
feeling that things were going to happen and ready to believe
the
worst. In this bad, small world of ours, one knows so little
of
the life of the next man--which, after all, is entirely his
own
concern-- that one is not surprised when a crash comes.
Anything
might turn up any day for any one. Perhaps the Senior
Subaltern
had been trapped in his youth. Men are crippled that way
occasionally. We didn't know; we wanted to hear; and the
Captains'
wives were as anxious as we. If he HAD been trapped, he was to
be
excused; for the woman from nowhere, in the dusty shoes, and
gray
travelling dress, was very lovely, with black hair and great
eyes
full of tears. She was tall, with a fine figure, and her voice
had
a running sob in it pitiful to hear. As soon as the Senior
Subaltern stood up, she threw her arms round his neck, and
called
him "my darling," and said she could not bear waiting alone
in
England, and his letters were so short and cold, and she was his
to
the end of the world, and would he forgive her. This did not
sound
quite like a lady's way of speaking. It was too
demonstrative.
Things seemed black indeed, and the Captains' wives peered
under
their eyebrows at the Senior Subaltern, and the Colonel's face
set
like the Day of Judgment framed in gray bristles, and no one
spoke
for a while.
Next the Colonel said, very shortly:--"Well, Sir?" and the
woman
sobbed afresh. The Senior Subaltern was half choked with the
arms
round his neck, but he gasped out:--"It's a d----d lie! I
never
had a wife in my life!" "Don't swear," said the Colonel.
"Come
into the Mess. We must sift this clear somehow," and he sighed
to
himself, for he believed in his "Shikarris," did the
Colonel.
We trooped into the ante-room, under the full lights, and
there we
saw how beautiful the woman was. She stood up in the middle of
us
all, sometimes choking with crying, then hard and proud, and
then
holding out her arms to the Senior Subaltern. It was like
the
fourth act of a tragedy. She told us how the Senior Subaltern
had
married her when he was Home on leave eighteen months before;
and
she seemed to know all that we knew, and more too, of his
people
and his past life. He was white and ashy gray, trying now
and
again to break into the torrent of her words; and we, noting
how
lovely she was and what a criminal he looked, esteemed him a
beast
of the worst kind. We felt sorry for him, though.
I shall never forget the indictment of the Senior Subaltern by
his
wife. Nor will he. It was so sudden, rushing out of the
dark,
unannounced, into our dull lives. The Captains' wives stood
back;
but their eyes were alight, and you could see that they had
already
convicted and sentenced the Senior Subaltern. The Colonel
seemed
five years older. One Major was shading his eyes with his hand
and
watching the woman from underneath it. Another was chewing
his
moustache and smiling quietly as if he were witnessing a
play.
Full in the open space in the centre, by the whist-tables,
the
Senior Subaltern's terrier was hunting for fleas. I remember
all
this as clearly as though a photograph were in my hand. I
remember
the look of horror on the Senior Subaltern's face. It was
rather
like seeing a man hanged; but much more interesting. Finally,
the
woman wound up by saying that the Senior Subaltern carried a
double
F. M. in tattoo on his left shoulder. We all knew that, and to
our
innocent minds it seemed to clinch the matter. But one of
the
Bachelor Majors said very politely:--"I presume that your
marriage
certificate would be more to the purpose?"
That roused the woman. She stood up and sneered at the
Senior
Subaltern for a cur, and abused the Major and the Colonel and
all
the rest. Then she wept, and then she pulled a paper from
her
breast, saying imperially:--"Take that! And let my
husband--my
lawfully wedded husband--read it aloud--if he dare!"
There was a hush, and the men looked into each other's eyes as
the
Senior Subaltern came forward in a dazed and dizzy way, and
took
the paper. We were wondering as we stared, whether there was
anything against any one of us that might turn up later on.
The
Senior Subaltern's throat was dry; but, as he ran his eye over
the
paper, he broke out into a hoarse cackle of relief, and said to
the
woman:--"You young blackguard!"
But the woman had fled through a door, and on the paper
was
written:--"This is to certify that I, The Worm, have paid in
full
my debts to the Senior Subaltern, and, further, that the
Senior
Subaltern is my debtor, by agreement on the 23d of February, as
by
the Mess attested, to the extent of one month's Captain's pay,
in
the lawful currency of the India Empire."
Then a deputation set off for The Worm's quarters and found
him,
betwixt and between, unlacing his stays, with the hat, wig,
serge
dress, etc., on the bed. He came over as he was, and the
"Shikarris" shouted till the Gunners' Mess sent over to know
if
they might have a share of the fun. I think we were all,
except
the Colonel and the Senior Subaltern, a little disappointed
that
the scandal had come to nothing. But that is human nature.
There
could be no two words about The Worm's acting. It leaned as
near
to a nasty tragedy as anything this side of a joke can. When
most
of the Subalterns sat upon him with sofa-cushions to find out
why
he had not said that acting was his strong point, he answered
very
quietly:--"I don't think you ever asked me. I used to act at
Home
with my sisters." But no acting with girls could account for
The
Worm's display that night. Personally, I think it was in bad
taste. Besides being dangerous. There is no sort of use in
playing
with fire, even for fun.
The "Shikarris" made him President of the Regimental Dramatic
Club;
and, when the Senior Subaltern paid up his debt, which he did
at
once, The Worm sank the money in scenery and dresses. He was
a
good Worm; and the "Shikarris" are proud of him. The only
drawback
is that he has been christened "Mrs. Senior Subaltern;" and
as
there are now two Mrs. Senior Subalterns in the Station, this
is
sometimes confusing to strangers.
Later on, I will tell you of a case something like, this, but
with
all the jest left out and nothing in it but real trouble.
"My dear fellow," said Sherlock Holmes, as we sat on either side
of
the fire in his lodgings at Baker Street, "life is
infinitely
stranger than anything which the mind of man can invent. We
would
not dare to conceive the things which are really mere
commonplaces
of existence. If we could fly out of that window hand in
hand,
hover over this great city, gently remove the roofs, and peep in
at
the queer things which are going on, the strange coincidences,
the
plannings, the cross-purposes, the wonderful chains of
events,
working through generations, and leading to the most outre
results,
it would make all fiction, with its conventionalities and
foreseen
conclusions, most stale and unprofitable."
"And yet I am not convinced of it," I answered. "The cases
which
come to light in the papers are, as a rule, bald enough, and
vulgar
enough. We have in our police reports realism pushed to its
extreme limits, and yet the result is, it must be confessed,
neither fascinating nor artistic."
"A certain selection and discretion must be used in producing
a
realistic effect," remarked Holmes. "This is wanting in the
police
report, where more stress is laid perhaps upon the platitudes
of
the magistrate than upon the details, which to an observer
contain
the vital essence of the whole matter. Depend upon it, there
is
nothing so unnatural as the commonplace."
I smiled and shook my head. "I can quite understand your
thinking
so," I said. "Of course, in your position of unofficial
adviser
and helper to everybody who is absolutely puzzled, throughout
three
continents, you are brought in contact with all that is strange
and
bizarre. But here,"--I picked up the morning paper from the
ground--"let us put it to a practical test. Here is the
first
heading upon which I come. 'A husband's cruelty to his
wife.'
There is half a column of print, but I know without reading it
that
it is all perfectly familiar to me. There is, of course, the
other
woman, the drink, the push, the blow, the bruise, the
unsympathetic
sister or landlady. The crudest of writers could invent
nothing
more crude."
"Indeed your example is an unfortunate one for your argument,"
said
Holmes, taking the paper, and glancing his eye down it. "This
is
the Dundas separation case, and, as it happens, I was engaged
in
clearing up some small points in connection with it. The
husband
was a teetotaler, there was no other woman, and the conduct
complained of was that he had drifted into the habit of winding
up
every meal by taking out his false teeth and hurling them at
his
wife, which you will allow is not an action likely to occur to
the
imagination of the average story teller. Take a pinch of
snuff,
doctor, and acknowledge that I have scored over you in your
example."
He held out his snuffbox of old gold, with a great amethyst in
the
center of the lid. Its splendor was in such contrast to his
homely
ways and simple life that I could not help commenting upon
it.
"Ah!" said he, "I forgot that I had not seen you for some
weeks.
It is a little souvenir from the King of Bohemia, in return for
my
assistance in the case of the Irene Adler papers."
"And the ring?" I asked, glancing at a remarkable brilliant
which
sparkled upon his finger.
"It was from the reigning family of Holland, though the matter
in
which I served them was of such delicacy that I cannot confide
it
even to you, who have been good enough to chronicle one or two
of
my little problems."
"And have you any on hand just now?" I asked with interest.
"Some ten or twelve, but none which present any features
of
interest. They are important, you understand, without being
interesting. Indeed I have found that it is usually in
unimportant
matters that there is a field for the observation, and for
the
quick analysis of cause and effect which gives the charm to
an
investigation. The larger crimes are apt to be the simpler,
for
the bigger the crime, the more obvious, as a rule, is the
motive.
In these cases, save for one rather intricate matter which has
been
referred to me from Marseilles, there is nothing which presents
any
features of interest. It is possible, however, that I may
have
something better before very many minutes are over, for this is
one
of my clients, or I am much mistaken."
He had risen from his chair, and was standing between the
parted
blinds, gazing down into the dull, neutral-tinted London
street.
Looking over his shoulder, I saw that on the pavement
opposite
there stood a large woman with a heavy fur boa round her neck,
and
a large curling red feather in a broad-brimmed hat which was
tilted
in a coquettish Duchess-of-Devonshire fashion over her ear.
From under this great panoply she peeped up in a nervous,
hesitating fashion at our windows, while her body oscillated
backward and forward, and her fingers fidgeted with her
glove
buttons. Suddenly, with a plunge, as of the swimmer who leaves
the
bank, she hurried across the road, and we heard the sharp clang
of
the bell.
"I have seen those symptoms before," said Holmes, throwing
his
cigarette into the fire. "Oscillation upon the pavement
always
means an affaire de coeur. She would like advice, but is not
sure
that the matter is not too delicate for communication. And
yet
even here we may discriminate. When a woman has been
seriously
wronged by a man, she no longer oscillates, and the usual
symptom
is a broken bell wire. Here we may take it that there is a
love
matter, but that the maiden is not so much angry as perplexed
or
grieved. But here she comes in person to resolve our
doubts."
As he spoke, there was a tap at the door, and the boy in
buttons
entered to announce Miss Mary Sutherland, while the lady
herself
loomed behind his small black figure like a full-sailed
merchantman
behind a tiny pilot boat. Sherlock Holmes welcomed her with
the
easy courtesy for which he was remarkable, and having closed
the
door, and bowed her into an armchair, he looked her over in
the
minute and yet abstracted fashion which was peculiar to him.
"Do you not find," he said, "that with your short sight it is
a
little trying to do so much typewriting?"
"I did at first," she answered, "but now I know where the
letters
are without looking." Then, suddenly realizing the full purport
of
his words, she gave a violent start, and looked up with fear
and
astonishment upon her broad, good-humored face. "You've
heard
about me, Mr. Holmes," she cried, "else how could you know
all
that?"
"Never mind," said Holmes, laughing, "it is my business to
know
things. Perhaps I have trained myself to see what others
overlook.
If not, why should you come to consult me?"
"I came to you, sir, because I heard of you from Mrs.
Etherege,
whose husband you found so easily when the police and everyone
had
given him up for dead. Oh, Mr. Holmes, I wish you would do as
much
for me. I'm not rich, but still I have a hundred a year in my
own
right, besides the little that I make by the machine, and I
would
give it all to know what has become of Mr. Hosmer Angel."
"Why did you come away to consult me in such a hurry?"
asked
Sherlock Holmes, with his finger tips together, and his eyes to
the
ceiling.
Again a startled look came over the somewhat vacuous face of
Miss
Mary Sutherland. "Yes, I did bang out of the house," she
said,
"for it made me angry to see the easy way in which Mr.
Windibank--
that is, my father--took it all. He would not go to the
police,
and he would not go to you, and so at last, as he would do
nothing,
and kept on saying that there was no harm done, it made me mad,
and
I just on with my things and came right away to you."
"Your father?" said Holmes. "Your stepfather, surely, since
the
name is different."
"Yes, my stepfather. I call him father, though it sounds
funny,
too, for he is only five years and two months older than
myself."
"And your mother is alive?"
"Oh, yes; mother is alive and well. I wasn't best pleased,
Mr.
Holmes, when she married again so soon after father's death, and
a
man who was nearly fifteen years younger than herself. Father
was
a plumber in the Tottenham Court Road, and he left a tidy
business
behind him, which mother carried on with Mr. Hardy, the
foreman;
but when Mr. Windibank came he made her sell the business, for
he
was very superior, being a traveler in wines. They got four
thousand seven hundred for the good-will and interest, which
wasn't
near as much as father could have got if he had been alive."
I had expected to see Sherlock Holmes impatient under this
rambling
and inconsequential narrative, but, on the contrary, he had
listened with the greatest concentration of attention.
"Your own little income," he asked, "does it come out of
the
business?"
"Oh, no, sir. It is quite separate, and was left me by my
Uncle
Ned in Auckland. It is in New Zealand stock, paying four and
half
per cent. Two thousand five hundred pounds was the amount, but
I
can only touch the interest."
"You interest me extremely," said Holmes. "And since you draw
so
large a sum as a hundred a year, with what you earn into the
bargain, you no doubt travel a little, and indulge yourself
in
every way. I believe that a single lady can get on very
nicely
upon an income of about sixty pounds."
"I could do with much less than that, Mr. Holmes, but you
understand that as long as I live at home I don't wish to be
a
burden to them, and so they have the use of the money just while
I
am staying with them. Of course that is only just for the
time.
Mr. Windibank draws my interest every quarter, and pays it over
to
mother, and I find that I can do pretty well with what I earn
at
typewriting. It brings me twopence a sheet, and I can often
do
from fifteen to twenty sheets in a day."
"You have made your position very clear to me," said Holmes.
"This
is my friend, Doctor Watson, before whom you can speak as freely
as
before myself. Kindly tell us now all about your connection
with
Mr. Hosmer Angel."
A flush stole over Miss Sutherland's face, and she picked
nervously
at the fringe of her jacket. "I met him first at the
gasfitters'
ball," she said. "They used to send father tickets when he
was
alive, and then afterwards they remembered us, and sent them
to
mother. Mr. Windibank did not wish us to go. He never did wish
us
to go anywhere. He would get quite mad if I wanted so much as
to
join a Sunday School treat. But this time I was set on going,
and
I would go, for what right had he to prevent? He said the
folk
were not fit for us to know, when all father's friends were to
be
there. And he said that I had nothing fit to wear, when I had
my
purple plush that I had never so much as taken out of the
drawer.
At last, when nothing else would do, he went off to France upon
the
business of the firm; but we went, mother and I, with Mr.
Hardy,
who used to be our foreman, and it was there I met Mr.
Hosmer
Angel."
"I suppose," said Holmes, "that when Mr. Windibank came back
from
France, he was very annoyed at your having gone to the
ball?"
"Oh, well, he was very good about it. He laughed, I remember,
and
shrugged his shoulders, and said there was no use denying
anything
to a woman, for she would have her way."
"I see. Then at the gasfitters' ball you met, as I understand,
a
gentleman called Mr. Hosmer Angel?"
"Yes, sir. I met him that night, and he called next day to ask
if
we had got home all safe, and after that we met him--that is
to
say, Mr. Holmes, I met him twice for walks, but after that
father
came back again, and Mr. Hosmer Angel could not come to the
house
any more."
"No?"
"Well, you know, father didn't like anything of the sort.
He
wouldn't have any visitors if he could help it, and he used to
say
that a woman should be happy in her own family circle. But
then,
as I used to say to mother, a woman wants her own circle to
begin
with, and I had not got mine yet."
"But how about Mr. Hosmer Angel? Did he make no attempt to
see
you?"
"Well, father was going off to France again in a week, and
Hosmer
wrote and said that it would be safer and better not to see
each
other until he had gone. We could write in the meantime, and
he
used to write every day. I took the letters in the morning,
so
there was no need for father to know."
"Were you engaged to the gentleman at this time?"
"Oh, yes, Mr. Holmes. We were engaged after the first walk
that we
took. Hosmer--Mr. Angel--was a cashier in an office in
Leadenhall
Street--and--"
"What office?"
"That's the worst of it, Mr. Holmes; I don't know."
"Where did he live, then?"
"He slept on the premises."
"And you don't know his address?"
"No--except that it was Leadenhall Street."
"Where did you address your letters, then?"
"To the Leadenhall Street Post Office, to be left till called
for.
He said that if they were sent to the office he would be chaffed
by
all the other clerks about having letters from a lady, so I
offered
to typewrite them, like he did his, but he wouldn't have that,
for
he said that when I wrote them they seemed to come from me,
but
when they were typewritten he always felt that the machine had
come
between us. That will just show you how fond he was of me,
Mr.
Holmes, and the little things that he would think of."
"It was most suggestive," said Holmes. "It has long been an
axiom
of mine that the little things are infinitely the most
important.
Can you remember any other little things about Mr. Hosmer
Angel?"
"He was a very shy man, Mr. Holmes. He would rather walk with
me
in the evening than in the daylight, for he said that he hated
to
be conspicuous. Very retiring and gentlemanly he was. Even
his
voice was gentle. He'd had the quinsy and swollen glands when
he
was young, he told me, and it had left him with a weak throat
and a
hesitating, whispering fashion of speech. He was always well
dressed, very neat and plain, but his eyes were weak, just as
mine
are, and he wore tinted glasses against the glare."
"Well, and what happened when Mr. Windibank, your
stepfather,
returned to France?"
"Mr. Hosmer Angel came to the house again, and proposed that
we
should marry before father came back. He was in dreadful
earnest,
and made me swear, with my hands on the Testament, that
whatever
happened I would always be true to him. Mother said he was
quite
right to make me swear, and that it was a sign of his
passion.
Mother was all in his favor from the first, and was even fonder
of
him than I was. Then, when they talked of marrying within
the
week, I began to ask about father; but they both said never to
mind
about father, but just to tell him afterwards and mother said
she
would make it all right with him. I didn't quite like that,
Mr.
Holmes. It seemed funny that I should ask his leave, as he
was
only a few years older than me; but I didn't want to do anything
on
the sly, so I wrote to father at Bordeaux, where the company
has
its French offices, but the letter came back to me on the
very
morning of the wedding."
"It missed him, then?"
"Yes, sir, for he had started to England just before it arrived."
"Ha! that was unfortunate. Your wedding was arranged, then,
for
the Friday. Was it to be in church?"
"Yes, sir, but very quietly. It was to be at St. Saviour's,
near
King's Cross, and we were to have breakfast afterwards at the
St.
Pancras Hotel. Hosmer came for us in a hansom, but as there
were
two of us, he put us both into it, and stepped himself into a
four-
wheeler, which happened to be the only other cab in the street.
We
got to the church first, and when the four-wheeler drove up
we
waited for him to step out, but he never did, and when the
cabman
got down from the box and looked, there was no one there!
The
cabman said that he could not imagine what had become of him,
for
he had seen him get in with his own eyes. That was last
Friday,
Mr. Holmes, and I have never seen or heard anything since then
to
throw any light upon what became of him."
"It seems to me that you have been very shamefully treated,"
said
Holmes.
"Oh, no, sir! He was too good and kind to leave me so. Why,
all
the morning he was saying to me that, whatever happened, I was
to
be true; and that even if something quite unforeseen occurred
to
separate us, I was always to remember that I was pledged to
him,
and that he would claim his pledge sooner or later. It
seemed
strange talk for a wedding morning, but what has happened
since
gives a meaning to it."
"Most certainly it does. Your own opinion is, then, that
some
unforeseen catastrophe has occurred to him?"
"Yes, sir. I believe that he foresaw some danger, or else he
would
not have talked so. And then I think that what he foresaw
happened."
"But you have no notion as to what it could have been?"
"None."
"One more question. How did your mother take the matter?"
"She was angry, and said that I was never to speak of the
matter
again."
"And your father? Did you tell him?"
"Yes, and he seemed to think, with me, that something had
happened,
and that I should hear of Hosmer again. As he said, what
interest
could anyone have in bringing me to the door of the church,
and
then leaving me? Now, if he had borrowed my money, or if he
had
married me and got my money settled on him, there might be
some
reason; but Hosmer was very independent about money, and
never
would look at a shilling of mine. And yet what could have
happened? And why could he not write? Oh! it drives me half
mad
to think of, and I can't sleep a wink at night." She pulled
a
little handkerchief out of her muff, and began to sob heavily
into
it.
"I shall glance into the case for you," said Holmes, rising,
"and I
have no doubt that we shall reach some definite result. Let
the
weight of the matter rest upon me now, and do not let your
mind
dwell upon it further. Above all, try to let Mr. Hosmer
Angel
vanish from your memory, as he has done from your life."
"Then you don't think I'll see him again?"
"I fear not."
"Then what has happened to him?"
"You will leave that question in my hands. I should like
an
accurate description of him, and any letters of his which you
can
spare."
"I advertised for him in last Saturday's Chronicle," said
she.
"Here is the slip, and here are four letters from him."
"Thank you. And your address?"
"No. 31 Lyon Place, Camberwell."
"Mr. Angel's address you never had, I understand. Where is
your
father's place of business?"
"He travels for Westhouse & Marbank, the great claret
importers of
Fenchurch Street."
"Thank you. You have made your statement very clearly. You
will
leave the papers here, and remember the advice which I have
given
you. Let the whole incident be a sealed book, and do not allow
it
to affect your life."
"You are very kind, Mr. Holmes, but I cannot do that. I shall
be
true to Hosmer. He shall find me ready when he comes back."
For all the preposterous hat and the vacuous face, there
was
something noble in the simple faith of our visitor which
compelled
our respect. She laid her little bundle of papers upon the
table,
and went her way, with a promise to come again whenever she
might
be summoned.
Sherlock Holmes sat silent for a few minutes with his finger
tips
still pressed together, his legs stretched out in front of him,
and
his gaze directed upward to the ceiling. Then he took down
from
the rack the old and oily clay pipe, which was to him as a
counselor, and, having lighted it, he leaned back in his
chair,
with thick blue cloud wreaths spinning up from him, and a look
of
infinite languor in his face.
"Quite an interesting study, that maiden," he observed. "I
found
her more interesting than her little problem, which, by the way,
is
rather a trite one. You will find parallel cases, if you
consult
my index, in Andover in '77, and there was something of the sort
at
The Hague last year. Old as is the idea, however, there were
one
or two details which were new to me. But the maiden herself
was
most instructive."
"You appeared to read a good deal upon her which was quite
invisible to me," I remarked.
"Not invisible, but unnoticed, Watson. You did not know where
to
look, and so you missed all that was important. I can never
bring
you to realize the importance of sleeves, the suggestiveness
of
thumb nails, or the great issues that may hang from a boot
lace.
Now, what did you gather from that woman's appearance?
Describe
it."
"Well, she had a slate-colored, broad-brimmed straw hat, with
a
feather of a brickish red. Her jacket was black, with black
beads
sewed upon it and a fringe of little black jet ornaments.
Her
dress was brown, rather darker than coffee color, with a
little
purple plush at the neck and sleeves. Her gloves were grayish,
and
were worn through at the right forefinger. Her boots I
didn't
observe. She had small round, hanging gold earrings, and a
general
air of being fairly well-to-do, in a vulgar, comfortable,
easygoing
way."
Sherlock Holmes clapped his hands softly together and chuckled.
"'Pon my word, Watson, you are coming along wonderfully. You
have
really done very well indeed. It is true that you have
missed
everything of importance, but you have hit upon the method, and
you
have a quick eye for color. Never trust to general impressions,
my
boy, but concentrate yourself upon details. My first glance
is
always at a woman's sleeve. In a man it is perhaps better first
to
take the knee of the trouser. As you observe, this woman had
plush
upon her sleeve, which is a most useful material for showing
traces. The double line a little above the wrist, where the
typewritist presses against the table, was beautifully
defined.
The sewing machine, of the hand type, leaves a similar mark,
but
only on the left arm, and on the side of it farthest from
the
thumb, instead of being right across the broadest part, as
this
was. I then glanced at her face, and observing the dint of a
pince-nez at either side of her nose, I ventured a remark
upon
short sight and typewriting, which seemed to surprise her."
"It surprised me."
"But, surely, it was very obvious. I was then much surprised
and
interested on glancing down to observe that, though the boots
which
she was wearing were not unlike each other, they were really
odd
ones, the one having a slightly decorated toe cap and the other
a
plain one. One was buttoned only in the two lower buttons out
of
five, and the other at the first, third, and fifth. Now, when
you
see that a young lady, otherwise neatly dressed, has come away
from
home with odd boots, half-buttoned, it is no great deduction to
say
that she came away in a hurry."
"And what else?" I asked, keenly interested, as I always was, by
my
friend's incisive reasoning.
"I noted, in passing, that she had written a note before
leaving
home, but after being fully dressed. You observed that her
right
glove was torn at the forefinger, but you did not, apparently,
see
that both glove and finger were stained with violet ink. She
had
written in a hurry, and dipped her pen too deep. It must have
been
this morning, or the mark would not remain clear upon the
finger.
All this is amusing, though rather elementary, but I must go
back
to business, Watson. Would you mind reading me the
advertised
description of Mr. Hosmer Angel?"
I held the little printed slip to the light. "Missing," it
said,
"on the morning of the fourteenth, a gentleman named Hosmer
Angel.
About five feet seven inches in height; strongly built,
sallow
complexion, black hair, a little bald in the center, bushy
black
side-whiskers and mustache; tinted glasses; slight infirmity
of
speech. Was dressed, when last seen, in black frock-coat
faced
with silk, black waistcoat, gold Albert chain, and gray
Harris
tweed trousers, with brown gaiters over elastic-sided boots.
Known
to have been employed in an office in Leadenhall Street.
Anybody
bringing," etc., etc.
"That will do," said Holmes. "As to the letters," he
continued,
glancing over them, "they are very commonplace. Absolutely no
clew
in them to Mr. Angel, save that he quotes Balzac once. There
is
one remarkable point, however, which will no doubt strike
you."
"They are typewritten," I remarked.
"Not only that, but the signature is typewritten. Look at the
neat
little 'Hosmer Angel' at the bottom. There is a date, you see,
but
no superscription except Leadenhall Street, which is rather
vague.
The point about the signature is very suggestive--in fact, we
may
call it conclusive."
"Of what?"
"My dear fellow, is it possible you do not see how strongly
it
bears upon the case?"
"I cannot say that I do, unless it were that he wished to be
able
to deny his signature if an action for breach of promise
were
instituted."
"No, that was not the point. However, I shall write two
letters
which should settle the matter. One is to a firm in the City,
the
other is to the young lady's stepfather, Mr. Windibank, asking
him
whether he could meet us here at six o'clock to-morrow evening.
It
is just as well that we should do business with the male
relatives.
And now, doctor, we can do nothing until the answers to
those
letters come, so we may put our little problem upon the shelf
for
the interim."
I had had so many reasons to believe in my friend's subtle
powers
of reasoning, and extraordinary energy in action, that I felt
that
he must have some solid grounds for the assured and easy
demeanor
with which he treated the singular mystery which he had been
called
upon to fathom. Once only had I known him to fail, in the case
of
the King of Bohemia and the Irene Adler photograph, but when
I
looked back to the weird business of the "Sign of the Four,"
and
the extraordinary circumstances connected with the "Study in
Scarlet," I felt that it would be a strange tangle indeed which
he
could not unravel.
I left him then, still puffing at his black clay pipe, with
the
conviction that when I came again on the next evening I would
find
that he held in his hands all the clews which would lead up to
the
identity of the disappearing bridegroom of Miss Mary
Sutherland.
A professional case of great gravity was engaging my own
attention
at the time, and the whole of next day I was busy at the bedside
of
the sufferer. It was not until close upon six o'clock that I
found
myself free, and was able to spring into a hansom and drive
to
Baker Street, half afraid that I might be too late to assist at
the
denouement of the little mystery. I found Sherlock Holmes
alone,
however, half asleep, with his long, thin form curled up in
the
recesses of his armchair. A formidable array of bottles and
test-
tubes, with the pungent, cleanly smell of hydrochloric acid,
told
me that he had spent his day in the chemical work which was so
dear
to him.
"Well, have you solved it?" I asked as I entered.
"Yes. It was the bisulphate of baryta."
"No, no; the mystery!" I cried.
"Oh, that! I thought of the salt that I have been working
upon.
There was never any mystery in the matter, though, as I said
yesterday, some of the details are of interest. The only
drawback
is that there is no law, I fear, that can touch the
scoundrel."
"Who was he, then, and what was his object in deserting
Miss
Sutherland?"
The question was hardly out of my mouth, and Holmes had not
yet
opened his lips to reply, when we heard a heavy footfall in
the
passage, and a tap at the door.
"This is the girl's stepfather, Mr. James Windibank," said
Holmes.
"He has written to me to say that he would be here at six.
Come
in!"
The man who entered was a sturdy, middle-sized fellow, some
thirty
years of age, clean shaven, and sallow-skinned, with a
bland,
insinuating manner, and a pair of wonderfully sharp and
penetrating
gray eyes. He shot a questioning glance at each of us, placed
his
shiny top hat upon the sideboard, and, with a slight bow,
sidled
down into the nearest chair.
"Good evening, Mr. James Windibank," said Holmes. "I think
this
typewritten letter is from you, in which you made an
appointment
with me for six o'clock?"
"Yes, sir. I am afraid that I am a little late, but I am not
quite
my own master, you know. I am sorry that Miss Sutherland has
troubled you about this little matter, for I think it is far
better
not to wash linen of the sort in public. It was quite against
my
wishes that she came, but she is a very excitable, impulsive
girl,
as you may have noticed, and she is not easily controlled when
she
has made up her mind on a point. Of course, I did not mind you
so
much, as you are not connected with the official police, but it
is
not pleasant to have a family misfortune like this noised
abroad.
Besides, it is a useless expense, for how could you possibly
find
this Hosmer Angel?"
"On the contrary," said Holmes, quietly, "I have every reason
to
believe that I will succeed in discovering Mr. Hosmer
Angel."
Mr. Windibank gave a violent start, and dropped his gloves. "I
am
delighted to hear it," he said.
"It is a curious thing," remarked Holmes, "that a typewriter
has
really quite as much individuality as a man's handwriting.
Unless
they are quite new no two of them write exactly alike. Some
letters get more worn than others, and some wear only on one
side.
Now, you remark in this note of yours, Mr. Windibank, that in
every
case there is some little slurring over the e, and a slight
defect
in the tail of the r. There are fourteen other
characteristics,
but those are the more obvious."
"We do all our correspondence with this machine at the office,
and
no doubt it is a little worn," our visitor answered,
glancing
keenly at Holmes with his bright little eyes.
"And now I will show you what is really a very interesting
study,
Mr. Windibank," Holmes continued. "I think of writing
another
little monograph some of these days on the typewriter and
its
relation to crime. It is a subject to which I have devoted
some
little attention. I have here four letters which purport to
come
from the missing man. They are all typewritten. In each case,
not
only are the e's slurred and the r's tailless, but you will
observe, if you care to use my magnifying lens, that the
fourteen
other characteristics to which I have alluded are there as
well."
Mr. Windibank sprung out of his chair, and picked up his hat.
"I
cannot waste time over this sort of fantastic talk, Mr. Holmes,"
he
said. "If you can catch the man, catch him, and let me know
when
you have done it."
"Certainly," said Holmes, stepping over and turning the key in
the
door. "I let you know, then, that I have caught him!"
"What! where?" shouted Mr. Windibank, turning white to his
lips,
and glancing about him like a rat in a trap.
"Oh, it won't do--really it won't," said Holmes, suavely.
"There
is no possible getting out of it, Mr. Windibank. It is quite
too
transparent, and it was a very bad compliment when you said that
it
was impossible for me to solve so simple a question. That's
right!
Sit down, and let us talk it over."
Our visitor collapsed into a chair, with a ghastly face, and
a
glitter of moisture on his brow. "It--it's not actionable,"
he
stammered.
"I am very much afraid that it is not; but between
ourselves,
Windibank, it was as cruel, and selfish, and heartless a trick
in a
petty way as ever came before me. Now, let me just run over
the
course of events, and you will contradict me if I go wrong."
The man sat huddled up in his chair, with his head sunk upon
his
breast, like one who is utterly crushed. Holmes stuck his feet
up
on the corner of the mantelpiece, and, leaning back with his
hands
in his pockets, began talking, rather to himself, as it
seemed,
than to us.
"The man married a woman very much older than himself for
her
money," said he, "and he enjoyed the use of the money of the
daughter as long as she lived with them. It was a
considerable
sum, for people in their position, and the loss of it would
have
made a serious difference. It was worth an effort to preserve
it.
The daughter was of a good, amiable disposition, but
affectionate
and warmhearted in her ways, so that it was evident that with
her
fair personal advantages, and her little income, she would not
be
allowed to remain single long. Now her marriage would mean,
of
course, the loss of a hundred a year, so what does her
stepfather
do to prevent it? He takes the obvious course of keeping her
at
home, and forbidding her to seek the company of people of her
own
age. But soon he found that that would not answer forever.
She
became restive, insisted upon her rights, and finally announced
her
positive intention of going to a certain ball. What does her
clever stepfather do then? He conceives an idea more creditable
to
his head than to his heart. With the connivance and assistance
of
his wife, he disguised himself, covered those keen eyes with
tinted
glasses, masked the face with a mustache and a pair of bushy
whiskers, sunk that clear voice into an insinuating whisper,
and
doubly secure on account of the girl's short sight, he appears
as
Mr. Hosmer Angel, and keeps off other lovers by making love
himself."
"It was only a joke at first," groaned our visitor. "We
never
thought that she would have been so carried away."
"Very likely not. However that may be, the young lady was
very
decidedly carried away, and having quite made up her mind that
her
stepfather was in France, the suspicion of treachery never for
an
instant entered her mind. She was flattered by the
gentleman's
attentions, and the effect was increased by the loudly
expressed
admiration of her mother. Then Mr. Angel began to call, for it
was
obvious that the matter should be pushed as far as if would go,
if
a real effect were to be produced. There were meetings, and
an
engagement, which would finally secure the girl's affections
from
turning toward anyone else. But the deception could not be kept
up
forever. These pretended journeys to France were rather
cumbrous.
The thing to do was clearly to bring the business to an end in
such
a dramatic manner that it would leave a permanent impression
upon
the young lady's mind, and prevent her from looking upon any
other
suitor for some time to come. Hence those vows of fidelity
exacted
upon a Testament, and hence also the allusions to a possibility
of
something happening on the very morning of the wedding.
James
Windibank wished Miss Sutherland to be so bound to Hosmer
Angel,
and so uncertain as to his fate, that for ten years to come, at
any
rate, she would not listen to another man. As far as the
church
door he brought her, and then, as he could go no farther, he
conveniently vanished away by the old trick of stepping in at
one
door of a four-wheeler and out at the other. I think that that
was
the chain of events, Mr. Windibank!"
"It may be so, or it may not, Mr. Holmes," said he; "but if
you are
so very sharp you ought to be sharp enough to know that it is
you
who are breaking the law now, and not me. I have done
nothing
actionable from the first, but as long as you keep that door
locked
you lay yourself open to an action for assault and illegal
constraint."
"The law cannot, as you say, touch you," said Holmes,
unlocking and
throwing open the door, "yet there never was a man who
deserved
punishment more. If the young lady has a brother or a friend,
he
ought to lay a whip across your shoulders. By Jove!" he
continued,
flushing up at the sight of the bitter sneer upon the man's
face,
"it is not part of my duties to my client, but here's a
hunting
crop handy, and I think I shall just treat myself to--" He
took
two swift steps to the whip, but before he could grasp it there
was
a wild clatter of steps upon the stairs, the heavy hall door
banged, and from the window we could see Mr. James Windibank
running at the top of his speed down the road.
"There's a cold-blooded scoundrel!" said Holmes, laughing as
he
threw himself down into his chair once more. "That fellow
will
rise from crime to crime until he does something very bad and
ends
on a gallows. The case has, in some respects, been not
entirely
devoid of interest."
"I cannot now entirely see all the steps of your reasoning,"
I
remarked.
"Well, of course it was obvious from the first that this Mr.
Hosmer
Angel must have some strong object for his curious conduct, and
it
was equally clear that the only man who really profited by
the
incident, as far as we could see, was the stepfather. Then
the
fact that the two men were never together, but that the one
always
appeared when the other was away, was suggestive. So were
the
tinted spectacles and the curious voice, which both hinted at
a
disguise, as did the bushy whiskers. My suspicions were all
confirmed by his peculiar action in typewriting his
signature,
which, of course, inferred that his handwriting was so familiar
to
her that she would recognize even the smallest sample of it.
You
see all these isolated facts, together with many minor ones,
all
pointed in the same direction."
"And how did you verify them?"
"Having once spotted my man, it was easy to get corroboration.
I
knew the firm for which this man worked. Having taken the
printed
description, I eliminated everything from it which could be
the
result of a disguise,--the whiskers, the glasses, the
voice,--and I
sent it to the firm with a request that they would inform me
whether it answered to the description of any of their
travelers.
I had already noticed the peculiarities of the typewriter, and
I
wrote to the man himself at his business address, asking him if
he
would come here. As I expected, his reply was typewritten,
and
revealed the same trivial but characteristic defects. The
same
post brought me a letter from Westhouse & Marbank, of
Fenchurch
Street, to say that the description tallied in every respect
with
that of their employee, James Windibank. Voila tout!"
"And Miss Sutherland?"
"If I tell her she will not believe me. You may remember the
old
Persian saying, 'There is danger for him who taketh the tiger
cub,
and danger also for whoso snatcheth a delusion from a
woman.'
There is as much sense in Hafiz as in Horace, and as much
knowledge
of the world."
To Sherlock Holmes she is always THE woman. I have seldom
heard
him mention her under any other name. In his eyes she eclipses
and
predominates the whole of her sex. It was not that he felt
any
emotion akin to love for Irene Adler. All emotions, and that
one
particularly, were abhorrent to his cold, precise but
admirably
balanced mind. He was, I take it, the most perfect reasoning
and
observing machine that the world has seen; but as a lover, he
would
have placed himself in a false position. He never spoke of
the
softer passions, save with a gibe and a sneer. They were
admirable
things for the observer--excellent for drawing the veil from
men's
motives and actions. But for the trained reasoner to admit
such
intrusions into his own delicate and finely adjusted
temperament
was to introduce a distracting factor which might throw a
doubt
upon all his mental results. Grit in a sensitive instrument, or
a
crack in one of his own high-power lenses, would not be more
disturbing that a strong emotion in a nature such as his. And
yet
there was but one woman to him, and that woman was the late
Irene
Adler, of dubious and questionable memory.
I had seen little of Holmes lately. My marriage had drifted
us
away from each other. My own complete happiness, and the
home-
centered interests which rise up around the man who first
finds
himself master of his own establishment, were sufficient to
absorb
all my attention; while Holmes, who loathed every form of
society
with his whole Bohemian soul, remained in our lodgings in
Baker
Street, buried among his old books, and alternating from week
to
week between cocaine and ambition, the drowsiness of the drug
and
the fierce energy of his own keen nature. He was still, as
ever,
deeply attracted by the study of crime, and occupied his
immense
faculties and extraordinary powers of observation in following
out
those clews, and clearing up those mysteries, which had been
abandoned as hopeless by the official police. From time to time
I
heard some vague account of his doings; of his summons to Odessa
in
the case of the Trepoff murder, of his clearing up of the
singular
tragedy of the Atkinson brothers at Trincomalee, and finally of
the
mission which he had accomplished so delicately and
successfully
for the reigning family of Holland. Beyond these signs of
his
activity, however, which I merely shared with all the readers
of
the daily press, I knew little of my former friend and
companion.
One night--it was on the 20th of March, 1888--I was returning
from
a journey to a patient (for I had now returned to civil
practice),
when my way led me through Baker Street. As I passed the
well-
remembered door, which must always be associated in my mind with
my
wooing, and with the dark incidents of the Study in Scarlet, I
was
seized with a keen desire to see Holmes again, and to know how
he
was employing his extraordinary powers. His rooms were
brilliantly
lighted, and even as I looked up, I saw his tall, spare figure
pass
twice in a dark silhouette against the blind. He was pacing
the
room swiftly, eagerly, with his head sunk upon his chest, and
his
hands clasped behind him. To me, who knew his every mood and
habit, his attitude and manner told their own story. He was
at
work again. He had risen out of his drug-created dreams, and
was
hot upon the scent of some new problem. I rang the bell, and
was
shown up to the chamber which had formerly been in part my
own.
His manner was not effusive. It seldom was; but he was glad,
I
think, to see me. With hardly a word spoken, but with a
kindly
eye, he waved me to an armchair, threw across his case of
cigars,
and indicated a spirit case and a gasogene in the corner. Then
he
stood before the fire, and looked me over in his singular
introspective fashion.
"Wedlock suits you," he remarked. "I think, Watson, that you
have
put on seven and a half pounds since I saw you."
"Seven," I answered.
"Indeed, I should have thought a little more. Just a trifle
more,
I fancy, Watson. And in practice again, I observe. You did
not
tell me that you intended to go into harness."
"Then how do you know?"
"I see it, I deduce it. How do I know that you have been
getting
yourself very wet lately, and that you have a most clumsy
and
careless servant girl?"
"My dear Holmes," said I, "this is too much. You would
certainly
have been burned had you lived a few centuries ago. It is
true
that I had a country walk on Thursday and came home in a
dreadful
mess; but as I have changed my clothes, I can't imagine how
you
deduce it. As to Mary Jane, she is incorrigible, and my wife
has
given her notice; but there again I fail to see how you work
it
out."
He chuckled to himself and rubbed his long nervous hands together.
"It is simplicity itself," said he, "my eyes tell me that on
the
inside of your left shoe, just where the firelight strikes it,
the
leather is scored by six almost parallel cuts. Obviously they
have
been caused by some one who has very carelessly scraped round
the
edges of the sole in order to remove crusted mud from it.
Hence,
you see, my double deduction that you had been out in vile
weather,
and that you had a particularly malignant boot-slicking specimen
of
the London slavey. As to your practice, if a gentleman walks
into
my rooms, smelling of iodoform, with a black mark of nitrate
of
silver upon his right forefinger, and a bulge on the side of
his
top hat to show where he has secreted his stethoscope, I must
be
dull indeed if I do not pronounce him to be an active member of
the
medical profession."
I could not help laughing at the ease with which he explained
his
process of deduction. "When I hear you give your reasons," I
remarked, "the thing always appears to me so ridiculously
simple
that I could easily do it myself, though at each successive
instance of your reasoning I am baffled, until you explain
your
process. And yet, I believe that my eyes are as good as
yours."
"Quite so," he answered, lighting a cigarette, and throwing
himself
down into an armchair. "You see, but you do not observe. The
distinction is clear. For example, you have frequently seen
the
steps which lead up from the hall to this room."
"Frequently."
"How often?"
"Well, some hundreds of times."
"Then how many are there?"
"How many? I don't know."
"Quite so! You have not observed. And yet you have seen. That
is
just my point. Now, I know there are seventeen steps, because
I
have both seen and observed. By the way, since you are
interested
in these little problems, and since you are good enough to
chronicle one or two of my trifling experiences, you may be
interested in this." He threw over a sheet of thick
pink-tinted
note paper which had been lying open upon the table. "It came
by
the last post," said he. "Read it aloud."
The note was undated, and without either signature or address.
"There will call upon you to-night, at a quarter to eight
o'clock,"
it said, "a gentleman who desires to consult you upon a matter
of
the very deepest moment. Your recent services to one of the
royal
houses of Europe have shown that you are one who may safely
be
trusted with matters which are of an importance which can hardly
be
exaggerated. This account of you we have from all quarters
received. Be in your chamber, then, at that hour, and do not
take
it amiss if your visitor wears a mask."
"This is indeed a mystery," I remarked. "What do you imagine
that
it means?"
"I have no data yet. It is a capital mistake to theorize
before
one has data. Insensibly one begins to twist facts to suit
theories, instead of theories to suit facts. But the note
itself--
what do you deduce from it?"
I carefully examined the writing, and the paper upon which it
was
written.
"The man who wrote it was presumably well to do," I
remarked,
endeavoring to imitate my companion's processes. "Such paper
could
not be bought under half a crown a packet. It is peculiarly
strong
and stiff."
"Peculiar--that is the very word," said Holmes. "It is not
an
English paper at all. Hold it up to the light."
I did so, and saw a large E with a small g, a P and a large G
with
a small t woven into the texture of the paper.
"What do you make of that?" asked Holmes.
"The name of the maker, no doubt; or his monogram, rather."
"Not all. The G with the small t stands for 'Gesellschaft,'
which
is the German for 'Company.' It is a customary contraction
like
our 'Co.' P, of course, stands for 'Papier.' Now for the Eg.
Let
us glance at our 'Continental Gazetteer." He took down a
heavy
brown volume from his shelves. "Eglow, Eglonitz--here we
are,
Egria. It is in a German-speaking country--in Bohemia, not
far
from Carlsbad. 'Remarkable as being the scene of the death
of
Wallenstein, and for its numerous glass factories and paper
mills.'
Ha! ha! my boy, what do you make of that?" His eyes sparkled,
and
he sent up a great blue triumphant cloud from his cigarette.
"The paper was made in Bohemia," I said.
"Precisely. And the man who wrote the note is a German. Do
you
note the peculiar construction of the sentence--'This account
of
you we have from all quarters received'? A Frenchman or
Russian
could not have written that. It is the German who is so
uncourteous to his verbs. It only remains, therefore, to
discover
what is wanted by this German who writes upon Bohemian paper,
and
prefers wearing a mask to showing his face. And here he comes,
if
I am not mistaken, to resolve all our doubts."
As he spoke there was the sharp sound of horses' hoofs and
grating
wheels against the curb, followed by a sharp pull at the
bell.
Holmes whistled.
"A pair, by the sound," said he. "Yes," he continued, glancing
out
of the window. "A nice little brougham and a pair of beauties.
A
hundred and fifty guineas apiece. There's money in this
case,
Watson, if there is nothing else."
"I think I had better go, Holmes."
"Not a bit, doctor. Stay where you are. I am lost without
my
Boswell. And this promises to be interesting. It would be a
pity
to miss it."
"But your client--"
"Never mind him. I may want your help, and so may he. Here
he
comes. Sit down in that armchair, doctor, and give us your
best
attention."
A slow and heavy step, which had been heard upon the stairs
and in
the passage, paused immediately outside the door. Then there was
a
loud and authoritative tap.
"Come in!" said Holmes.
A man entered who could hardly have been less than six feet
six
inches in height, with the chest and limbs of a Hercules.
His
dress was rich with a richness which would, in England, be
looked
upon as akin to bad taste. Heavy bands of astrakhan were
slashed
across the sleeves and front of his double-breasted coat, while
the
deep blue cloak which was thrown over his shoulders was lined
with
flame-colored silk, and secured at the neck with a brooch
which
consisted of a single flaming beryl. Boots which extended
halfway
up his calves, and which were trimmed at the tops with rich
brown
fur, completed the impression of barbaric opulence which was
suggested by his whole appearance. He carried a broad-brimmed
hat
in his hand, while he wore across the upper part of his
face,
extending down past the cheek-bones, a black visard mask, which
he
had apparently adjusted that very moment, for his hand was
still
raised to it as he entered. From the lower part of the face
he
appeared to be a man of strong character, with a thick,
hanging
lip, and a long, straight chin, suggestive of resolution pushed
to
the length of obstinacy.
"You had my note?" he asked, with a deep, harsh voice and
a
strongly marked German accent. "I told you that I would call."
He
looked from one to the other of us, as if uncertain which to
address.
"Pray take a seat," said Holmes. "This is my friend and
colleague,
Doctor Watson, who is occasionally good enough to help me in
my
cases. Whom have I the honor to address?"
"You may address me as the Count von Kramm, a Bohemian
nobleman. I
understand that this gentleman, your friend, is a man of honor
and
discretion, whom I may trust with a matter of the most
extreme
importance. If not, I should much prefer to communicate with
you
alone."
I rose to go, but Holmes caught me by the wrist and pushed me
back
into my chair. "It is both, or none," said he. "You may say
before this gentleman anything which you may say to me."
The count shrugged his broad shoulders. "Then I must begin,"
said
he, "by binding you both to absolute secrecy for two years; at
the
end of that time the matter will be of no importance. At
present
it is not too much to say that it is of such weight that it
may
have an influence upon European history."
"I promise," said Holmes.
"And I."
"You will excuse this mask," continued our strange visitor.
"The
august person who employs me wishes his agent to be unknown to
you,
and I may confess at once that the title by which I have
just
called myself is not exactly my own."
"I was aware of it," said Holmes, dryly.
"The circumstances are of great delicacy, and every precaution
has
to be taken to quench what might grow to be an immense scandal,
and
seriously compromise one of the reigning families of Europe.
To
speak plainly, the matter implicates the great House of
Ormstein,
hereditary kings of Bohemia."
"I was also aware of that," murmured Holmes, settling himself
down
in his armchair, and closing his eyes.
Our visitor glanced with some apparent surprise at the
languid,
lounging figure of the man who had been, no doubt, depicted to
him
as the most incisive reasoner and most energetic agent in
Europe.
Holmes slowly reopened his eyes and looked impatiently at
his
gigantic client.
"If your majesty would condescend to state your case," he
remarked,
"I should be better able to advise you."
The man sprung from his chair, and paced up and down the room
in
uncontrollable agitation. Then, with a gesture of desperation,
he
tore the mask from his face and hurled it upon the ground.
"You are right," he cried, "I am the king. Why should I
attempt to
conceal it?"
"Why, indeed?" murmured Holmes. "Your majesty had not
spoken
before I was aware that I was addressing Wilhelm Gottsreich
Sigismond von Ormstein, Grand Duke of Cassel-Felstein, and
hereditary King of Bohemia."
"But you can understand," said our strange visitor, sitting
down
once more and passing his hand over his high, white forehead,
"you
can understand that I am not accustomed to doing such business
in
my own person. Yet the matter was so delicate that I could
not
confide it to an agent without putting myself in his power. I
have
come incognito from Prague for the purpose of consulting
you."
"Then, pray consult," said Holmes, shutting his eyes once more.
"The facts are briefly these: Some five years ago, during a
lengthy
visit to Warsaw, I made the acquaintance of the well-known
adventuress Irene Adler. The name is no doubt familiar to
you."
"Kindly look her up in my index, doctor," murmured Holmes,
without
opening his eyes. For many years he had adopted a system for
docketing all paragraphs concerning men and things, so that it
was
difficult to name a subject or a person on which he could not
at
once furnish information. In this case I found her biography
sandwiched in between that of a Hebrew rabbi and that of a
staff
commander who had written a monograph upon the deep-sea
fishes.
"Let me see!" said Holmes. "Hum! Born in New Jersey in the
year
1858. Contralto--hum! La Scala--hum! Prima donna Imperial
Opera
of Warsaw--yes! Retired from operatic stage--ha! Living in
London--quite so! Your majesty, as I understand, became
entangled
with this young person, wrote her some compromising letters, and
is
now desirous of getting those letters back."
"Precisely so. But how--"
"Was there a secret marriage?"
"None."
"No legal papers or certificates?"
"None."
"Then I fail to follow your majesty. If this young person
should
produce her letters for blackmailing or other purposes, how is
she
to prove their authenticity?"
"There is the writing."
"Pooh-pooh! Forgery."
"My private note paper."
"Stolen."
"My own seal."
"Imitated."
"My photograph."
"Bought."
"We were both in the photograph."
"Oh, dear! That is very bad. Your majesty has indeed committed
an
indiscretion."
"I was mad--insane."
"You have compromised yourself seriously."
"I was only crown prince then. I was young. I am but thirty now."
"It must be recovered."
"We have tried and failed."
"Your majesty must pay. It must be bought."
"She will not sell."
"Stolen, then."
"Five attempts have been made. Twice burglars in my pay
ransacked
her house. Once we diverted her luggage when she traveled.
Twice
she has been waylaid. There has been no result."
"No sign of it?"
"Absolutely none."
Holmes laughed. "It is quite a pretty little problem," said he.
"But a very serious one to me," returned the king, reproachfully.
"Very, indeed. And what does she propose to do with the
photograph?"
"To ruin me."
"But how?"
"I am about to be married."
"So I have heard."
"To Clotilde Lothman von Saxe-Meiningen, second daughter of
the
King of Scandinavia. You may know the strict principles of
her
family. She is herself the very soul of delicacy. A shadow of
a
doubt as to my conduct would bring the matter to an end."
"And Irene Adler?"
"Threatens to send them the photograph. And she will do it.
I
know that she will do it. You do not know her, but she has a
soul
of steel. She has the face of the most beautiful of women and
the
mind of the most resolute of men. Rather than I should marry
another woman, there are no lengths to which she would not
go--
none."
"You are sure she has not sent it yet?"
"I am sure."
"And why?"
"Because she has said that she would send it on the day when
the
betrothal was publicly proclaimed. That will be next
Monday."
"Oh, then we have three days yet," said Holmes, with a yawn.
"That
is very fortunate, as I have one or two matters of importance
to
look into just at present. Your majesty will, of course, stay
in
London for the present?"
"Certainly. You will find me at the Langham, under the name of
the
Count von Kramm."
"Then I shall drop you a line to let you know how we progress."
"Pray do so; I shall be all anxiety."
"Then, as to money?"
"You have carte blanche."
"Absolutely?"
"I tell you that I would give one of the provinces of my
kingdom to
have that photograph."
"And for present expenses?"
The king took a heavy chamois-leather bag from under his
cloak, and
laid it on the table.
"There are three hundred pounds in gold, and seven hundred
in
notes," he said.
Holmes scribbled a receipt upon a sheet of his notebook, and
handed
it to him.
"And mademoiselle's address?" he asked.
"Is Briony Lodge, Serpentine Avenue, St. John's Wood."
Holmes took a note of it. "One other question," said he,
thoughtfully. "Was the photograph a cabinet?"
"It was."
"Then, good-night, your majesty, and I trust that we shall
soon
have some good news for you. And good-night, Watson," he added,
as
the wheels of the royal brougham rolled down the street. "If
you
will be good enough to call to-morrow afternoon, at three
o'clock,
I should like to chat this little matter over with you."
At three o'clock precisely I was at Baker Street, but Holmes
had
not yet returned. The landlady informed me that he had left
the
house shortly after eight o'clock in the morning. I sat down
beside the fire, however, with the intention of awaiting
him,
however long he might be. I was already deeply interested in
his
inquiry, for, though it was surrounded by none of the grim
and
strange features which were associated with the two crimes which
I
have already recorded, still, the nature of the case and the
exalted station of his client gave it a character of its
own.
Indeed, apart from the nature of the investigation which my
friend
had on hand, there was something in his masterly grasp of a
situation, and his keen, incisive reasoning, which made it a
pleasure to me to study his system of work, and to follow
the
quick, subtle methods by which he disentangled the most
inextricable mysteries. So accustomed was I to his
invariable
success that the very possibility of his failing had ceased
to
enter into my head.
It was close upon four before the door opened, and a
drunken-
looking groom, ill-kempt and side-whiskered, with an inflamed
face
and disreputable clothes, walked into the room. Accustomed as
I
was to my friend's amazing powers in the use of disguises, I had
to
look three times before I was certain that it was indeed he.
With
a nod he vanished into the bedroom, whence he emerged in
five
minutes tweed-suited and respectable, as of old. Putting his
hands
into his pockets, he stretched out his legs in front of the
fire,
and laughed heartily for some minutes.
"Well, really!" he cried, and then he choked, and laughed
again
until he was obliged to lie back, limp and helpless, in the
chair.
"What is it?"
"It's quite too funny. I am sure you could never guess how
I
employed my morning, or what I ended by doing."
"I can't imagine. I suppose that you have been watching
the
habits, and, perhaps, the house, of Miss Irene Adler."
"Quite so, but the sequel was rather unusual. I will tell
you,
however. I left the house a little after eight o'clock this
morning in the character of a groom out of work. There is a
wonderful sympathy and freemasonry among horsey men. Be one
of
them, and you will know all that there is to know. I soon
found
Briony Lodge. It is a bijou villa, with a garden at the back,
but
built out in the front right up to the road, two stories.
Chubb
lock to the door. Large sitting room on the right side, well
furnished, with long windows almost to the floor, and those
preposterous English window fasteners which a child could
open.
Behind there was nothing remarkable, save that the passage
window
could be reached from the top of the coach-house. I walked
round
it and examined it closely from every point of view, but
without
noting anything else of interest.
"I then lounged down the street, and found, as I expected,
that
there was a mews in a lane which runs down by one wall of
the
garden. I lent the hostlers a hand in rubbing down their
horses,
and I received in exchange two-pence, a glass of half and half,
two
fills of shag tobacco, and as much information as I could
desire
about Miss Adler, to say nothing of half a dozen other people
in
the neighborhood, in whom I was not in the least interested,
but
whose biographies I was compelled to listen to."
"And what of Irene Adler?" I asked.
"Oh, she has turned all the men's heads down in that part. She
is
the daintiest thing under a bonnet on this planet. So say
the
Serpentine Mews, to a man. She lives quietly, sings at
concerts,
drives out at five every day, and returns at seven sharp for
dinner. Seldom goes out at other times, except when she
sings.
Has only one male visitor, but a good deal of him. He is
dark,
handsome, and dashing; never calls less than once a day, and
often
twice. He is a Mr. Godfrey Norton of the Inner Temple. See
the
advantages of a cabman as a confidant. They had driven him home
a
dozen times from Serpentine Mews, and knew all about him. When
I
had listened to all that they had to tell, I began to walk up
and
down near Briony Lodge once more, and to think over my plan
of
campaign.
"This Godfrey Norton was evidently an important factor in
the
matter. He was a lawyer. That sounded ominous. What was the
relation between them, and what the object of his repeated
visits?
Was she his client, his friend, or his mistress? If the
former,
she had probably transferred the photograph to his keeping. If
the
latter, it was less likely. On the issue of this question
depended
whether I should continue my work at Briony Lodge, or turn
my
attention to the gentleman's chambers in the Temple. It was
a
delicate point, and it widened the field of my inquiry. I
fear
that I bore you with these details, but I have to let you see
my
little difficulties, if you are to understand the
situation."
"I am following you closely," I answered.
"I was still balancing the matter in my mind, when a hansom
cab
drove up to Briony Lodge, and a gentleman sprung out. He was
a
remarkably handsome man, dark, aquiline, and
mustached--evidently
the man of whom I had heard. He appeared to be in a great
hurry,
shouted to the cabman to wait, and brushed past the maid who
opened
the door, with the air of a man who was thoroughly at home.
"He was in the house about half an hour, and I could catch
glimpses
of him in the windows of the sitting room, pacing up and
down,
talking excitedly and waving his arms. Of her I could see
nothing.
Presently he emerged, looking even more flurried than before.
As
he stepped up to the cab, he pulled a gold watch from his
pocket
and looked at it earnestly. 'Drive like the devil!' he
shouted,
'first to Gross & Hankey's in Regent Street, and then to the
Church
of St. Monica in the Edgeware Road. Half a guinea if you do it
in
twenty minutes!'
"Away they went, and I was just wondering whether I should not
do
well to follow them, when up the lane came a neat little
landau,
the coachman with his coat only half buttoned, and his tie
under
his ear, while all the tags of his harness were sticking out of
the
buckles. It hadn't pulled up before she shot out of the hall
door
and into it. I only caught a glimpse of her at the moment, but
she
was a lovely woman, with a face that a man might die for.
"'The Church of St. Monica, John,' she cried; 'and half a
sovereign
if you reach it in twenty minutes.'
"This was quite too good to lose, Watson. I was just
balancing
whether I should run for it, or whether I should perch behind
her
landau, when a cab came through the street. The driver
looked
twice at such a shabby fare; but I jumped in before he could
object. 'The Church of St. Monica,' said I, 'and half a
sovereign
if you reach it in twenty minutes.' It was twenty-five minutes
to
twelve, and of course it was clear enough what was in the
wind.
"My cabby drove fast. I don't think I ever drove faster, but
the
others were there before us. The cab and landau with their
steaming horses were in front of the door when I arrived. I
paid
the man, and hurried into the church. There was not a soul
there
save the two whom I had followed, and a surpliced clergyman,
who
seemed to be expostulating with them. They were all three
standing
in a knot in front of the altar. I lounged up the side aisle
like
any other idler who has dropped into a church. Suddenly, to
my
surprise, the three at the altar faced round to me, and
Godfrey
Norton came running as hard as he could toward me.
"'Thank God!' he cried. 'You'll do. Come! Come!'
"'What then?' I asked.
"'Come, man, come; only three minutes, or it won't be legal.'
"I was half dragged up to the altar, and, before I knew where
I
was, I found myself mumbling responses which were whispered in
my
ear, and vouching for things of which I knew nothing, and
generally
assisting in the secure tying up of Irene Adler, spinster,
to
Godfrey Norton, bachelor. It was all done in an instant, and
there
was the gentleman thanking me on the one side and the lady on
the
other, while the clergyman beamed on me in front. It was the
most
preposterous position in which I ever found myself in my life,
and
it was the thought of it that started me laughing just now.
It
seems that there had been some informality about their
license;
that the clergyman absolutely refused to marry them without
a
witness of some sort, and that my lucky appearance saved the
bridegroom from having to sally out into the streets in search
of a
best man. The bride gave me a sovereign, and I mean to wear it
on
my watch chain in memory of the occasion."
"This is a very unexpected turn of affairs," said I; "and
what
then?"
"Well, I found my plans very seriously menaced. It looked as
if
the pair might take an immediate departure, and so necessitate
very
prompt and energetic measures on my part. At the church
door,
however, they separated, he driving back to the Temple, and she
to
her own house. 'I shall drive out in the park at five as
usual,'
she said, as she left him. I heard no more. They drove away
in
different directions, and I went off to make my own
arrangements."
"Which are?"
"Some cold beef and a glass of beer," he answered, ringing
the
bell. "I have been too busy to think of food, and I am likely
to
be busier still this evening. By the way, doctor, I shall
want
your cooperation."
"I shall be delighted."
"You don't mind breaking the law?"
"Not in the least."
"Nor running a chance of arrest?"
"Not in a good cause."
"Oh, the cause is excellent!"
"Then I am your man."
"I was sure that I might rely on you."
"But what is it you wish?"
"When Mrs. Turner has brought in the tray I will make it clear
to
you. Now," he said, as he turned hungrily on the simple fare
that
our landlady had provided, "I must discuss it while I eat, for
I
have not much time. It is nearly five now. In two hours we
must
be on the scene of action. Miss Irene, or Madame, rather,
returns
from her drive at seven. We must be at Briony Lodge to meet
her."
"And what then?"
"You must leave that to me. I have already arranged what is
to
occur. There is only one point on which I must insist. You
must
not interfere, come what may. You understand?"
"I am to be neutral?"
"To do nothing whatever. There will probably be some small
unpleasantness. Do not join in it. It will end in my being
conveyed into the house. Four or five minutes afterwards the
sitting-room window will open. You are to station yourself
close
to that open window."
"Yes."
"You are to watch me, for I will be visible to you."
"Yes."
"And when I raise my hand--so--you will throw into the room
what I
give you to throw, and will, at the same time, raise the cry
of
fire. You quite follow me?"
"Entirely."
"It is nothing very formidable," he said, taking a long,
cigar-
shaped roll from his pocket. "It is an ordinary plumber's
smoke-
rocket, fitted with a cap at either end, to make it
self-lighting.
Your task is confined to that. When you raise your cry of fire,
it
will be taken up by quite a number of people. You may then walk
to
the end of the street, and I will rejoin you in ten minutes.
I
hope that I have made myself clear?"
"I am to remain neutral, to get near the window, to watch you,
and,
at the signal, to throw in this object, then to raise the cry
of
fire and to wait you at the corner of the street."
"Precisely."
"Then you may entirely rely on me."
"That is excellent. I think, perhaps, it is almost time that
I
prepared for the new role I have to play."
He disappeared into his bedroom, and returned in a few minutes
in
the character of an amiable and simple-minded Nonconformist
clergyman. His broad, black hat, his baggy trousers, his
white
tie, his sympathetic smile, and general look of peering and
benevolent curiosity were such as Mr. John Hare alone could
have
equaled. It was not merely that Holmes changed his costume.
His
expression, his manner, his very soul seemed to vary with
every
fresh part that he assumed. The stage lost a fine actor, even
as
science lost an acute reasoner, when he became a specialist
in
crime.
It was a quarter past six when we left Baker Street, and it
still
wanted ten minutes to the hour when we found ourselves in
Serpentine Avenue. It was already dusk, and the lamps were
just
being lighted as we paced up and down in front of Briony
Lodge,
waiting for the coming of its occupant. The house was just such
as
I had pictured it from Sherlock Holmes's succinct description,
but
the locality appeared to be less private than I expected. On
the
contrary, for a small street in a quiet neighborhood, it was
remarkably animated. There was a group of shabbily dressed
men
smoking and laughing in a corner, a scissors grinder with
his
wheel, two guardsmen who were flirting with a nurse girl,
and
several well-dressed young men who were lounging up and down
with
cigars in their mouths.
"You see," remarked Holmes, as we paced to and fro in front of
the
house, "this marriage rather simplifies matters. The
photograph
becomes a double-edged weapon now. The chances are that she
would
be as averse to its being seen by Mr. Godfrey Norton as our
client
is to its coming to the eyes of his princess. Now the question
is--
where are we to find the photograph?"
"Where, indeed?"
"It is most unlikely that she carries it about with her. It
is
cabinet size. Too large for easy concealment about a woman's
dress. She knows that the king is capable of having her
waylaid
and searched. Two attempts of the sort have already been made.
We
may take it, then, that she does not carry it about with
her."
"Where, then?"
"Her banker or her lawyer. There is that double possibility.
But
I am inclined to think neither. Women are naturally secretive,
and
they like to do their own secreting. Why should she hand it
over
to anyone else? She could trust her own guardianship, but
she
could not tell what indirect or political influence might be
brought to bear upon a business man. Besides, remember that
she
had resolved to use it within a few days. It must be where she
can
lay her hands upon it. It must be in her own house."
"But it has twice been burglarized."
"Pshaw! They did not know how to look."
"But how will you look?"
"I will not look."
"What then?"
"I will get her to show me."
"But she will refuse."
"She will not be able to. But I hear the rumble of wheels. It
is
her carriage. Now carry out my orders to the letter."
As he spoke, the gleam of the sidelights of a carriage came
round
the curve of the avenue. It was a smart little landau which
rattled up to the door of Briony Lodge. As it pulled up one of
the
loafing men at the corner dashed forward to open the door in
the
hope of earning a copper, but was elbowed away by another
loafer
who had rushed up with the same intention. A fierce quarrel
broke
out which was increased by the two guardsmen, who took sides
with
one of the loungers, and by the scissors grinder, who was
equally
hot upon the other side. A blow was struck, and in an instant
the
lady, who had stepped from her carriage, was the center of a
little
knot of struggling men who struck savagely at each other with
their
fists and sticks. Holmes dashed into the crowd to protect
the
lady; but, just as he reached her, he gave a cry and dropped to
the
ground, with the blood running freely down his face. At his
fall
the guardsmen took to their heels in one direction and the
loungers
in the other, while a number of better-dressed people who
had
watched the scuffle without taking part in it crowded in to
help
the lady and to attend to the injured man. Irene Adler, as I
will
still call her, had hurried up the steps; but she stood at the
top,
with her superb figure outlined against the lights of the
ball,
looking back into the street.
"Is the poor gentleman much hurt?" she asked.
"He is dead," cried several voices.
"No, no, there's life in him," shouted another. "But he'll be
gone
before you can get him to the hospital."
"He's a brave fellow," said a woman. "They would have had
the
lady's purse and watch if it hadn't been for him. They were
a
gang, and a rough one, too. Ah! he's breathing now."
"He can't lie in the street. May we bring him in, marm?"
"Surely. Bring him into the sitting room. There is a
comfortable
sofa. This way, please." Slowly and solemnly he was borne
into
Briony Lodge, and laid out in the principal room, while I
still
observed the proceedings from my post by the window. The lamps
had
been lighted, but the blinds had not been drawn, so that I
could
see Holmes as he lay upon the couch. I do not know whether he
was
seized with compunction at that moment for the part he was
playing,
but I know that I never felt more heartily ashamed of myself in
my
life than when I saw the beautiful creature against whom I
was
conspiring, or the grace and kindliness with which she waited
upon
the injured man. And yet it would be the blackest treachery
to
Holmes to draw back now from the part which he had intrusted to
me.
I hardened my heart, and took the smoke-rocket from under my
ulster. After all, I thought, we are not injuring her. We are
but
preventing her from injuring another.
Holmes had sat upon the couch, and I saw him motion like a man
who
is in need of air. A maid rushed across and threw open the
window.
At the same instant I saw him raise his hand, and at the signal
I
tossed my rocket into the room with a cry of "Fire!" The word
was
no sooner out of my mouth than the whole crowd of spectators,
well
dressed and ill--gentlemen, hostlers, and servant maids--joined
in
a general shriek of "Fire!" Thick clouds of smoke curled
through
the room, and out at the open window. I caught a glimpse of
rushing figures, and a moment later the voice of Holmes from
within
assuring them that it was a false alarm. Slipping through
the
shouting crowd, I made my way to the corner of the street, and
in
ten minutes was rejoiced to find my friend's arm in mine, and
to
get away from the scene of uproar. He walked swiftly and in
silence for some few minutes, until we had turned down one of
the
quiet streets which led toward the Edgeware Road.
"You did it very nicely, doctor," he remarked. "Nothing could
have
been better. It is all right."
"You have the photograph?"
"I know where it is."
"And how did you find out?"
"She showed me, as I told you that she would."
"I am still in the dark."
"I do not wish to make a mystery," said he, laughing. "The
matter
was perfectly simple. You, of course, saw that everyone in
the
street was an accomplice. They were all engaged for the
evening."
"I guessed as much."
"Then, when the row broke out, I had a little moist red paint
in
the palm of my hand. I rushed forward, fell down, clapped my
hand
to my face, and became a piteous spectacle. It is an old
trick."
"That also I could fathom."
"Then they carried me in. She was bound to have me in. What
else
could she do? And into her sitting room, which was the very
room
which I suspected. It lay between that and her bedroom, and I
was
determined to see which. They laid me on a couch, I motioned
for
air, they were compelled to open the window, and you had
your
chance."
"How did that help you?"
"It was all-important. When a woman thinks that her house is
on
fire, her instinct is at once to rush to the thing which she
values
most. It is a perfectly overpowering impulse, and I have more
than
once taken advantage of it. In the case of the Darlington
Substitution Scandal it was of use to me, and also in the
Arnsworth
Castle business. A married woman grabs at her baby--an
unmarried
one reaches for her jewel box. Now it was clear to me that
our
lady of to-day had nothing in the house more precious to her
than
what we are in quest of. She would rush to secure it. The
alarm
of fire was admirably done. The smoke and shouting were enough
to
shake nerves of steel. She responded beautifully. The
photograph
is in a recess behind a sliding panel just above the right
bell-
pull. She was there in an instant, and I caught a glimpse of it
as
she drew it out. When I cried out that it was a false alarm,
she
replaced it, glanced at the rocket, rushed from the room, and
I
have not seen her since. I rose, and, making my excuses,
escaped
from the house. I hesitated whether to attempt to secure the
photograph at once; but the coachman had come in, and as he
was
watching me narrowly, it seemed safer to wait. A little
over-
precipitance may ruin all."
"And now?" I asked.
"Our quest is practically finished. I shall call with the king
to-
morrow, and with you, if you care to come with us. We will
be
shown into the sitting room to wait for the lady, but it is
probable that when she comes she may find neither us nor the
photograph. It might be a satisfaction to his majesty to regain
it
with his own hands."
"And when will you call?"
"At eight in the morning. She will not be up, so that we
shall
have a clear field. Besides, we must be prompt, for this
marriage
may mean a complete change in her life and habits. I must wire
to
the king without delay."
We had reached Baker Street, and had stopped at the door. He
was
searching his pockets for the key, when some one passing
said:
"Good night, Mister Sherlock Holmes."
There were several people on the pavement at the time, but
the
greeting appeared to come from a slim youth in an ulster who
had
hurried by.
"I've heard that voice before," said Holmes, staring down the
dimly
lighted street. "Now, I wonder who the deuce that could have
been?"
I slept at Baker Street that night, and we were engaged upon
our
toast and coffee in the morning, when the King of Bohemia
rushed
into the room.
"You have really got it?" he cried, grasping Sherlock Holmes
by
either shoulder, and looking eagerly into his face.
"Not yet."
"But you have hopes?"
"I have hopes."
"Then come. I am all impatience to be gone."
"We must have a cab."
"No, my brougham is waiting."
"Then that will simplify matters." We descended, and started
off
once more for Briony Lodge.
"Irene Adler is married," remarked Holmes.
"Married! When?"
"Yesterday."
"But to whom?"
"To an English lawyer named Norton."
"But she could not love him."
"I am in hopes that she does."
"And why in hopes?"
"Because it would spare your majesty all fear of future
annoyance.
If the lady loves her husband, she does not love your majesty.
If
she does not love your majesty, there is no reason why she
should
interfere with your majesty's plan."
"It is true. And yet-- Well, I wish she had been of my own
station. What a queen she would have made!" He relapsed into
a
moody silence, which was not broken until we drew up in
Serpentine
Avenue.
The door of Briony Lodge was open, and an elderly woman stood
upon
the steps. She watched us with a sardonic eye as we stepped
from
the brougham.
"Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I believe?" said she.
"I am Mr. Holmes," answered my companion, looking at her with
a
questioning and rather startled gaze.
"Indeed! My mistress told me that you were likely to call.
She
left this morning, with her husband, by the 5:15 train from
Charing
Cross, for the Continent."
"What!" Sherlock Holmes staggered back, white with chagrin
and
surprise.
"Do you mean that she has left England?"
"Never to return."
"And the papers?" asked the king hoarsely. "All is lost!"
"We shall see." He pushed past the servant, and rushed into
the
drawing-room, followed by the king and myself. The furniture
was
scattered about in every direction, with dismantled shelves,
and
open drawers, as if the lady had hurriedly ransacked them
before
her flight. Holmes rushed at the bell-pull, tore back a
small
sliding shutter, and plunging in his hand, pulled out a
photograph
and a letter. The photograph was of Irene Adler herself in
evening
dress; the letter was superscribed to "Sherlock Holmes, Esq. To
be
left till called for." My friend tore it open, and we all
three
read it together. It was dated at midnight of the preceding
night,
and ran in this way:
"MY DEAR MR. SHERLOCK HOLMES,--You really did it very well.
You
took me in completely. Until after the alarm of the fire, I
had
not a suspicion. But then, when I found how I had betrayed
myself,
I began to think. I had been warned against you months ago. I
had
been told that if the king employed an agent, it would certainly
be
you. And your address had been given me. Yet, with all this,
you
made me reveal what you wanted to know. Even after I became
suspicious, I found it hard to think evil of such a dear, kind
old
clergyman. But, you know, I have been trained as an actress
myself. Male costume is nothing new to me. I often take
advantage
of the freedom which it gives. I sent John, the coachman, to
watch
you, ran upstairs, got into my walking clothes, as I call them,
and
came down just as you departed.
"Well, I followed you to the door, and so made sure that I
was
really an object of interest to the celebrated Mr. Sherlock
Holmes.
Then I, rather imprudently, wished you good night, and started
for
the Temple to see my husband.
"We both thought the best resource was flight when pursued by
so
formidable an antagonist; so you will find the nest empty when
you
call to-morrow. As to the photograph, your client may rest
in
peace. I love and am loved by a better man than he. The king
may
do what he will without hindrance from one whom he has
cruelly
wronged. I keep it only to safeguard myself, and preserve a
weapon
which will always secure me from any steps which he might take
in
the future. I leave a photograph which he might care to
possess;
and I remain, dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes, very truly yours,
"IRENE NORTON, nee ADLER."
"What a woman--oh, what a woman!" cried the King of Bohemia,
when
we had all three read this epistle. "Did I not tell you how
quick
and resolute she was? Would she not have made an admirable
queen?
Is it not a pity that she was not on my level?"
"From what I have seen of the lady, she seems indeed to be on
a
very different level to your majesty," said Holmes coldly. "I
am
sorry that I have not been able to bring your majesty's business
to
a more successful conclusion."
"On the contrary, my dear sir," cried the king, "nothing could
be
more successful. I know that her word is inviolate. The
photograph is now as safe as if it were in the fire."
"I am glad to hear your majesty say so."
"I am immensely indebted to you. Pray tell me in what way I
can
reward you. This ring--" He slipped an emerald snake ring
from
his finger, and held it out upon the palm of his hand.
"Your majesty has something which I should value even more
highly,"
said Holmes.
"You have but to name it."
"This photograph!"
The king stared at him in amazement.
"Irene's photograph!" he cried. "Certainly, if you wish it."
"I thank your majesty. Then there is no more to be done in
the
matter. I have the honor to wish you a very good morning."
He
bowed, and turning away without observing the hand which the
king
had stretched out to him, he set off in my company for his
chambers.
And that was how a great scandal threatened to affect the
kingdom
of Bohemia, and how the best plans of Mr. Sherlock Holmes
were
beaten by a woman's wit. He used to make merry over the
cleverness
of women, but I have not heard him do it of late. And when
he
speaks of Irene Adler, or when he refers to her photograph, it
is
always under the honorable title of THE woman.
I had called upon my friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, one day in
the
autumn of last year, and found him in deep conversation with a
very
stout, florid-faced elderly gentleman, with fiery red hair.
With
an apology for my intrusion, I was about to withdraw, when
Holmes
pulled me abruptly into the room and closed the door behind
me.
"You could not possibly have come at a better time, my dear
Watson," he said, cordially.
"I was afraid that you were engaged."
"So I am. Very much so."
"Then I can wait in the next room."
"Not at all. This gentleman, Mr. Wilson, has been my partner
and
helper in many of my most successful cases, and I have no
doubt
that he will be of the utmost use to me in yours also."
The stout gentleman half rose from his chair and gave a bob
of
greeting, with a quick little questioning glance from his
small,
fat-encircled eyes.
"Try the settee," said Holmes, relapsing into his armchair,
and
putting his finger tips together, as was his custom when in
judicial moods. "I know, my dear Watson, that you share my love
of
all that is bizarre and outside the conventions and humdrum
routine
of everyday life. You have shown your relish for it by the
enthusiasm which has prompted you to chronicle, and, if you
will
excuse my saying so, somewhat to embellish so many of my own
little
adventures."
"Your cases have indeed been of the greatest interest to me,"
I
observed.
"You will remember that I remarked the other day, just before
we
went into the very simple problem presented by Miss Mary
Sutherland, that for strange effects and extraordinary
combinations
we must go to life itself, which is always far more daring than
any
effort of the imagination."
"A proposition which I took the liberty of doubting."
"You did, doctor, but none the less you must come round to my
view,
for otherwise I shall keep on piling fact upon fact on you,
until
your reason breaks down under them and acknowledge me to be
right.
Now, Mr. Jabez Wilson here has been good enough to call upon
me
this morning, and to begin a narrative which promises to be one
of
the most singular which I have listened to for some time. You
have
heard me remark that the strangest and most unique things are
very
often connected not with the larger but with the smaller
crimes,
and occasionally, indeed, where there is room for doubt whether
any
positive crime has been committed. As far as I have heard, it
is
impossible for me to say whether the present case is an instance
of
crime or not, but the course of events is certainly among the
most
singular that I have ever listened to. Perhaps, Mr. Wilson,
you
would have the great kindness to recommence your narrative. I
ask
you, not merely because my friend, Dr. Watson, has not heard
the
opening part, but also because the peculiar nature of the
story
makes me anxious to have every possible detail from your lips.
As
a rule, when I have heard some slight indication of the course
of
events I am able to guide myself by the thousands of other
similar
cases which occur to my memory. In the present instance I am
forced to admit that the facts are, to the best of my
belief,
unique."
The portly client puffed out his chest with an appearance of
some
little pride, and pulled a dirty and wrinkled newspaper from
the
inside pocket of his greatcoat. As he glanced down the
advertisement column, with his head thrust forward, and the
paper
flattened out upon his knee, I took a good look at the man,
and
endeavored, after the fashion of my companion, to read the
indications which might be presented by his dress or
appearance.
I did not gain very much, however, by my inspection. Our
visitor
bore every mark of being an average commonplace British
tradesman,
obese, pompous, and slow. He wore rather baggy gray
shepherd's
check trousers, a not over-clean black frock coat, unbuttoned
in
the front, and a drab waistcoat with a heavy brassy Albert
chain,
and a square pierced bit of metal dangling down as an ornament.
A
frayed top hat and a faded brown overcoat with a wrinkled
velvet
collar lay upon a chair beside him. Altogether, look as I
would,
there was nothing remarkable about the man save his blazing
red
head and the expression of extreme chagrin and discontent upon
his
features.
Sherlock Holmes's quick eye took in my occupation, and he
shook his
head with a smile as he noticed my questioning glances.
"Beyond
the obvious facts that he has at some time done manual labor,
that
he takes snuff, that he is a Freemason, that he has been in
China,
and that he has done a considerable amount of writing lately, I
can
deduce nothing else."
Mr. Jabez Wilson started up in his chair, with his forefinger
upon
the paper, but his eyes upon my companion.
How, in the name of good fortune, did you know all that,
Mr.
Holmes?" he asked. "How did you know, for example, that I
did
manual labor? It's as true as gospel, for I began as a
ship's
carpenter."
"Your hands, my dear sir. Your right hand is quite a size
larger
than your left. You have worked with it and the muscles are
more
developed."
"Well, the snuff, then, and the Freemasonry?"
"I won't insult your intelligence by telling you how I read
that,
especially as, rather against the strict rules of your order,
you
use an arc and compass breastpin."
"Ah, of course, I forgot that. But the writing?"
"What else can be indicated by that right cuff so very shiny
for
five inches, and the left one with the smooth patch near the
elbow
where you rest it upon the desk."
"Well, but China?"
"The fish which you have tattooed immediately above your
wrist
could only have been done in China. I have made a small study
of
tattoo marks, and have even contributed to the literature of
the
subject. That trick of staining the fishes' scales of a
delicate
pink is quite peculiar to China. When, in addition, I see a
Chinese coin hanging from your watch chain, the matter becomes
even
more simple."
Mr. Jabez Wilson laughed heavily. "Well, I never!" said he.
"I
thought at first that you had done something clever, but I see
that
there was nothing in it after all."
"I begin to think, Watson," said Holmes, "that I make a
mistake in
explaining. 'Omne ignotom pro magnifico,' you know, and my
poor
little reputation, such as it is, will suffer shipwreck if I am
so
candid. Can you not find the advertisement, Mr. Wilson?"
"Yes, I have got it now," he answered, with his thick, red
finger
planted halfway down the column. "Here it is. This is what
began
it all. You just read it for yourself, sir."
I took the paper from him and read as follows:
"TO THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE: On account of the bequest of the
late
Ezekiah Hopkins, of Lebanon, Pa., U. S. A., there is now
another
vacancy open which entitles a member of the League to a salary
of
four pounds a week for purely nominal services. All red-headed
men
who are sound in body and mind and above the age of
twenty-one
years are eligible. Apply in person on Monday, at eleven
o'clock,
to Duncan Ross, at the offices of the League, 7 Pope's Court,
Fleet
Street."
"What on earth does this mean?" I ejaculated, after I had
twice
read over the extraordinary announcement.
Holmes chuckled and wriggled in his chair, as was his habit
when in
high spirits. "It is a little off the beaten track, isn't
it?"
said he. "And now, Mr. Wilson, off you go at scratch, and tell
us
all about yourself, your household, and the effect which
this
advertisement had upon your fortunes. You will first make a
note,
doctor, of the paper and the date."
"It is The Morning Chronicle of April 27, 1890. Just two
months
ago."
"Very good. Now, Mr. Wilson."
"Well, it is just as I have been telling you, Mr. Sherlock
Holmes,"
said Jabez Wilson, mopping his forehead, "I have a small
pawnbroker's business at Saxe-Coburg Square, near the City.
It's
not a very large affair, and of late years it has not done
more
than just give me a living. I used to be able to keep two
assistants, but now I only keep one; and I would have a job to
pay
him but that he is willing to come for half wages, so as to
learn
the business."
"What is the name of this obliging youth?" asked Sherlock Holmes.
"His name is Vincent Spaulding, and he's not such a youth
either.
It's hard to say his age. I should not wish a smarter
assistant,
Mr. Holmes; and I know very well that he could better himself,
and
earn twice what I am able to give him. But, after all, if he
is
satisfied, why should I put ideas in his head?"
"Why, indeed? You seem most fortunate in having an employee
who
comes under the full market price. It is not a common
experience
among employers in this age. I don't know that your assistant
is
not as remarkable as your advertisement."
"Oh, he has his faults, too," said Mr. Wilson. "Never was such
a
fellow for photography. Snapping away with a camera when he
ought
to be improving his mind, and then diving down into the cellar
like
a rabbit into its hole to develop his pictures. That is his
main
fault; but, on the whole, he's a good worker. There's no vice
in
him."
"He is still with you, I presume?"
"Yes, sir. He and a girl of fourteen, who does a bit of
simple
cooking, and keeps the place clean--that's all I have in the
house,
for I am a widower, and never had any family. We live very
quietly, sir, the three of us; and we keep a roof over our
heads,
and pay our debts, if we do nothing more.
"The first thing that put us out was that advertisement.
Spaulding, he came down into the office just this day eight
weeks,
with this very paper in his hand, and he says:
"'I wish to the Lord, Mr. Wilson, that I was a redheaded man.'
"'Why that?' I asks.
"'Why,' says he, 'here's another vacancy on the League of the
Red-
headed Men. It's worth quite a little fortune to any man who
gets
it, and I understand that there are more vacancies than there
are
men, so that the trustees are at their wits' end what to do
with
the money. If my hair would only change color here's a nice
little
crib all ready for me to step into.'
"'Why, what is it, then?' I asked. You see, Mr. Holmes, I am
a
very stay-at-home man, and, as my business came to me instead of
my
having to go to it, I was often weeks on end without putting
my
foot over the door mat. In that way I didn't know much of what
was
going on outside, and I was always glad of a bit of news.
"'Have you never heard of the League of the Red-headed Men?'
he
asked, with his eyes open.
"'Never.'
"'Why, I wonder at that, for you are eligible yourself for one
of
the vacancies.'
"'And what are they worth?' I asked.
"'Oh, merely a couple of hundred a year, but the work is
slight,
and it need not interfere very much with one's other
occupations.'
"Well, you can easily think that that made me prick up my
ears, for
the business has not been over good for some years, and an
extra
couple of hundred would have been very handy.
"'Tell me all about it,' said I.
"'Well,' said he, showing me the advertisement, 'you can see
for
yourself that the League has a vacancy, and there is the
address
where you should apply for particulars. As far as I can make
out,
the League was founded by an American millionaire, Ezekiah
Hopkins,
who was very peculiar in his ways. He was himself red-headed,
and
he had a great sympathy for all red-headed men; so, when he
died,
it was found that he had left his enormous fortune in the hands
of
trustees, with instructions to apply the interest to the
providing
of easy berths to men whose hair is of that color. From all I
hear
it is splendid pay, and very little to do.'
"'But,' said I, 'there would be millions of red-headed men
who
would apply.'
"'Not so many as you might think,' he answered. 'You see it
is
really confined to Londoners, and to grown men. This American
had
started from London when he was young, and he wanted to do the
old
town a good turn. Then, again, I have heard it is of no use
your
applying if your hair is light red, or dark red, or anything
but
real, bright, blazing, fiery red. Now, if you cared to apply,
Mr.
Wilson, you would just walk in; but perhaps it would hardly
be
worth your while to put yourself out of the way for the sake of
a
few hundred pounds.'
"Now it is a fact, gentlemen, as you may see for yourselves,
that
my hair is of a very full and rich tint, so that it seemed to
me
that, if there was to be any competition in the matter, I stood
as
good a chance as any man that I had ever met. Vincent
Spaulding
seemed to know so much about it that I thought he might
prove
useful, so I just ordered him to put up the shutters for the
day,
and to come right away with me. He was very willing to have
a
holiday, so we shut the business up, and started off for the
address that was given us in the advertisement.
"I never hope to see such a sight as that again, Mr. Holmes.
From
north, south, east, and west every man who had a shade of red
in
his hair had tramped into the City to answer the
advertisement.
Fleet Street was choked with red-headed folk, and Pope's
Court
looked like a coster's orange barrow. I should not have
thought
there were so many in the whole country as were brought together
by
that single advertisement. Every shade of color they
were--straw,
lemon, orange, brick, Irish setter, liver, clay; but, as
Spaulding
said, there were not many who had the real vivid
flame-colored
tint. When I saw how many were waiting, I would have given it
up
in despair; but Spaulding would not hear of it. How he did it
I
could not imagine, but he pushed and pulled and butted until he
got
me through the crowd, and right up to the steps which led to
the
office. There was a double stream upon the stair, some going up
in
hope, and some coming back dejected; but we wedged in as well as
we
could, and soon found ourselves in the office."
"Your experience has been a most entertaining one,"
remarked
Holmes, as his client paused and refreshed his memory with a
huge
pinch of snuff. "Pray continue your very interesting
statement."
"There was nothing in the office but a couple of wooden chairs
and
a deal table, behind which sat a small man, with a head that
was
even redder than mine. He said a few words to each candidate as
he
came up, and then he always managed to find some fault in
them
which would disqualify them. Getting a vacancy did not seem to
be
such a very easy matter after all. However, when our turn
came,
the little man was much more favorable to me than to any of
the
others, and he closed the door as we entered, so that he might
have
a private word with us.
"'This is Mr. Jabez Wilson,' said my assistant, 'and he is
willing
to fill a vacancy in the League.'
"'And he is admirably suited for it,' the other answered. 'He
has
every requirement. I cannot recall when I have seen anything
so
fine.' He took a step backward, cocked his head on one side,
and
gazed at my hair until I felt quite bashful. Then suddenly
he
plunged forward, wrung my hand, and congratulated me warmly on
my
success.
"'It would be injustice to hesitate,' said he. 'You will,
however,
I am sure, excuse me for taking an obvious precaution.' With
that
he seized my hair in both his hands, and tugged until I yelled
with
the pain. 'There is water in your eyes,' said he, as he
released
me. 'I perceive that all is as it should be. But we have to
be
careful, for we have twice been deceived by wigs and once by
paint.
I could tell you tales of cobbler's wax which would disgust
you
with human nature.' He stepped over to the window and
shouted
through it at the top of his voice that the vacancy was filled.
A
groan of disappointment came up from below, and the folk all
trooped away in different directions, until there was not a
red
head to be seen except my own and that of the manager.
"'My name,' said he, 'is Mr. Duncan Ross, and I am myself one
of
the pensioners upon the fund left by our noble benefactor. Are
you
a married man, Mr. Wilson? Have you a family?'
"I answered that I had not.
"His face fell immediately.
"'Dear me!' he said, gravely, 'that is very serious indeed! I
am
sorry to hear you say that. The fund was, of course, for the
propagation and spread of the red heads as well as for their
maintenance. It is exceedingly unfortunate that you should be
a
bachelor.'
"My face lengthened at this, Mr. Holmes, for I thought that I
was
not to have the vacancy after all; but, after thinking it over
for
a few minutes, he said that it would be all right.
"'In the case of another,' said he, 'the objection might be
fatal,
but we must stretch a point in favor of a man with such a head
of
hair as yours. When shall you be able to enter upon your new
duties?'
"'Well, it is a little awkward, for I have a business
already,'
said I.
"'Oh, never mind about that, Mr. Wilson!' said Vincent
Spaulding.
'I shall be able to look after that for you.'
"'What would be the hours?' I asked.
"'Ten to two.'
"Now a pawnbroker's business is mostly done of an evening,
Mr.
Holmes, especially Thursday and Friday evenings, which is
just
before pay day; so it would suit me very well to earn a little
in
the mornings. Besides, I knew that my assistant was a good
man,
and that he would see to anything that turned up.
"'That would suit me very well,' said I. 'And the pay?'
"'Is four pounds a week.'
"'And the work?'
"'Is purely nominal.'
"'What do you call purely nominal?'
"'Well, you have to be in the office, or at least in the
building,
the whole time. If you leave, you forfeit your whole
position
forever. The will is very clear upon that point. You don't
comply
with the conditions if you budge from the office during that
time.'
"'It's only four hours a day, and I should not think of
leaving,'
said I.
"'No excuse will avail,' said Mr. Duncan Ross, 'neither
sickness,
nor business, nor anything else. There you must stay, or you
lose
your billet.'
"'And the work?'
"'Is to copy out the "Encyclopaedia Britannica." There is
the
first volume of it in that press. You must find your own
ink,
pens, and blotting paper, but we provide this table and
chair.
Will you be ready to-morrow?'
"'Certainly,' I answered.
"'Then, good-by, Mr. Jabez Wilson, and let me congratulate you
once
more on the important position which you have been fortunate
enough
to gain.' He bowed me out of the room, and I went home with
my
assistant hardly knowing what to say or do, I was so pleased at
my
own good fortune.
"Well, I thought over the matter all day, and by evening I was
in
low spirits again; for I had quite persuaded myself that the
whole
affair must be some great hoax or fraud, though what its
object
might be I could not imagine. It seemed altogether past
belief
that anyone could make such a will, or that they would pay such
a
sum for doing anything so simple as copying out the
'Encyclopaedia
Britannica.' Vincent Spaulding did what he could to cheer me
up,
but by bed time I had reasoned myself out of the whole
thing.
However, in the morning I determined to have a look at it
anyhow,
so I bought a penny bottle of ink, and with a quill pen and
seven
sheets of foolscap paper I started off for Pope's Court.
"Well, to my surprise and delight everything was as right
as
possible. The table was set out ready for me, and Mr. Duncan
Ross
was there to see that I got fairly to work. He started me off
upon
the letter A, and then he left me; but he would drop in from
time
to time to see that all was right with me. At two o'clock he
bade
me good-day, complimented me upon the amount that I had
written,
and locked the door of the office after me.
"This went on day after day, Mr. Holmes, and on Saturday
the
manager came in and planked down four golden sovereigns for
my
week's work. It was the same next week, and the same the
week
after. Every morning I was there at ten, and every afternoon
I
left at two. By degrees Mr. Duncan Ross took to coming in
only
once of a morning, and then, after a time, he did not come in
at
all. Still, of course. I never dared to leave the room for
an
instant, for I was not sure when he might come, and the billet
was
such a good one, and suited me so well, that I would not risk
the
loss of it.
"Eight weeks passed away like this, and I had written about
Abbots,
and Archery, and Armor, and Architecture, and Attica, and
hoped
with diligence that I might get on to the Bs before very long.
It
cost me something in foolscap, and I had pretty nearly filled
a
shelf with my writings. And then suddenly the whole business
came
to an end."
"To an end?"
"Yes, sir. And no later than this morning. I went to my work
as
usual at ten o'clock, but the door was shut and locked, with
a
little square of cardboard hammered onto the middle of the
panel
with a tack. Here it is, and you can read for yourself."
He held up a piece of white cardboard, about the size of a
sheet of
note paper. It read in this fashion:
"THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE IS DISSOLVED.
Oct. 9, 1890."
Sherlock Holmes and I surveyed this curt announcement and
the
rueful face behind it, until the comical side of the affair
so
completely overtopped every consideration that we both burst
out
into a roar of laughter.
"I cannot see that there is anything very funny," cried our
client,
flushing up to the roots of his flaming head. "If you can do
nothing better than laugh at me, I can go elsewhere."
"No, no," cried Holmes, shoving him back into the chair from
which
he had half risen. "I really wouldn't miss your case for the
world. It is most refreshingly unusual. But there is, if you
will
excuse my saying so, something just a little funny about it.
Pray
what steps did you take when you found the card upon the
door?"
"I was staggered, sir. I did not know what to do. Then I
called
at the offices round, but none of them seemed to know
anything
about it. Finally, I went to the landlord, who is an
accountant
living on the ground floor, and I asked him if he could tell
me
what had become of the Red-headed League. He said that he
had
never heard of any such body. Then I asked him who Mr. Duncan
Ross
was. He answered that the name was new to him.
"'Well,' said I, 'the gentleman at No. 4.'
"'What, the red-headed man?'
"'Yes.'
"'Oh,' said he, 'his name was William Morris. He was a
solicitor,
and was using my room as a temporary convenience until his
new
premises were ready. He moved out yesterday.'
"'Where could I find him?'
"'Oh, at his new offices. He did tell me the address. Yes,
17
King Edward Street, near St. Paul's.'
"I started off, Mr. Holmes, but when I got to that address it
was a
manufactory of artificial knee-caps, and no one in it had
ever
heard of either Mr. William Morris or Mr. Duncan Ross."
"And what did you do then?" asked Holmes.
"I went home to Saxe-Coburg Square, and I took the advice of
my
assistant. But he could not help me in any way. He could only
say
that if I waited I should hear by post. But that was not
quite
good enough, Mr. Holmes. I did not wish to lose such a place
without a struggle, so, as I had heard that you were good enough
to
give advice to poor folk who were in need of it, I came right
away
to you."
"And you did very wisely," said Holmes. "Your case is an
exceedingly remarkable one, and I shall be happy to look into
it.
From what you have told me I think that it is possible that
graver
issues hang from it than might at first sight appear."
"Grave enough!" said Mr. Jabez Wilson. "Why, I have lost
four
pound a week."
"As far as you are personally concerned," remarked Holmes, "I
do
not see that you have any grievance against this
extraordinary
league. On the contrary, you are, as I understand, richer by
some
thirty pounds, to say nothing of the minute knowledge which
you
have gained on every subject which comes under the letter A.
You
have lost nothing by them."
"No, sir. But I want to find out about them, and who they are,
and
what their object was in playing this prank--if it was a
prank--
upon me. It was a pretty expensive joke for them, for it cost
them
two-and-thirty pounds."
"We shall endeavor to clear up these points for you. And,
first,
one or two questions, Mr. Wilson. This assistant of yours
who
first called your attention to the advertisement--how long had
he
been with you?"
"About a month then."
"How did he come?"
"In answer to an advertisement."
"Was he the only applicant?"
"No, I had a dozen."
"Why did you pick him?"
"Because he was handy and would come cheap."
"At half wages, in fact."
"Yes."
"What is he like, this Vincent Spaulding?"
"Small, stout-built, very quick in his ways, no hair on his
face,
though he's not short of thirty. Has a white splash of acid
upon
his forehead."
Holmes sat up in his chair in considerable excitement. I
thought
as much," said he. "Have you ever observed that his ears are
pierced for earrings?"
"Yes, sir. He told me that a gypsy had done it for him when he
was
a lad."
"Hum!" said Holmes, sinking back in deep thought. "He is
still
with you?"
"Oh, yes, sir; I have only just left him."
"And has your business been attended to in your absence?"
"Nothing to complain of, sir. There's never very much to do of
a
morning."
"That will do, Mr. Wilson. I shall be happy to give you an
opinion
upon the subject in the course of a day or two. To-day is
Saturday, and I hope that by Monday we may come to a
conclusion."
"Well, Watson," said Holmes, when our visitor had left us,
"what do
you make of it all?"
"I make nothing of it," I answered frankly. "It is a most
mysterious business."
"As a rule," said Holmes, "the more bizarre a thing is the
less
mysterious it proves to be. It is your commonplace,
featureless
crimes which are really puzzling, just as a commonplace face is
the
most difficult to identify. But I must be prompt over this
matter."
"What are you going to do, then?" I asked.
"To smoke," he answered. "It is quite a three-pipe problem,
and I
beg that you won't speak to me for fifty minutes." He curled
himself up in his chair, with his thin knees drawn up to his
hawklike nose, and there he sat with his eyes closed and his
black
clay pipe thrusting out like the bill of some strange bird. I
had
come to the conclusion that he had dropped asleep, and indeed
was
nodding myself, when he suddenly sprang out of his chair with
the
gesture of a man who has made up his mind, and put his pipe
down
upon the mantelpiece.
"Sarasate plays at St. James's Hall this afternoon," he
remarked.
"What do you think, Watson? Could your patients spare you for
a
few hours?"
"I have nothing to do to-day. My practice is never very
absorbing."
"Then put on your hat and come. I am going through the City
first,
and we can have some lunch on the way. I observe that there is
a
good deal of German music on the programme, which is rather more
to
my taste than Italian or French. It is introspective, and I
want
to introspect. Come along!"
We traveled by the Underground as far as Aldersgate; and a
short
walk took us to Saxe-Coburg Square, the scene of the singular
story
which we had listened to in the morning. It was a poky,
little,
shabby-genteel place, where four lines of dingy, two-storied
brick
houses looked out into a small railed-in inclosure, where a lawn
of
weedy grass, and a few clumps of faded laurel bushes made a
hard
fight against a smoke-laden and uncongenial atmosphere. Three
gilt
balls and a brown board with JABEZ WILSON in white letters, upon
a
corner house, announced the place where our red-headed
client
carried on his business. Sherlock Holmes stopped in front of
it
with his head on one side, and looked it all over, with his
eyes
shining brightly between puckered lids. Then he walked slowly
up
the street, and then down again to the corner, still looking
keenly
at the houses. Finally he returned to the pawnbroker's and,
having
thumped vigorously upon the pavement with his stick two or
three
times, he went up to the door and knocked. It was instantly
opened
by a bright-looking, clean-shaven young fellow, who asked him
to
step in.
"Thank you," said Holmes, "I only wished to ask you how you
would
go from here to the Strand."
"Third right, fourth left," answered the assistant,
promptly,
closing the door.
"Smart fellow, that," observed Holmes as we walked away. "He
is,
in my judgment, the fourth smartest man in London, and for
daring I
am not sure that he has not a claim to be third. I have
known
something of him before."
"Evidently," said I, "Mr. Wilson's assistant counts for a good
deal
in this mystery of the Red-headed League. I am sure that you
inquired your way merely in order that you might see him."
"Not him."
"What then?"
"The knees of his trousers."
"And what did you see?"
"What I expected to see."
"Why did you beat the pavement?"
"My dear doctor, this is a time for observation, not for talk.
We
are spies in an enemy's country. We know something of
Saxe-Coburg
Square. Let us now explore the parts which lie behind it."
The road in which we found ourselves as we turned round the
corner
from the retired Saxe-Coburg Square presented as great a
contrast
to it as the front of a picture does to the back. It was one
of
the main arteries which convey the traffic of the City to the
north
and west. The roadway was blocked with the immense stream of
commerce flowing in a double tide inward and outward, while
the
footpaths were black with the hurrying swarm of pedestrians.
It
was difficult to realize, as we looked at the line of fine
shops
and stately business premises, that they really abutted on
the
other side upon the faded and stagnant square which we had
just
quitted.
"Let me see," said Holmes, standing at the corner, and
glancing
along the line, "I should like just to remember the order of
the
houses here. It is a hobby of mine to have an exact knowledge
of
London. There is Mortimer's, the tobacconist; the little
newspaper
shop, the Coburg branch of the City and Suburban Bank, the
Vegetarian Restaurant, and McFarlane's carriage-building
depot.
That carries us right on to the other block. And now,
doctor,
we've done our work, so it's time we had some play. A sandwich
and
a cup of coffee, and then off to violin-land, where all is
sweetness, and delicacy, and harmony, and there are no
red-headed
clients to vex us with their conundrums."
My friend was an enthusiastic musician, being himself not only
a
very capable performer, but a composer of no ordinary merit.
All
the afternoon he sat in the stalls wrapped in the most
perfect
happiness, gently waving his long thin fingers in time to
the
music, while his gently smiling face and his languid, dreamy
eyes
were as unlike those of Holmes the sleuth-hound, Holmes the
relentless, keen-witted, ready-handed criminal agent, as it
was
possible to conceive. In his singular character the dual
nature
alternately asserted itself, and his extreme exactness and
astuteness represented, as I have often thought, the
reaction
against the poetic and contemplative mood which occasionally
predominated in him. The swing of his nature took him from
extreme
languor to devouring energy; and, as I knew well, he was never
so
truly formidable as when, for days on end, he had been lounging
in
his armchair amid his improvisations and his black-letter
editions.
Then it was that the lust of the chase would suddenly come
upon
him, and that his brilliant reasoning power would rise to the
level
of intuition, until those who were unacquainted with his
methods
would look askance at him as on a man whose knowledge was not
that
of other mortals. When I saw him that afternoon so enwrapped
in
the music at St. James's Hall, I felt that an evil time might
be
coming upon those whom he had set himself to hunt down.
"You want to go home, no doubt, doctor," he remarked, as
we
emerged.
"Yes, it would be as well."
"And I have some business to do which will take some hours.
This
business at Saxe-Coburg Square is serious."
"Why serious?"
"A considerable crime is in contemplation. I have every reason
to
believe that we shall be in time to stop it. But to-day
being
Saturday rather complicates matters. I shall want your help
to-
night."
"At what time?"
"Ten will be early enough."
I shall be at Baker Street at ten."
"Very well. And, I say, doctor! there may be some little
danger,
so kindly put your army revolver in your pocket." He waved
his
hand, turned on his heel, and disappeared in an instant among
the
crowd.
I trust that I am not more dense than my neighbors, but I
was
always oppressed with a sense of my own stupidity in my
dealings
with Sherlock Holmes. Here I had heard what he had heard, I
had
seen what he had seen, and yet from his words it was evident
that
he saw clearly not only what had happened, but what was about
to
happen, while to me the whole business was still confused
and
grotesque. As I drove home to my house in Kensington I
thought
over it all, from the extraordinary story of the red-headed
copier
of the "Encyclopaedia" down to the visit to Saxe-Coburg Square,
and
the ominous words with which he had parted from me. What was
this
nocturnal expedition, and why should I go armed? Where were
we
going, and what were we to do? I had the hint from Holmes
that
this smooth-faced pawnbroker's assistant was a formidable
man--a
man who might play a deep game. I tried to puzzle it out, but
gave
it up in despair, and set the matter aside until night should
bring
an explanation.
It was a quarter-past nine when I started from home and made
my way
across the Park, and so through Oxford Street to Baker Street.
Two
hansoms were standing at the door, and, as I entered the
passage, I
heard the sound of voices from above. On entering his room,
I
found Holmes in animated conversation with two men, one of whom
I
recognized as Peter Jones, the official police agent; while
the
other was a long, thin, sad-faced man, with a very shiny hat
and
oppressively respectable frock coat.
"Ha! our party is complete," said Holmes, buttoning up his
pea-
jacket, and taking his heavy hunting crop from the rack.
"Watson,
I think you know Mr. Jones, of Scotland Yard? Let me introduce
you
to Mr. Merryweather, who is to be our companion in
to-night's
adventure."
"We're hunting in couples again, doctor, you see," said Jones,
in
his consequential way. "Our friend here is a wonderful man
for
starting a chase. All he wants is an old dog to help him do
the
running down."
"I hope a wild goose may not prove to be the end of our
chase,"
observed Mr. Merryweather gloomily.
"You may place considerable confidence in Mr. Holmes, sir,"
said
the police agent loftily. "He has his own little methods,
which
are, if he won't mind my saying so, just a little too
theoretical
and fantastic, but he has the makings of a detective in him. It
is
not too much to say that once or twice, as in that business of
the
Sholto murder and the Agra treasure, he has been more nearly
correct than the official force."
"Oh, if you say so, Mr. Jones, it is all right!" said the
stranger,
with deference. "Still, I confess that I miss my rubber. It
is
the first Saturday night for seven-and-twenty years that I have
not
had my rubber."
"I think you will find," said Sherlock Holmes, "that you will
play
for a higher stake to-night than you have ever done yet, and
that
the play will be more exciting. For you, Mr. Merryweather,
the
stake will be some thirty thousand pounds; and for you, Jones,
it
will be the man upon whom you wish to lay your hands."
"John Clay, the murderer, thief, smasher, and forger. He's a
young
man, Mr. Merryweather, but he is at the head of his profession,
and
I would rather have my bracelets on him than on any criminal
in
London. He's a remarkable man, is young John Clay. His
grandfather was a Royal Duke, and he himself has been to Eton
and
Oxford. His brain is as cunning as his fingers, and though we
meet
signs of him at every turn, we never know where to find the
man
himself. He'll crack a crib in Scotland one week, and be
raising
money to build an orphanage in Cornwall the next. I've been on
his
track for years, and have never set eyes on him yet."
"I hope that I may have the pleasure of introducing you
to-night.
I've had one or two little turns also with Mr. John Clay, and
I
agree with you that he is at the head of his profession. It
is
past ten, however, and quite time that we started. If you two
will
take the first hansom, Watson and I will follow in the
second."
Sherlock Holmes was not very communicative during the long
drive,
and lay back in the cab humming the tunes which he had heard in
the
afternoon. We rattled through an endless labyrinth of gaslit
streets until we emerged into Farringdon Street.
"We are close there now," my friend remarked. "This fellow
Merryweather is a bank director and personally interested in
the
matter. I thought it as well to have Jones with us also. He
is
not a bad fellow, though an absolute imbecile in his
profession.
He has one positive virtue. He is as brave as a bulldog, and
as
tenacious as a lobster if he gets his claws upon anyone. Here
we
are, and they are waiting for us."
We had reached the same crowded thoroughfare in which we had
found
ourselves in the morning. Our cabs were dismissed, and
following
the guidance of Mr. Merryweather, we passed down a narrow
passage,
and through a side door which he opened for us. Within there was
a
small corridor, which ended in a very massive iron gate. This
also
was opened, and led down a flight of winding stone steps,
which
terminated at another formidable gate. Mr. Merryweather stopped
to
light a lantern, and then conducted us down a dark,
earth-smelling
passage, and so, after opening a third door, into a huge vault
or
cellar, which was piled all round with crates and massive
boxes.
"You are not very vulnerable from above," Holmes remarked, as
he
held up the lantern and gazed about him.
"Nor from below," said Mr. Merryweather, striking his stick
upon
the flags which lined the floor. "Why, dear me, it sounds
quite
hollow!" he remarked, looking up in surprise.
"I must really ask you to be a little more quiet," said
Holmes
severely. "You have already imperiled the whole success of
our
expedition. Might I beg that you would have the goodness to
sit
down upon one of those boxes, and not to interfere?"
The solemn Mr. Merryweather perched himself upon a crate, with
a
very injured expression upon his face, while Holmes fell upon
his
knees upon the floor, and, with the lantern and a magnifying
lens,
began to examine minutely the cracks between the stones. A
few
seconds sufficed to satisfy him, for he sprang to his feet
again,
and put his glass in his pocket.
"We have at least an hour before us," he remarked, "for they
can
hardly take any steps until the good pawnbroker is safely in
bed.
Then they will not lose a minute, for the sooner they do their
work
the longer time they will have for their escape. We are at
present, doctor--as no doubt you have divined--in the cellar of
the
City branch of one of the principal London banks. Mr.
Merryweather
is the chairman of directors, and he will explain to you that
there
are reasons why the more daring criminals of London should take
a
considerable interest in this cellar at present."
"It is our French gold," whispered the director. "We have
had
several warnings that an attempt might be made upon it."
"Your French gold?"
"Yes. We had occasion some months ago to strengthen our
resources,
and borrowed, for that purpose, thirty thousand napoleons from
the
Bank of France. It has become known that we have never had
occasion to unpack the money, and that it is still lying in
our
cellar. The crate upon which I sit contains two thousand
napoleons
packed between layers of lead foil. Our reserve of bullion is
much
larger at present than is usually kept in a single branch
office,
and the directors have had misgivings upon the subject."
"Which were very well justified," observed Holmes. "And now it
is
time that we arranged our little plans. I expect that within
an
hour matters will come to a head. In the meantime, Mr.
Merryweather, we must put the screen over that dark
lantern."
"And sit in the dark?"
"I am afraid so. I had brought a pack of cards in my pocket,
and I
thought that, as we were a partie carree, you might have
your
rubber after all. But I see that the enemy's preparations
have
gone so far that we cannot risk the presence of a light.
And,
first of all, we must choose our positions. These are daring
men,
and, though we shall take them at a disadvantage, they may do
us
some harm, unless we are careful. I shall stand behind this
crate,
and do you conceal yourself behind those. Then, when I flash
a
light upon them, close in swiftly. If they fire, Watson, have
no
compunction about shooting them down."
I placed my revolver, cocked, upon the top of the wooden
case
behind which I crouched. Holmes shot the slide across the front
of
his lantern, and left us in pitch darkness--such an absolute
darkness as I have never before experienced. The smell of
hot
metal remained to assure us that the light was still there,
ready
to flash out at a moment's notice. To me, with my nerves worked
up
to a pitch of expectancy, there was something depressing and
subduing in the sudden gloom, and in the cold, dank air of
the
vault.
"They have but one retreat," whispered Holmes. "That is
back
through the house into Saxe-Coburg Square. I hope that you
have
done what I asked you, Jones?"
"I have an inspector and two officers waiting at the front door."
"Then we have stopped all the holes. And now we must be silent
and
wait."
What a time it seemed! From comparing notes afterwards, it was
but
an hour and a quarter, yet it appeared to me that the night
must
have almost gone, and the dawn be breaking above us. My limbs
were
weary and stiff, for I feared to change my position, yet my
nerves
were worked up to the highest pitch of tension, and my hearing
was
so acute that I could not only hear the gentle breathing of
my
companions, but I could distinguish the deeper, heavier inbreath
of
the bulky Jones from the thin, sighing note of the bank
director.
From my position I could look over the case in the direction of
the
floor. Suddenly my eyes caught the glint of a light.
At first it was but a lurid spark upon the stone pavement.
Then it
lengthened out until it became a yellow line, and then, without
any
warning or sound, a gash seemed to open and a hand appeared,
a
white, almost womanly hand, which felt about in the center of
the
little area of light. For a minute or more the hand, with
its
writhing fingers, protruded out of the floor. Then it was
withdrawn as suddenly as it appeared, and all was dark again
save
the single lurid spark, which marked a chink between the
stones.
Its disappearance, however, was but momentary. With a
rending,
tearing sound, one of the broad white stones turned over upon
its
side, and left a square, gaping hole, through which streamed
the
light of a lantern. Over the edge there peeped a clean-cut,
boyish
face, which looked keenly about it, and then, with a hand on
either
side of the aperture, drew itself shoulder-high and
waist-high,
until one knee rested upon the edge. In another instant he
stood
at the side of the hole, and was hauling after him a
companion,
lithe and small like himself, with a pale face and a shock of
very
red hair.
"It's all clear," he whispered. "Have you the chisel and the
bags?
Great Scott! Jump, Archie, jump, and I'll swing for it!"
Sherlock Holmes had sprung out and seized the intruder by
the
collar. The other dived down the hole, and I heard the sound
of
rending cloth as Jones clutched at his skirts. The light
flashed
upon the barrel of a revolver, but Holmes's hunting crop came
down
on the man's wrist, and the pistol clinked upon the stone
floor.
"It's no use, John Clay," said Holmes blandly, "you have no
chance
at all."
"So I see," the other answered, with the utmost coolness. "I
fancy
that my pal is all right, though I see you have got his
coat-
tails."
"There are three men waiting for him at the door," said Holmes.
"Oh, indeed. You seem to have done the thing very completely.
I
must compliment you."
"And I you," Holmes answered. "Your red-headed idea was very
new
and effective."
"You'll see your pal again presently," said Jones. "He's
quicker
at climbing down holes than I am. Just hold out while I fix
the
derbies."
"I beg that you will not touch me with your filthy hands,"
remarked
our prisoner, as the handcuffs clattered upon his wrists. "You
may
not be aware that I have royal blood in my veins. Have the
goodness also, when you address me, always to say 'sir' and
'please.'"
"All right," said Jones, with a stare and a snigger. "Well,
would
you please, sir, march upstairs where we can get a cab to
carry
your highness to the police station?"
"That is better," said John Clay serenely. He made a sweeping
bow
to the three of us, and walked quietly off in the custody of
the
detective.
"Really, Mr. Holmes," said Mr. Merryweather, as we followed
them
from the cellar, "I do not know how the bank can thank you or
repay
you. There is no doubt that you have detected and defeated in
the
most complete manner one of the most determined attempts at
bank
robbery that have ever come within my experience."
"I have had one or two little scores of my own to settle with
Mr.
John Clay," said Holmes. "I have been at some small expense
over
this matter, which I shall expect the bank to refund, but
beyond
that I am amply repaid by having had an experience which is in
many
ways unique, and by hearing the very remarkable narrative of
the
Red-headed League."
"You see, Watson," he explained, in the early hours of the
morning,
as we sat over a glass of whisky and soda in Baker Street, "it
was
perfectly obvious from the first that the only possible object
of
this rather fantastic business of the advertisement of the
League,
and the copying of the 'Encyclopaedia,' must be to get this
not
over-bright pawnbroker out of the way for a number of hours
every
day. It was a curious way of managing it, but really it would
be
difficult to suggest a better. The method was no doubt
suggested
to Clay's ingenious mind by the color of his accomplice's
hair.
The four pounds a week was a lure which must draw him, and what
was
it to them, who were playing for thousands? They put in the
advertisement, one rogue has the temporary office, the other
rogue
incites the man to apply for it, and together they manage to
secure
his absence every morning in the week. From the time that I
heard
of the assistant having come for half wages, it was obvious to
me
that he had some strong motive for securing the situation."
"But how could you guess what the motive was?"
"Had there been women in the house, I should have suspected a
mere
vulgar intrigue. That, however, was out of the question. The
man's business was a small one, and there was nothing in his
house
which could account for such elaborate preparations, and such
an
expenditure as they were at. It must then be something out of
the
house. What could it be? I thought of the assistant's
fondness
for photography, and his trick of vanishing into the cellar.
The
cellar! There was the end of this tangled clew. Then I made
inquiries as to this mysterious assistant, and found that I had
to
deal with one of the coolest and most daring criminals in
London.
He was doing something in the cellar--something which took
many
hours a day for months on end. What could it be, once more?
I
could think of nothing save that he was running a tunnel to
some
other building.
"So far I had got when we went to visit the scene of action.
I
surprised you by beating upon the pavement with my stick. I
was
ascertaining whether the cellar stretched out in front or
behind.
It was not in front. Then I rang the bell, and, as I hoped,
the
assistant answered it. We have had some skirmishes, but we
had
never set eyes upon each other before. I hardly looked at
his
face. His knees were what I wished to see. You must yourself
have
remarked how worn, wrinkled, and stained they were. They spoke
of
those hours of burrowing. The only remaining point was what
they
were burrowing for. I walked round the corner, saw that the
City
and Suburban Bank abutted on our friend's premises, and felt
that I
had solved my problem. When you drove home after the concert
I
called upon Scotland Yard, and upon the chairman of the bank
directors, with the result that you have seen."
"And how could you tell that they would make their attempt
to-
night?" I asked.
"Well, when they closed their League offices that was a sign
that
they cared no longer about Mr. Jabez Wilson's presence; in
other
words, that they had completed their tunnel. But it was
essential
that they should use it soon, as it might be discovered, or
the
bullion might be removed. Saturday would suit them better than
any
other day, as it would give them two days for their escape.
For
all these reasons I expected them to come to-night."
"You reasoned it out beautifully," I exclaimed, in
unfeigned
admiration. "It is so long a chain, and yet every link rings
true."
"It saved me from ennui," he answered, yawning. "Alas! I
already
feel it closing in upon me. My life is spent in one long effort
to
escape from the commonplaces of existence. These little
problems
help me to do so."
"And you are a benefactor of the race," said I. He shrugged
his
shoulders. "Well, perhaps, after all, it is of some little
use,"
he remarked. "'L'homme c'est rien--l'oeuvre c'est tout,' as
Gustave Flaubert wrote to Georges Sands."
"Oh, no, I assure you, you are not boring Mr. Marshfield,"
said
this personage himself in his gentle voice--that curious voice
that
could flow on for hours, promulgating profound and startling
theories on every department of human knowledge or
conducting
paradoxical arguments without a single inflection or pause
of
hesitation. "I am, on the contrary, much interested in your
hunting talk. To paraphrase a well-worn quotation somewhat
widely,
nihil humanum a me alienum est. Even hunting stories may
have
their point of biological interest; the philologist
sometimes
pricks his ear to the jargon of the chase; moreover, I am
not
incapable of appreciating the subject matter itself. This seems
to
excite some derision. I admit I am not much of a sportsman to
look
at, nor, indeed, by instinct, yet I have had some
out-of-the-way
experiences in that line--generally when intent on other
pursuits.
I doubt, for instance, if even you, Major Travers,
notwithstanding
your well-known exploits against man and beast,
notwithstanding
that doubtful smile of yours, could match the strangeness of
a
certain hunting adventure in which I played an important
part."
The speaker's small, deep-set, black eyes, that never warmed
to
anything more human than a purely speculative scientific
interest
in his surroundings, here wandered round the skeptical yet
expectant circle with bland amusement. He stretched out his
bloodless fingers for another of his host's superfine cigars
and
proceeded, with only such interruptions as were occasioned by
the
lighting and careful smoking of the latter.
"I was returning home after my prolonged stay in
Petersburg,
intending to linger on my way and test with mine own ears
certain
among the many dialects of Eastern Europe--anent which there is
a
symmetrical little cluster of philological knotty points it is
my
modest intention one day to unravel. However, that is neither
here
nor there. On the road to Hungary I bethought myself
opportunely
of proving the once pressingly offered hospitality of the
Baron
Kossowski.
"You may have met the man, Major Travers; he was a
tremendous
sportsman, if you like. I first came across him at McNeil's
place
in remote Ireland. Now, being in Bukowina, within measurable
distance of his Carpathian abode, and curious to see a Polish
lord
at home, I remembered his invitation. It was already of long
standing, but it had been warm, born in fact of a sudden fit
of
enthusiasm for me"--here a half-mocking smile quivered an
instant
under the speaker's black mustache--"which, as it was
characteristic, I may as well tell you about.
"It was on the day of, or, rather, to be accurate, on the day
after
my arrival, toward the small hours of the morning, in the
smoking
room at Rathdrum. Our host was peacefully snoring over his
empty
pipe and his seventh glass of whisky, also empty. The rest of
the
men had slunk off to bed. The baron, who all unknown to
himself
had been a subject of most interesting observation to me the
whole
evening, being now practically alone with me, condescended to
turn
an eye, as wide awake as a fox's, albeit slightly bloodshot,
upon
the contemptible white-faced person who had preferred spending
the
raw hours over his papers, within the radius of a glorious
fire's
warmth, to creeping slyly over treacherous quagmires in the
pursuit
of timid bog creatures (snipe shooting had been the order of
the
day)--the baron, I say, became aware of my existence and
entered
into conversation with me.
"He would no doubt have been much surprised could he have
known
that he was already mapped out, craniologically and
physiognomically, catalogued with care and neatly laid by in
his
proper ethnological box, in my private type museum; that, as I
sat
and examined him from my different coigns of vantage in library,
in
dining and smoking room that evening, not a look of his, not
a
gesture went forth but had significance for me.
"You, I had thought, with your broad shoulders and deep chest;
your
massive head that should have gone with a tall stature, not
with
those short sturdy limbs; with your thick red hair, that
should
have been black for that matter, as should your wide-set
yellow
eyes--you would be a real puzzle to one who did not recognize
in
you equal mixtures of the fair, stalwart and muscular Slav with
the
bilious-sanguine, thick-set, wiry Turanian. Your pedigree would
no
doubt bear me out: there is as much of the Magyar as of the Pole
in
your anatomy. Athlete, and yet a tangle of nerves; a
ferocious
brute at bottom, I dare say, for your broad forehead inclines
to
flatness; under your bristling beard your jaw must protrude,
and
the base of your skull is ominously thick. And, with all
that,
capable of ideal transports: when that girl played and sang
to-
night I saw the swelling of your eyelid veins, and how that
small,
tenacious, claw-like hand of yours twitched! You would be a
fine
leader of men--but God help the wretches in your power!
"So had I mused upon him. Yet I confess that when we came
in
closer contact with each other, even I was not proof against
the
singular courtesy of his manner and his unaccountable
personal
charm.
"Our conversation soon grew interesting; to me as a matter
of
course, and evidently to him also. A few general words led
to
interchange of remarks upon the country we were both visitors
in
and so to national characteristics--Pole and Irishman have not
a
few in common, both in their nature and history. An
observation
which he made, not without a certain flash in his light eyes and
a
transient uncovering of the teeth, on the Irish type of
female
beauty suddenly suggested to me a stanza of an ancient
Polish
ballad, very full of milk-and-blood imagery, of alternating
ferocity and voluptuousness. This I quoted to the astounded
foreigner in the vernacular, and this it was that metamorphosed
his
mere perfection of civility into sudden warmth, and, in
fact,
procured me the invitation in question.
"When I left Rathdrum the baron's last words to me were that
if I
ever thought of visiting his country otherwise than in books,
he
held me bound to make Yany, his Galician seat, my headquarters
of
study.
"From Czernowicz, therefore, where I stopped some time, I
wrote,
received in due time a few lines of prettily worded reply,
and
ultimately entered my sled in the nearest town to, yet at a
most
forbidding distance from, Yany, and started on my journey
thither.
"The undertaking meant many long hours of undulation and
skidding
over the November snow, to the somniferous bell jangle of my
dirty
little horses, the only impression of interest being a weird
gypsy
concert I came in for at a miserable drinking-booth half buried
in
the snow where we halted for the refreshment of man and
beast.
Here, I remember, I discovered a very definite connection
between
the characteristic run of the tsimbol, the peculiar bite of
the
Zigeuner's bow on his fiddle-string, and some distinctive points
of
Turanian tongues. In other countries, in Spain, for instance,
your
gypsy speaks differently on his instrument. But, oddly
enough,
when I later attempted to put this observation on paper I
could
find no word to express it."
A few of our company evinced signs of sleepiness, but most of
us
who knew Marshfield, and that he could, unless he had
something
novel to say, be as silent and retiring as he now evinced signs
of
being copious, awaited further developments with patience. He
has
his own deliberate way of speaking, which he evidently
enjoys
greatly, though it be occasionally trying to his listeners.
"On the afternoon of my second day's drive, the snow, which
till
then had fallen fine and continuous, ceased, and my Jehu,
suddenly
interrupting himself in the midst of some exciting wolf story
quite
in keeping with the time of year and the wild surroundings,
pointed
to a distant spot against the gray sky to the northwest,
between
two wood-covered folds of ground--the first eastern spurs of
the
great Carpathian chain.
"'There stands Yany,' said he. I looked at my far-off goal
with
interest. As we drew nearer, the sinking sun, just dipping
behind
the hills, tinged the now distinct frontage with a cold
copper-like
gleam, but it was only for a minute; the next the building
became
nothing more to the eye than a black irregular silhouette
against
the crimson sky.
"Before we entered the long, steep avenue of poplars, the
early
winter darkness was upon us, rendered all the more depressing
by
gray mists which gave a ghostly aspect to such objects as the
sheen
of the snow rendered visible. Once or twice there were
feeble
flashes of light looming in iridescent halos as we passed
little
clusters of hovels, but for which I should have been induced
to
fancy that the great Hof stood alone in the wilderness, such
was
the deathly stillness around. But even as the tall, square
building rose before us above the vapor, yellow lighted in
various
stories, and mighty in height and breadth, there broke upon my
ear
a deep-mouthed, menacing bay, which gave at once almost
alarming
reality to the eerie surroundings. 'His lordship's boar and
wolf
hounds,' quoth my charioteer calmly, unmindful of the
regular
pandemonium of howls and barks which ensued as he skillfully
turned
his horses through the gateway and flogged the tired beasts into
a
sort of shambling canter that we might land with glory before
the
house door: a weakness common, I believe, to drivers of all
nations.
"I alighted in the court of honor, and while awaiting an
answer to
my tug at the bell, stood, broken with fatigue, depressed,
chilled
and aching, questioning the wisdom of my proceedings and the
amount
of comfort, physical and moral, that was likely to await me in
a
tete-a-tete visit with a well-mannered savage in his own
home.
"The unkempt tribe of stable retainers who began to gather
round me
and my rough vehicle in the gloom, with their evil-smelling
sheepskins and their resigned, battered visages, were not
calculated to reassure me. Yet when the door opened, there stood
a
smart chasseur and a solemn major-domo who might but just
have
stepped out of Mayfair; and there was displayed a spreading
vista
of warm, deep-colored halls, with here a statue and there a
stuffed
bear, and under foot pile carpets strewn with rarest skins.
"Marveling, yet comforted withal, I followed the solemn
butler, who
received me with the deference due to an expected guest and
expressed the master's regret for his enforced absence till
dinner
time. I traversed vast rooms, each more sumptuous than the
last,
feeling the strangeness of the contrast between the outer
desolation and this sybaritic excess of luxury growing ever
more
strongly upon me; caught a glimpse of a picture gallery,
where
peculiar yet admirably executed latter-day French pictures
hung
side by side with ferocious boar hunts of Snyder and such kin;
and,
at length, was ushered into a most cheerful room, modern to
excess
in its comfortable promise, where, in addition to the tall
stove
necessary for warmth, there burned on an open hearth a
vastly
pleasant fire of resinous logs, and where, on a low table,
awaited
me a dainty service of fragrant Russian tea.
"My impression of utter novelty seemed somehow enhanced by
this
unexpected refinement in the heart of the solitudes and in such
a
rugged shell, and yet, when I came to reflect, it was only
characteristic of my cosmopolitan host. But another surprise
was
in store for me.
"When I had recovered bodily warmth and mental equilibrium in
my
downy armchair, before the roaring logs, and during the
delicious
absorption of my second glass of tea, I turned my attention to
the
French valet, evidently the baron's own man, who was deftly
unpacking my portmanteau, and who, unless my practiced eye
deceived
me, asked for nothing better than to entertain me with
agreeable
conversation the while.
"'Your master is out, then?' quoth I, knowing that the most
trivial
remark would suffice to start him.
"True, Monseigneur was out; he was desolated in despair (this
with
the national amiable and imaginative instinct); 'but it was
doubtless important business. M. le Baron had the visit of
his
factor during the midday meal; had left the table hurriedly,
and
had not been seen since. Madame la Baronne had been a little
suffering, but she would receive monsieur!'
"'Madame!' exclaimed I, astounded, 'is your master then
married?--
since when?'--visions of a fair Tartar, fit mate for my
baron,
immediately springing somewhat alluringly before my mental
vision.
But the answer dispelled the picturesque fancy.
"'Oh, yes,' said the man, with a somewhat peculiar
expression.
Yes, Monseigneur is married. Did Monsieur not know? And yet
it
was from England that Monseigneur brought back his wife.'
"'An Englishwoman!'
"My first thought was one of pity; an Englishwoman alone in
this
wilderness--two days' drive from even a railway station--and at
the
mercy of Kossowski! But the next minute I reversed my
judgment.
Probably she adored her rufous lord, took his veneer of
courtesy--a
veneer of the most exquisite polish, I grant you, but
perilously
thin--for the very perfection of chivalry. Or perchance it was
his
inner savageness itself that charmed her; the most refined
women
often amaze one by the fascination which the preponderance of
the
brute in the opposite sex seems to have for them.
"I was anxious to hear more.
"'Is it not dull for the lady here at this time of the year?'
"The valet raised his shoulders with a gesture of despair that
was
almost passionate.
"Dull! Ah, monsieur could not conceive to himself the dullness
of
it. That poor Madame la Baronne! not even a little child to
keep
her company on the long, long days when there was nothing but
snow
in the heaven and on the earth and the howling of the wind and
the
dogs to cheer her. At the beginning, indeed, it had been
different; when the master first brought home his bride the
house
was gay enough. It was all redecorated and refurnished to
receive
her (monsieur should have seen it before, a mere
rendezvous-de-
chasse--for the matter of that so were all the country houses
in
these parts). Ah, that was the good time! There were visits
month
after month; parties, sleighing, dancing, trips to St.
Petersburg
and Vienna. But this year it seemed they were to have nothing
but
boars and wolves. How madame could stand it--well, it was not
for
him to speak--and heaving a deep sigh he delicately inserted
my
white tie round my collar, and with a flourish twisted it into
an
irreproachable bow beneath my chin. I did not think it right
to
cross-examine the willing talker any further, especially as,
despite his last asseveration, there were evidently volumes
he
still wished to pour forth; but I confess that, as I made my
way
slowly out of my room along the noiseless length of passage, I
was
conscious of an unwonted, not to say vulgar, curiosity
concerning
the woman who had captivated such a man as the Baron
Kossowski.
"In a fit of speculative abstraction I must have taken the
wrong
turning, for I presently found myself in a long, narrow passage.
I
did not remember. I was retracing my steps when there came
the
sound of rapid footfalls upon stone flags; a little door flew
open
in the wall close to me, and a small, thick-set man, huddled in
the
rough sheepskin of the Galician peasant, with a mangy fur cap
on
his head, nearly ran headlong into my arms. I was about
condescendingly to interpellate him in my best Polish, when
I
caught the gleam of an angry yellow eye and noted the bristle of
a
red beard--Kossowski!
"Amazed, I fell back a step in silence. With a growl like
an
uncouth animal disturbed, he drew his filthy cap over his brow
with
a savage gesture and pursued his way down the corridor at a sort
of
wild-boar trot.
"This first meeting between host and guest was so odd, so
incongruous, that it afforded me plenty of food for a fresh line
of
conjecture as I traced my way back to the picture gallery, and
from
thence successfully to the drawing-room, which, as the door
was
ajar, I could not this time mistake.
"It was large and lofty and dimly lit by shaded lamps; through
the
rosy gloom I could at first only just make out a slender figure
by
the hearth; but as I advanced, this was resolved into a
singularly
graceful woman in clinging, fur-trimmed velvet gown, who, with
one
hand resting on the high mantelpiece, the other banging
listlessly
by her side, stood gazing down at the crumbling wood fire as if
in
a dream.
"My friends are kind enough to say that I have a catlike
tread; I
know not how that may be; at any rate the carpet I was walking
upon
was thick enough to smother a heavier footfall: not until I
was
quite close to her did my hostess become aware of my
presence.
Then she started violently and looked over her shoulder at me
with
dilating eyes. Evidently a nervous creature, I saw the pulse
in
her throat, strained by her attitude, flutter like a
terrified
bird.
"The next instant she had stretched out her hand with sweet
English
words of welcome, and the face, which I had been comparing in
my
mind to that of Guido's Cenci, became transformed by the arch
and
exquisite smile of a Greuse. For more than two years I had had
no
intercourse with any of my nationality. I could conceive the
sound
of his native tongue under such circumstances moving a man in
a
curious unexpected fashion.
"I babbled some commonplace reply, after which there was
silence
while we stood opposite each other, she looking at me
expectantly.
At length, with a sigh checked by a smile and an overtone of
sadness in a voice that yet tried to be sprightly:
"'Am I then so changed, Mr. Marshfield?' she asked. And all
at
once I knew her: the girl whose nightingale throat had redeemed
the
desolation of the evenings at Rathdrum, whose sunny beauty
had
seemed (even to my celebrated cold-blooded aestheticism) worthy
to
haunt a man's dreams. Yes, there was the subtle curve of the
waist, the warm line of throat, the dainty foot, the slender
tip-
tilted fingers--witty fingers, as I had classified them--which
I
now shook like a true Briton, instead of availing myself of
the
privilege the country gave me, and kissing her slender
wrist.
"But she was changed; and I told her so with
unconventional
frankness, studying her closely as I spoke.
"'I am afraid,' I said gravely, 'that this place does not
agree
with you.'
"She shrank from my scrutiny with a nervous movement and
flushed to
the roots of her red-brown hair. Then she answered coldly that
I
was wrong, that she was in excellent health, but that she could
not
expect any more than other people to preserve perennial youth
(I
rapidly calculated she might be two-and-twenty), though,
indeed,
with a little forced laugh, it was scarcely flattering to hear
one
had altered out of all recognition. Then, without allowing me
time
to reply, she plunged into a general topic of conversation
which,
as I should have been obtuse indeed not to take the hint, I did
my
best to keep up.
"But while she talked of Vienna and Warsaw, of her distant
neighbors, and last year's visitors, it was evident that her
mind
was elsewhere; her eye wandered, she lost the thread of her
discourse, answered me at random, and smiled her piteous
smile
incongruously.
"However lonely she might be in her solitary splendor, the
company
of a countryman was evidently no such welcome diversion.
"After a little while she seemed to feel herself that she
was
lacking in cordiality, and, bringing her absent gaze to bear
upon
me with a puzzled strained look: 'I fear you will find it
very
dull,' she said, 'my husband is so wrapped up this winter in
his
country life and his sport. You are the first visitor we have
had.
There is nothing but guns and horses here, and you do not care
for
these things.'
"The door creaked behind us; and the baron entered, in
faultless
evening dress. Before she turned toward him I was sharp enough
to
catch again the upleaping of a quick dread in her eyes, not even
so
much dread perhaps, I thought afterwards, as horror--the horror
we
notice in some animals at the nearing of a beast of prey. It
was
gone in a second, and she was smiling. But it was a
revelation.
"Perhaps he beat her in Russian fashion, and she, as an
Englishwoman, was narrow-minded enough to resent this; or
perhaps,
merely, I had the misfortune to arrive during a matrimonial
misunderstanding.
"The baron would not give me leisure to reflect; he was so
very
effusive in his greeting--not a hint of our previous
meeting--
unlike my hostess, all in all to me; eager to listen, to
reply;
almost affectionate, full of references to old times and
genial
allusions. No doubt when he chose he could be the most charming
of
men; there were moments when, looking at him in his quiet smile
and
restrained gesture, the almost exaggerated politeness of his
manner
to his wife, whose fingers he had kissed with pretty,
old-fashioned
gallantry upon his entrance, I asked myself, Could that
encounter
in the passage have been a dream? Could that savage in the
sheepskin be my courteous entertainer?
"'Just as I came in, did I hear my wife say there was nothing
for
you to do in this place?' he said presently to me. Then,
turning
to her:
"'You do not seem to know Mr. Marshfield. Wherever he can
open
his eyes there is for him something to see which might not
interest
other men. He will find things in my library which I have no
notion of. He will discover objects for scientific observation
in
all the members of my household, not only in the
good-looking
maids--though he could, I have no doubt, tell their points as
I
could those of a horse. We have maidens here of several
distinct
races, Marshfield. We have also witches, and Jew leeches, and
holy
daft people. In any case, Yany, with all its dependencies,
material, male and female, are at your disposal, for what you
can
make out of them.
"'It is good,' he went on gayly, 'that you should happen to
have
this happy disposition, for I fear that, no later than
to-morrow, I
may have to absent myself from home. I have heard that there
are
news of wolves--they threaten to be a greater pest than usual
this
winter, but I am going to drive them on quite a new plan, and
it
will go hard with me if I don't come even with them. Well for
you,
by the way, Marshfield, that you did not pass within their
scent
today.' Then, musingly: 'I should not give much for the life of
a
traveler who happened to wander in these parts just now.' Here
he
interrupted himself hastily and went over to his wife, who had
sunk
back on her chair, livid, seemingly on the point of
swooning.
"His gaze was devouring; so might a man look at the woman
he
adored, in his anxiety.
"'What! faint, Violet, alarmed!' His voice was subdued, yet
there
was an unmistakable thrill of emotion in it.
"'Pshaw!' thought I to myself, 'the man is a model husband.'
"She clinched her hands, and by sheer force of will seemed to
pull
herself together. These nervous women have often an
unexpected
fund of strength.
"'Come, that is well,' said the baron with a flickering smile;
'Mr.
Marshfield will think you but badly acclimatized to Poland if
a
little wolf scare can upset you. My dear wife is so
soft-hearted,'
he went on to me, 'that she is capable of making herself quite
ill
over the sad fate that might have, but has not, overcome you.
Or,
perhaps,' he added, in a still gentler voice, 'her fear is that
I
may expose myself to danger for the public weal.'
"She turned her head away, but I saw her set her teeth as if
to
choke a sob. The baron chuckled in his throat and seemed to
luxuriate in the pleasant thought.
"At this moment folding doors were thrown open, and supper
was
announced. I offered my arm, she rose and took it in
silence.
This silence she maintained during the first part of the
meal,
despite her husband's brilliant conversation and almost
uproarious
spirits. But by and by a bright color mounted to her cheeks
and
luster to her eyes. I suppose you will think me horribly
unpoetical if I add that she drank several glasses of champagne
one
after the other, a fact which perhaps may account for the
change.
"At any rate she spoke and laughed and looked lovely, and I
did not
wonder that the baron could hardly keep his eyes off her.
But
whether it was her wifely anxiety or not--it was evident her
mind
was not at ease through it all, and I fancied that her
brightness
was feverish, her merriment slightly hysterical.
"After supper--an exquisite one it was--we adjourned together,
in
foreign fashion, to the drawing-room; the baron threw himself
into
a chair and, somewhat with the air of a pasha, demanded music.
He
was flushed; the veins of his forehead were swollen and stood
out
like cords; the wine drunk at table was potent: even through
my
phlegmatic frame it ran hotly.
"She hesitated a moment or two, then docilely sat down to
the
piano. That she could sing I have already made clear: how
she
could sing, with what pathos, passion, as well as perfect art,
I
had never realized before.
"When the song was ended she remained for a while, with eyes
lost
in distance, very still, save for her quick breathing. It
was
clear she was moved by the music; indeed she must have thrown
her
whole soul into it.
"At first we, the audience, paid her the rare compliment
of
silence. Then the baron broke forth into loud applause.
'Brava,
brava! that was really said con amore. A delicious love
song,
delicious--but French! You must sing one of our Slav melodies
for
Marshfield before you allow us to go and smoke.'
"She started from her reverie with a flush, and after a
pause
struck slowly a few simple chords, then began one of those
strangely sweet, yet intensely pathetic Russian airs, which
give
one a curious revelation of the profound, endless melancholy
lurking in the national mind.
"'What do you think of it?' asked the baron of me when it ceased.
"'What I have always thought of such music--it is that of
a
hopeless people; poetical, crushed, and resigned.'
"He gave a loud laugh. 'Hear the analyst, the
psychologue--why,
man, it is a love song! Is it possible that we, uncivilized,
are
truer realists than our hypercultured Western neighbors? Have
we
gone to the root of the matter, in our simple way?'
"The baroness got up abruptly. She looked white and spent;
there
were bister circles round her eyes.
"'I am tired,' she said, with dry lips. 'You will excuse me,
Mr.
Marshfield, I must really go to bed.'
"'Go to bed, go to bed,' cried her husband gayly. Then,
quoting in
Russian from the song she had just sung: 'Sleep, my little
soft
white dove: my little innocent tender lamb!' She hurried from
the
room. The baron laughed again, and, taking me familiarly by
the
arm, led me to his own set of apartments for the promised
smoke.
He ensconced me in an armchair, placed cigars of every
description
and a Turkish pipe ready to my hand, and a little table on
which
stood cut-glass flasks and beakers in tempting array.
"After I had selected my cigar with some precautions, I
glanced at
him over a careless remark, and was startled to see a sudden
alteration in his whole look and attitude.
"'You will forgive me, Marshfield,' he said, as he caught my
eye,
speaking with spasmodic politeness. 'It is more than probable
that
I shall have to set out upon this chase I spoke of to-night, and
I
must now go and change my clothes, that I may be ready to start
at
any moment. This is the hour when it is most likely these
hell
beasts are to be got at. You have all you want, I hope,'
interrupting an outbreak of ferocity by an effort after his
former
courtesy.
"It was curious to watch the man of the world struggling with
the
primitive man.
"'But, baron,' said I, 'I do not at all see the fun of
sticking at
home like this. You know my passion for witnessing everything
new,
strange, and outlandish. You will surely not refuse me such
an
opportunity for observation as a midnight wolf raid. I will do
my
best not to be in the way if you will take me with you.'
"At first it seemed as if he had some difficulty in realizing
the
drift of my words, he was so engrossed by some inner thought.
But
as I repeated them, he gave vent to a loud cachinnation.
"'By heaven! I like your spirit,' he exclaimed, clapping
me
strongly on the shoulder. 'Of course you shall come. You
shall,'
he repeated, 'and I promise you a sight, a hunt such as you
never
heard or dreamed of--you will be able to tell them in England
the
sort of thing we can do here in that line--such wolves are
rare
quarry,' he added, looking slyly at me, 'and I have a new plan
for
getting at them.'
"There was a long pause, and then there rose in the stillness
the
unearthly howling of the baron's hounds, a cheerful sound
which
only their owner's somewhat loud converse of the evening had
kept
from becoming excessively obtrusive.
"'Hark at them--the beauties!' cried he, showing his short,
strong
teeth, pointed like a dog's in a wide grin of anticipative
delight.
'They have been kept on pretty short commons, poor things!
They
are hungry. By the way, Marshfield, you can sit tight to a
horse,
I trust? If you were to roll off, you know, these splendid
fellows--they would chop you up in a second. They would chop
you
up,' he repeated unctuously, 'snap, crunch, gobble, and there
would
be an end of you!'
"'If I could not ride a decent horse without being thrown,'
I
retorted, a little stung by his manner, 'after my recent
three
months' torture with the Guard Cossacks, I should indeed be
a
hopeless subject. Do not think of frightening me from the
exploit,
but say frankly if my company would be displeasing.'
"'Tut!' he said, waving his hand impatiently, 'it is your
affair.
I have warned you. Go and get ready if you want to come.
Time
presses.'
"I was determined to be of the fray; my blood was up. I
have
hinted that the baron's Tokay had stirred it.
"I went to my room and hurriedly donned clothes more suitable
for
rough night work. My last care was to slip into my pockets a
brace
of double-barreled pistols which formed part of my traveling
kit.
When I returned I found the baron already booted and spurred;
this
without metaphor. He was stretched full length on the divan,
and
did not speak as I came in, or even look at me. Chewing an
unlit
cigar, with eyes fixed on the ceiling, he was evidently
following
some absorbing train of ideas.
"The silence was profound; time went by; it grew oppressive;
at
length, wearied out, I fell, over my chibouque, into a doze
filled
with puzzling visions, out of which I was awakened with a
start.
My companion had sprung up, very lightly, to his feet. In
his
throat was an odd, half-suppressed cry, grewsome to hear. He
stood
on tiptoe, with eyes fixed, as though looking through the wall,
and
I distinctly saw his ears point in the intensity of his
listening.
"After a moment, with hasty, noiseless energy, and without
the
slightest ceremony, he blew the lamps out, drew back the
heavy
curtains and threw the tall window wide open. A rush of icy
air,
and the bright rays of the moon--gibbous, I remember, in her
third
quarter--filled the room. Outside the mist had condensed, and
the
view was unrestricted over the white plains at the foot of
the
hill.
"The baron stood motionless in the open window, callous to the
cold
in which, after a minute, I could hardly keep my teeth from
chattering, his head bent forward, still listening. I
listened
too, with 'all my ears,' but could not catch a sound; indeed
the
silence over the great expanse of snow might have been
called
awful; even the dogs were mute.
"Presently, far, far away, came a faint tinkle of bells; so
faint,
at first, that I thought it was but fancy, then distincter. It
was
even more eerie than the silence, I thought, though I knew it
could
come but from some passing sleigh. All at once that ceased,
and
again my duller senses could perceive nothing, though I saw by
my
host's craning neck that he was more on the alert than ever.
But
at last I too heard once more, this time not bells, but as it
were
the tread of horses muffled by the snow, intermittent and dull,
yet
drawing nearer. And then in the inner silence of the great
house
it seemed to me I caught the noise of closing doors; but here
the
hounds, as if suddenly becoming alive to some disturbance,
raised
the same fearsome concert of yells and barks with which they
had
greeted my arrival, and listening became useless.
"I had risen to my feet. My host, turning from the window,
seized
my shoulder with a fierce grip, and bade me 'hold my noise'; for
a
second or two I stood motionless under his iron talons, then
he
released me with an exultant whisper: "Now for our chase!" and
made
for the door with a spring. Hastily gulping down a mouthful
of
arrack from one of the bottles on the table, I followed him,
and,
guided by the sound of his footsteps before me, groped my
way
through passages as black as Erebus.
"After a time, which seemed a long one, a small door was flung
open
in front, and I saw Kossowski glide into the moonlit courtyard
and
cross the square. When I too came out he was disappearing into
the
gaping darkness of the open stable door, and there I overtook
him.
"A man who seemed to have been sleeping in a corner jumped up
at
our entrance, and led out a horse ready saddled. In obedience to
a
gruff order from his master, as the latter mounted, he then
brought
forward another which he had evidently thought to ride himself
and
held the stirrup for me.
"We came delicately forth, and the Cossack hurriedly barred
the
great door behind us. I caught a glimpse of his worn, scarred
face
by the moonlight, as he peeped after us for a second before
shutting himself in; it was stricken with terror.
"The baron trotted briskly toward the kennels, from whence
there
was now issuing a truly infernal clangor, and, as my steed
followed
suit of his own accord, I could see how he proceeded dexterously
to
unbolt the gates without dismounting, while the beasts
within
dashed themselves against them and tore the ground in their fury
of
impatience.
"He smiled, as he swung back the barriers at last, and his
'beauties' came forth. Seven or eight monstrous brutes, hounds
of
a kind unknown to me: fulvous and sleek of coat, tall on
their
legs, square-headed, long-tailed, deep-chested; with terrible
jaws
slobbering in eagerness. They leaped around and up at us, much
to
our horses' distaste. Kossowski, still smiling, lashed at
them
unsparingly with his hunting whip, and they responded, not
with
yells of pain, but with snarls of fury.
"Managing his restless steed and his cruel whip with
consummate
ease, my host drove the unruly crew before him out of the
precincts, then halted and bent down from his saddle to
examine
some slight prints in the snow which led, not the way I had
come,
but toward what seemed another avenue. In a second or two
the
hounds were gathered round this spot, their great snake-like
tails
quivering, nose to earth, yelping with excitement. I had some
ado
to manage my horse, and my eyesight was far from being as keen
as
the baron's, but I had then no doubt he had come already upon
wolf
tracks, and I shuddered mentally, thinking of the sleigh
bells.
"Suddenly Kossowski raised himself from his strained
position;
under his low fur cap his face, with its fixed smile, looked
scarcely human in the white light: and then we broke into a
hand
canter just as the hounds dashed, in a compact body, along
the
trail.
"But we had not gone more than a few hundred yards before
they
began to falter, then straggled, stopped and ran back and
about
with dismal cries. It was clear to me they had lost the scent.
My
companion reined in his horse, and mine, luckily a
well-trained
brute, halted of himself.
"We had reached a bend in a broad avenue of firs and larches,
and
just where we stood, and where the hounds ever returned and
met
nose to nose in frantic conclave, the snow was trampled and
soiled,
and a little farther on planed in a great sweep, as if by a
turning
sleigh. Beyond was a double-furrowed track of skaits and
regular
hoof prints leading far away.
"Before I had time to reflect upon the bearing of this
unexpected
interruption, Kossowski, as if suddenly possessed by a devil,
fell
upon the hounds with his whip, flogging them upon the new
track,
uttering the while the most savage cries I have ever heard
issue
from human throat. The disappointed beasts were nothing loath
to
seize upon another trail; after a second of hesitation they
had
understood, and were off upon it at a tearing pace, we after
them
at the best speed of our horses.
"Some unformed idea that we were going to escort, or
rescue,
benighted travelers flickered dimly in my mind as I galloped
through the night air; but when I managed to approach my
companion
and called out to him for explanation, he only turned half
round
and grinned at me.
"Before us lay now the white plain, scintillating under the
high
moon's rays. That light is deceptive; I could be sure of
nothing
upon the wide expanse but of the dark, leaping figures of
the
hounds already spread out in a straggling line, some right
ahead,
others just in front of us. In a short time also the icy
wind,
cutting my face mercilessly as we increased our pace, well
nigh
blinded me with tears of cold.
"I can hardly realize how long this pursuit after an unseen
prey
lasted; I can only remember that I was getting rather faint
with
fatigue, and ignominiously held on to my pommel, when all of
a
sudden the black outline of a sleigh merged into sight in front
of
us.
"I rubbed my smarting eyes with my benumbed hand; we were
gaining
upon it second by second; two of those hell hounds of the
baron's
were already within a few leaps of it.
"Soon I was able to make out two figures, one standing up
and
urging the horses on with whip and voice, the other clinging to
the
back seat and looking toward us in an attitude of terror. A
great
fear crept into my half-frozen brain--were we not bringing
deadly
danger instead of help to these travelers? Great God! did
the
baron mean to use them as a bait for his new method of wolf
hunting?
"I would have turned upon Kossowski with a cry of
expostulation or
warning, but he, urging on his hounds as he galloped on
their
flank, howling and gesticulating like a veritable Hun, passed me
by
like a flash--and all at once I knew."
Marshfield paused for a moment and sent his pale smile round
upon
his listeners, who now showed no signs of sleepiness; he
knocked
the ash from his cigar, twisted the latter round in his mouth,
and
added dryly:
"And I confess it seemed to me a little strong even for a
baron in
the Carpathians. The travelers were our quarry. But the
reason
why the Lord of Yany had turned man-hunter I was yet to
learn.
Just then I had to direct my energies to frustrating his plans.
I
used my spurs mercilessly. While I drew up even with him I saw
the
two figures in the sleigh change places; he who had hitherto
driven
now faced back, while his companion took the reins; there was
the
pale blue sheen of a revolver barrel under the moonlight,
followed
by a yellow flash, and the nearest hound rolled over in the
snow.
"With an oath the baron twisted round in his saddle to call up
and
urge on the remainder. My horse had taken fright at the report
and
dashed irresistibly forward, bringing me at once almost level
with
the fugitives, and the next instant the revolver was turned
menacingly toward me. There was no time to explain; my pistol
was
already drawn, and as another of the brutes bounded up,
almost
under my horse's feet, I loosed it upon him. I must have let
off
both barrels at once, for the weapon flew out of my hand, but
the
hound's back was broken. I presume the traveler understood; at
any
rate, he did not fire at me.
"In moments of intense excitement like these, strangely
enough, the
mind is extraordinarily open to impressions. I shall never
forget
that man's countenance in the sledge, as he stood upright
and
defied us in his mortal danger; it was young, very handsome,
the
features not distorted, but set into a sort of desperate,
stony
calm, and I knew it, beyond all doubt, for that of an
Englishman.
And then I saw his companion--it was the baron's wife. And I
understood why the bells had been removed.
"It takes a long time to say this; it only required an instant
to
see it. The loud explosion of my pistol had hardly ceased to
ring
before the baron, with a fearful imprecation, was upon me.
First
he lashed at me with his whip as we tore along side by side,
and
then I saw him wind the reins round his off arm and bend over,
and
I felt his angry fingers close tightly on my right foot. The
next
instant I should have been lifted out of my saddle, but there
came
another shot from the sledge. The baron's horse plunged and
stumbled, and the baron, hanging on to my foot with a fierce
grip,
was wrenched from his seat. His horse, however, was up again
immediately, and I was released, and then I caught a
confused
glimpse of the frightened and wounded animal galloping wildly
away
to the right, leaving a black track of blood behind him in
the
snow, his master, entangled in the reins, running with
incredible
swiftness by his side and endeavoring to vault back into the
saddle.
"And now came to pass a terrible thing which, in his savage
plans,
my host had doubtless never anticipated.
"One of the hounds that had during this short check recovered
lost
ground, coming across this hot trail of blood, turned away from
his
course, and with a joyous yell darted after the running man.
In
another instant the remainder of the pack was upon the new
scent.
"As soon as I could stop my horse, I tried to turn him in
the
direction the new chase had taken, but just then, through the
night
air, over the receding sound of the horse's scamper and the
sobbing
of the pack in full cry, there came a long scream, and after
that a
sickening silence. And I knew that somewhere yonder, under
the
beautiful moonlight, the Baron Kossowski was being devoured by
his
starving dogs.
"I looked round, with the sweat on my face, vaguely, for some
human
being to share the horror of the moment, and I saw, gliding
away,
far away in the white distance, the black silhouette of the
sledge."
"Well?" said we, in divers tones of impatience, curiosity,
or
horror, according to our divers temperaments, as the speaker
uncrossed his legs and gazed at us in mild triumph, with all
the
air of having said his say, and satisfactorily proved his
point.
"Well," repeated he, "what more do you want to know? It
will
interest you but slightly, I am sure, to hear how I found my
way
back to the Hof; or how I told as much as I deemed prudent of
the
evening's grewsome work to the baron's servants, who, by the
way,
to my amazement, displayed the profoundest and most
unmistakable
sorrow at the tidings, and sallied forth (at their head the
Cossack
who had seen us depart) to seek for his remains. Excuse the
unpleasantness of the remark: I fear the dogs must have left
very
little of him, he had dieted them so carefully. However, since
it
was to have been a case of 'chop, crunch, and gobble,' as the
baron
had it, I preferred that that particular fate should have
overtaken
him rather than me--or, for that matter, either of those two
country people of ours in the sledge.
"Nor am I going to inflict upon you," continued Marshfield,
after
draining his glass, "a full account of my impressions when I
found
myself once more in that immense, deserted, and stricken house,
so
luxuriously prepared for the mistress who had fled from it; how
I
philosophized over all this, according to my wont; the
conjectures
I made as to the first acts of the drama; the untold sufferings
my
countrywoman must have endured from the moment her husband
first
grew jealous till she determined on this desperate step; as to
how
and when she had met her lover, how they communicated, and how
the
baron had discovered the intended flitting in time to concoct
his
characteristic revenge.
"One thing you may be sure of, I had no mind to remain at Yany
an
hour longer than necessary. I even contrived to get well clear
of
the neighborhood before the lady's absence was discovered.
Luckily
for me--or I might have been taxed with connivance, though
indeed
the simple household did not seem to know what suspicion was,
and
accepted my account with childlike credence--very typical, and
very
convenient to me at the same time."
"But how do you know," said one of us, "that the man was her
lover?
He might have been her brother or some other relative."
"That," said Marshfield, with his little flat laugh, "I happen
to
have ascertained--and, curiously enough, only a few weeks ago.
It
was at the play, between the acts, from my comfortable seat
(the
first row in the pit). I was looking leisurely round the
house
when I caught sight of a woman, in a box close by, whose head
was
turned from me, and who presented the somewhat unusual spectacle
of
a young neck and shoulders of the most exquisite
contour--and
perfectly gray hair; and not dull gray, but rather of a
pleasing
tint like frosted silver. This aroused my curiosity. I brought
my
glasses to a focus on her and waited patiently till she
turned
round. Then I recognized the Baroness Kassowski, and I no
longer
wondered at the young hair being white.
"Yet she looked placid and happy; strangely so, it seemed to
me,
under the sudden reviving in my memory of such scenes as I have
now
described. But presently I understood further: beside her,
in
close attendance, was the man of the sledge, a handsome fellow
with
much of a military air about him.
"During the course of the evening, as I watched, I saw a
friend of
mine come into the box, and at the end I slipped out into
the
passage to catch him as he came out.
"'Who is the woman with the white hair?' I asked. Then, in
the
fragmentary style approved of by ultra-fashionable young
men--this
earnest-languid mode of speech presents curious similarities in
all
languages--he told me: 'Most charming couple in
London--awfully
pretty, wasn't she?--he had been in the Guards--attache at
Vienna
once--they adored each other. White hair, devilish queer,
wasn't
it? Suited her, somehow. And then she had been married to a
Russian, or something, somewhere in the wilds, and their
names
were--' But do you know," said Marshfield, interrupting
himself,
"I think I had better let you find that out for yourselves, if
you
care."
What I am going to relate may seem to some merely to be curious
and
on a party with the diverting story of M. Boisrose, which I
have
set down in an earlier part of my memoirs. But among the
calumnies
of those who have never ceased to attack me since the death of
the
late king, the statement that I kept from his majesty things
which
should have reached his ears has always had a prominent
place,
though a thousand times refuted by my friends, and those who
from
an intimate acquaintance with events could judge how faithfully
I
labored to deserve the confidence with which my master honored
me.
Therefore, I take it in hand to show by an example, trifling
in
itself, the full knowledge of affairs which the king had, and
to
prove that in many matters, which were never permitted to
become
known to the idlers of the court, he took a personal share,
worthy
as much of Haroun as of Alexander.
It was my custom, before I entered upon those negotiations with
the
Prince of Conde which terminated in the recovery of the estate
of
Villebon, where I now principally reside, to spend a part of
the
autumn and winter at Rosny. On these occasions I was in the
habit
of leaving Paris with a considerable train of Swiss, pages,
valets,
and grooms, together with the maids of honor and waiting women
of
the duchess. We halted to take dinner at Poissy, and
generally
contrived to reach Rosny toward nightfall, so as to sup by
the
light of flambeaux in a manner enjoyable enough, though devoid
of
that state which I have ever maintained, and enjoined upon
my
children, as at once the privilege and burden of rank.
At the time of which I am speaking I had for my favorite
charger
the sorrel horse which the Duke of Mercoeur presented to me with
a
view to my good offices at the time of the king's entry into
Paris;
and which I honestly transferred to his majesty in accordance
with
a principle laid down in another place. The king insisted on
returning it to me, and for several years I rode it on these
annual
visits to Rosny. What was more remarkable was that on each
of
these occasions it cast a shoe about the middle of the
afternoon,
and always when we were within a short league of the village
of
Aubergenville. Though I never had with me less than half a
score
of led horses, I had such an affection for the sorrel that I
preferred to wait until it was shod, rather than accommodate
myself
to a nag of less easy paces; and would allow my household to
precede me, staying behind myself with at most a guard or two,
my
valet, and a page.
The forge at Aubergenville was kept by a smith of some skill,
a
cheerful fellow, whom I always remembered to reward, considering
my
own position rather than his services, with a gold livre. His
joy
at receiving what was to him the income of a year was great,
and
never failed to reimburse me; in addition to which I took
some
pleasure in unbending, and learning from this simple peasant
and
loyal man, what the taxpayers were saying of me and my
reforms--a
duty I always felt I owed to the king my master.
As a man of breeding it would ill become me to set down the
homely
truths I thus learned. The conversations of the vulgar are
little
suited to a nobleman's memoirs; but in this I distinguish
between
the Duke of Sully and the king's minister, and it is in the
latter
capacity that I relate what passed on these diverting
occasions.
"Ho, Simon," I would say, encouraging the poor man as he
came
bowing and trembling before me, "how goes it, my friend?"
"Badly," he would answer, "very badly until your lordship came
this
way."
"And how is that, little man?"
"Oh, it is the roads," he always replied, shaking his bald
head as
he began to set about his business. "The roads since your
lordship
became surveyor-general are so good that not one horse in a
hundred
casts a shoe; and then there are so few highwaymen now that not
one
robber's plates do I replace in a twelvemonth. There is where
it
is."
At this I was highly delighted.
"Still, since I began to pass this way times have not been so
bad
with you, Simon," I would answer.
Thereto he had one invariable reply.
"No; thanks to Ste. Genevieve and your lordship, whom we call
in
this village the poor man's friend, I have a fowl in the
pot."
This phrase so pleased me that I repeated it to the king.
It
tickled his fancy also, and for some years it was a very
common
remark of that good and great ruler, that he hoped to live to
see
every peasant with a fowl in his pot.
"But why," I remember I once asked this honest fellow--it was
on
the last occasion of the sorrel falling lame there--"do you
thank
Ste. Genevieve?"
"She is my patron saint," he answered.
"Then you are a Parisian?"
"Your lordship is always right."
"But does her saintship do you any good?" I asked curiously.
"Certainly, by your lordship's leave. My wife prays to her and
she
loosens the nails in the sorrel's shoes."
"In fact she pays off an old grudge," I answered, "for there
was a
time when Paris liked me little; but hark ye, master smith, I
am
not sure that this is not an act of treason to conspire with
Madame
Genevieve against the comfort of the king's minister. What
think
you, you rascal; can you pass the justice elm without a
shiver?"
This threw the simple fellow into a great fear, which the
sight of
the livre of gold speedily converted into joy as stupendous.
Leaving him still staring at his fortune I rode away; but when
we
had gone some little distance, the aspect of his face, when
I
charged him with treason, or my own unassisted
discrimination
suggested a clew to the phenomenon.
"La Trape," I said to my valet--the same who was with me at
Cahors--
"what is the name of the innkeeper at Poissy, at whose house
we
are accustomed to dine?"
"Andrew, may it please your lordship."
"Andrew! I thought so!" I exclaimed, smiting my thigh. "Simon
and
Andrew his brother! Answer, knave, and, if you have permitted
me
to be robbed these many times, tremble for your ears. Is he
not
brother to the smith at Aubergenville who has just shod my
horse?"
La Trape professed to be ignorant on this point, but a groom
who
had stayed behind with me, having sought my permission to
speak,
said it was so, adding that Master Andrew had risen in the
world
through large dealings in hay, which he was wont to take daily
into
Paris and sell, and that he did not now acknowledge or see
anything
of his brother the smith, though it was believed that he
retained a
sneaking liking for him.
On receiving this confirmation of my suspicions, my vanity as
well
as my sense of justice led me to act with the promptitude which
I
have exhibited in greater emergencies. I rated La Trape for
his
carelessness of my interests in permitting this deception to
be
practiced on me; and the main body of my attendants being now
in
sight, I ordered him to take two Swiss and arrest both
brothers
without delay. It wanted yet three hours of sunset, and I
judged
that, by hard riding, they might reach Rosny with their
prisoners
before bedtime.
I spent some time while still on the road in considering
what
punishment I should inflict on the culprits; and finally laid
aside
the purpose I had at first conceived of putting them to
death--an
infliction they had richly deserved--in favor of a plan which
I
thought might offer me some amusement. For the execution of this
I
depended upon Maignan, my equerry, who was a man of lively
imagination, being the same who had of his own motion arranged
and
carried out the triumphal procession, in which I was borne to
Rosny
after the battle of Ivry. Before I sat down to supper I gave
him
his directions; and as I had expected, news was brought to me
while
I was at table that the prisoners had arrived.
Thereupon I informed the duchess and the company generally,
for, as
was usual, a number of my country neighbors had come to
compliment
me on my return, that there was some sport of a rare kind on
foot;
and we adjourned, Maignan, followed by four pages bearing
lights,
leading the way to that end of the terrace which abuts on
the
linden avenue. Here, a score of grooms holding torches aloft
had
been arranged in a circle so that the impromptu theater thus
formed, which Maignan had ordered with much taste, was as light
as
in the day. On a sloping bank at one end seats had been placed
for
those who had supped at my table, while the rest of the
company
found such places of vantage as they could; their number,
indeed,
amounting, with my household, to two hundred persons. In the
center of the open space a small forge fire had been kindled,
the
red glow of which added much to the strangeness of the scene;
and
on the anvil beside it were ranged a number of horses' and
donkeys'
shoes, with a full complement of the tools used by smiths.
All
being ready I gave the word to bring in the prisoners, and
escorted
by La Trape and six of my guards, they were marched into the
arena.
In their pale and terrified faces, and the shaking limbs
which
could scarce support them to their appointed stations, I read
both
the consciousness of guilt and the apprehension of immediate
death;
it was plain that they expected nothing less. I was very
willing
to play with their fears, and for some time looked at them
in
silence, while all wondered with lively curiosity what would
ensue.
I then addressed them gravely, telling the innkeeper that I
knew
well he had loosened each year a shoe of my horse, in order
that
his brother might profit by the job of replacing it; and went on
to
reprove the smith for the ingratitude which had led him to
return
my bounty by the conception of so knavish a trick.
Upon this they confessed their guilt, and flinging themselves
upon
their knees with many tears and prayers begged for mercy.
This,
after a decent interval, I permitted myself to grant. "Your
lives,
which are forfeited, shall be spared," I pronounced. "But
punished
you must be. I therefore ordain that Simon, the smith, at
once
fit, nail, and properly secure a pair of iron shoes to
Andrew's
heels, and that then Andrew, who by that time will have picked
up
something of the smith's art, do the same to Simon. So will
you
both learn to avoid such shoeing tricks for the future."
It may well be imagined that a judgment so whimsical, and so
justly
adapted to the offense, charmed all save the culprits; and in
a
hundred ways the pleasure of those present was evinced, to such
a
degree, indeed, that Maignan had some difficulty in
restoring
silence and gravity to the assemblage. This done, however,
Master
Andrew was taken in hand and his wooden shoes removed. The
tools
of his trade were placed before the smith, who cast glances
so
piteous, first at his brother's feet and then at the shoes on
the
anvil, as again gave rise to a prodigious amount of merriment,
my
pages in particular well-nigh forgetting my presence, and
rolling
about in a manner unpardonable at another time. However, I
rebuked
them sharply, and was about to order the sentence to be
carried
into effect, when the remembrance of the many pleasant
simplicities
which the smith had uttered to me, acting upon a natural
disposition to mercy, which the most calumnious of my enemies
have
never questioned, induced me to give the prisoners a chance
of
escape. "Listen," I said, "Simon and Andrew. Your sentence
has
been pronounced, and will certainly be executed unless you
can
avail yourself of the condition I now offer. You shall have
three
minutes; if in that time either of you can make a good joke,
he
shall go free. If not, let a man attend to the bellows, La
Trape!"
This added a fresh satisfaction to my neighbors, who were
well
assured now that I had not promised them a novel
entertainment
without good grounds; for the grimaces of the two knaves
thus
bidden to jest if they would save their skins, were so
diverting
they would have made a nun laugh. They looked at me with
their
eyes as wide as plates, and for the whole of the time of
grace
never a word could they utter save howls for mercy. "Simon,"
I
said gravely, when the time was up, "have you a joke? No.
Andrew,
my friend, have you a joke? No. Then--"
I was going on to order the sentence to be carried out, when
the
innkeeper flung himself again upon his knees, and cried out
loudly--
as much to my astonishment as to the regret of the bystanders,
who
were bent on seeing so strange a shoeing feat--"One word, my
lord;
I can give you no joke, but I can do a service, an eminent
service
to the king. I can disclose a conspiracy!"
I was somewhat taken aback by this sudden and public
announcement.
But I had been too long in the king's employment not to have
remarked how strangely things are brought to light. On hearing
the
man's words therefore--which were followed by a stricken
silence--I
looked sharply at the faces of such of those present as it
was
possible to suspect, but failed to observe any sign of confusion
or
dismay, or anything more particular than so abrupt a statement
was
calculated to produce. Doubting much whether the man was not
playing with me, I addressed him sternly, warning him to
beware,
lest in his anxiety to save his heels by falsely accusing
others,
he should lose his head. For that if his conspiracy should
prove
to be an invention of his own, I should certainly consider it
my
duty to hang him forthwith.
He heard me out, but nevertheless persisted in his story,
adding
desperately, "It is a plot, my lord, to assassinate you and
the
king on the same day."
This statement struck me a blow; for I had good reason to know
that
at that time the king had alienated many by his infatuation
for
Madame de Verneuil; while I had always to reckon firstly with
all
who hated him, and secondly with all whom my pursuit of his
interests injured, either in reality or appearance. I
therefore
immediately directed that the prisoners should be led in
close
custody to the chamber adjoining my private closet, and taking
the
precaution to call my guards about me, since I knew not what
attempt despair might not breed, I withdrew myself, making
such
apologies to the company as the nature of the case
permitted.
I ordered Simon the smith to be first brought to me, and in
the
presence of Maignan only, I severely examined him as to his
knowledge of any conspiracy. He denied, however, that he had
ever
heard of the matters referred to by his brother, and persisted
so
firmly in the denial that I was inclined to believe him. In
the
end he was taken out and Andrew was brought in. The
innkeeper's
demeanor was such as I have often observed in intriguers
brought
suddenly to book. He averred the existence of the conspiracy,
and
that its objects were those which he had stated. He also
offered
to give up his associates, but conditioned that he should do
this
in his own way; undertaking to conduct me and one other
person--but
no more, lest the alarm should be given--to a place in Paris on
the
following night, where we could hear the plotters state their
plans
and designs. In this way only, he urged, could proof positive
be
obtained.
I was much startled by this proposal, and inclined to think it
a
trap; but further consideration dispelled my fears. The
innkeeper
had held no parley with anyone save his guards and myself since
his
arrest, and could neither have warned his accomplices, nor
acquainted them with any design the execution of which
should
depend on his confession to me. I therefore accepted his
terms--
with a private reservation that I should have help at
hand--and
before daybreak next morning left Rosny, which I had only seen
by
torchlight, with my prisoner and a select body of Swiss. We
entered Paris in the afternoon in three parties, with as
little
parade as possible, and went straight to the Arsenal, whence,
as
soon as evening fell, I hurried with only two armed attendants
to
the Louvre.
A return so sudden and unexpected was as great a surprise to
the
court as to the king, and I was not slow to mark with an
inward
smile the discomposure which appeared very clearly, on the faces
of
several, as the crowd in the chamber fell back for me to
approach
my master. I was careful, however, to remember that this
might
arise from other causes than guilt. The king received me with
his
wonted affection; and divining at once that I must have
something
important to communicate, withdrew with me to the farther end
of
the chamber, where we were out of earshot of the court. I
there
related the story to his majesty, keeping back nothing.
He shook his head, saying merely: "The fish to escape the
frying
pan, grand master, will jump into the fire. And human nature,
save
in the case of you and me, who can trust one another, is
very
fishy."
I was touched by this gracious compliment, but not convinced.
"You
have not seen the man, sire," I said, "and I have had that
advantage."
"And believe him?"
"In part," I answered with caution. "So far at least as to
be
assured that he thinks to save his skin, which he will only do
if
he be telling the truth. May I beg you, sire," I added
hastily,
seeing the direction of his glance, "not to look so fixedly at
the
Duke of Epernon? He grows uneasy."
"Conscience makes--you know the rest."
"Nay, sire, with submission," I replied, "I will answer for
him; if
he be not driven by fear to do something reckless."
"Good! I take your warranty, Duke of Sully," the king said,
with
the easy grace which came so natural to him. "But now in
this
matter what would you have me do?"
"Double your guards, sire, for to-night--that is all. I
will
answer for the Bastile and the Arsenal; and holding these we
hold
Paris."
But thereupon I found that the king had come to a decision,
which I
felt it to be my duty to combat with all my influence. He
had
conceived the idea of being the one to accompany me to the
rendezvous. "I am tired of the dice," he complained, "and sick
of
tennis, at which I know everybody's strength. Madame de
Verneuil
is at Fontainebleau, the queen is unwell. Ah, Sully, I would
the
old days were back when we had Nerac for our Paris, and knew
the
saddle better than the armchair!"
"A king must think of his people," I reminded him.
"The fowl in the pot? To be sure. So I will--to-morrow,"
he
replied. And in the end he would be obeyed. I took my leave
of
him as if for the night, and retired, leaving him at play with
the
Duke of Epernon. But an hour later, toward eight o'clock,
his
majesty, who had made an excuse to withdraw to his closet, met
me
outside the eastern gate of the Louvre.
He was masked, and attended only by Coquet, his master of
the
household. I too wore a mask and was esquired by Maignan,
under
whose orders were four Swiss--whom I had chosen because they
were
unable to speak French--guarding the prisoner Andrew. I bade
Maignan follow the innkeeper's directions, and we proceeded in
two
parties through the streets on the left bank of the river, past
the
Chatelet and Bastile, until we reached an obscure street near
the
water, so narrow that the decrepit wooden houses shut out
well-nigh
all view of the sky. Here the prisoner halted and called upon
me
to fulfill the terms of my agreement. I bade Maignan therefore
to
keep with the Swiss at a distance of fifty paces, but to come
up
should I whistle or otherwise give the alarm; and myself with
the
king and Andrew proceeded onward in the deep shadow of the
houses.
I kept my hand on my pistol, which I had previously shown to
the
prisoner, intimating that on the first sign of treachery I
should
blow out his brains. However, despite precaution, I felt
uncomfortable to the last degree. I blamed myself severely
for
allowing the king to expose himself and the country to this
unnecessary danger; while the meanness of the locality, the
fetid
air, the darkness of the night, which was wet and tempestuous,
and
the uncertainty of the event lowered my spirits, and made
every
splash in the kennel and stumble on the reeking, slippery
pavements--matters over which the king grew merry--seem no
light
troubles to me.
Arriving at a house, which, if we might judge in the
darkness,
seemed to be of rather greater pretensions than its fellows,
our
guide stopped, and whispered to us to mount some steps to a
raised
wooden gallery, which intervened between the lane and the
doorway.
On this, besides the door, a couple of unglazed windows looked
out.
The shutter of one was ajar, and showed us a large, bare
room,
lighted by a couple of rushlights. Directing us to place
ourselves
close to this shutter, the innkeeper knocked at the door in
a
peculiar fashion, and almost immediately entered, going at
once
into the lighted room. Peering cautiously through the window
we
were surprised to find that the only person within, save the
newcomer, was a young woman, who, crouching over a smoldering
fire,
was crooning a lullaby while she attended to a large black
pot.
"Good evening, mistress!" said the innkeeper, advancing to the
fire
with a fair show of nonchalance.
"Good evening, Master Andrew," the girl replied, looking up
and
nodding, but showing no sign of surprise at his appearance.
"Martin is away, but he may return at any moment."
"Is he still of the same mind?"
"Quite."
"And what of Sully? Is he to die then?" he asked.
"They have decided he must," the girl answered gloomily. It
may be
believed that I listened with all my ears, while the king by
a
nudge in my side seemed to rally me on the destiny so coolly
arranged for me. "Martin says it is no good killing the
other
unless he goes too--they have been so long together. But it
vexes
me sadly, Master Andrew," she added with a sudden break in
her
voice. "Sadly it vexes me. I could not sleep last night for
thinking of it, and the risk Martin runs. And I shall sleep
less
when it is done."
"Pooh-pooh!" said that rascally innkeeper. "Think less about
it.
Things will grow worse and worse if they are let live. The
King
has done harm enough already. And he grows old besides."
"That is true!" said the girl. "And no doubt the sooner he is
put
out of the way the better. He is changed sadly. I do not say
a
word for him. Let him die. It is killing Sully that troubles
me--
that and the risk Martin runs."
At this I took the liberty of gently touching the king. He
answered by an amused grimace; then by a motion of his hand
he
enjoined silence. We stooped still farther forward so as better
to
command the room. The girl was rocking herself to and fro in
evident distress of mind. "If we killed the King," she
continued,
"Martin declares we should be no better off, as long as
Sully
lives. Both or neither, he says. But I do not know. I cannot
bear to think of it. It was a sad day when we brought
Epernon
here, Master Andrew; and one I fear we shall rue as long as
we
live."
It was now the king's turn to be moved. He grasped my wrist
so
forcibly that I restrained a cry with difficulty. "Epernon!"
he
whispered harshly in my ear. "They are Epernon's tools! Where
is
your guaranty now, Rosny?"
I confess that I trembled. I knew well that the king,
particular
in small courtesies, never forgot to call his servants by
their
correct titles, save in two cases; when he indicated by the
seeming
error, as once in Marshal Biron's affair, his intention to
promote
or degrade them; or when he was moved to the depths of his
nature
and fell into an old habit. I did not dare to reply, but
listened
greedily for more information.
"When is it to be done?" asked the innkeeper, sinking his
voice and
glancing round, as if he would call especial attention to
this.
"That depends upon Master la Riviere," the girl answered.
"To-
morrow night, I understand, if Master la Riviere can have the
stuff
ready."
I met the king's eyes. They shone fiercely in the faint
light,
which issuing from the window fell on him. Of all things he
hated
treachery most, and La Riviere was his first body physician, and
at
this very time, as I well knew, was treating him for a
slight
derangement which the king had brought upon himself by his
imprudence. This doctor had formerly been in the employment of
the
Bouillon family, who had surrendered his services to the
king.
Neither I nor his majesty had trusted the Duke of Bouillon for
the
last year past, so that we were not surprised by this hint that
he
was privy to the design.
Despite our anxiety not to miss a word, an approaching step
warned
us at this moment to draw back. More than once before we had
done
so to escape the notice of a wayfarer passing up and down.
But
this time I had a difficulty in inducing the king to adopt
the
precaution. Yet it was well that I succeeded, for the person
who
came stumbling along toward us did not pass, but, mounting
the
steps, walked by within touch of us and entered the house.
"The plot thickens," muttered the king. "Who is this?"
At the moment he asked I was racking my brain to remember. I
have
a good eye and a fair recollection for faces, and this was one
I
had seen several times. The features were so familiar that I
suspected the man of being a courtier in disguise, and I ran
over
the names of several persons whom I knew to be Bouillon's
secret
agents. But he was none of these, and obeying the king's
gesture,
I bent myself again to the task of listening.
The girl looked up on the man's entrance, but did not rise.
"You
are late, Martin," she said.
"A little," the newcomer answered. "How do you do, Master
Andrew?
What cheer? What, still vexing, mistress?" he added
contemptuously
to the girl. "You have too soft a heart for this business!"
She sighed, but made no answer.
"You have made up your mind to it, I hear?" said the innkeeper.
"That is it. Needs must when the devil drives!" replied the
man
jauntily. He had a downcast, reckless, luckless air, yet in
his
face I thought I still saw traces of a better spirit.
"The devil in this case was Epernon," quoth Andrew.
"Aye, curse him! I would I had cut his dainty throat before
he
crossed my threshold," cried the desperado. "But there, it is
too
late to say that now. What has to be done, has to be done."
"How are you going about it? Poison, the mistress says."
"Yes; but if I had my way," the man growled fiercely, "I would
out
one of these nights and cut the dogs' throats in the
kennel!"
"You could never escape, Martin!" the girl cried, rising
in
excitement. "It would be hopeless. It would merely be
throwing
away your own life."
"Well, it is not to be done that way, so there is an end of
it,"
quoth the man wearily. "Give me my supper. The devil take
the
king and Sully too! He will soon have them."
On this Master Andrew rose, and I took his movement toward the
door
for a signal for us to retire. He came out at once, shutting
the
door behind him as he bade the pair within a loud good night.
He
found us standing in the street waiting for him and forthwith
fell
on his knees in the mud and looked up at me, the
perspiration
standing thick on his white face. "My lord," he cried hoarsely,
"I
have earned my pardon!"
"If you go on," I said encouragingly, "as you have begun, have
no
fear." Without more ado I whistled up the Swiss and bade
Maignan
go with them and arrest the man and woman with as little
disturbance as possible. While this was being done we waited
without, keeping a sharp eye upon the informer, whose terror,
I
noted with suspicion, seemed to be in no degree diminished. He
did
not, however, try to escape, and Maignan presently came to tell
us
that he had executed the arrest without difficulty or
resistance.
The importance of arriving at the truth before Epernon and
the
greater conspirators should take the alarm was so vividly
present
to the minds of the king and myself, that we did not hesitate
to
examine the prisoners in their house, rather than hazard the
delay
and observation which their removal to a more fit place must
occasion. Accordingly, taking the precaution to post Coquet in
the
street outside, and to plant a burly Swiss in the doorway, the
king
and I entered. I removed my mask as I did so, being aware of
the
necessity of gaining the prisoners' confidence, but I begged
the
king to retain his. As I had expected, the man immediately
recognized me and fell on his knees, a nearer view confirming
the
notion I had previously entertained that his features were
familiar
to me, though I could not remember his name. I thought this a
good
starting-point for my examination, and bidding Maignan withdraw,
I
assumed an air of mildness and asked the fellow his name.
"Martin, only, please your lordship," he answered; adding,
"once I
sold you two dogs, sir, for the chase, and to your lady a
lapdog
called Ninette no larger than her hand."
I remembered the knave, then, as a fashionable dog dealer, who
had
been much about the court in the reign of Henry the Third
and
later; and I saw at once how convenient a tool he might be
made,
since he could be seen in converse with people of all ranks
without
arousing suspicion. The man's face as he spoke expressed so
much
fear and surprise that I determined to try what I had often
found
successful in the case of greater criminals, to squeeze him for
a
confession while still excited by his arrest, and before he
should
have had time to consider what his chances of support at the
hands
of his confederates might be. I charged him therefore solemnly
to
tell the whole truth as he hoped for the king's mercy. He
heard
me, gazing at me piteously; but his only answer, to my
surprise,
was that he had nothing to confess.
"Come, come," I replied sternly, "this will avail you nothing;
if
you do not speak quickly, rogue, and to the point, we shall
find
means to compel you. Who counseled you to attempt his
majesty's
life?"
On this he stared so stupidly at me, and exclaimed with so
real an
appearance of horror: "How? I attempt the king's life? God
forbid!" that I doubted that we had before us a more
dangerous
rascal than I had thought, and I hastened to bring him to
the
point.
"What, then," I cried, frowning, "of the stuff Master la
Riviere is
to give you to take the king's life to-morrow night? Oh, we
know
something, I assure you; bethink you quickly, and find your
tongue
if you would have an easy death."
I expected to see his self-control break down at this proof of
our
knowledge of his design, but he only stared at me with the
same
look of bewilderment. I was about to bid them bring in the
informer that I might see the two front to front, when the
female
prisoner, who had hitherto stood beside her companion in
such
distress and terror as might be expected in a woman of that
class,
suddenly stopped her tears and lamentations. It occurred to
me
that she might make a better witness. I turned to her, but when
I
would have questioned her she broke into a wild scream of
hysterical laughter.
From that I remember that I learned nothing, though it
greatly
annoyed me. But there was one present who did--the king. He
laid
his hand on my shoulder, gripping it with a force that I read as
a
command to be silent.
"Where," he said to the man, "do you keep the King and Sully
and
Epernon, my friend?"
"The King and Sully--with the lordship's leave," said the
man
quickly, with a frightened glance at me--"are in the kennels at
the
back of the house, but it is not safe to go near them. The King
is
raving mad, and--and the other dog is sickening. Epernon we had
to
kill a month back. He brought the disease here, and I have
had
such losses through him as have nearly ruined me, please
your
lordship."
"Get up--get up, man!" cried the king, and tearing off his
mask he
stamped up and down the room, so torn by paroxysms of laughter
that
he choked himself when again and again he attempted to
speak.
I too now saw the mistake, but I could not at first see it in
the
same light. Commanding myself as well as I could, I ordered one
of
the Swiss to fetch in the innkeeper, but to admit no one
else.
The knave fell on his knees as soon as he saw me, his
cheeks
shaking like a jelly.
"Mercy, mercy!" was all he could say.
"You have dared to play with me?" I whispered.
"You bade me joke," he sobbed, "you bade me."
I was about to say that it would be his last joke in this
world--
for my anger was fully aroused--when the king intervened.
"Nay," he said, laying his hand softly on my shoulder. "It
has
been the most glorious jest. I would not have missed it for
a
kingdom. I command you, Sully, to forgive him."
Thereupon his majesty strictly charged the three that they
should
not on peril of their lives mention the circumstances to
anyone.
Nor to the best of my belief did they do so, being so
shrewdly
scared when they recognized the king that I verily think they
never
afterwards so much as spoke of the affair to one another. My
master further gave me on his own part his most gracious
promise
that he would not disclose the matter even to Madame de Verneuil
or
the queen, and upon these representations he induced me freely
to
forgive the innkeeper. So ended this conspiracy, on the
diverting
details of which I may seem to have dwelt longer than I should;
but
alas! in twenty-one years of power I investigated many, and
this
one only can I regard with satisfaction. The rest were so
many
warnings and predictions of the fate which, despite all my care
and
fidelity, was in store for the great and good master I
served.
I was a great solitary when I was young. I made it my pride
to
keep aloof and suffice for my own entertainment; and I may say
that
I had neither friends nor acquaintances until I met that friend
who
became my wife and the mother of my children. With one man
only
was I on private terms; this was R. Northmour, Esquire, of
Graden
Easter, in Scotland. We had met at college; and though there
was
not much liking between us, nor even much intimacy, we were
so
nearly of a humor that we could associate with ease to both.
Misanthropes, we believed ourselves to be; but I have thought
since
that we were only sulky fellows. It was scarcely a
companionship,
but a coexistence in unsociability. Northmour's exceptional
violence of temper made it no easy affair for him to keep the
peace
with anyone but me; and as he respected my silent ways, and let
me
come and go as I pleased, I could tolerate his presence
without
concern. I think we called each other friends.
When Northmour took his degree and I decided to leave the
university without one, he invited me on a long visit to
Graden
Easter; and it was thus that I first became acquainted with
the
scene of my adventures. The mansion house of Graden stood in
a
bleak stretch of country some three miles from the shore of
the
German Ocean. It was as large as a barrack; and as it had
been
built of a soft stone, liable to consume in the eager air of
the
seaside, it was damp and draughty within and half ruinous
without.
It was impossible for two young men to lodge with comfort in
such a
dwelling. But there stood in the northern part of the estate, in
a
wilderness of links and blowing sand hills, and between a
plantation and the sea, a small pavilion or belvedere, of
modern
design, which was exactly suited to our wants; and in this
hermitage, speaking little, reading much, and rarely
associating
except at meals, Northmour and I spent four tempestuous
winter
months. I might have stayed longer; but one March night
there
sprung up between us a dispute, which rendered my departure
necessary. Northmour spoke hotly, I remember, and I suppose I
must
have made some tart rejoinder. He leaped from his chair and
grappled me; I had to fight, without exaggeration, for my life;
and
it was only with a great effort that I mastered him, for he
was
near as strong in body as myself, and seemed filled with the
devil.
The next morning, we met on our usual terms; but I judged it
more
delicate to withdraw; nor did he attempt to dissuade me.
It was nine years before I revisited the neighborhood. I
traveled
at that time with a tilt-cart, a tent, and a cooking stove,
tramping all day beside the wagon, and at night, whenever it
was
possible, gypsying in a cove of the hills, or by the side of
a
wood. I believe I visited in this manner most of the wild
and
desolate regions both in England and Scotland; and, as I had
neither friends nor relations, I was troubled with no
correspondence, and had nothing in the nature of
headquarters,
unless it was the office of my solicitors, from whom I drew
my
income twice a year. It was a life in which I delighted; and
I
fully thought to have grown old upon the march, and at last died
in
a ditch.
It was my whole business to find desolate corners, where I
could
camp without the fear of interruption; and hence, being in
another
part of the same shire, I bethought me suddenly of the Pavilion
on
the Links. No thoroughfare passed within three miles of it.
The
nearest town, and that was but a fisher village, was at a
distance
of six or seven. For ten miles of length, and from a depth
varying
from three miles to half a mile, this belt of barren country
lay
along the sea. The beach, which was the natural approach, was
full
of quicksands. Indeed I may say there is hardly a better place
of
concealment in the United Kingdom. I determined to pass a week
in
the Sea-Wood of Graden Easter, and making a long stage, reached
it
about sundown on a wild September day.
The country, I have said, was mixed sand hill and links,
LINKS
being a Scottish name for sand which has ceased drifting and
become
more or less solidly covered with turf. The pavilion stood on
an
even space: a little behind it, the wood began in a hedge of
elders
huddled together by the wind; in front, a few tumbled sand
hills
stood between it and the sea. An outcropping of rock had formed
a
bastion for the sand, so that there was here a promontory in
the
coast line between two shallow bays; and just beyond the tides,
the
rock again cropped out and formed an islet of small dimensions
but
strikingly designed. The quicksands were of great extent at
low
water, and had an infamous reputation in the country. Close
in
shore, between the islet and the promontory, it was said they
would
swallow a man in four minutes and a half; but there may have
been
little ground for this precision. The district was alive
with
rabbits, and haunted by gulls which made a continual piping
about
the pavilion. On summer days the outlook was bright and even
gladsome; but at sundown in September, with a high wind, and
a
heavy surf rolling in close along the links, the place told
of
nothing but dead mariners and sea disaster. A ship beating
to
windward on the horizon, and a huge truncheon of wreck half
buried
in the sands at my feet, completed the innuendo of the
scene.
The pavilion--it had been built by the last proprietor,
Northmour's
uncle, a silly and prodigal virtuoso--presented little signs
of
age. It was two stories in height, Italian in design,
surrounded
by a patch of garden in which nothing had prospered but a
few
coarse flowers; and looked, with its shuttered windows, not like
a
house that had been deserted, but like one that had never
been
tenanted by man. Northmour was plainly from home; whether,
as
usual, sulking in the cabin of his yacht, or in one of his
fitful
and extravagant appearances in the world of society, I had,
of
course, no means of guessing. The place had an air of
solitude
that daunted even a solitary like myself; the wind cried in
the
chimneys with a strange and wailing note; and it was with a
sense
of escape, as if I were going indoors, that I turned away
and,
driving my cart before me, entered the skirts of the wood.
The Sea-Wood of Graden had been planted to shelter the
cultivated
fields behind, and check the encroachments of the blowing sand.
As
you advanced into it from coastward, elders were succeeded by
other
hardy shrubs; but the timber was all stunted and bushy; it led
a
life of conflict; the trees were accustomed to swing there
all
night long in fierce winter tempests; and even in early spring,
the
leaves were already flying, and autumn was beginning, in
this
exposed plantation. Inland the ground rose into a little
hill,
which, along with the islet, served as a sailing mark for
seamen.
When the hill was open of the islet to the north, vessels must
bear
well to the eastward to clear Graden Ness and the Graden
Bullers.
In the lower ground, a streamlet ran among the trees, and,
being
dammed with dead leaves and clay of its own carrying, spread
out
every here and there, and lay in stagnant pools. One or two
ruined
cottages were dotted about the wood; and, according to
Northmour,
these were ecclesiastical foundations, and in their time had
sheltered pious hermits.
I found a den, or small hollow, where there was a spring of
pure
water; and there, clearing away the brambles, I pitched the
tent,
and made a fire to cook my supper. My horse I picketed farther
in
the wood where there was a patch of sward. The banks of the
den
not only concealed the light of my fire, but sheltered me from
the
wind, which was cold as well as high.
The life I was leading made me both hardy and frugal. I
never
drank but water, and rarely eat anything more costly than
oatmeal;
and I required so little sleep, that, although I rose with the
peep
of day, I would often lie long awake in the dark or starry
watches
of the night. Thus in Graden Sea-Wood, although I fell
thankfully
asleep by eight in the evening I was awake again before eleven
with
a full possession of my faculties, and no sense of drowsiness
or
fatigue. I rose and sat by the fire, watching the trees and
clouds
tumultuously tossing and fleeing overhead, and hearkening to
the
wind and the rollers along the shore; till at length, growing
weary
of inaction, I quitted the den, and strolled toward the borders
of
the wood. A young moon, buried in mist, gave a faint
illumination
to my steps; and the light grew brighter as I walked forth into
the
links. At the same moment, the wind, smelling salt of the
open
ocean and carrying particles of sand, struck me with its
full
force, so that I had to bow my head.
When I raised it again to look about me, I was aware of a
light in
the pavilion. It was not stationary; but passed from one window
to
another, as though some one were reviewing the different
apartments
with a lamp or candle. I watched it for some seconds in
great
surprise. When I had arrived in the afternoon the house had
been
plainly deserted; now it was as plainly occupied. It was my
first
idea that a gang of thieves might have broken in and be now
ransacking Northmour's cupboards, which were many and not
ill
supplied. But what should bring thieves at Graden Easter?
And,
again, all the shutters had been thrown open, and it would
have
been more in the character of such gentry to close them. I
dismissed the notion, and fell back upon another. Northmour
himself must have arrived, and was now airing and inspecting
the
pavilion.
I have said that there was no real affection between this man
and
me; but, had I loved him like a brother, I was then so much more
in
love with solitude that I should none the less have shunned
his
company. As it was, I turned and ran for it; and it was with
genuine satisfaction that I found myself safely back beside
the
fire. I had escaped an acquaintance; I should have one more
night
in comfort. In the morning, I might either slip away before
Northmour was abroad, or pay him as short a visit as I
chose.
But when morning came, I thought the situation so diverting
that I
forgot my shyness. Northmour was at my mercy; I arranged a
good
practical jest, though I knew well that my neighbor was not the
man
to jest with in security; and, chuckling beforehand over its
success, took my place among the elders at the edge of the
wood,
whence I could command the door of the pavilion. The shutters
were
all once more closed, which I remember thinking odd; and the
house,
with its white walls and green venetians, looked spruce and
habitable in the morning light. Hour after hour passed, and
still
no sign of Northmour. I knew him for a sluggard in the
morning;
but, as it drew on toward noon, I lost my patience. To say
the
truth, I had promised myself to break my fast in the pavilion,
and
hunger began to prick me sharply. It was a pity to let the
opportunity go by without some cause for mirth; but the
grosser
appetite prevailed, and I relinquished my jest with regret,
and
sallied from the wood.
The appearance of the house affected me, as I drew near;
with
disquietude. It seemed unchanged since last evening; and I
had
expected it, I scarce knew why, to wear some external signs
of
habitation. But no: the windows were all closely shuttered,
the
chimneys breathed no smoke, and the front door itself was
closely
padlocked. Northmour, therefore, had entered by the back; this
was
the natural, and indeed, the necessary conclusion; and you
may
judge of my surprise when, on turning the house, I found the
back
door similarly secured.
My mind at once reverted to the original theory of thieves;
and I
blamed myself sharply for my last night's inaction. I examined
all
the windows on the lower story, but none of them had been
tampered
with; I tried the padlocks, but they were both secure. It
thus
became a problem how the thieves, if thieves they were, had
managed
to enter the house. They must have got, I reasoned, upon the
roof
of the outhouse where Northmour used to keep his
photographic
battery; and from thence, either by the window of the study or
that
of my old bedroom, completed their burglarious entry.
I followed what I supposed was their example; and, getting on
the
roof, tried the shutters of each room. Both were secure; but I
was
not to be beaten; and, with a little force, one of them flew
open,
grazing, as it did so, the back of my hand. I remember, I put
the
wound to my mouth, and stood for perhaps half a minute licking
it
like a dog, and mechanically gazing behind me over the waste
links
and the sea; and, in that space of time, my eye made note of
a
large schooner yacht some miles to the north-east. Then I threw
up
the window and climbed in.
I went over the house, and nothing can express my
mystification.
There was no sign of disorder, but, on the contrary, the rooms
were
unusually clean and pleasant. I found fires laid, ready for
lighting; three bedrooms prepared with a luxury quite foreign
to
Northmour's habits, and with water in the ewers and the beds
turned
down; a table set for three in the dining-room; and an ample
supply
of cold meats, game, and vegetables on the pantry shelves.
There
were guests expected, that was plain; but why guests, when
Northmour hated society? And, above all, why was the house
thus
stealthily prepared at dead of night? and why were the
shutters
closed and the doors padlocked?
I effaced all traces of my visit, and came forth from the
window
feeling sobered and concerned.
The schooner yacht was still in the same place; and it flashed
for
a moment through my mind that this might be the Red Earl
bringing
the owner of the pavilion and his guests. But the vessel's
head
was set the other way.
I returned to the den to cook myself a meal, of which I stood
in
great need, as well as to care for my horse, whom I had
somewhat
neglected in the morning. From time to time I went down to
the
edge of the wood; but there was no change in the pavilion, and
not
a human creature was seen all day upon the links. The schooner
in
the offing was the one touch of life within my range of
vision.
She, apparently with no set object, stood off and on or lay
to,
hour after hour; but as the evening deepened, she drew
steadily
nearer. I became more convinced that she carried Northmour and
his
friends, and that they would probably come ashore after dark;
not
only because that was of a piece with the secrecy of the
preparations, but because the tide would not have flowed
sufficiently before eleven to cover Graden Floe and the other
sea
quags that fortified the shore against invaders.
All day the wind had been going down, and the sea along with
it;
but there was a return towards sunset of the heavy weather of
the
day before. The night set in pitch dark. The wind came off
the
sea in squalls, like the firing of a battery of cannon; now
and
then there was a flaw of rain, and the surf rolled heavier with
the
rising tide. I was down at my observatory among the elders, when
a
light was run up to the masthead of the schooner, and showed
she
was closer in than when I had last seen her by the dying
daylight.
I concluded that this must be a signal to Northmour's associates
on
shore; and, stepping forth into the links, looked around me
for
something in response.
A small footpath ran along the margin of the wood, and formed
the
most direct communication between the pavilion and the
mansion-
house; and, as I cast my eyes to that side, I saw a spark of
light,
not a quarter of a mile away, and rapidly approaching. From
its
uneven course it appeared to be the light of a lantern carried
by a
person who followed the windings of the path, and was often
staggered and taken aback by the more violent squalls. I
concealed
myself once more among the elders, and waited eagerly for
the
newcomer's advance. It proved to be a woman; and, as she
passed
within half a rod of my ambush, I was able to recognise the
features. The deaf and silent old dame, who had nursed
Northmour
in his childhood, was his associate in this underhand
affair.
I followed her at a little distance, taking advantage of
the
innumerable heights and hollows, concealed by the darkness,
and
favored not only by the nurse's deafness, but by the uproar of
the
wind and surf. She entered the pavilion, and, going at once to
the
upper story, opened and set a light in one of the windows
that
looked toward the sea. Immediately afterwards the light at
the
schooner's masthead was run down and extinguished. Its purpose
had
been attained, and those on board were sure that they were
expected. The old woman resumed her preparations; although
the
other shutters remained closed, I could see a glimmer going to
and
fro about the house; and a gush of sparks from one chimney
after
another soon told me that the fires were being kindled.
Northmour and his guests, I was now persuaded, would come
ashore as
soon as there was water on the floe. It was a wild night for
boat
service; and I felt some alarm mingle with my curiosity as I
reflected on the danger of the landing. My old acquaintance,
it
was true, was the most eccentric of men; but the present
eccentricity was both disquieting and lugubrious to consider.
A
variety of feelings thus led me toward the beach, where I lay
flat
on my face in a hollow within six feet of the track that led to
the
pavilion. Thence, I should have the satisfaction of
recognizing
the arrivals, and, if they should prove to be acquaintances,
greeting them as soon as they landed.
Some time before eleven, while the tide was still dangerously
low,
a boat's lantern appeared close in shore; and, my attention
being
thus awakened, I could perceive another still far to
seaward,
violently tossed, and sometimes hidden by the billows. The
weather, which was getting dirtier as the night went on, and
the
perilous situation of the yacht upon a lee shore, had
probably
driven them to attempt a landing at the earliest possible
moment.
A little afterwards, four yachtsmen carrying a very heavy
chest,
and guided by a fifth with a lantern, passed close in front of
me
as I lay, and were admitted to the pavilion by the nurse.
They
returned to the beach, and passed me a third time with
another
chest, larger but apparently not so heavy as the first. A
third
time they made the transit; and on this occasion one of the
yachtsmen carried a leather portmanteau, and the others a
lady's
trunk and carriage bag. My curiosity was sharply excited. If
a
woman were among the guests of Northmour, it would show a change
in
his habits, and an apostasy from his pet theories of life,
well
calculated to fill me with surprise. When he and I dwelt
there
together, the pavilion had been a temple of misogyny. And now,
one
of the detested sex was to be installed under its roof. I
remembered one or two particulars, a few notes of daintiness
and
almost of coquetry which had struck me the day before as I
surveyed
the preparations in the house; their purpose was now clear, and
I
thought myself dull not to have perceived it from the first.
While I was thus reflecting, a second lantern drew near me
from the
beach. It was carried by a yachtsman whom I had not yet seen,
and
who was conducting two other persons to the pavilion. These
two
persons were unquestionably the guests for whom the house was
made
ready; and, straining eye and ear, I set myself to watch them
as
they passed. One was an unusually tall man, in a traveling
hat
slouched over his eyes, and a highland cape closely buttoned
and
turned up so as to conceal his face. You could make out no more
of
him than that he was, as I have said, unusually tall, and
walked
feebly with a heavy stoop. By his side, and either clinging to
him
or giving him support--I could not make out which--was a
young,
tall, and slender figure of a woman. She was extremely pale;
but
in the light of the lantern her face was so marred by strong
and
changing shadows, that she might equally well have been as ugly
as
sin or as beautiful as I afterwards found her to be.
When they were just abreast of me, the girl made some remark
which
was drowned by the noise of the wind.
"Hush!" said her companion; and there was something in the
tone
with which the word was uttered that thrilled and rather shook
my
spirits. It seemed to breathe from a bosom laboring under
the
deadliest terror; I have never heard another syllable so
expressive; and I still hear it again when I am feverish at
night,
and my mind runs upon old times. The man turned toward the girl
as
he spoke; I had a glimpse of much red beard and a nose which
seemed
to have been broken in youth; and his light eyes seemed shining
in
his face with some strong and unpleasant emotion.
But these two passed on and were admitted in their turn to
the
pavilion.
One by one, or in groups, the seamen returned to the beach.
The
wind brought me the sound of a rough voice crying, "Shove
off!"
Then, after a pause, another lantern drew near. It was
Northmour
alone.
My wife and I, a man and a woman, have often agreed to wonder
how a
person could be, at the same time, so handsome and so repulsive
as
Northmour. He had the appearance of a finished gentleman; his
face
bore every mark of intelligence and courage; but you had only
to
look at him, even in his most amiable moment, to see that he
had
the temper of a slaver captain. I never knew a character that
was
both explosive and revengeful to the same degree; he combined
the
vivacity of the south with the sustained and deadly hatreds of
the
north; and both traits were plainly written on his face, which
was
a sort of danger signal. In person, he was tall, strong, and
active; his hair and complexion very dark; his features
handsomely
designed, but spoiled by a menacing expression.
At that moment he was somewhat paler than by nature; he wore
a
heavy frown; and his lips worked, and he looked sharply round
him
as he walked, like a man besieged with apprehensions. And yet
I
thought he had a look of triumph underlying all, as though he
had
already done much, and was near the end of an achievement.
Partly from a scruple of delicacy--which I dare say came too
late--
partly from the pleasure of startling an acquaintance, I desired
to
make my presence known to him without delay.
I got suddenly to my feet, and stepped forward.
"Northmour!" said I.
I have never had so shocking a surprise in all my days. He
leaped
on me without a word; something shone in his hand; and he
struck
for my heart with a dagger. At the same moment I knocked him
head
over heels. Whether it was my quickness, or his own uncertainty,
I
know not; but the blade only grazed my shoulder, while the hilt
and
his fist struck me violently on the mouth.
I fled, but not far. I had often and often observed the
capabilities of the sand hills for protracted ambush or
stealthy
advances and retreats; and, not ten yards from the scene of
the
scuffle, plumped down again upon the grass. The lantern had
fallen
and gone out. But what was my astonishment to see Northmour
slip
at a bound into the pavilion, and hear him bar the door behind
him
with a clang of iron!
He had not pursued me. He had run away. Northmour, whom I
knew
for the most implacable and daring of men, had run away! I
could
scarce believe my reason; and yet in this strange business,
where
all was incredible, there was nothing to make a work about in
an
incredibility more or less. For why was the pavilion
secretly
prepared? Why had Northmour landed with his guests at dead
of
night, in half a gale of wind, and with the floe scarce
covered?
Why had he sought to kill me? Had he not recognized my voice?
I
wondered. And, above all, how had he come to have a dagger
ready
in his hand? A dagger, or even a sharp knife, seemed out of
keeping with the age in which we lived; and a gentleman
landing
from his yacht on the shore of his own estate, even although it
was
at night and with some mysterious circumstances, does not
usually,
as a matter of fact, walk thus prepared for deadly onslaught.
The
more I reflected, the further I felt at sea. I recapitulated
the
elements of mystery, counting them on my fingers: the
pavilion
secretly prepared for guests; the guests landed at the risk
of
their lives and to the imminent peril of the yacht; the guests,
or
at least one of them, in undisguised and seemingly causeless
terror; Northmour with a naked weapon; Northmour stabbing his
most
intimate acquaintance at a word; last, and not least
strange,
Northmour fleeing from the man whom he had sought to murder,
and
barricading himself, like a hunted creature, behind the door of
the
pavilion. Here were at least six separate causes for extreme
surprise; each part and parcel with the others, and forming
all
together one consistent story. I felt almost ashamed to believe
my
own senses.
As I thus stood, transfixed with wonder, I began to grow
painfully
conscious of the injuries I had received in the scuffle;
skulked
round among the sand hills; and, by a devious path, regained
the
shelter of the wood. On the way, the old nurse passed again
within
several yards of me, still carrying her lantern, on the
return
journey to the mansion house of Graden. This made a seventh
suspicious feature in the case. Northmour and his guests, it
appeared, were to cook and do the cleaning for themselves,
while
the old woman continued to inhabit the big empty barrack among
the
policies. There must surely be great cause for secrecy, when
so
many inconveniences were confronted to preserve it.
So thinking, I made my way to the den. For greater security,
I
trod out the embers of the fire, and lighted my lantern to
examine
the wound upon my shoulder. It was a trifling hurt, although
it
bled somewhat freely, and I dressed it as well as I could (for
its
position made it difficult to reach) with some rag and cold
water
from the spring. While I was thus busied, I mentally declared
war
against Northmour and his mystery. I am not an angry man by
nature, and I believe there was more curiosity than resentment
in
my heart. But war I certainly declared; and, by way of
preparation, I got out my revolver, and, having drawn the
charges,
cleaned and reloaded it with scrupulous care. Next I became
preoccupied about my horse. It might break loose, or fall to
neighing, and so betray my camp in the Sea-Wood. I determined
to
rid myself of its neighborhood; and long before dawn I was
leading
it over the links in the direction of the fisher village.
For two days I skulked round the pavilion, profiting by the
uneven
surface of the links. I became an adept in the necessary
tactics.
These low hillocks and shallow dells, running one into
another,
became a kind of cloak of darkness for my inthralling, but
perhaps
dishonorable, pursuit.
Yet, in spite of this advantage, I could learn but little
of
Northmour or his guests.
Fresh provisions were brought under cover of darkness by the
old
woman from the mansion house. Northmour, and the young lady,
sometimes together, but more often singly, would walk for an
hour
or two at a time on the beach beside the quicksand. I could
not
but conclude that this promenade was chosen with an eye to
secrecy;
for the spot was open only to seaward. But it suited me not
less
excellently; the highest and most accidented of the sand
hills
immediately adjoined; and from these, lying flat in a hollow,
I
could overlook Northmour or the young lady as they walked.
The tall man seemed to have disappeared. Not only did he
never
cross the threshold, but he never so much as showed face at
a
window; or, at least, not so far as I could see; for I dared
not
creep forward beyond a certain distance in the day, since the
upper
floors commanded the bottoms of the links; and at night, when
I
could venture further, the lower windows were barricaded as if
to
stand a siege. Sometimes I thought the tall man must be
confined
to bed, for I remembered the feebleness of his gait; and
sometimes
I thought he must have gone clear away, and that Northmour and
the
young lady remained alone together in the pavilion. The idea,
even
then, displeased me.
Whether or not this pair were man and wife, I had seen
abundant
reason to doubt the friendliness of their relation. Although
I
could hear nothing of what they said, and rarely so much as
glean a
decided expression on the face of either, there was a
distance,
almost a stiffness, in their bearing which showed them to be
either
unfamiliar or at enmity. The girl walked faster when she was
with
Northmour than when she was alone; and I conceived that any
inclination between a man and a woman would rather delay
than
accelerate the step. Moreover, she kept a good yard free of
him,
and trailed her umbrella, as if it were a barrier, on the
side
between them. Northmour kept sidling closer; and, as the
girl
retired from his advance, their course lay at a sort of
diagonal
across the beach, and would have landed them in the surf had
it
been long enough continued. But, when this was imminent, the
girl
would unostentatiously change sides and put Northmour between
her
and the sea. I watched these maneuvers, for my part, with
high
enjoyment and approval, and chuckled to myself at every
move.
On the morning of the third day, she walked alone for some
time,
and I perceived, to my great concern, that she was more than
once
in tears. You will see that my heart was already interested
more
than I supposed. She had a firm yet airy motion of the body,
and
carried her head with unimaginable grace; every step was a thing
to
look at, and she seemed in my eyes to breathe sweetness and
distinction.
The day was so agreeable, being calm and sunshiny, with a
tranquil
sea, and yet with a healthful piquancy and vigor in the air,
that,
contrary to custom, she was tempted forth a second time to
walk.
On this occasion she was accompanied by Northmour, and they
had
been but a short while on the beach, when I saw him take
forcible
possession of her hand. She struggled, and uttered a cry that
was
almost a scream. I sprung to my feet, unmindful of my
strange
position; but, ere I had taken a step, I saw Northmour
bareheaded
and bowing very low, as if to apologize; and dropped again at
once
into my ambush. A few words were interchanged; and then,
with
another bow, he left the beach to return to the pavilion. He
passed not far from me, and I could see him, flushed and
lowering,
and cutting savagely with his cane among the grass. It was
not
without satisfaction that I recognized my own handiwork in a
great
cut under his right eye, and a considerable discoloration round
the
socket.
For some time the girl remained where he had left her, looking
out
past the islet and over the bright sea. Then with a start, as
one
who throws off preoccupation and puts energy again upon its
mettle,
she broke into a rapid and decisive walk. She also was much
incensed by what had passed. She had forgotten where she was.
And
I beheld her walk straight into the borders of the quicksand
where
it is most abrupt and dangerous. Two or three steps farther
and
her life would have been in serious jeopardy, when I slid down
the
face of the sand hill, which is there precipitous, and,
running
halfway forward, called to her to stop.
She did so, and turned round. There was not a tremor of fear
in
her behavior, and she marched directly up to me like a queen.
I
was barefoot, and clad like a common sailor, save for an
Egyptian
scarf round my waist; and she probably took me at first for
some
one from the fisher village, straying after bait. As for her,
when
I thus saw her face to face, her eyes set steadily and
imperiously
upon mine, I was filled with admiration and astonishment,
and
thought her even more beautiful than I had looked to find her.
Nor
could I think enough of one who, acting with so much boldness,
yet
preserved a maidenly air that was both quaint and engaging; for
my
wife kept an old-fashioned precision of manner through all
her
admirable life--an excellent thing in woman, since it sets
another
value on her sweet familiarities.
"What does this mean?" she asked.
"You were walking," I told her, "directly into Graden Floe."
"You do not belong to these parts," she said again. "You
speak
like an educated man."
"I believe I have a right to that name," said I, "although in
this
disguise."
But her woman's eye had already detected the sash.
"Oh!" she said; "your sash betrays you."
"You have said the word BETRAY," I resumed. "May I ask you not
to
betray me? I was obliged to disclose myself in your interest;
but
if Northmour learned my presence it might be worse than
disagreeable for me."
"Do you know," she asked, "to whom you are speaking?"
"Not to Mr. Northmour's wife?" I asked, by way of answer.
She shook her head. All this while she was studying my face
with
an embarrassing intentness. Then she broke out--
"You have an honest face. Be honest like your face, sir, and
tell
me what you want and what you are afraid of. Do you think I
could
hurt you? I believe you have far more power to injure me! And
yet
you do not look unkind. What do you mean--you, a
gentleman--by
skulking like a spy about this desolate place? Tell me," she
said,
"who is it you hate?"
"I hate no one," I answered; "and I fear no one face to face.
My
name is Cassilis--Frank Cassilis. I lead the life of a
vagabond
for my own good pleasure. I am one of Northmour's oldest
friends;
and three nights ago, when I addressed him on these links,
he
stabbed me in the shoulder with a knife."
"It was you!" she said.
"Why he did so," I continued, disregarding the interruption,
"is
more than I can guess, and more than I care to know. I have
not
many friends, nor am I very susceptible to friendship; but no
man
shall drive me from a place by terror. I had camped in the
Graden
Sea-Wood ere he came; I camp in it still. If you think I mean
harm
to you or yours, madame, the remedy is in your hand. Tell him
that
my camp is in the Hemlock Den, and tonight he can stab me in
safety
while I sleep."
With this I doffed my cap to her, and scrambled up once more
among
the sand hills. I do not know why, but I felt a prodigious
sense
of injustice, and felt like a hero and a martyr; while as a
matter
of fact, I had not a word to say in my defense, nor so much as
one
plausible reason to offer for my conduct. I had stayed at
Graden
out of a curiosity natural enough, but undignified; and
though
there was another motive growing in along with the first, it
was
not one which, at that period, I could have properly explained
to
the lady of my heart.
Certainly, that night, I thought of no one else; and, though
her
whole conduct and position seemed suspicious, I could not find
it
in my heart to entertain a doubt of her integrity. I could
have
staked my life that she was clear of blame, and, though all
was
dark at the present, that the explanation of the mystery would
show
her part in these events to be both right and needful. It
was
true, let me cudgel my imagination as I pleased, that I
could
invent no theory of her relations to Northmour; but I felt none
the
less sure of my conclusion because it was founded on instinct
in
place of reason, and, as I may say, went to sleep that night
with
the thought of her under my pillow.
Next day she came out about the same hour alone, and, as soon
as
the sand hills concealed her from the pavilion, drew nearer to
the
edge, and called me by name in guarded tones. I was astonished
to
observe that she was deadly pale, and seemingly under the
influence
of strong emotion.
"Mr. Cassilis!" she cried; "Mr. Cassilis!"
I appeared at once, and leaped down upon the beach. A
remarkable
air of relief overspread her countenance as soon as she saw
me.
"Oh!" she cried, with a hoarse sound, like one whose bosom had
been
lightened of a weight. And then, "Thank God you are still
safe!"
she added; "I knew, if you were, you would be here." (Was not
this
strange? So swiftly and wisely does Nature prepare our hearts
for
these great lifelong intimacies, that both my wife and I had
been
given a presentiment on this the second day of our acquaintance.
I
had even then hoped that she would seek me; she had felt sure
that
she would find me.) "Do not," she went on swiftly, "do not stay
in
this place. Promise me that you will sleep no longer in that
wood.
You do not know how I suffer; all last night I could not sleep
for
thinking of your peril."
"Peril!" I repeated. "Peril from whom? From Northmour?"
"Not so," she said. "Did you think I would tell him after what
you
said?"
"Not from Northmour?" I repeated. "Then how? From whom? I
see
none to be afraid of."
"You must not ask me," was her reply, "for I am not free to
tell
you. Only believe me, and go hence--believe me, and go away
quickly, quickly, for your life!"
An appeal to his alarm is never a good plan to rid oneself of
a
spirited young man. My obstinacy was but increased by what
she
said, and I made it a point of honor to remain. And her
solicitude
for my safety still more confirmed me in the resolve.
"You must not think me inquisitive, madame," I replied; "but,
if
Graden is so dangerous a place, you yourself perhaps remain here
at
some risk."
She only looked at me reproachfully.
"You and your father--" I resumed; but she interrupted me
almost
with a gasp.
"My father! How do you know that?" she cried.
"I saw you together when you landed," was my answer; and I do
not
know why, but it seemed satisfactory to both of us, as indeed
it
was truth. "But," I continued, "you need have no fear from me.
I
see you have some reason to be secret, and, you may believe
me,
your secret is as safe with me as if I were in Graden Floe. I
have
scarce spoken to anyone for years; my horse is my only
companion,
and even he, poor beast, is not beside me. You see, then, you
may
count on me for silence. So tell me the truth, my dear young
lady,
are you not in danger?"
"Mr. Northmour says you are an honorable man," she returned,
"and I
believe it when I see you. I will tell you so much; you are
right;
we are in dreadful, dreadful danger, and you share it by
remaining
where you are."
"Ah!" said I; "you have heard of me from Northmour? And he
gives
me a good character?"
"I asked him about you last night," was her reply. "I
pretended,"
she hesitated, "I pretended to have met you long ago, and spoken
to
you of him. It was not true; but I could not help myself
without
betraying you, and you had put me in a difficulty. He praised
you
highly."
"And--you may permit me one question--does this danger come
from
Northmour?" I asked.
"From Mr. Northmour?" she cried. "Oh, no, he stays with us
to
share it."
"While you propose that I should run away?" I said. "You do
not
rate me very high."
"Why should you stay?" she asked. "You are no friend of ours."
I know not what came over me, for I had not been conscious of
a
similar weakness since I was a child, but I was so mortified
by
this retort that my eyes pricked and filled with tears, as I
continued to gaze upon her face.
"No, no," she said, in a changed voice; "I did not mean the
words
unkindly."
"It was I who offended," I said; and I held out my hand with a
look
of appeal that somehow touched her, for she gave me hers at
once,
and even eagerly. I held it for awhile in mine, and gazed into
her
eyes. It was she who first tore her hand away, and, forgetting
all
about her request and the promise she had sought to extort, ran
at
the top of her speed, and without turning, till she was out
of
sight. And then I knew that I loved her, and thought in my
glad
heart that she--she herself--was not indifferent to my suit.
Many
a time she has denied it in after days, but it was with a
smiling
and not a serious denial. For my part, I am sure our hands
would
not have lain so closely in each other if she had not begun to
melt
to me already. And, when all is said, it is no great
contention,
since, by her own avowal, she began to love me on the
morrow.
And yet on the morrow very little took place. She came and
called
me down as on the day before, upbraided me for lingering at
Graden,
and, when she found I was still obdurate, began to ask me
more
particularly as to my arrival. I told her by what series of
accidents I had come to witness their disembarkation, and how I
had
determined to remain, partly from the interest which had
been
awakened in me by Northmour's guests, and partly because of his
own
murderous attack. As to the former, I fear I was disingenuous,
and
led her to regard herself as having been an attraction to me
from
the first moment that I saw her on the links. It relieves my
heart
to make this confession even now, when my wife is with God,
and
already knows all things, and the honesty of my purpose even
in
this; for while she lived, although it often pricked my
conscience,
I had never the hardihood to undeceive her. Even a little
secret,
in such a married life as ours, is like the rose leaf which
kept
the princess from her sleep.
From this the talk branched into other subjects, and I told
her
much about my lonely and wandering existence; she, for her
part,
giving ear, and saying little. Although we spoke very
naturally,
and latterly on topics that might seem indifferent, we were
both
sweetly agitated. Too soon it was time for her to go; and we
separated, as if by mutual consent, without shaking hands, for
both
knew that, between us, it was no idle ceremony.
The next, and that was the fourth day of our acquaintance, we
met
in the same spot, but early in the morning, with much
familiarity
and yet much timidity on either side. While she had once
more
spoken about my danger--and that, I understood, was her excuse
for
coming--I, who had prepared a great deal of talk during the
night,
began to tell her how highly I valued her kind interest, and how
no
one had ever cared to hear about my life, nor had I ever cared
to
relate it, before yesterday. Suddenly she interrupted me,
saying
with vehemence--
"And yet, if you knew who I was, you would not so much as
speak to
me!"
I told her such a thought was madness, and, little as we had
met, I
counted her already a dear friend; but my protestations seemed
only
to make her more desperate.
"My father is in hiding!" she cried.
"My dear," I said, forgetting for the first time to add
"young
lady," "what do I care? If I were in hiding twenty times
over,
would it make one thought of change in you?"
"Ah, but the cause!" she cried, "the cause! It is"--she
faltered
for a second--"it is disgraceful to us!"
This was my wife's story, as I drew it from her among tears
and
sobs. Her name was Clara Huddlestone: it sounded very beautiful
in
my ears; but not so beautiful as that other name of Clara
Cassilis,
which she wore during the longer and, I thank God, the
happier
portion of her life. Her father, Bernard Huddlestone, had been
a
private banker in a very large way of business. Many years
before,
his affairs becoming disordered, he had been led to try
dangerous,
and at last criminal, expedients to retrieve himself from
ruin.
All was in vain; he became more and more cruelly involved,
and
found his honor lost at the same moment with his fortune.
About
this period, Northmour had been courting his daughter with
great
assiduity, though with small encouragement; and to him, knowing
him
thus disposed in his favor, Bernard Huddlestone turned for help
in
his extremity. It was not merely ruin and dishonor, nor merely
a
legal condemnation, that the unhappy man had brought upon his
head.
It seems he could have gone to prison with a light heart. What
he
feared, what kept him awake at night or recalled him from
slumber
into frenzy, was some secret, sudden, and unlawful attempt upon
his
life. Hence, he desired to bury his existence and escape to one
of
the islands in the South Pacific, and it was in Northmour's
yacht,
the "Red Earl," that he designed to go. The yacht picked them
up
clandestinely upon the coast of Wales, and had once more
deposited
them at Graden, till she could be refitted and provisioned for
the
longer voyage. Nor could Clara doubt that her hand had been
stipulated as the price of passage. For, although Northmour
was
neither unkind, nor even discourteous, he had shown himself
in
several instances somewhat overbold in speech and manner.
I listened, I need not say, with fixed attention, and put
many
questions as to the more mysterious part. It was in vain. She
had
no clear idea of what the blow was, nor of how it was expected
to
fall. Her father's alarm was unfeigned and physically
prostrating,
and he had thought more than once of making an unconditional
surrender to the police. But the scheme was finally abandoned,
for
he was convinced that not even the strength of our English
prisons
could shelter him from his pursuers. He had had many affairs
in
Italy, and with Italians resident in London, in the latter years
of
his business; and these last, as Clara fancied, were somehow
connected with the doom that threatened him. He had shown
great
terror at the presence of an Italian seaman on board the
"Red
Earl," and had bitterly and repeatedly accused Northmour in
consequence. The latter had protested that Beppo (that was
the
seaman's name) was a capital fellow, and could be trusted to
the
death; but Mr. Huddlestone had continued ever since to declare
that
all was lost, that it was only a question of days, and that
Beppo
would be the ruin of him yet.
I regarded the whole story as the hallucination of a mind
shaken by
calamity. He had suffered heavy loss by his Italian
transactions;
and hence the sight of an Italian was hateful to him, and
the
principal part in his nightmare would naturally enough be played
by
one of that nation.
"What your father wants," I said, "is a good doctor and
some
calming medicine."
"But Mr. Northmour?" objected Clara. "He is untroubled by
losses,
and yet he shares in this terror."
I could not help laughing at what I considered her simplicity.
"My dear," said I, "you have told me yourself what reward he
has to
look for. All is fair in love, you must remember; and if
Northmour
foments your father's terrors, it is not at all because he
is
afraid of any Italian man, but simply because he is infatuated
with
a charming English woman."
She reminded me of his attack upon myself on the night of
the
disembarkation, and this I was unable to explain. In short,
and
from one thing to another, it was agreed between us that I
should
set out at once for the fisher village, Graden Wester, as it
was
called, look up all the newspapers I could find, and see for
myself
if there seemed any basis of fact for these continued alarms.
The
next morning, at the same hour and place, I was to make my
report
to Clara. She said no more on that occasion about my
departure;
nor, indeed, did she make it a secret that she clung to the
thought
of my proximity as something helpful and pleasant; and, for
my
part, I could not have left her, if she had gone upon her knees
to
ask it.
I reached Graden Wester before ten in the forenoon; for in
those
days I was an excellent pedestrian, and the distance, as I think
I
have said, was little over seven miles; fine walking all the
way
upon the springy turf. The village is one of the bleakest on
that
coast, which is saying much: there is a church in the hollow;
a
miserable haven in the rocks, where many boats have been lost
as
they returned from fishing; two or three score of stone
houses
arranged along the beach and in two streets, one leading from
the
harbor, and another striking out from it at right angles; and,
at
the corner of these two, a very dark and cheerless tavern, by
way
of principal hotel.
I had dressed myself somewhat more suitably to my station in
life,
and at once called upon the minister in his little manse beside
the
graveyard. He knew me, although it was more than nine years
since
we had met; and when I told him that I had been long upon a
walking
tour, and was behind with the news, readily lent me an armful
of
newspapers, dating from a month back to the day before. With
these
I sought the tavern, and, ordering some breakfast, sat down
to
study the "Huddlestone Failure."
It had been, it appeared, a very flagrant case. Thousands
of
persons were reduced to poverty; and one in particular had
blown
out his brains as soon as payment was suspended. It was strange
to
myself that, while I read these details, I continued rather
to
sympathize with Mr. Huddlestone than with his victims; so
complete
already was the empire of my love for my wife. A price was
naturally set upon the banker's head; and, as the case was
inexcusable and the public indignation thoroughly aroused,
the
unusual figure of 750 pounds was offered for his capture. He
was
reported to have large sums of money in his possession. One
day,
he had been heard of in Spain; the next, there was sure
intelligence that he was still lurking between Manchester
and
Liverpool, or along the border of Wales; and the day after,
a
telegram would announce his arrival in Cuba or Yucatan. But in
all
this there was no word of an Italian, nor any sign of
mystery.
In the very last paper, however, there was one item not so
clear.
The accountants who were charged to verify the failure had,
it
seemed, come upon the traces of a very large number of
thousands,
which figured for some time in the transactions of the house
of
Huddlestone; but which came from nowhere, and disappeared in
the
same mysterious fashion. It was only once referred to by name,
and
then under the initials "X. X."; but it had plainly been
floated
for the first time into the business at a period of great
depression some six years ago. The name of a distinguished
royal
personage had been mentioned by rumor in connection with this
sum.
"The cowardly desperado"--such, I remember, was the
editorial
expression--was supposed to have escaped with a large part of
this
mysterious fund still in his possession.
I was still brooding over the fact, and trying to torture it
into
some connection with Mr. Huddlestone's danger, when a man
entered
the tavern and asked for some bread and cheese with a
decided
foreign accent.
"Siete Italiano?" said I.
"Si, Signor," was his reply.
I said it was unusually far north to find one of his
compatriots;
at which he shrugged his shoulders, and replied that a man would
go
anywhere to find work. What work he could hope to find at
Graden
Wester, I was totally unable to conceive; and the incident
struck
so unpleasantly upon my mind, that I asked the landlord, while
he
was counting me some change, whether he had ever before seen
an
Italian in the village. He said he had once seen some
Norwegians,
who had been shipwrecked on the other side of Graden Ness
and
rescued by the lifeboat from Cauldhaven.
"No!" said I; "but an Italian, like the man who has just had
bread
and cheese."
"What?" cried he, "yon black-avised fellow wi' the teeth? Was
he
an I-talian? Weel, yon's the first that ever I saw, an' I dare
say
he's like to be the last."
Even as he was speaking, I raised my eyes, and, casting a
glance
into the street, beheld three men in earnest conversation
together,
and not thirty yards away. One of them was my recent companion
in
the tavern parlor; the other two, by their handsome sallow
features
and soft hats, should evidently belong to the same race. A
crowd
of village children stood around them, gesticulating and
talking
gibberish in imitation. The trio looked singularly foreign to
the
bleak dirty street in which they were standing and the dark
gray
heaven that overspread them; and I confess my incredulity
received
at that moment a shock from which it never recovered. I
might
reason with myself as I pleased, but I could not argue down
the
effect of what I had seen, and I began to share in the
Italian
terror.
It was already drawing toward the close of the day before I
had
returned the newspapers to the manse, and got well forward on
to
the links on my way home. I shall never forget that walk. It
grew
very cold and boisterous; the wind sung in the short grass about
my
feet; thin rain showers came running on the gusts; and an
immense
mountain range of clouds began to arise out of the bosom of
the
sea. It would be hard to imagine a more dismal evening; and
whether it was from these external influences, or because my
nerves
were already affected by what I had heard and seen, my
thoughts
were as gloomy as the weather.
The upper windows of the pavilion commanded a considerable
spread
of links in the direction of Graden Wester. To avoid
observation,
it was necessary to hug the beach until I had gained cover from
the
higher sand hills on the little headland, when I might
strike
across, through the hollows, for the margin of the wood. The
sun
was about setting; the tide was low, and all the quicksands
uncovered; and I was moving along, lost in unpleasant thought,
when
I was suddenly thunderstruck to perceive the prints of human
feet.
They ran parallel to my own course, but low down upon the
beach,
instead of along the border of the turf; and, when I examined
them,
I saw at once, by the size and coarseness of the impression,
that
it was a stranger to me and to those of the pavilion who had
recently passed that way. Not only so; but from the
recklessness
of the course which he had followed, steering near to the
most
formidable portions of the sand, he was evidently a stranger to
the
country and to the ill-repute of Graden beach.
Step by step I followed the prints; until, a quarter of a
mile
farther, I beheld them die away into the southeastern boundary
of
Graden Floe. There, whoever he was, the miserable man had
perished. One or two gulls, who had, perhaps, seen him
disappear,
wheeled over his sepulcher with their usual melancholy piping.
The
sun had broken through the clouds by a last effort, and colored
the
wide level of quicksands with a dusky purple. I stood for
some
time gazing at the spot, chilled and disheartened by my own
reflections, and with a strong and commanding consciousness
of
death. I remember wondering how long the tragedy had taken,
and
whether his screams had been audible at the pavilion. And
then,
making a strong resolution, I was about to tear myself away,
when a
gust fiercer than usual fell upon this quarter of the beach, and
I
saw, now whirling high in air, now skimming lightly across
the
surface of the sands, a soft, black, felt hat, somewhat conical
in
shape, such as I had remarked already on the heads of the
Italians.
I believe, but I am not sure, that I uttered a cry. The wind
was
driving the hat shoreward, and I ran round the border of the
floe
to be ready against its arrival. The gust fell, dropping the
hat
for awhile upon the quicksand, and then, once more
freshening,
landed it a few yards from where I stood. I seized it with
the
interest you may imagine. It had seen some service; indeed, it
was
rustier than either of those I had seen that day upon the
street.
The lining was red, stamped with the name of the maker, which
I
have forgotten, and that of the place of manufacture,
Venedig.
This (it is not yet forgotten) was the name given by the
Austrians
to the beautiful city of Venice, then, and for long after, a
part
of their dominions.
The shock was complete. I saw imaginary Italians upon every
side;
and for the first, and, I may say, for the last time in my
experience, became overpowered by what is called a panic terror.
I
knew nothing, that is, to be afraid of, and yet I admit that I
was
heartily afraid; and it was with sensible reluctance that I
returned to my exposed and solitary camp in the Sea-Wood.
There I eat some cold porridge which had been left over from
the
night before, for I was disinclined to make a fire; and,
feeling
strengthened and reassured, dismissed all these fanciful
terrors
from my mind, and lay down to sleep with composure.
How long I may have slept it is impossible for me to guess;
but I
was awakened at last by a sudden, blinding flash of light into
my
face. It woke me like a blow. In an instant I was upon my
knees.
But the light had gone as suddenly as it came. The darkness
was
intense. And, as it was blowing great guns from the sea, and
pouring with rain, the noises of the storm effectually
concealed
all others.
It was, I dare say, half a minute before I regained my
self-
possession. But for two circumstances, I should have thought I
had
been awakened by some new and vivid form of nightmare. First,
the
flap of my tent, which I had shut carefully when I retired, was
now
unfastened; and, second, I could still perceive, with a
sharpness
that excluded any theory of hallucination, the smell of hot
metal
and of burning oil. The conclusion was obvious. I had been
awakened by some one flashing a bull's-eye lantern in my face.
It
had been but a flash, and away. He had seen my face, and
then
gone. I asked myself the object of so strange a proceeding,
and
the answer came pat. The man, whoever he was, had thought to
recognize me, and he had not. There was another question
unresolved; and to this, I may say, I feared to give an answer;
if
he had recognized me, what would he have done?
My fears were immediately diverted from myself, for I saw that
I
had been visited in a mistake; and I became persuaded that
some
dreadful danger threatened the pavilion. It required some nerve
to
issue forth into the black and intricate thicket which
surrounded
and overhung the den; but I groped my way to the links,
drenched
with rain, beaten upon and deafened by the gusts, and fearing
at
every step to lay my hand upon some lurking adversary. The
darkness was so complete that I might have been surrounded by
an
army and yet none the wiser, and the uproar of the gale so
loud
that my hearing was as useless as my sight.
For the rest of that night, which seemed interminably long,
I
patrolled the vicinity of the pavilion, without seeing a
living
creature or hearing any noise but the concert of the wind, the
sea,
and the rain. A light in the upper story filtered through a
cranny
of the shutter, and kept me company till the approach of
dawn.
With the first peep of day, I retired from the open to my old
lair
among the sand hills, there to await the coming of my wife.
The
morning was gray, wild, and melancholy; the wind moderated
before
sunrise, and then went about, and blew in puffs from the shore;
the
sea began to go down, but the rain still fell without mercy.
Over
all the wilderness of links there was not a creature to be
seen.
Yet I felt sure the neighborhood was alive with skulking foes.
The
light that had been so suddenly and surprisingly flashed upon
my
face as I lay sleeping, and the hat that had been blown ashore
by
the wind from over Graden Floe, were two speaking signals of
the
peril that environed Clara and the party in the pavilion.
It was, perhaps, half-past seven, or nearer eight, before I saw
the
door open, and that dear figure come toward me in the rain. I
was
waiting for her on the beach before she had crossed the sand
hills.
"I have had such trouble to come!" she cried. "They did not
wish
me to go walking in the rain."
"Clara," I said, "you are not frightened!"
"No," said she, with a simplicity that filled my heart
with
confidence. For my wife was the bravest as well as the best
of
women; in my experience, I have not found the two go always
together, but with her they did; and she combined the extreme
of
fortitude with the most endearing and beautiful virtues.
I told her what had happened; and, though her cheek grew
visibly
paler, she retained perfect control over her senses.
"You see now that I am safe," said I, in conclusion. "They do
not
mean to harm me; for, had they chosen, I was a dead man last
night."
She laid her hand upon my arm.
"And I had no presentiment!" she cried.
Her accent thrilled me with delight. I put my arm about her,
and
strained her to my side; and, before either of us was aware,
her
hands were on my shoulders and my lips upon her mouth. Yet up
to
that moment no word of love had passed between us. To this day
I
remember the touch of her cheek, which was wet and cold with
the
rain; and many a time since, when she has been washing her face,
I
have kissed it again for the sake of that morning on the
beach.
Now that she is taken from me, and I finish my pilgrimage alone,
I
recall our old loving kindnesses and the deep honesty and
affection
which united us, and my present loss seems but a trifle in
comparison.
We may have thus stood for some seconds--for time passes
quickly
with lovers--before we were startled by a peal of laughter close
at
hand. It was not natural mirth, but seemed to be affected in
order
to conceal an angrier feeling. We both turned, though I still
kept
my left arm about Clara's waist; nor did she seek to
withdraw
herself; and there, a few paces off upon the beach, stood
Northmour, his head lowered, his hands behind his back, his
nostrils white with passion.
"Ah! Cassilis!" he said, as I disclosed my face.
"That same," said I; for I was not at all put about.
"And so, Miss Huddlestone," he continued slowly but savagely,
"this
is how you keep your faith to your father and to me? This is
the
value you set upon your father's life? And you are so
infatuated
with this young gentleman that you must brave ruin, and
decency,
and common human caution--"
"Miss Huddlestone--" I was beginning to interrupt him, when
he, in
his turn, cut in brutally--
"You hold your tongue," said he; "I am speaking to that girl."
"That girl, as you call her, is my wife," said I; and my wife
only
leaned a little nearer, so that I knew she had affirmed my
words.
"Your what?" he cried. "You lie!"
"Northmour," I said, "we all know you have a bad temper, and I
am
the last man to be irritated by words. For all that, I
propose
that you speak lower, for I am convinced that we are not
alone."
He looked round him, and it was plain my remark had in some
degree
sobered his passion. "What do you mean?" he asked.
I only said one word: "Italians."
He swore a round oath, and looked at us, from one to the other.
"Mr. Cassilis knows all that I know," said my wife.
"What I want to know," he broke out, "is where the devil
Mr.
Cassilis comes from, and what the devil Mr. Cassilis is doing
here.
You say you are married; that I do not believe. If you were,
Graden Floe would soon divorce you; four minutes and a half,
Cassilis. I keep my private cemetery for my friends."
"It took somewhat longer," said I, "for that Italian."
He looked at me for a moment half daunted, and then,
almost
civilly, asked me to tell my story. "You have too much the
advantage of me, Cassilis," he added. I complied of course; and
he
listened, with several ejaculations, while I told him how I
had
come to Graden: that it was I whom he had tried to murder on
the
night of landing; and what I had subsequently seen and heard of
the
Italians.
"Well," said he, when I had done, "it is here at last; there
is no
mistake about that. And what, may I ask, do you propose to
do?"
"I propose to stay with you and lend a hand," said I.
"You are a brave man," he returned, with a peculiar intonation.
"I am not afraid," said I.
"And so," he continued, "I am to understand that you two
are
married? And you stand up to it before my face, Miss
Huddlestone?"
"We are not yet married," said Clara; "but we shall be as soon
as
we can."
"Bravo!" cried Northmour. "And the bargain? D--n it, you're
not a
fool, young woman; I may call a spade a spade with you. How
about
the bargain? You know as well as I do what your father's
life
depends upon. I have only to put my hands under my coat tails
and
walk away, and his throat would be cut before the evening."
"Yes, Mr. Northmour," returned Clara, with great spirit; "but
that
is what you will never do. You made a bargain that was unworthy
of
a gentleman; but you are a gentleman for all that, and you
will
never desert a man whom you have begun to help."
"Aha!" said he. "You think I will give my yacht for nothing?
You
think I will risk my life and liberty for love of the old
gentleman; and then, I suppose, he best man at the wedding, to
wind
up? Well," he added, with an odd smile, "perhaps you are not
altogether wrong. But ask Cassilis here. HE knows me. Am I a
man
to trust? Am I safe and scrupulous? Am I kind?"
"I know you talk a great deal, and sometimes, I think,
very
foolishly," replied Clara, "but I know you are a gentleman, and
I
am not the least afraid."
He looked at her with a peculiar approval and admiration;
then,
turning to me, "Do you think I would give her up without a
struggle, Frank?" said he. "I tell you plainly, you look out.
The
next time we come to blows--"
"Will make the third," I interrupted, smiling.
"Aye, true; so it will," he said. "I had forgotten. Well,
the
third time's lucky."
"The third time, you mean, you will have the crew of the 'Red
Earl'
to help," I said.
"Do you hear him?" he asked, turning to my wife.
"I hear two men speaking like cowards," said she. "I
should
despise myself either to think or speak like that. And neither
of
you believe one word that you are saying, which makes it the
more
wicked and silly."
"She's a trump!" cried Northmour. "But she's not yet Mrs.
Cassilis. I say no more. The present is not for me."
Then my wife surprised me.
"I leave you here," she said suddenly. "My father has been
too
long alone. But remember this: you are to be friends, for you
are
both good friends to me."
She has since told me her reason for this step. As long as
she
remained, she declares that we two would have continued to
quarrel;
and I suppose that she was right, for when she was gone we fell
at
once into a sort of confidentiality.
Northmour stared after her as she went away over the sand hill.
"She is the only woman in the world!" he exclaimed with an
oath.
"Look at her action."
I, for my part, leaped at this opportunity for a little
further
light.
"See here, Northmour," said I; "we are all in a tight place,
are we
not?"
"I believe you, my boy," he answered, looking me in the eyes,
and
with great emphasis. "We have all hell upon us, that's the
truth.
You may believe me or not, but I'm afraid of my life."
"Tell me one thing," said I. "What are they after, these
Italians?
What do they want with Mr. Huddlestone?"
"Don't you know?" he cried. "The black old scamp had
carbonari
funds on a deposit--two hundred and eighty thousand; and of
course
he gambled it away on stocks. There was to have been a
revolution
in the Tridentino, or Parma; but the revolution is off, and
the
whole wasp's nest is after Huddlestone. We shall all be lucky
if
we can save our skins."
"The carbonari!" I exclaimed; "God help him indeed!"
"Amen!" said Northmour. "And now, look here: I have said that
we
are in a fix; and, frankly, I shall be glad of your help. If
I
can't save Huddlestone, I want at least to save the girl. Come
and
stay in the pavilion; and, there's my hand on it, I shall act
as
your friend until the old man is either clear or dead. But,"
he
added, "once that is settled, you become my rival once again,
and I
warn you--mind yourself."
"Done!" said I; and we shook hands.
"And now let us go directly to the fort," said Northmour; and
he
began to lead the way through the rain.
We were admitted to the pavilion by Clara, and I was surprised
by
the completeness and security of the defenses. A barricade
of
great strength, and yet easy to displace, supported the door
against any violence from without; and the shutters of the
dining-
room, into which I was led directly, and which was feebly
illuminated by a lamp, were even more elaborately fortified.
The
panels were strengthened by bars and crossbars; and these, in
their
turn, were kept in position by a system of braces and struts,
some
abutting on the floor, some on the roof, and others, in
fine,
against the opposite wall of the apartment. It was at once a
solid
and well-designed piece of carpentry; and I did not seek to
conceal
my admiration.
"I am the engineer," said Northmour. "You remember the planks
in
the garden? Behold them?"
"I did not know you had so many talents," said I.
"Are you armed?" he continued, pointing to an array of guns
and
pistols, all in admirable order, which stood in line against
the
wall or were displayed upon the sideboard.
"Thank you," I returned; "I have gone armed since our last
encounter. But, to tell you the truth, I have had nothing to
eat
since early yesterday evening."
Northmour produced some cold meat, to which I eagerly set
myself,
and a bottle of good Burgundy, by which, wet as I was, I did
not
scruple to profit. I have always been an extreme temperance man
on
principle; but it is useless to push principle to excess, and
on
this occasion I believe that I finished three quarters of
the
bottle. As I eat, I still continued to admire the preparations
for
defense.
"We could stand a siege," I said at length.
"Ye--es," drawled Northmour; "a very little one, perhaps. It
is
not so much the strength of the pavilion I misdoubt; it is
the
double danger that kills me. If we get to shooting, wild as
the
country is, some one is sure to hear it, and then--why then
it's
the same thing, only different, as they say: caged by law,
or
killed by carbonari. There's the choice. It is a devilish
bad
thing to have the law against you in this world, and so I tell
the
old gentleman upstairs. He is quite of my way of thinking."
"Speaking of that," said I, "what kind of person is he?"
"Oh, he!" cried the other; "he's a rancid fellow, as far as
he
goes. I should like to have his neck wrung to-morrow by all
the
devils in Italy. I am not in this affair for him. You take me?
I
made a bargain for missy's hand, and I mean to have it too."
"That, by the way," said I. "I understand. But how will
Mr.
Huddlestone take my intrusion?"
"Leave that to Clara," returned Northmour.
I could have struck him in the face for his coarse
familiarity; but
I respected the truce, as, I am bound to say, did Northmour, and
so
long as the danger continued not a cloud arose in our relation.
I
bear him this testimony with the most unfeigned satisfaction;
nor
am I without pride when I look back upon my own behavior.
For
surely no two men were ever left in a position so invidious
and
irritating.
As soon as I had done eating, we proceeded to inspect the
lower
floor. Window by window we tried the different supports, now
and
then making an inconsiderable change; and the strokes of the
hammer
sounded with startling loudness through the house. I proposed,
I
remember, to make loopholes; but he told me they were already
made
in the windows of the upper story. It was an anxious
business,
this inspection, and left me down-hearted. There were two
doors
and five windows to protect, and, counting Clara, only four of
us
to defend them against an unknown number of foes. I
communicated
my doubts to Northmour, who assured me, with unmoved
composure,
that he entirely shared them.
"Before morning," said he, "we shall all be butchered and
buried in
Graden Floe. For me, that is written."
I could not help shuddering at the mention of the quicksand,
but
reminded Northmour that our enemies had spared me in the
wood.
"Do not flatter yourself," said he. "Then you were not in the
same
boat with the old gentleman; now you are. It's the floe for all
of
us, mark my words."
I trembled for Clara; and just then her dear voice was
heard
calling us to come upstairs. Northmour showed me the way,
and,
when he had reached the landing, knocked at the door of what
used
to be called My Uncle's Bedroom, as the founder of the pavilion
had
designed it especially for himself.
"Come in, Northmour; come in, dear Mr. Cassilis," said a voice
from
within.
Pushing open the door, Northmour admitted me before him into
the
apartment. As I came in I could see the daughter slipping out
by
the side door into the study, which had been prepared as her
bedroom. In the bed, which was drawn back against the wall,
instead of standing, as I had last seen it, boldly across
the
window, sat Bernard Huddlestone, the defaulting banker. Little
as
I had seen of him by the shifting light of the lantern on
the
links, I had no difficulty in recognizing him for the same. He
had
a long and sallow countenance, surrounded by a long red beard
and
side-whiskers. His broken nose and high cheek-hones gave him
somewhat the air of a Kalmuck, and his light eyes shone with
the
excitement of a high fever. He wore a skull-cap of black silk;
a
huge Bible lay open before him on the bed, with a pair of
gold
spectacles in the place, and a pile of other books lay on the
stand
by his side. The green curtains lent a cadaverous shade to
his
cheek; and, as he sat propped on pillows, his great stature
was
painfully hunched, and his head protruded till it overhung
his
knees. I believe if he had not died otherwise, he must have
fallen
a victim to consumption in the course of but a very few
weeks.
He held out to me a hand, long, thin, and disagreeably hairy.
"Come in, come in, Mr. Cassilis," said he. "Another
protector--
ahem!--another protector. Always welcome as a friend of my
daughter's, Mr. Cassilis. How they have rallied about me, my
daughter's friends! May God in heaven bless and reward them
for
it!"
I gave him my hand, of course, because I could not help it;
but the
sympathy I had been prepared to feel for Clara's father was
immediately soured by his appearance, and the wheedling,
unreal
tones in which he spoke.
"Cassilis is a good man," said Northmour; "worth ten."
"So I hear," cried Mr. Huddlestone eagerly; "so my girl tells
me.
Ah, Mr. Cassilis, my sin has found me out, you see! I am very
low,
very low; but I hope equally penitent. We must all come to
the
throne of grace at last, Mr. Cassilis. For my part, I come
late
indeed; but with unfeigned humility, I trust."
"Fiddle-de-dee!" said Northmour roughly.
"No, no, dear Northmour!" cried the banker. "You must not
say
that; you must not try to shake me. You forget, my dear, good
boy,
you forget I may be called this very night before my Maker."
His excitement was pitiful to behold; and I felt myself
grow
indignant with Northmour, whose infidel opinions I well knew,
and
heartily despised, as he continued to taunt the poor sinner out
of
his humor of repentance.
"Pooh, my dear Huddlestone!" said he. "You do yourself
injustice.
You are a man of the world inside and out, and were up to all
kinds
of mischief before I was born. Your conscience is tanned
like
South American leather--only you forgot to tan your liver,
and
that, if you will believe me, is the seat of the annoyance."
"Rogue, rogue! bad boy!" said Mr. Huddlestone, shaking his
finger.
"I am no precisian, if you come to that; I always hated a
precisian; but I never lost hold of something better through
it
all. I have been a bad boy, Mr. Cassilis; I do not seek to
deny
that; but it was after my wife's death, and you know, with a
widower, it's a different thing: sinful--I won't say no; but
there
is a gradation, we shall hope. And talking of that-- Hark!"
he
broke out suddenly, his hand raised, his fingers spread, his
face
racked with interest and terror. "Only the rain, bless God!"
he
added, after a pause, and with indescribable relief.
For some seconds he lay back among the pillows like a man near
to
fainting; then he gathered himself together, and, in
somewhat
tremulous tones, began once more to thank me for the share I
was
prepared to take in his defense.
"One question, sir," said I, when he had paused. "Is it true
that
you have money with you?"
He seemed annoyed by the question, but admitted with
reluctance
that he had a little.
"Well," I continued, "it is their money they are after, is it
not?
Why not give it up to them?"
"Ah!" replied he, shaking his head, "I have tried that
already, Mr.
Cassilis; and alas! that it should be so, but it is blood
they
want."
"Huddlestone, that's a little less than fair," said
Northmour.
"You should mention that what you offered them was upward of
two
hundred thousand short. The deficit is worth a reference; it
is
for what they call a cool sum, Frank. Then, you see, the
fellows
reason in their clear Italian way; and it seems to them, as
indeed
it seems to me, that they may just as well have both while
they're
about it--money and blood together, by George, and no more
trouble
for the extra pleasure."
"Is it in the pavilion?" I asked.
"It is; and I wish it were in the bottom of the sea instead,"
said
Northmour; and then suddenly--"What are you making faces at
me
for?" he cried to Mr. Huddlestone, on whom I had
unconsciously
turned my back. "Do you think Cassilis would sell you?"
Mr. Huddlestone protested that nothing had been further from
his
mind.
"It is a good thing," retorted Northmour in his ugliest
manner.
"You might end by wearying us. What were you going to say?"
he
added, turning to me.
"I was going to propose an occupation for the afternoon," said
I.
"Let us carry that money out, piece by piece, and lay it
down
before the pavilion door. If the carbonari come, why, it's
theirs
at any rate."
"No, no," cried Mr. Huddlestone; "it does not, it cannot,
belong to
them! It should be distributed pro rata among all my
creditors."
"Come now, Huddlestone," said Northmour, "none of that."
"Well, but my daughter," moaned the wretched man. "Your
daughter
will do well enough. Here are two suitors, Cassilis and I,
neither
of us beggars, between whom she has to choose. And as for
yourself, to make an end of arguments, you have no right to
a
farthing, and, unless I'm much mistaken, you are going to
die."
It was certainly very cruelly said; but Mr. Huddlestone was a
man
who attracted little sympathy; and, although I saw him wince
and
shudder, I mentally indorsed the rebuke; nay, I added a
contribution of my own.
"Northmour and I," I said, "are willing enough to help you to
save
your life, but not to escape with stolen property."
He struggled for awhile with himself, as though he were on
the
point of giving way to anger, but prudence had the best of
the
controversy.
"My dear boys," he said, "do with me or my money what you
will. I
leave all in your hands. Let me compose myself."
And so we left him, gladly enough I am sure.
The last that I saw, he had once more taken up his great
Bible, and
with tremulous hands was adjusting his spectacles to read.
The recollection of that afternoon will always be graven on
my
mind. Northmour and I were persuaded that an attack was
imminent;
and if it had been in our power to alter in any way the order
of
events, that power would have been used to precipitate rather
than
delay the critical moment. The worst was to be anticipated; yet
we
could conceive no extremity so miserable as the suspense we
were
now suffering. I have never been an eager, though always a
great,
reader; but I never knew books so insipid as those which I took
up
and cast aside that afternoon in the pavilion. Even talk
became
impossible, as the hours went on. One or other was always
listening for some sound, or peering from an upstairs window
over
the links. And yet not a sign indicated the presence of our
foes.
We debated over and over again my proposal with regard to
the
money; and had we been in complete possession of our faculties,
I
am sure we should have condemned it as unwise; but we were
flustered with alarm, grasped at a straw, and determined,
although
it was as much as advertising Mr. Huddlestone's presence in
the
pavilion, to carry my proposal into effect.
The sum was part in specie, part in bank paper, and part
in
circular notes payable to the name of James Gregory. We took
it
out, counted it, inclosed it once more in a dispatch box
belonging
to Northmour, and prepared a letter in Italian which he tied to
the
handle. It was signed by both of us under oath, and declared
that
this was all the money which had escaped the failure of the
house
of Huddlestone. This was, perhaps, the maddest action ever
perpetrated by two persons professing to be sane. Had the
dispatch
box fallen into other hands than those for which it was
intended,
we stood criminally convicted on our own written testimony; but,
as
I have said, we were neither of us in a condition to judge
soberly,
and had a thirst for action that drove us to do something, right
or
wrong, rather than endure the agony of waiting. Moreover, as
we
were both convinced that the hollows of the links were alive
with
hidden spies upon our movements, we hoped that our appearance
with
the box might lead to a parley, and, perhaps, a compromise.
It was nearly three when we issued from the pavilion. The rain
had
taken off; the sun shone quite cheerfully. I had never seen
the
gulls fly so close about the house or approach so fearlessly
to
human beings. On the very doorstep one flapped heavily past
our
heads, and uttered its wild cry in my very ear.
"There is an omen for you," said Northmour, who like all
freethinkers was much under the influence of superstition.
"They
think we are already dead."
I made some light rejoinder, but it was with half my heart;
for the
circumstance had impressed me.
A yard or two before the gate, on a patch of smooth turf, we
set
down the dispatch box; and Northmour waved a white
handkerchief
over his head. Nothing replied. We raised our voices, and
cried
aloud in Italian that we were there as ambassadors to arrange
the
quarrel, but the stillness remained unbroken save by the
seagulls
and the surf. I had a weight at my heart when we desisted; and
I
saw that even Northmour was unusually pale. He looked over
his
shoulder nervously, as though he feared that some one had
crept
between him and the pavilion door.
"By God," he said in a whisper, "this is too much for me!"
I replied in the same key: "Suppose there should be none,
after
all!"
"Look there," he returned, nodding with his head, as though he
had
been afraid to point.
I glanced in the direction indicated; and there, from the
northern
quarter of the Sea-Wood, beheld a thin column of smoke
rising
steadily against the now cloudless sky.
"Northmour," I said (we still continued to talk in whispers),
"it
is not possible to endure this suspense. I prefer death
fifty
times over. Stay you here to watch the pavilion; I will go
forward
and make sure, if I have to walk right into their camp."
He looked once again all round him with puckered eyes, and
then
nodded assentingly to my proposal.
My heart heat like a sledge hammer as I set out walking
rapidly in
the direction of the smoke; and, though up to that moment I
had
felt chill and shivering, I was suddenly conscious of a glow
of
heat all over my body. The ground in this direction was very
uneven; a hundred men might have lain hidden in as many
square
yards about my path. But I who had not practiced the business
in
vain, chose such routes as cut at the very root of
concealment,
and, by keeping along the most convenient ridges, commanded
several
hollows at a time. It was not long before I was rewarded for
my
caution. Coming suddenly on to a mound somewhat more elevated
than
the surrounding hummocks, I saw, not thirty yards away, a man
bent
almost double, and running as fast as his attitude permitted,
along
the bottom of a gully. I had dislodged one of the spies from
his
ambush. As soon as I sighted him, I called loudly both in
English
and Italian; and he, seeing concealment was no longer
possible,
straightened himself out, leaped from the gully, and made off
as
straight as an arrow for the borders of the wood. It was none
of
my business to pursue; I had learned what I wanted--that we
were
beleaguered and watched in the pavilion; and I returned at
once,
and walked as nearly as possible in my old footsteps, to
where
Northmour awaited me beside the dispatch box. He was even
paler
than when I had left him, and his voice shook a little.
"Could you see what he was like?" he asked.
"He kept his back turned," I replied.
"Let us get into the house, Frank. I don't think I'm a coward,
but
I can stand no more of this," he whispered.
All was still and sunshiny about the pavilion, as we turned
to
reenter it; even the gulls had flown in a wider circuit, and
were
seen flickering along the beach and sand hills; and this
loneliness
terrified me more than a regiment under arms. It was not until
the
door was barricaded that I could draw a full inspiration and
relieve the weight that lay upon my bosom. Northmour and I
exchanged a steady glance; and I suppose each made his own
reflections on the white and startled aspect of the other.
"You were right," I said. "All is over. Shake hands, old man,
for
the last time."
"Yes," replied he, "I will shake hands; for, as sure as I am
here,
I bear no malice. But, remember, if, by some impossible
accident,
we should give the slip to these blackguards, I'll take the
upper
hand of you by fair or foul."
"Oh," said I, "you weary me!"
He seemed hurt, and walked away in silence to the foot of
the
stairs, where he paused.
"You do not understand," said he. "I am not a swindler, and
I
guard myself; that is all. I may weary you or not, Mr. Cassilis,
I
do not care a rush; I speak for my own satisfaction, and not
for
your amusement. You had better go upstairs and court the girl;
for
my part, I stay here."
"And I stay with you," I returned. "Do you think I would steal
a
march, even with your permission?"
"Frank," he said, smiling, "it's a pity you are an ass, for
you
have the makings of a man. I think I must be fey to-day; you
cannot irritate me even when you try. Do you know," he
continued
softly, "I think we are the two most miserable men in England,
you
and I? we have got on to thirty without wife or child, or so
much
as a shop to look after--poor, pitiful, lost devils, both! And
now
we clash about a girl! As if there were not several millions
in
the United Kingdom! Ah, Frank, Frank, the one who loses his
throw,
be it you or me, he has my pity! It were better for him--how
does
the Bible say?--that a millstone were hanged about his neck and
he
were cast into the depth of the sea. Let us take a drink,"
he
concluded suddenly, but without any levity of tone.
I was touched by his words, and consented. He sat down on
the
table in the dining-room, and held up the glass of sherry to
his
eye.
"If you beat me, Frank," he said, "I shall take to drink.
What
will you do, if it goes the other way?"
"God knows," I returned.
"Well," said he, "here is a toast in the meantime: 'Italia
irredenta!'"
The remainder of the day was passed in the same dreadful
tedium and
suspense. I laid the table for dinner, while Northmour and
Clara
prepared the meal together in the kitchen. I could hear their
talk
as I went to and fro, and was surprised to find it ran all the
time
upon myself. Northmour again bracketed us together, and
rallied
Clara on a choice of husbands; but he continued to speak of me
with
some feeling, and uttered nothing to my prejudice unless he
included himself in the condemnation. This awakened a sense
of
gratitude in my heart, which combined with the immediateness of
our
peril to fill my eyes with tears. After all, I thought--and
perhaps the thought was laughably vain--we were here three
very
noble human beings to perish in defense of a thieving
banker.
Before we sat down to table, I looked forth from an
upstairs
window. The day was beginning to decline; the links were
utterly
deserted; the dispatch box still lay untouched where we had left
it
hours before.
Mr. Huddlestone, in a long yellow dressing gown, took one end
of
the table, Clara the other; while Northmour and I faced each
other
from the sides. The lamp was brightly trimmed; the wine was
good;
the viands, although mostly cold, excellent of their sort.
We
seemed to have agreed tacitly; all reference to the
impending
catastrophe was carefully avoided; and, considering our
tragic
circumstances, we made a merrier party than could have been
expected. From time to time, it is true, Northmour or I would
rise
from table and make a round of the defenses; and, on each of
these
occasions, Mr. Huddlestone was recalled to a sense of his
tragic
predicament, glanced up with ghastly eyes, and bore for an
instant
on his countenance the stamp of terror. But he hastened to
empty
his glass, wiped his forehead with his handkerchief, and
joined
again in the conversation.
I was astonished at the wit and information he displayed.
Mr.
Huddlestone's was certainly no ordinary character; he had read
and
observed for himself; his gifts were sound; and, though I
could
never have learned to love the man, I began to understand
his
success in business, and the great respect in which he had
been
held before his failure. He had, above all, the talent of
society;
and though I never heard him speak but on this one and most
unfavorable occasion, I set him down among the most
brilliant
conversationalists I ever met.
He was relating with great gusto, and seemingly no feeling
of
shame, the maneuvers of a scoundrelly commission merchant whom
he
had known and studied in his youth, and we were all listening
with
an odd mixture of mirth and embarrassment, when our little
party
was brought abruptly to an end in the most startling manner.
A noise like that of a wet finger on the window pane
interrupted
Mr. Huddlestone's tale; and in an instant we were all four as
white
as paper, and sat tongue-tied and motionless round the
table.
"A snail," I said at last; for I had heard that these animals
make
a noise somewhat similar in character.
"Snail be d--d!" said Northmour. "Hush!"
The same sound was repeated twice at regular intervals; and
then a
formidable voice shouted through the shutters the Italian
word,
"Traditore!"
Mr. Huddlestone threw his head in the air; his eyelids
quivered;
next moment he fell insensible below the table. Northmour and
I
had each run to the armory and seized a gun. Clara was on her
feet
with her hand at her throat.
So we stood waiting, for we thought the hour of attack was
certainly come; but second passed after second, and all but
the
surf remained silent in the neighborhood of the pavilion.
"Quick," said Northmour; "upstairs with him before they come."
Somehow or other, by hook and crook, and between the three of
us,
we got Bernard Huddlestone bundled upstairs and laid upon the
bed
in My Uncle's Room. During the whole process, which was
rough
enough, he gave no sign of consciousness, and he remained, as
we
had thrown him, without changing the position of a finger.
His
daughter opened his shirt and began to wet his head and
bosom;
while Northmour and I ran to the window. The weather
continued
clear; the moon, which was now about full, had risen and shed
a
very clear light upon the links; yet, strain our eyes as we
might,
we could distinguish nothing moving. A few dark spots, more
or
less, on the uneven expanse were not to be identified; they
might
be crouching men, they might be shadows; it was impossible to
be
sure.
"Thank God," said Northmour, "Aggie is not coming to-night."
Aggie was the name of the old nurse; he had not thought of
her
until now; but that he should think of her at all was a trait
that
surprised me in the man.
We were again reduced to waiting. Northmour went to the
fireplace
and spread his hands before the red embers, as if he were cold.
I
followed him mechanically with my eyes, and in so doing turned
my
back upon the window. At that moment a very faint report was
audible from without, and a ball shivered a pane of glass,
and
buried itself in the shutter two inches from my head. I
heard
Clara scream; and though I whipped instantly out of range and
into
a corner, she was there, so to speak, before me, beseeching to
know
if I were hurt. I felt that I could stand to be shot at every
day
and all day long, with such remarks of solicitude for a reward;
and
I continued to reassure her, with the tenderest caresses and
in
complete forgetfulness of our situation, till the voice of
Northmour recalled me to myself.
"An air gun," he said. "They wish to make no noise."
I put Clara aside, and looked at him. He was standing with
his
back to the fire and his hands clasped behind him; and I knew
by
the black look on his face, that passion was boiling within. I
had
seen just such a look before he attacked me, that March night,
in
the adjoining chamber; and, though I could make every allowance
for
his anger, I confess I trembled for the consequences. He
gazed
straight before him; but he could see us with the tail of his
eye,
and his temper kept rising like a gale of wind. With regular
battle awaiting us outside, this prospect of an internecine
strife
within the walls began to daunt me.
Suddenly, as I was thus closely watching his expression
and
prepared against the worst, I saw a change, a flash, a look
of
relief, upon his face. He took up the lamp which stood beside
him
on the table, and turned to us with an air of some
excitement.
"There is one point that we must know," said he. "Are they
going
to butcher the lot of us, or only Huddlestone? Did they take
you
for him, or fire at you for your own beaux yeux?"
"They took me for him, for certain," I replied. "I am near
as
tall, and my head is fair."
"I am going to make sure," returned Northmour; and he stepped
up to
the window, holding the lamp above his head, and stood
there,
quietly affronting death, for half a minute.
Clara sought to rush forward and pull him from the place of
danger;
but I had the pardonable selfishness to hold her back by
force.
"Yes," said Northmour, turning coolly from the window, "it's
only
Huddlestone they want."
"Oh, Mr. Northmour!" cried Clara; but found no more to add;
the
temerity she had just witnessed seeming beyond the reach of
words.
He, on his part, looked at me, cocking his head, with a fire
of
triumph in his eyes; and I understood at once that he had
thus
hazarded his life, merely to attract Clara's notice, and depose
me
from my position as the hero of the hour. He snapped his
fingers.
"The fire is only beginning," said he. "When they warm up to
their
work, they won't be so particular."
A voice was now heard hailing us from the entrance. From
the
window we could see the figure of a man in the moonlight; he
stood
motionless, his face uplifted to ours, and a rag of something
white
on his extended arm; and as we looked right down upon him,
though
he was a good many yards distant on the links, we could see
the
moonlight glitter on his eyes.
He opened his lips again, and spoke for some minutes on end,
in a
key so loud that he might have been heard in every corner of
the
pavilion, and as far away as the borders of the wood. It was
the
same voice that had already shouted, "Traditore!" through
the
shutters of the dining-room; this time it made a complete and
clear
statement. If the traitor "Oddlestone" were given up, all
others
should be spared; if not, no one should escape to tell the
tale.
"Well, Huddlestone, what do you say to that?" asked
Northmour,
turning to the bed.
Up to that moment the banker had given no sign of life, and I,
at
least, had supposed him to be still lying in a faint; but he
replied at once, and in such tones as I have never heard
elsewhere,
save from a delirious patient, adjured and besought us not
to
desert him. It was the most hideous and abject performance that
my
imagination can conceive.
"Enough," cried Northmour; and then he threw open the
window,
leaned out into the night, and in a tone of exultation, and with
a
total forgetfulness of what was due to the presence of a
lady,
poured out upon the ambassador a string of the most
abominable
raillery both in English and Italian, and bade him be gone where
he
had come from. I believe that nothing so delighted Northmour
at
that moment as the thought that we must all infallibly
perish
before the night was out.
Meantime, the Italian put his flag of truce into his pocket,
and
disappeared, at a leisurely pace, among the sand hills.
"They make honorable war," said Northmour. "They are all
gentlemen
and soldiers. For the credit of the thing, I wish we could
change
sides--you and I, Frank, and you, too, missy, my darling--and
leave
that being on the bed to some one else. Tut! Don't look
shocked!
We are all going post to what they call eternity, and may as
well
be above board while there's time. As far as I am concerned, if
I
could first strangle Huddlestone and then get Clara in my arms,
I
could die with some pride and satisfaction. And as it is, by
God,
I'll have a kiss!"
Before I could do anything to interfere, he had rudely
embraced and
repeatedly kissed the resisting girl. Next moment I had pulled
him
away with fury, and flung him heavily against the wall. He
laughed
loud and long, and I feared his wits had given way under the
strain; for even in the best of days he had been a sparing and
a
quiet laugher.
"Now, Frank," said he, when his mirth was somewhat appeased,
"it's
your turn. Here's my hand. Good-bye, farewell!" Then, seeing
me
stand rigid and indignant, and holding Clara to my side--"Man!"
he
broke out, "are you angry? Did you think we were going to die
with
all the airs and graces of society? I took a kiss; I'm glad I
did
it; and now you can take another if you like, and square
accounts."
I turned from him with a feeling of contempt which I did not
seek
to dissemble.
"As you please," said he. "You've been a prig in life; a
prig
you'll die."
And with that he sat down in a chair, a rifle over his knee,
and
amused himself with snapping the lock; but I could see that
his
ebullition of light spirits (the only one I ever knew him to
display) had already come to an end, and was succeeded by a
sullen,
scowling humor.
All this time our assailants might have been entering the
house,
and we been none the wiser; we had in truth almost forgotten
the
danger that so imminently overhung our days. But just then
Mr.
Huddlestone uttered a cry, and leaped from the bed.
I asked him what was wrong.
"Fire!" he cried. "They have set the house on fire!"
Northmour was on his feet in an instant, and he and I ran
through
the door of communication with the study. The room was
illuminated
by a red and angry light. Almost at the moment of our entrance,
a
tower of flame arose in front of the window, and, with a
tingling
report, a pane fell inward on the carpet. They had set fire to
the
lean-to outhouse, where Northmour used to nurse his
negatives.
"Hot work," said Northmour. "Let us try in your old room."
We ran thither in a breath, threw up the casement, and
looked
forth. Along the whole back wall of the pavilion piles of fuel
had
been arranged and kindled; and it is probable they had been
drenched with mineral oil, for, in spite of the morning's
rain,
they all burned bravely. The fire had taken a firm hold already
on
the outhouse, which blazed higher and higher every moment; the
back
door was in the center of a red-hot bonfire; the eaves we
could
see, as we looked upward, were already smoldering, for the
roof
overhung, and was supported by considerable beams of wood. At
the
same time, hot, pungent, and choking volumes of smoke began to
fill
the house. There was not a human being to be seen to right
or
left.
"Ah, well!" said Northmour, "here's the end, thank God!"
And we returned to My Uncle's Room. Mr. Huddlestone was
putting on
his boots, still violently trembling, but with an air of
determination such as I had not hitherto observed. Clara
stood
close by him, with her cloak in both hands ready to throw about
her
shoulders, and a strange look in her eyes, as if she were
half
hopeful, half doubtful of her father.
"Well, boys and girls," said Northmour, "how about a sally?
The
oven is heating; it is not good to stay here and be baked; and,
for
my part, I want to come to my hands with them, and be done."
"There's nothing else left," I replied.
And both Clara and Mr. Huddlestone, though with a very
different
intonation, added, "Nothing."
As we went downstairs the heat was excessive, and the roaring
of
the fire filled our ears; and we had scarce reached the
passage
before the stairs window fell in, a branch of flame shot
brandishing through the aperture, and the interior of the
pavilion
became lighted up with that dreadful and fluctuating glare. At
the
same moment we heard the fall of something heavy and inelastic
in
the upper story. The whole pavilion, it was plain, had gone
alight
like a box of matches, and now not only flamed sky high to land
and
sea, but threatened with every moment to crumble and fall in
about
our ears.
Northmour and I cocked our revolvers. Mr. Huddlestone, who
had
already refused a firearm, put us behind him with a manner
of
command.
"Let Clara open the door," said he. "So, if they fire a
volley,
she will be protected. And in the meantime stand behind me. I
am
the scapegoat; my sins have found me out."
I heard him, as I stood breathless by his shoulder, with my
pistol
ready, pattering off prayers in a tremulous, rapid whisper; and,
I
confess, horrid as the thought may seem, I despised him for
thinking of supplications in a moment so critical and
thrilling.
In the meantime, Clara, who was dead white but still possessed
her
faculties, had displaced the barricade from the front door.
Another moment, and she had pulled it open. Firelight and
moonlight illuminated the links with confused and changeful
luster,
and far away against the sky we could see a long trail of
glowing
smoke.
Mr. Huddlestone, filled for the moment with a strength greater
than
his own, struck Northmour and myself a back-hander in the
chest;
and while we were thus for the moment incapacitated from
action,
lifting his arms above his head like one about to dive, he
ran
straight forward out of the pavilion.
"Here am I!" he cried--"Huddlestone! Kill me, and spare
the
others!"
His sudden appearance daunted, I suppose, our hidden enemies;
for
Northmour and I had time to recover, to seize Clara between us,
one
by each arm, and to rush forth to his assistance, ere
anything
further had taken place. But scarce had we passed the
threshold
when there came near a dozen reports and flashes from every
direction among the hollows of the links. Mr. Huddlestone
staggered, uttered a weird and freezing cry, threw up his arms
over
his head, and fell backward on the turf.
"Traditore! Traditore!" cried the invisible avengers.
And just then a part of the roof of the pavilion fell in, so
rapid
was the progress of the fire. A loud, vague, and horrible
noise
accompanied the collapse, and a vast volume of flame went
soaring
up to heaven. It must have been visible at that moment from
twenty
miles out at sea, from the shore at Graden Wester, and far
inland
from the peak of Graystiel, the most eastern summit of the
Caulder
Hills. Bernard Huddlestone, although God knows what were his
obsequies, had a fine pyre at the moment of his death.
I should have the greatest difficulty to tell you what
followed
next after this tragic circumstance. It is all to me, as I
look
back upon it, mixed, strenuous, and ineffectual, like the
struggles
of a sleeper in a nightmare. Clara, I remember, uttered a
broken
sigh and would have fallen forward to earth, had not Northmour
and
I supported her insensible body. I do not think we were
attacked:
I do not remember even to have seen an assailant; and I believe
we
deserted Mr. Huddlestone without a glance. I only remember
running
like a man in a panic, now carrying Clara altogether in my
own
arms, now sharing her weight with Northmour, now scuffling
confusedly for the possession of that dear burden. Why we
should
have made for my camp in the Hemlock Den, or how we reached it,
are
points lost forever to my recollection. The first moment at
which
I became definitely sure, Clara had been suffered to fall
against
the outside of my little tent, Northmour and I were tumbling
together on the ground, and he, with contained ferocity, was
striking for my head with the butt of his revolver. He had
already
twice wounded me on the scalp; and it is to the consequent loss
of
blood that I am tempted to attribute the sudden clearness of
my
mind.
I caught him by the wrist.
"Northmour," I remember saying, "you can kill me afterwards.
Let
us first attend to Clara."
He was at that moment uppermost. Scarcely had the words passed
my
lips, when he had leaped to his feet and ran toward the tent;
and
the next moment, he was straining Clara to his heart and
covering
her unconscious hands and face with his caresses.
"Shame!" I cried. "Shame to you, Northmour!"
And, giddy though I still was, I struck him repeatedly upon
the
head and shoulders.
He relinquished his grasp, and faced me in the broken moonlight.
"I had you under, and I let you go," said he; "and now you
strike
me! Coward!"
"You are the coward," I retorted. "Did she wish your kisses
while
she was still sensible of what you wanted? Not she! And now
she
may be dying; and you waste this precious time, and abuse
her
helplessness. Stand aside, and let me help her."
He confronted me for a moment, white and menacing; then
suddenly he
stepped aside.
"Help her then," said he.
I threw myself on my knees beside her, and loosened, as well
as I
was able, her dress and corset; but while I was thus engaged,
a
grasp descended on my shoulder.
"Keep your hands off her," said Northmour, fiercely. "Do you
think
I have no blood in my veins?"
"Northmour," I cried, "if you will neither help her yourself,
nor
let me do so, do you know that I shall have to kill you?"
"That is better!" he cried. "Let her die also, where's the
harm?
Step aside from that girl! and stand up to fight."
"You will observe," said I, half rising, "that I have not
kissed
her yet."
"I dare you to," he cried.
I do not know what possessed me; it was one of the things I am
most
ashamed of in my life, though, as my wife used to say, I knew
that
my kisses would be always welcome were she dead or living; down
I
fell again upon my knees, parted the hair from her forehead,
and,
with the dearest respect, laid my lips for a moment on that
cold
brow. It was such a caress as a father might have given; it
was
such a one as was not unbecoming from a man soon to die to a
woman
already dead.
"And now," said I, "I am at your service, Mr. Northmour."
But I saw, to my surprise, that he had turned his back upon me.
"Do you hear?" I asked.
"Yes," said he, "I do. If you wish to fight, I am ready. If
not,
go on and save Clara. All is one to me."
I did not wait to be twice bidden; but, stooping again over
Clara,
continued my efforts to revive her. She still lay white and
lifeless; I began to fear that her sweet spirit had indeed
fled
beyond recall, and horror and a sense of utter desolation
seized
upon my heart. I called her by name with the most endearing
inflections; I chafed and beat her hands; now I laid her head
low,
now supported it against my knee; but all seemed to be in vain,
and
the lids still lay heavy on her eyes.
"Northmour," I said, "there is my hat. For God's sake bring
some
water from the spring."
Almost in a moment he was by my side with the water.
"I have brought it in my own," he said. "You do not grudge me
the
privilege?"
"Northmour," I was beginning to say, as I laved her head
and
breast; but he interrupted me savagely.
"Oh, you hush up!" he said. "The best thing you can do is to
say
nothing."
I had certainly no desire to talk, my mind being swallowed up
in
concern for my dear love and her condition; so I continued
in
silence to do my best toward her recovery, and, when the hat
was
empty, returned it to him, with one word--"More." He had,
perhaps,
gone several times upon this errand, when Clara reopened her
eyes.
"Now," said he, "since she is better, you can spare me, can
you
not? I wish you a good night, Mr. Cassilis."
And with that he was gone among the thicket. I made a fire,
for I
had now no fear of the Italians, who had even spared all the
little
possessions left in my encampment; and, broken as she was by
the
excitement and the hideous catastrophe of the evening, I
managed,
in one way or another--by persuasion, encouragement, warmth,
and
such simple remedies as I could lay my hand on--to bring her
back
to some composure of mind and strength of body.
Day had already come, when a sharp "Hist!" sounded from
the
thicket. I started from the ground; but the voice of Northmour
was
heard adding, in the most tranquil tones: "Come here, Cassilis,
and
alone; I want to show you something."
I consulted Clara with my eyes, and, receiving her tacit
permission, left her alone, and clambered out of the den. At
some
distance off I saw Northmour leaning against an elder; and, as
soon
as he perceived me, he began walking seaward. I had almost
overtaken him as he reached the outskirts of the wood.
"Look," said he, pausing.
A couple of steps more brought me out of the foliage. The
light of
the morning lay cold and clear over that well-known scene.
The
pavilion was but a blackened wreck; the roof had fallen in, one
of
the gables had fallen out; and, far and near, the face of the
links
was cicatrized with little patches of burned furze. Thick
smoke
still went straight upward in the windless air of the morning,
and
a great pile of ardent cinders filled the bare walls of the
house,
like coals in an open grate. Close by the islet a schooner
yacht
lay to, and a well-manned boat was pulling vigorously for
the
shore.
"The 'Red Earl'!" I cried. "The 'Red Earl' twelve hours too late!"
"Feel in your pocket, Frank. Are you armed?" asked Northmour.
I obeyed him, and I think I must have become deadly pale.
My
revolver had been taken from me.
"You see, I have you in my power," he continued. "I disarmed
you
last night while you were nursing Clara; but this
morning--here--
take your pistol. No thanks!" he cried, holding up his hand.
"I
do not like them; that is the only way you can annoy me
now."
He began to walk forward across the links to meet the boat,
and I
followed a step or two behind. In front of the pavilion I
paused
to see where Mr. Huddlestone had fallen; but there was no sign
of
him, nor so much as a trace of blood.
"Graden Floe," said Northmour.
He continued to advance till we had come to the head of the beach.
"No farther, please," said he. "Would you like to take her
to
Graden House?"
"Thank you," replied I; "I shall try to get her to the
minister at
Graden Wester."
The prow of the boat here grated on the beach, and a sailor
jumped
ashore with a line in his hand.
"Wait a minute, lads!" cried Northmour; and then lower and to
my
private ear, "You had better say nothing of all this to her,"
he
added.
"On the contrary!" I broke out, "she shall know everything
that I
can tell."
"You do not understand," he returned, with an air of great
dignity.
"It will be nothing to her; she expects it of me. Good-by!"
he
added, with a nod.
I offered him my hand.
"Excuse me," said he. "It's small, I know; but I can't push
things
quite so far as that. I don't wish any sentimental business,
to
sit by your hearth a white-haired wanderer, and all that.
Quite
the contrary: I hope to God I shall never again clap eyes on
either
one of you."
"Well, God bless you, Northmour!" I said heartily.
"Oh, yes," he returned.
He walked down the beach; and the man who was ashore gave him
an
arm on board, and then shoved off and leaped into the bows
himself.
Northmour took the tiller; the boat rose to the waves, and the
oars
between the tholepins sounded crisp and measured in the
morning
air.
They were not yet half way to the "Red Earl," and I was
still
watching their progress, when the sun rose out of the sea.
One word more, and my story is done. Years after, Northmour
was
killed fighting under the colors of Garibaldi for the liberation
of
the Tyrol.
"Hullo, there! Hostler! Hullo-o-o!"
"My dear! why don't you look for the bell?"
"I HAVE looked--there is no bell."
"And nobody in the yard. How very extraordinary! Call
again,
dear."
"Hostler! Hullo, there! Hostler-r-r!"
My second call echoes through empty space, and rouses
nobody--
produces, in short, no visible result. I am at the end of my
resources--I don't know what to say or what to do next. Here
I
stand in the solitary inn yard of a strange town, with two
horses
to hold, and a lady to take care of. By way of adding to my
responsibilities, it so happens that one of the horses is
dead
lame, and that the lady is my wife.
Who am I?--you will ask.
There is plenty of time to answer the question. Nothing
happens;
and nobody appears to receive us. Let me introduce myself and
my
wife.
I am Percy Fairbank--English gentleman--age (let us say)
forty--no
profession--moderate politics--middle height--fair
complexion--easy
character--plenty of money.
My wife is a French lady. She was Mademoiselle Clotilde
Delorge--
when I was first presented to her at her father's house in
France.
I fell in love with her--I really don't know why. It might
have
been because I was perfectly idle, and had nothing else to do
at
the time. Or it might have been because all my friends said
she
was the very last woman whom I ought to think of marrying. On
the
surface, I must own, there is nothing in common between Mrs.
Fairbank and me. She is tall; she is dark; she is nervous,
excitable, romantic; in all her opinions she proceeds to
extremes.
What could such a woman see in me? what could I see in her? I
know
no more than you do. In some mysterious manner we exactly
suit
each other. We have been man and wife for ten years, and our
only
regret is, that we have no children. I don't know what YOU
may
think; I call that--upon the whole--a happy marriage.
So much for ourselves. The next question is--what has brought
us
into the inn yard? and why am I obliged to turn groom, and hold
the
horses?
We live for the most part in France--at the country house in
which
my wife and I first met. Occasionally, by way of variety, we
pay
visits to my friends in England. We are paying one of those
visits
now. Our host is an old college friend of mine, possessed of
a
fine estate in Somersetshire; and we have arrived at his
house--
called Farleigh Hall--toward the close of the hunting
season.
On the day of which I am now writing--destined to be a
memorable
day in our calendar--the hounds meet at Farleigh Hall. Mrs.
Fairbank and I are mounted on two of the best horses in my
friend's
stables. We are quite unworthy of that distinction; for we
know
nothing and care nothing about hunting. On the other hand,
we
delight in riding, and we enjoy the breezy Spring morning and
the
fair and fertile English landscape surrounding us on every
side.
While the hunt prospers, we follow the hunt. But when a
check
occurs--when time passes and patience is sorely tried; when
the
bewildered dogs run hither and thither, and strong language
falls
from the lips of exasperated sportsmen--we fail to take any
further
interest in the proceedings. We turn our horses' heads in
the
direction of a grassy lane, delightfully shaded by trees. We
trot
merrily along the lane, and find ourselves on an open common.
We
gallop across the common, and follow the windings of a second
lane.
We cross a brook, we pass through a village, we emerge into
pastoral solitude among the hills. The horses toss their
heads,
and neigh to each other, and enjoy it as much as we do. The
hunt
is forgotten. We are as happy as a couple of children; we
are
actually singing a French song--when in one moment our
merriment
comes to an end. My wife's horse sets one of his forefeet on
a
loose stone, and stumbles. His rider's ready hand saves him
from
falling. But, at the first attempt he makes to go on, the
sad
truth shows itself--a tendon is strained; the horse is lame.
What is to be done? We are strangers in a lonely part of
the
country. Look where we may, we see no signs of a human
habitation.
There is nothing for it but to take the bridle road up the
hill,
and try what we can discover on the other side. I transfer
the
saddles, and mount my wife on my own horse. He is not used
to
carry a lady; he misses the familiar pressure of a man's legs
on
either side of him; he fidgets, and starts, and kicks up the
dust.
I follow on foot, at a respectful distance from his heels,
leading
the lame horse. Is there a more miserable object on the face
of
creation than a lame horse? I have seen lame men and lame dogs
who
were cheerful creatures; but I never yet saw a lame horse
who
didn't look heartbroken over his own misfortune.
For half an hour my wife capers and curvets sideways along
the
bridle road. I trudge on behind her; and the heartbroken
horse
halts behind me. Hard by the top of the hill, our melancholy
procession passes a Somersetshire peasant at work in a field.
I
summon the man to approach us; and the man looks at me
stolidly,
from the middle of the field, without stirring a step. I ask
at
the top of my voice how far it is to Farleigh Hall. The
Somersetshire peasant answers at the top of HIS voice:
"Vourteen mile. Gi' oi a drap o' zyder."
I translate (for my wife's benefit) from the Somersetshire
language
into the English language. We are fourteen miles from
Farleigh
Hall; and our friend in the field desires to be rewarded,
for
giving us that information, with a drop of cider. There is
the
peasant, painted by himself! Quite a bit of character, my
dear!
Quite a bit of character!
Mrs. Fairbank doesn't view the study of agricultural human
nature
with my relish. Her fidgety horse will not allow her a
moment's
repose; she is beginning to lose her temper.
"We can't go fourteen miles in this way," she says. "Where is
the
nearest inn? Ask that brute in the field!"
I take a shilling from my pocket and hold it up in the sun.
The
shilling exercises magnetic virtues. The shilling draws the
peasant slowly toward me from the middle of the field. I
inform
him that we want to put up the horses and to hire a carriage
to
take us back to Farleigh Hall. Where can we do that? The
peasant
answers (with his eye on the shilling):
"At Oonderbridge, to be zure." (At Underbridge, to be sure.)
"Is it far to Underbridge?"
The peasant repeats, "Var to Oonderbridge?"--and laughs at
the
question. "Hoo-hoo-hoo!" (Underbridge is evidently close
by--if
we could only find it.) "Will you show us the way, my man?"
"Will
you gi' oi a drap of zyder?" I courteously bend my head, and
point
to the shilling. The agricultural intelligence exerts itself.
The
peasant joins our melancholy procession. My wife is a fine
woman,
but he never once looks at my wife--and, more extraordinary
still,
he never even looks at the horses. His eyes are with his
mind--and
his mind is on the shilling.
We reach the top of the hill--and, behold on the other
side,
nestling in a valley, the shrine of our pilgrimage, the town
of
Underbridge! Here our guide claims his shilling, and leaves us
to
find out the inn for ourselves. I am constitutionally a
polite
man. I say "Good morning" at parting. The guide looks at me
with
the shilling between his teeth to make sure that it is a good
one.
"Marnin!" he says savagely--and turns his back on us, as if we
had
offended him. A curious product, this, of the growth of
civilization. If I didn't see a church spire at Underbridge,
I
might suppose that we had lost ourselves on a savage island.
Arriving at the town, we had no difficulty in finding the inn.
The
town is composed of one desolate street; and midway in that
street
stands the inn--an ancient stone building sadly out of repair.
The
painting on the sign-board is obliterated. The shutters over
the
long range of front windows are all closed. A cock and his
hens
are the only living creatures at the door. Plainly, this is one
of
the old inns of the stage-coach period, ruined by the railway.
We
pass through the open arched doorway, and find no one to
welcome
us. We advance into the stable yard behind; I assist my wife
to
dismount--and there we are in the position already disclosed
to
view at the opening of this narrative. No bell to ring. No
human
creature to answer when I call. I stand helpless, with the
bridles
of the horses in my hand. Mrs. Fairbank saunters gracefully
down
the length of the yard and does--what all women do, when they
find
themselves in a strange place. She opens every door as she
passes
it, and peeps in. On my side, I have just recovered my breath,
I
am on the point of shouting for the hostler for the third and
last
time, when I hear Mrs. Fairbank suddenly call to me:
"Percy! come here!"
Her voice is eager and agitated. She has opened a last door at
the
end of the yard, and has started back from some sight which
has
suddenly met her view. I hitch the horses' bridles on a rusty
nail
in the wall near me, and join my wife. She has turned pale,
and
catches me nervously by the arm.
"Good heavens!" she cries; "look at that!"
I look--and what do I see? I see a dingy little stable,
containing
two stalls. In one stall a horse is munching his corn. In
the
other a man is lying asleep on the litter.
A worn, withered, woebegone man in a hostler's dress. His
hollow
wrinkled cheeks, his scanty grizzled hair, his dry yellow
skin,
tell their own tale of past sorrow or suffering. There is an
ominous frown on his eyebrows--there is a painful nervous
contraction on the side of his mouth. I hear him breathing
convulsively when I first look in; he shudders and sighs in
his
sleep. It is not a pleasant sight to see, and I turn round
instinctively to the bright sunlight in the yard. My wife turns
me
back again in the direction of the stable door.
"Wait!" she says. "Wait! he may do it again."
"Do what again?"
"He was talking in his sleep, Percy, when I first looked in.
He
was dreaming some dreadful dream. Hush! he's beginning
again."
I look and listen. The man stirs on his miserable bed. The
man
speaks in a quick, fierce whisper through his clinched
teeth.
"Wake up! Wake up, there! Murder!"
There is an interval of silence. He moves one lean arm
slowly
until it rests over his throat; he shudders, and turns on
his
straw; he raises his arm from his throat, and feebly stretches
it
out; his hand clutches at the straw on the side toward which he
has
turned; he seems to fancy that he is grasping at the edge of
something. I see his lips begin to move again; I step softly
into
the stable; my wife follows me, with her hand fast clasped in
mine.
We both bend over him. He is talking once more in his
sleep--
strange talk, mad talk, this time.
"Light gray eyes" (we hear him say), "and a droop in the
left
eyelid--flaxen hair, with a gold-yellow streak in it--all
right,
mother! fair, white arms with a down on them--little, lady's
hand,
with a reddish look round the fingernails--the knife--the
cursed
knife--first on one side, then on the other--aha, you
she-devil!
where is the knife?"
He stops and grows restless on a sudden. We see him writhing
on
the straw. He throws up both his hands and gasps hysterically
for
breath. His eyes open suddenly. For a moment they look at
nothing, with a vacant glitter in them--then they close again
in
deeper sleep. Is he dreaming still? Yes; but the dream seems
to
have taken a new course. When he speaks next, the tone is
altered;
the words are few--sadly and imploringly repeated over and
over
again. "Say you love me! I am so fond of YOU. Say you love
me!
say you love me!" He sinks into deeper and deeper sleep,
faintly
repeating those words. They die away on his lips. He speaks
no
more.
By this time Mrs. Fairbank has got over her terror; she is
devoured
by curiosity now. The miserable creature on the straw has
appealed
to the imaginative side of her character. Her illimitable
appetite
for romance hungers and thirsts for more. She shakes me
impatiently by the arm.
"Do you hear? There is a woman at the bottom of it, Percy!
There
is love and murder in it, Percy! Where are the people of the
inn?
Go into the yard, and call to them again."
My wife belongs, on her mother's side, to the South of France.
The
South of France breeds fine women with hot tempers. I say no
more.
Married men will understand my position. Single men may need to
be
told that there are occasions when we must not only love and
honor-
-we must also obey--our wives.
I turn to the door to obey MY wife, and find myself confronted
by a
stranger who has stolen on us unawares. The stranger is a
tiny,
sleepy, rosy old man, with a vacant pudding-face, and a
shining
bald head. He wears drab breeches and gaiters, and a
respectable
square-tailed ancient black coat. I feel instinctively that
here
is the landlord of the inn.
"Good morning, sir," says the rosy old man. "I'm a little hard
of
hearing. Was it you that was a-calling just now in the
yard?"
Before I can answer, my wife interposes. She insists (in a
shrill
voice, adapted to our host's hardness of hearing) on knowing
who
that unfortunate person is sleeping on the straw. "Where does
he
come from? Why does he say such dreadful things in his sleep?
Is
he married or single? Did he ever fall in love with a
murderess?
What sort of a looking woman was she? Did she really stab him
or
not? In short, dear Mr. Landlord, tell us the whole story!"
Dear Mr. Landlord waits drowsily until Mrs. Fairbank has
quite
done--then delivers himself of his reply as follows:
"His name's Francis Raven. He's an Independent Methodist. He
was
forty-five year old last birthday. And he's my hostler.
That's
his story."
My wife's hot southern temper finds its way to her foot,
and
expresses itself by a stamp on the stable yard.
The landlord turns himself sleepily round, and looks at the
horses.
"A fine pair of horses, them two in the yard. Do you want to
put
'em in my stables?" I reply in the affirmative by a nod. The
landlord, bent on making himself agreeable to my wife,
addresses
her once more. "I'm a-going to wake Francis Raven. He's an
Independent Methodist. He was forty-five year old last
birthday.
And he's my hostler. That's his story."
Having issued this second edition of his interesting
narrative, the
landlord enters the stable. We follow him to see how he will
wake
Francis Raven, and what will happen upon that. The stable
broom
stands in a corner; the landlord takes it--advances toward
the
sleeping hostler--and coolly stirs the man up with a broom as if
he
was a wild beast in a cage. Francis Raven starts to his feet
with
a cry of terror--looks at us wildly, with a horrid glare of
suspicion in his eyes--recovers himself the next moment--and
suddenly changes into a decent, quiet, respectable
serving-man.
"I beg your pardon, ma'am. I beg your pardon, sir."
The tone and manner in which he makes his apologies are both
above
his apparent station in life. I begin to catch the infection
of
Mrs. Fairbank's interest in this man. We both follow him out
into
the yard to see what he will do with the horses. The manner
in
which he lifts the injured leg of the lame horse tells me at
once
that he understands his business. Quickly and quietly, he
leads
the animal into an empty stable; quickly and quietly, he gets
a
bucket of hot water, and puts the lame horse's leg into it.
"The
warm water will reduce the swelling, sir. I will bandage the
leg
afterwards." All that he does is done intelligently; all that
he
says, he says to the purpose.
Nothing wild, nothing strange about him now. Is this the same
man
whom we heard talking in his sleep?--the same man who woke
with
that cry of terror and that horrid suspicion in his eyes? I
determine to try him with one or two questions.
"Not much to do here," I say to the hostler.
"Very little to do, sir," the hostler replies.
"Anybody staying in the house?"
"The house is quite empty, sir."
"I thought you were all dead. I could make nobody hear me."
"The landlord is very deaf, sir, and the waiter is out on
an
errand."
"Yes; and YOU were fast asleep in the stable. Do you often
take a
nap in the daytime?"
The worn face of the hostler faintly flushes. His eyes look
away
from my eyes for the first time. Mrs. Fairbank furtively
pinches
my arm. Are we on the eve of a discovery at last? I repeat
my
question. The man has no civil alternative but to give me an
answer. The answer is given in these words:
"I was tired out, sir. You wouldn't have found me asleep in
the
daytime but for that."
"Tired out, eh? You had been hard at work, I suppose?"
"No, sir."
"What was it, then?"
He hesitates again, and answers unwillingly, "I was up all night."
"Up all night? Anything going on in the town?"
"Nothing going on, sir."
"Anybody ill?"
"Nobody ill, sir."
That reply is the last. Try as I may, I can extract nothing
more
from him. He turns away and busies himself in attending to
the
horse's leg. I leave the stable to speak to the landlord about
the
carriage which is to take us back to Farleigh Hall. Mrs.
Fairbank
remains with the hostler, and favors me with a look at
parting.
The look says plainly, "I mean to find out why he was up all
night.
Leave him to Me."
The ordering of the carriage is easily accomplished. The
inn
possesses one horse and one chaise. The landlord has a story
to
tell of the horse, and a story to tell of the chaise. They
resemble the story of Francis Raven--with this exception, that
the
horse and chaise belong to no religious persuasion. "The
horse
will be nine year old next birthday. I've had the shay for
four-
and-twenty year. Mr. Max, of Underbridge, he bred the horse;
and
Mr. Pooley, of Yeovil, he built the shay. It's my horse and
my
shay. And that's THEIR story!" Having relieved his mind of
these
details, the landlord proceeds to put the harness on the horse.
By
way of assisting him, I drag the chaise into the yard. Just as
our
preparations are completed, Mrs. Fairbank appears. A moment or
two
later the hostler follows her out. He has bandaged the
horse's
leg, and is now ready to drive us to Farleigh Hall. I
observe
signs of agitation in his face and manner, which suggest that
my
wife has found her way into his confidence. I put the question
to
her privately in a corner of the yard. "Well? Have you found
out
why Francis Raven was up all night?"
Mrs. Fairbank has an eye to dramatic effect. Instead of
answering
plainly, Yes or No, she suspends the interest and excites
the
audience by putting a question on her side.
"What is the day of the month, dear?"
"The day of the month is the first of March."
"The first of March, Percy, is Francis Raven's birthday."
I try to look as if I was interested--and don't succeed.
"Francis was born," Mrs. Fairbank proceeds gravely, "at two
o'clock
in the morning."
I begin to wonder whether my wife's intellect is going the way
of
the landlord's intellect. "Is that all?" I ask.
"It is NOT all," Mrs. Fairbank answers. "Francis Raven sits up
on
the morning of his birthday because he is afraid to go to
bed."
"And why is he afraid to go to bed?"
"Because he is in peril of his life."
"On his birthday?"
"On his birthday. At two o'clock in the morning. As regularly
as
the birthday comes round."
There she stops. Has she discovered no more than that? No
more
thus far. I begin to feel really interested by this time. I
ask
eagerly what it means? Mrs. Fairbank points mysteriously to
the
chaise--with Francis Raven (hitherto our hostler, now our
coachman)
waiting for us to get in. The chaise has a seat for two in
front,
and a seat for one behind. My wife casts a warning look at me,
and
places herself on the seat in front.
The necessary consequence of this arrangement is that Mrs.
Fairhank
sits by the side of the driver during a journey of two hours
and
more. Need I state the result? It would be an insult to your
intelligence to state the result. Let me offer you my place in
the
chaise. And let Francis Raven tell his terrible story in his
own
words.
It is now ten years ago since I got my first warning of the
great
trouble of my life in the Vision of a Dream.
I shall be better able to tell you about it if you will
please
suppose yourselves to be drinking tea along with us in our
little
cottage in Cambridgeshire, ten years since.
The time was the close of day, and there were three of us at
the
table, namely, my mother, myself, and my mother's sister,
Mrs.
Chance. These two were Scotchwomen by birth, and both were
widows.
There was no other resemblance between them that I can call
to
mind. My mother had lived all her life in England, and had no
more
of the Scotch brogue on her tongue than I have. My aunt Chance
had
never been out of Scotland until she came to keep house with
my
mother after her husband's death. And when SHE opened her lips
you
heard broad Scotch, I can tell you, if you ever heard it
yet!
As it fell out, there was a matter of some consequence in
debate
among us that evening. It was this: whether I should do well
or
not to take a long journey on foot the next morning.
Now the next morning happened to be the day before my
birthday; and
the purpose of the journey was to offer myself for a situation
as
groom at a great house in the neighboring county to ours.
The
place was reported as likely to fall vacant in about three
weeks'
time. I was as well fitted to fill it as any other man. In
the
prosperous days of our family, my father had been manager of
a
training stable, and he had kept me employed among the horses
from
my boyhood upward. Please to excuse my troubling you with
these
small matters. They all fit into my story farther on, as you
will
soon find out. My poor mother was dead against my leaving home
on
the morrow.
"You can never walk all the way there and all the way back
again by
to-morrow night," she says. "The end of it will be that you
will
sleep away from home on your birthday. You have never done
that
yet, Francis, since your father's death, I don't like your doing
it
now. Wait a day longer, my son--only one day."
For my own part, I was weary of being idle, and I couldn't
abide
the notion of delay. Even one day might make all the
difference.
Some other man might take time by the forelock, and get the
place.
"Consider how long I have been out of work," I says, "and
don't ask
me to put off the journey. I won't fail you, mother. I'll
get
back by to-morrow night, if I have to pay my last sixpence for
a
lift in a cart."
My mother shook her head. "I don't like it, Francis--I don't
like
it!" There was no moving her from that view. We argued and
argued, until we were both at a deadlock. It ended in our
agreeing
to refer the difference between us to my mother's sister,
Mrs.
Chance.
While we were trying hard to convince each other, my aunt
Chance
sat as dumb as a fish, stirring her tea and thinking her own
thoughts. When we made our appeal to her, she seemed as it were
to
wake up. "Ye baith refer it to my puir judgment?" she says, in
her
broad Scotch. We both answered Yes. Upon that my aunt Chance
first cleared the tea-table, and then pulled out from the pocket
of
her gown a pack of cards.
Don't run away, if you please, with the notion that this was
done
lightly, with a view to amuse my mother and me. My aunt
Chance
seriously believed that she could look into the future by
telling
fortunes on the cards. She did nothing herself without first
consulting the cards. She could give no more serious proof of
her
interest in my welfare than the proof which she was offering
now.
I don't say it profanely; I only mention the fact--the cards
had,
in some incomprehensible way, got themselves jumbled up
together
with her religious convictions. You meet with people nowadays
who
believe in spirits working by way of tables and chairs. On
the
same principle (if there IS any principle in it) my aunt
Chance
believed in Providence working by way of the cards.
"Whether YOU are right, Francie, or your mither--whether ye
will do
weel or ill, the morrow, to go or stay--the cairds will tell
it.
We are a' in the hands of Proavidence. The cairds will tell
it."
Hearing this, my mother turned her head aside, with something
of a
sour look in her face. Her sister's notions about the cards
were
little better than flat blasphemy to her mind. But she kept
her
opinion to herself. My aunt Chance, to own the truth, had
inherited, through her late husband, a pension of thirty pounds
a
year. This was an important contribution to our housekeeping,
and
we poor relations were bound to treat her with a certain
respect.
As for myself, if my poor father never did anything else for
me
before he fell into difficulties, he gave me a good education,
and
raised me (thank God) above superstitions of all sorts. However,
a
very little amused me in those days; and I waited to have my
fortune told, as patiently as if I believed in it too!
My aunt began her hocus pocus by throwing out all the cards in
the
pack under seven. She shuffled the rest with her left hand
for
luck; and then she gave them to me to cut. "Wi' yer left
hand,
Francie. Mind that! Pet your trust in Proavidence--but dinna
forget that your luck's in yer left hand!" A long and
roundabout
shifting of the cards followed, reducing them in number until
there
were just fifteen of them left, laid out neatly before my aunt
in a
half circle. The card which happened to lie outermost, at
the
right-hand end of the circle, was, according to rule in such
cases,
the card chosen to represent Me. By way of being appropriate to
my
situation as a poor groom out of employment, the card was--the
King
of Diamonds.
"I tak' up the King o' Diamants," says my aunt. "I count
seven
cairds fra' richt to left; and I humbly ask a blessing on
what
follows." My aunt shut her eyes as if she was saying grace
before
meat, and held up to me the seventh card. I called the
seventh
card--the Queen of Spades. My aunt opened her eyes again in
a
hurry, and cast a sly look my way. "The Queen o' Spades means
a
dairk woman. Ye'll be thinking in secret, Francie, of a
dairk
woman?"
When a man has been out of work for more than three months,
his
mind isn't troubled much with thinking of women--light or dark.
I
was thinking of the groom's place at the great house, and I
tried
to say so. My aunt Chance wouldn't listen. She treated my
interpretation with contempt. "Hoot-toot! there's the caird
in
your hand! If ye're no thinking of her the day, ye'll be
thinking
of her the morrow. Where's the harm of thinking of a dairk
woman!
I was ance a dairk woman myself, before my hair was gray. Haud
yer
peace, Francie, and watch the cairds."
I watched the cards as I was told. There were seven left on
the
table. My aunt removed two from one end of the row and two
from
the other, and desired me to call the two outermost of the
three
cards now left on the table. I called the Ace of Clubs and the
Ten
of Diamonds. My aunt Chance lifted her eyes to the ceiling with
a
look of devout gratitude which sorely tried my mother's
patience.
The Ace of Clubs and the Ten of Diamonds, taken together,
signified--first, good news (evidently the news of the
groom's
place); secondly, a journey that lay before me (pointing plainly
to
my journey to-morrow!); thirdly and lastly, a sum of money
(probably the groom's wages!) waiting to find its way into
my
pockets. Having told my fortune in these encouraging terms,
my
aunt declined to carry the experiment any further. "Eh, lad!
it's
a clean tempting o' Proavidence to ask mair o' the cairds than
the
cairds have tauld us noo. Gae yer ways to-morrow to the
great
hoose. A dairk woman will meet ye at the gate; and she'll have
a
hand in getting ye the groom's place, wi' a' the gratifications
and
pairquisites appertaining to the same. And, mebbe, when yer
poaket's full o' money, ye'll no' be forgetting yer aunt
Chance,
maintaining her ain unblemished widowhood--wi' Proavidence
assisting--on thratty punds a year!"
I promised to remember my aunt Chance (who had the defect, by
the
way, of being a terribly greedy person after money) on the
next
happy occasion when my poor empty pockets were to be filled
at
last. This done, I looked at my mother. She had agreed to
take
her sister for umpire between us, and her sister had given it in
my
favor. She raised no more objections. Silently, she got on
her
feet, and kissed me, and sighed bitterly--and so left the room.
My
aunt Chance shook her head. "I doubt, Francie, yer puir mither
has
but a heathen notion of the vairtue of the cairds!"
By daylight the next morning I set forth on my journey. I
looked
back at the cottage as I opened the garden gate. At one window
was
my mother, with her handkerchief to her eyes. At the other
stood
my aunt Chance, holding up the Queen of Spades by way of
encouraging me at starting. I waved my hands to both of them
in
token of farewell, and stepped out briskly into the road. It
was
then the last day of February. Be pleased to remember, in
connection with this, that the first of March was the day, and
two
o'clock in the morning the hour of my birth.
Now you know how I came to leave home. The next thing to tell
is,
what happened on the journey.
I reached the great house in reasonably good time considering
the
distance. At the very first trial of it, the prophecy of the
cards
turned out to be wrong. The person who met me at the lodge
gate
was not a dark woman--in fact, not a woman at all--but a boy.
He
directed me on the way to the servants' offices; and there
again
the cards were all wrong. I encountered, not one woman, but
three-
-and not one of the three was dark. I have stated that I am
not
superstitious, and I have told the truth. But I must own that
I
did feel a certain fluttering at the heart when I made my bow
to
the steward, and told him what business had brought me to
the
house. His answer completed the discomfiture of aunt
Chance's
fortune-telling. My ill-luck still pursued me. That very
morning
another man had applied for the groom's place, and had got
it.
I swallowed my disappointment as well as I could, and thanked
the
steward, and went to the inn in the village to get the rest
and
food which I sorely needed by this time.
Before starting on my homeward walk I made some inquiries at
the
inn, and ascertained that I might save a few miles, on my
return,
by following a new road. Furnished with full instructions,
several
times repeated, as to the various turnings I was to take, I
set
forth, and walked on till the evening with only one stoppage
for
bread and cheese. Just as it was getting toward dark, the
rain
came on and the wind began to rise; and I found myself, to
make
matters worse, in a part of the country with which I was
entirely
unacquainted, though I guessed myself to be some fifteen miles
from
home. The first house I found to inquire at, was a lonely
roadside
inn, standing on the outskirts of a thick wood. Solitary as
the
place looked, it was welcome to a lost man who was also
hungry,
thirsty, footsore, and wet. The landlord was civil and
respectable-looking; and the price he asked for a bed was
reasonable enough. I was grieved to disappoint my mother.
But
there was no conveyance to be had, and I could go no farther
afoot
that night. My weariness fairly forced me to stop at the
inn.
I may say for myself that I am a temperate man. My supper
simply
consisted of some rashers of bacon, a slice of home-made bread,
and
a pint of ale. I did not go to bed immediately after this
moderate
meal, but sat up with the landlord, talking about my bad
prospects
and my long run of ill-luck, and diverging from these topics to
the
subjects of horse-flesh and racing. Nothing was said, either
by
myself, my host, or the few laborers who strayed into the
tap-room,
which could, in the slightest degree, excite my mind, or set
my
fancy--which is only a small fancy at the best of
times--playing
tricks with my common sense.
At a little after eleven the house was closed. I went round
with
the landlord, and held the candle while the doors and lower
windows
were being secured. I noticed with surprise the strength of
the
bolts, bars, and iron-sheathed shutters.
"You see, we are rather lonely here," said the landlord. "We
never
have had any attempts to break in yet, but it's always as well
to
be on the safe side. When nobody is sleeping here, I am the
only
man in the house. My wife and daughter are timid, and the
servant
girl takes after her missuses. Another glass of ale, before
you
turn in?--No!--Well, how such a sober man as you comes to be out
of
a place is more than I can understand for one.--Here's where
you're
to sleep. You're the only lodger to-night, and I think you'll
say
my missus has done her best to make you comfortable. You're
quite
sure you won't have another glass of ale?--Very well. Good
night."
It was half-past eleven by the clock in the passage as we
went
upstairs to the bedroom. The window looked out on the wood at
the
back of the house.
I locked my door, set my candle on the chest of drawers,
and
wearily got me ready for bed. The bleak wind was still
blowing,
and the solemn, surging moan of it in the wood was very dreary
to
hear through the night silence. Feeling strangely wakeful, I
resolved to keep the candle alight until I began to grow
sleepy.
The truth is, I was not quite myself. I was depressed in mind
by
my disappointment of the morning; and I was worn out in body by
my
long walk. Between the two, I own I couldn't face the prospect
of
lying awake in the darkness, listening to the dismal moan of
the
wind in the wood.
Sleep stole on me before I was aware of it; my eyes closed,
and I
fell off to rest, without having so much as thought of
extinguishing the candle.
The next thing that I remember was a faint shivering that
ran
through me from head to foot, and a dreadful sinking pain at
my
heart, such as I had never felt before. The shivering only
disturbed my slumbers--the pain woke me instantly. In one moment
I
passed from a state of sleep to a state of wakefulness--my
eyes
wide open--my mind clear on a sudden as if by a miracle. The
candle had burned down nearly to the last morsel of tallow, but
the
unsnuffed wick had just fallen off, and the light was, for
the
moment, fair and full.
Between the foot of the bed and the closet door, I saw a
person in
my room. The person was a woman, standing looking at me, with
a
knife in her hand. It does no credit to my courage to confess
it--
but the truth IS the truth. I was struck speechless with
terror.
There I lay with my eyes on the woman; there the woman stood
(with
the knife in her hand) with HER eyes on ME.
She said not a word as we stared each other in the face; but
she
moved after a little--moved slowly toward the left-hand side of
the
bed.
The light fell full on her face. A fair, fine woman, with
yellowish flaxen hair, and light gray eyes, with a droop in
the
left eyelid. I noticed these things and fixed them in my
mind,
before she was quite round at the side of the bed. Without
saying
a word; without any change in the stony stillness of her
face;
without any noise following her footfall, she came closer
and
closer; stopped at the bed-head; and lifted the knife to stab
me.
I laid my arm over my throat to save it; but, as I saw the
blow
coming, I threw my hand across the bed to the right side,
and
jerked my body over that way, just as the knife came down,
like
lightning, within a hair's breadth of my shoulder.
My eyes fixed on her arm and her hand--she gave me time to
look at
them as she slowly drew the knife out of the bed. A white,
well-
shaped arm, with a pretty down lying lightly over the fair skin.
A
delicate lady's hand, with a pink flush round the finger
nails.
She drew the knife out, and passed back again slowly to the
foot of
the bed; she stopped there for a moment looking at me; then
she
came on without saying a word; without any change in the
stony
stillness of her face; without any noise following her
footfall--
came on to the side of the bed where I now lay.
Getting near me, she lifted the knife again, and I drew myself
away
to the left side. She struck, as before right into the
mattress,
with a swift downward action of her arm; and she missed me,
as
before; by a hair's breadth. This time my eyes wandered from
HER
to the knife. It was like the large clasp knives which
laboring
men use to cut their bread and bacon with. Her delicate
little
fingers did not hide more than two thirds of the handle; I
noticed
that it was made of buckhorn, clean and shining as the blade
was,
and looking like new.
For the second time she drew the knife out of the bed, and
suddenly
hid it away in the wide sleeve of her gown. That done, she
stopped
by the bedside watching me. For an instant I saw her standing
in
that position--then the wick of the spent candle fell over into
the
socket. The flame dwindled to a little blue point, and the
room
grew dark.
A moment, or less, if possible, passed so--and then the wick
flared
up, smokily, for the last time. My eyes were still looking for
her
over the right-hand side of the bed when the last flash of
light
came. Look as I might, I could see nothing. The woman with
the
knife was gone.
I began to get back to myself again. I could feel my heart
beating; I could hear the woeful moaning of the wind in the
wood; I
could leap up in bed, and give the alarm before she escaped
from
the house. "Murder! Wake up there! Murder!"
Nobody answered to the alarm. I rose and groped my way through
the
darkness to the door of the room. By that way she must have
got
in. By that way she must have gone out.
The door of the room was fast locked, exactly as I had left it
on
going to bed! I looked at the window. Fast locked too!
Hearing a voice outside, I opened the door. There was the
landlord, coming toward me along the passage, with his
burning
candle in one hand, and his gun in the other.
"What is it?" he says, looking at me in no very friendly way.
I could only answer in a whisper, "A woman, with a knife in
her
hand. In my room. A fair, yellow-haired woman. She jabbed at
me
with the knife, twice over."
He lifted his candle, and looked at me steadily from head to
foot.
"She seems to have missed you--twice over."
"I dodged the knife as it came down. It struck the bed each
time.
Go in, and see."
The landlord took his candle into the bedroom immediately. In
less
than a minute he came out again into the passage in a
violent
passion.
"The devil fly away with you and your woman with the knife!
There
isn't a mark in the bedclothes anywhere. What do you mean by
coming into a man's place and frightening his family out of
their
wits by a dream?"
A dream? The woman who had tried to stab me, not a living
human
being like myself? I began to shake and shiver. The horrors
got
hold of me at the bare thought of it.
"I'll leave the house," I said. "Better be out on the road in
the
rain and dark, than back in that room, after what I've seen in
it.
Lend me the light to get my clothes by, and tell me what I'm
to
pay."
The landlord led the way back with his light into the
bedroom.
"Pay?" says he. "You'll find your score on the slate when you
go
downstairs. I wouldn't have taken you in for all the money
you've
got about you, if I had known your dreaming, screeching ways
beforehand. Look at the bed--where's the cut of a knife in
it?
Look at the window--is the lock bursted? Look at the door (which
I
heard you fasten yourself)--is it broke in? A murdering woman
with
a knife in my house! You ought to be ashamed of yourself!"
My eyes followed his hand as it pointed first to the bed--then
to
the window--then to the door. There was no gainsaying it. The
bed
sheet was as sound as on the day it was made. The window was
fast.
The door hung on its hinges as steady as ever. I huddled my
clothes on without speaking. We went downstairs together. I
looked at the clock in the bar-room. The time was twenty
minutes
past two in the morning. I paid my bill, and the landlord let
me
out. The rain had ceased; but the night was dark, and the wind
was
bleaker than ever. Little did the darkness, or the cold, or
the
doubt about the way home matter to ME. My mind was away from
all
these things. My mind was fixed on the vision in the
bedroom.
What had I seen trying to murder me? The creature of a dream?
Or
that other creature from the world beyond the grave, whom men
call
ghost? I could make nothing of it as I walked along in the
night;
I had made nothing by it by midday--when I stood at last,
after
many times missing my road, on the doorstep of home.
My mother came out alone to welcome me back. There were no
secrets
between us two. I told her all that had happened, just as I
have
told it to you. She kept silence till I had done. And then
she
put a question to me.
"What time was it, Francis, when you saw the Woman in your Dream?"
I had looked at the clock when I left the inn, and I had
noticed
that the hands pointed to twenty minutes past two. Allowing
for
the time consumed in speaking to the landlord, and in getting on
my
clothes, I answered that I must have first seen the Woman at
two
o'clock in the morning. In other words, I had not only seen her
on
my birthday, but at the hour of my birth.
My mother still kept silence. Lost in her own thoughts, she
took
me by the hand, and led me into the parlor. Her writing-desk
was
on the table by the fireplace. She opened it, and signed to me
to
take a chair by her side.
"My son! your memory is a bad one, and mine is fast failing
me.
Tell me again what the Woman looked like. I want her to be as
well
known to both of us, years hence, as she is now."
I obeyed; wondering what strange fancy might be working in
her
mind. I spoke; and she wrote the words as they fell from my
lips:
"Light gray eyes, with a droop in the left eyelid. Flaxen
hair,
with a golden-yellow streak in it. White arms, with a down
upon
them. Little, lady's hands, with a rosy-red look about the
finger
nails."
"Did you notice how she was dressed, Francis?"
"No, mother."
"Did you notice the knife?"
"Yes. A large clasp knife, with a buckhorn handle, as good
as
new."
My mother added the description of the knife. Also the
year,
month, day of the week, and hour of the day when the
Dream-Woman
appeared to me at the inn. That done, she locked up the paper
in
her desk.
"Not a word, Francis, to your aunt. Not a word to any living
soul.
Keep your Dream a secret between you and me."
The weeks passed, and the months passed. My mother never
returned
to the subject again. As for me, time, which wears out all
things,
wore out my remembrance of the Dream. Little by little, the
image
of the Woman grew dimmer and dimmer. Little by little, she
faded
out of my mind.
The story of the warning is now told. Judge for yourself if it
was
a true warning or a false, when you hear what happened to me on
my
next birthday.
In the Summer time of the year, the Wheel of Fortune turned
the
right way for me at last. I was smoking my pipe one day, near
an
old stone quarry at the entrance to our village, when a
carriage
accident happened, which gave a new turn, as it were, to my lot
in
life. It was an accident of the commonest kind--not worth
mentioning at any length. A lady driving herself; a runaway
horse;
a cowardly man-servant in attendance, frightened out of his
wits;
and the stone quarry too near to be agreeable--that is what I
saw,
all in a few moments, between two whiffs of my pipe. I stopped
the
horse at the edge of the quarry, and got myself a little hurt
by
the shaft of the chaise. But that didn't matter. The lady
declared I had saved her life; and her husband, coming with her
to
our cottage the next day, took me into his service then and
there.
The lady happened to be of a dark complexion; and it may amuse
you
to hear that my aunt Chance instantly pitched on that
circumstance
as a means of saving the credit of the cards. Here was the
promise
of the Queen of Spades performed to the very letter, by means of
"a
dark woman," just as my aunt had told me. "In the time to
come,
Francis, beware o' pettin' yer ain blinded intairpretation on
the
cairds. Ye're ower ready, I trow, to murmur under dispensation
of
Proavidence that ye canna fathom--like the Eesraelites of
auld.
I'll say nae mair to ye. Mebbe when the mony's powering into
yer
poakets, ye'll no forget yer aunt Chance, left like a sparrow
on
the housetop, wi a sma' annuitee o' thratty punds a year."
I remained in my situation (at the West-end of London) until
the
Spring of the New Year. About that time, my master's health
failed. The doctors ordered him away to foreign parts, and
the
establishment was broken up. But the turn in my luck still
held
good. When I left my place, I left it--thanks to the generosity
of
my kind master--with a yearly allowance granted to me, in
remembrance of the day when I had saved my mistress's life.
For
the future, I could go back to service or not, as I pleased;
my
little income was enough to support my mother and myself.
My master and mistress left England toward the end of
February.
Certain matters of business to do for them detained me in
London
until the last day of the month. I was only able to leave for
our
village by the evening train, to keep my birthday with my mother
as
usual. It was bedtime when I got to the cottage; and I was
sorry
to find that she was far from well. To make matters worse, she
had
finished her bottle of medicine on the previous day, and had
omitted to get it replenished, as the doctor had strictly
directed.
He dispensed his own medicines, and I offered to go and knock
him
up. She refused to let me do this; and, after giving me my
supper,
sent me away to my bed.
I fell asleep for a little, and woke again. My mother's
bed-
chamber was next to mine. I heard my aunt Chance's heavy
footsteps
going to and fro in the room, and, suspecting something
wrong,
knocked at the door. My mother's pains had returned upon
her;
there was a serious necessity for relieving her sufferings
as
speedily as possible, I put on my clothes, and ran off, with
the
medicine bottle in my hand, to the other end of the village,
where
the doctor lived. The church clock chimed the quarter to two on
my
birthday just as I reached his house. One ring of the night
bell
brought him to his bedroom window to speak to me. He told me
to
wait, and he would let me in at the surgery door. I noticed,
while
I was waiting, that the night was wonderfully fair and warm for
the
time of year. The old stone quarry where the carriage accident
had
happened was within view. The moon in the clear heavens lit it
up
almost as bright as day.
In a minute or two the doctor let me into the surgery. I
closed
the door, noticing that he had left his room very lightly clad.
He
kindly pardoned my mother's neglect of his directions, and set
to
work at once at compounding the medicine. We were both intent
on
the bottle; he filling it, and I holding the light--when we
heard
the surgery door suddenly opened from the street.
Who could possibly be up and about in our quiet village at
the
second hour of the morning?
The person who opened the door appeared within range of the
light
of the candle. To complete our amazement, the person proved to
be
a woman! She walked up to the counter, and standing side by
side
with me, lifted her veil. At the moment when she showed her
face,
I heard the church clock strike two. She was a stranger to me,
and
a stranger to the doctor. She was also, beyond all comparison,
the
most beautiful woman I have ever seen in my life.
"I saw the light under the door," she said. "I want some
medicine."
She spoke quite composedly, as if there was nothing at all
extraordinary in her being out in the village at two in the
morning, and following me into the surgery to ask for
medicine!
The doctor stared at her as if he suspected his own eyes of
deceiving him. "Who are you?" be asked. "How do you come to
be
wandering about at this time in the morning?"
She paid no heed to his questions. She only told him coolly
what
she wanted. "I have got a bad toothache. I want a bottle of
laudanum."
The doctor recovered himself when she asked for the laudanum.
He
was on his own ground, you know, when it came to a matter of
laudanum; and he spoke to her smartly enough this time.
"Oh, you have got the toothache, have you? Let me look at
the
tooth."
She shook her bead, and laid a two-shilling piece on the
counter.
"I won't trouble you to look at the tooth," she said. "There
is
the money. Let me have the laudanum, if you please."
The doctor put the two-shilling piece back again in her hand.
"I
don't sell laudanum to strangers," he answered. "If you are in
any
distress of body or mind, that is another matter. I shall be
glad
to help you."
She put the money back in her pocket. "YOU can't help me,"
she
said, as quietly as ever. "Good morning."
With that, she opened the surgery door to go out again into
the
street. So far, I had not spoken a word on my side. I had
stood
with the candle in my hand (not knowing I was holding it)--with
my
eyes fixed on her, with my mind fixed on her like a man
bewitched.
Her looks betrayed, even more plainly than her words, her
resolution, in one way or another, to destroy herself. When
she
opened the door, in my alarm at what might happen I found the
use
of my tongue.
"Stop!" I cried out. "Wait for me. I want to speak to you
before
you go away." She lifted her eyes with a look of careless
surprise
and a mocking smile on her lips.
"What can YOU have to say to me?" She stopped, and laughed
to
herself. "Why not?" she said. "I have got nothing to do, and
nowhere to go." She turned back a step, and nodded to me.
"You're
a strange man--I think I'll humor you--I'll wait outside."
The
door of the surgery closed on her. She was gone.
I am ashamed to own what happened next. The only excuse for me
is
that I was really and truly a man bewitched. I turned me round
to
follow her out, without once thinking of my mother. The
doctor
stopped me.
"Don't forget the medicine," he said. "And if you will take
my
advice, don't trouble yourself about that woman. Rouse up
the
constable. It's his business to look after her--not yours."
I held out my hand for the medicine in silence: I was afraid
I
should fail in respect if I trusted myself to answer him. He
must
have seen, as I saw, that she wanted the laudanum to poison
herself. He had, to my mind, taken a very heartless view of
the
matter. I just thanked him when he gave me the medicine--and
went
out.
She was waiting for me as she had promised; walking slowly to
and
fro--a tall, graceful, solitary figure in the bright
moonbeams.
They shed over her fair complexion, her bright golden hair,
her
large gray eyes, just the light that suited them best. She
looked
hardly mortal when she first turned to speak to me.
"Well?" she said. "And what do you want?"
In spite of my pride, or my shyness, or my better
sense--whichever
it might be--all my heart went out to her in a moment. I
caught
hold of her by the hands, and owned what was in my thoughts,
as
freely as if I had known her for half a lifetime.
"You mean to destroy yourself," I said. "And I mean to prevent
you
from doing it. If I follow you about all night, I'll prevent
you
from doing it."
She laughed. "You saw yourself that he wouldn't sell me
the
laudanum. Do you really care whether I live or die?" She
squeezed
my hands gently as she put the question: her eyes searched
mine
with a languid, lingering look in them that ran through me
like
fire. My voice died away on my lips; I couldn't answer her.
She understood, without my answering. "You have given me a
fancy
for living, by speaking kindly to me," she said. "Kindness has
a
wonderful effect on women, and dogs, and other domestic
animals.
It is only men who are superior to kindness. Make your mind
easy--
I promise to take as much care of myself as if I was the
happiest
woman living! Don't let me keep you here, out of your bed.
Which
way are you going?"
Miserable wretch that I was, I had forgotten my mother--with
the
medicine in my hand! "I am going home," I said. "Where are
you
staying? At the inn?"
She laughed her bitter laugh, and pointed to the stone
quarry.
"There is MY inn for to-night," she said. "When I got tired
of
walking about, I rested there."
We walked on together, on my way home. I took the liberty
of
asking her if she had any friends.
"I thought I had one friend left," she said, "or you would
never
have met me in this place. It turns out I was wrong. My
friend's
door was closed in my face some hours since; my friend's
servants
threatened me with the police. I had nowhere else to go,
after
trying my luck in your neighborhood; and nothing left but my
two-
shilling piece and these rags on my back. What respectable
innkeeper would take ME into his house? I walked about,
wondering
how I could find my way out of the world without disfiguring
myself, and without suffering much pain. You have no river
in
these parts. I didn't see my way out of the world, till I
heard
you ringing at the doctor's house. I got a glimpse at the
bottles
in the surgery, when he let you in, and I thought of the
laudanum
directly. What were you doing there? Who is that medicine
for?
Your wife?"
"I am not married!"
She laughed again. "Not married! If I was a little better
dressed
there might be a chance for ME. Where do you live? Here?"
We had arrived, by this time, at my mother's door. She held
out
her hand to say good-by. Houseless and homeless as she was,
she
never asked me to give her a shelter for the night. It was
MY
proposal that she should rest, under my roof, unknown to my
mother
and my aunt. Our kitchen was built out at the back of the
cottage:
she might remain there unseen and unheard until the household
was
astir in the morning. I led her into the kitchen, and set a
chair
for her by the dying embers of the fire. I dare say I was to
blame--shamefully to blame, if you like. I only wonder what
YOU
would have done in my place. On your word of honor as a man,
would
YOU have let that beautiful creature wander back to the shelter
of
the stone quarry like a stray dog? God help the woman who is
foolish enough to trust and love you, if you would have done
that!
I left her by the fire, and went to my mother's room.
If you have ever felt the heartache, you will know what I
suffered
in secret when my mother took my hand, and said, "I am
sorry,
Francis, that your night's rest has been disturbed through ME."
I
gave her the medicine; and I waited by her till the pains
abated.
My aunt Chance went back to her bed; and my mother and I were
left
alone. I noticed that her writing-desk, moved from its
customary
place, was on the bed by her side. She saw me looking at it.
"This is your birthday, Francis," she said. "Have you anything
to
tell me?" I had so completely forgotten my Dream, that I had
no
notion of what was passing in her mind when she said those
words.
For a moment there was a guilty fear in me that she
suspected
something. I turned away my face, and said, "No, mother; I
have
nothing to tell." She signed to me to stoop down over the
pillow
and kiss her. "God bless you, my love!" she said; and many
happy
returns of the day." She patted my hand, and closed her
weary
eyes, and, little by little, fell off peaceably into sleep.
I stole downstairs again. I think the good influence of my
mother
must have followed me down. At any rate, this is true: I
stopped
with my hand on the closed kitchen door, and said to myself:
"Suppose I leave the house, and leave the village, without
seeing
her or speaking to her more?"
Should I really have fled from temptation in this way, if I
had
been left to myself to decide? Who can tell? As things were,
I
was not left to decide. While my doubt was in my mind, she
heard
me, and opened the kitchen door. My eyes and her eyes met.
That
ended it.
We were together, unsuspected and undisturbed, for the next
two
hours. Time enough for her to reveal the secret of her
wasted
life. Time enough for her to take possession of me as her own,
to
do with me as she liked. It is needless to dwell here on the
misfortunes which had brought her low; they are misfortunes
too
common to interest anybody.
Her name was Alicia Warlock. She had been born and bred a
lady.
She had lost her station, her character, and her friends.
Virtue
shuddered at the sight of her; and Vice had got her for the rest
of
her days. Shocking and common, as I told you. It made no
difference to ME. I have said it already--I say it again--I was
a
man bewitched. Is there anything so very wonderful in that?
Just
remember who I was. Among the honest women in my own station
in
life, where could I have found the like of HER? Could THEY walk
as
she walked? and look as she looked? When THEY gave me a kiss,
did
their lips linger over it as hers did? Had THEY her skin,
her
laugh, her foot, her hand, her touch? SHE never had a speck
of
dirt on her: I tell you her flesh was a perfume. When she
embraced
me, her arms folded round me like the wings of angels; and
her
smile covered me softly with its light like the sun in heaven.
I
leave you to laugh at me, or to cry over me, just as your
temper
may incline. I am not trying to excuse myself--I am trying
to
explain. You are gentle-folks; what dazzled and maddened ME,
is
everyday experience to YOU. Fallen or not, angel or devil, it
came
to this--she was a lady; and I was a groom.
Before the house was astir, I got her away (by the workmen's
train)
to a large manufacturing town in our parts.
Here--with my savings in money to help her--she could get
her
outfit of decent clothes and her lodging among strangers who
asked
no questions so long as they were paid. Here--now on one
pretense
and now on another--I could visit her, and we could both
plan
together what our future lives were to be. I need not tell
you
that I stood pledged to make her my wife. A man in my
station
always marries a woman of her sort.
Do you wonder if I was happy at this time? I should have
been
perfectly happy but for one little drawback. It was this: I
was
never quite at my ease in the presence of my promised wife.
I don't mean that I was shy with her, or suspicious of her,
or
ashamed of her. The uneasiness I am speaking of was caused by
a
faint doubt in my mind whether I had not seen her somewhere,
before
the morning when we met at the doctor's house. Over and over
again, I found myself wondering whether her face did not remind
me
of some other face--what other I never could tell. This
strange
feeling, this one question that could never be answered, vexed
me
to a degree that you would hardly credit. It came between us
at
the strangest times--oftenest, however, at night, when the
candles
were lit. You have known what it is to try and remember a
forgotten name--and to fail, search as you may, to find it in
your
mind. That was my case. I failed to find my lost face, just
as
you failed to find your lost name.
In three weeks we had talked matters over, and had arranged
how I
was to make a clean breast of it at home. By Alicia's advice,
I
was to describe her as having been one of my fellow servants
during
the time I was employed under my kind master and mistress in
London. There was no fear now of my mother taking any harm
from
the shock of a great surprise. Her health had improved during
the
three weeks' interval. On the first evening when she was able
to
take her old place at tea time, I summoned my courage, and told
her
I was going to be married. The poor soul flung her arms round
my
neck, and burst out crying for joy. "Oh, Francis!" she says, "I
am
so glad you will have somebody to comfort you and care for you
when
I am gone!" As for my aunt Chance, you can anticipate what
SHE
did, without being told. Ah, me! If there had really been
any
prophetic virtue in the cards, what a terrible warning they
might
have given us that night! It was arranged that I was to bring
my
promised wife to dinner at the cottage on the next day.
I own I was proud of Alicia when I led her into our little
parlor
at the appointed time. She had never, to my mind, looked so
beautiful as she looked that day. I never noticed any other
woman's dress--I noticed hers as carefully as if I had been a
woman
myself! She wore a black silk gown, with plain collar and
cuffs,
and a modest lavender-colored bonnet, with one white rose in
it
placed at the side. My mother, dressed in her Sunday best,
rose
up, all in a flutter, to welcome her daughter-in-law that was
to
be. She walked forward a few steps, half smiling, half in
tears--
she looked Alicia full in the face--and suddenly stood still.
Her
cheeks turned white in an instant; her eyes stared in horror;
her
hands dropped helplessly at her sides. She staggered back,
and
fell into the arms of my aunt, standing behind her. It was
no
swoon--she kept her senses. Her eyes turned slowly from Alicia
to
me. "Francis," she said, "does that woman's face remind you
of
nothing?"
Before I could answer, she pointed to her writing-desk on the
table
at the fireside. "Bring it!" she cried, "bring it!"
At the same moment I felt Alicia's hand on my shoulder, and
saw
Alicia's face red with anger--and no wonder!
"What does this mean?" she asked. "Does your mother want to
insult
me?"
I said a few words to quiet her; what they were I don't
remember--I
was so confused and astonished at the time. Before I had done,
I
heard my mother behind me.
My aunt had fetched her desk. She had opened it; she had taken
a
paper from it. Step by step, helping herself along by the
wall,
she came nearer and nearer, with the paper in her hand. She
looked
at the paper--she looked in Alicia's face--she lifted the
long,
loose sleeve of her gown, and examined her hand and arm. I
saw
fear suddenly take the place of anger in Alicia's eyes. She
shook
herself free of my mother's grasp. "Mad!" she said to
herself,
"and Francis never told me!" With those words she ran out of
the
room.
I was hastening out after her, when my mother signed to me to
stop.
She read the words written on the paper. While they fell
slowly,
one by one, from her lips, she pointed toward the open door.
"Light gray eyes, with a droop in the left eyelid. Flaxen
hair,
with a gold-yellow streak in it. White arms, with a down
upon
them. Little, lady's hand, with a rosy-red look about the
finger
nails. The Dream Woman, Francis! The Dream Woman!"
Something darkened the parlor window as those words were
spoken. I
looked sidelong at the shadow. Alicia Warlock had come back!
She
was peering in at us over the low window blind. There was
the
fatal face which had first looked at me in the bedroom of
the
lonely inn. There, resting on the window blind, was the
lovely
little hand which had held the murderous knife. I HAD seen
her
before we met in the village. The Dream Woman! The Dream
Woman!
I expect nobody to approve of what I have next to tell of
myself.
In three weeks from the day when my mother had identified her
with
the Woman of the Dream, I took Alicia Warlock to church, and
made
her my wife. I was a man bewitched. Again and again I say
it--I
was a man bewitched!
During the interval before my marriage, our little household
at the
cottage was broken up. My mother and my aunt quarreled. My
mother, believing in the Dream, entreated me to break off my
engagement. My aunt, believing in the cards, urged me to
marry.
This difference of opinion produced a dispute between them, in
the
course of which my aunt Chance--quite unconscious of having
any
superstitious feelings of her own--actually set out the cards
which
prophesied happiness to me in my married life, and asked my
mother
how anybody but "a blinded heathen could be fule enough,
after
seeing those cairds, to believe in a dream!" This was,
naturally,
too much for my mother's patience; hard words followed on
either
side; Mrs. Chance returned in dudgeon to her friends in
Scotland.
She left me a written statement of my future prospects, as
revealed
by the cards, and with it an address at which a post-office
order
would reach her. "The day was not that far off," she
remarked,
"when Francie might remember what he owed to his aunt
Chance,
maintaining her ain unbleemished widowhood on thratty punds
a
year."
Having refused to give her sanction to my marriage, my mother
also
refused to be present at the wedding, or to visit Alicia
afterwards. There was no anger at the bottom of this conduct
on
her part. Believing as she did in this Dream, she was simply
in
mortal fear of my wife. I understood this, and I made
allowances
for her. Not a cross word passed between us. My one happy
remembrance now--though I did disobey her in the matter of
my
marriage--is this: I loved and respected my good mother to
the
last.
As for my wife, she expressed no regret at the estrangement
between
her mother-in-law and herself. By common consent, we never
spoke
on that subject. We settled in the manufacturing town which I
have
already mentioned, and we kept a lodging-house. My kind master,
at
my request, granted me a lump sum in place of my annuity. This
put
us into a good house, decently furnished. For a while things
went
well enough. I may describe myself at this time of my life as
a
happy man.
My misfortunes began with a return of the complaint with which
my
mother had already suffered. The doctor confessed, when I
asked
him the question, that there was danger to be dreaded this
time.
Naturally, after hearing this, I was a good deal away at the
cottage. Naturally also, I left the business of looking after
the
house, in my absence, to my wife. Little by little, I found
her
beginning to alter toward me. While my back was turned, she
formed
acquaintances with people of the doubtful and dissipated sort.
One
day, I observed something in her manner which forced the
suspicion
on me that she had been drinking. Before the week was out,
my
suspicion was a certainty. From keeping company with
drunkards,
she had grown to be a drunkard herself.
I did all a man could do to reclaim her. Quite useless! She
had
never really returned the love I felt for her: I had no
influence;
I could do nothing. My mother, hearing of this last worse
trouble,
resolved to try what her influence could do. Ill as she was,
I
found her one day dressed to go out.
"I am not long for this world, Francis," she said. "I shall
not
feel easy on my deathbed, unless I have done my best to the last
to
make you happy. I mean to put my own fears and my own feelings
out
of the question, and go with you to your wife, and try what I
can
do to reclaim her. Take me home with you, Francis. Let me do
all
I can to help my son, before it is too late."
How could I disobey her? We took the railway to the town: it
was
only half an hour's ride. By one o'clock in the afternoon we
reached my house. It was our dinner hour, and Alicia was in
the
kitchen. I was able to take my mother quietly into the parlor
and
then to prepare my wife for the visit. She had drunk but little
at
that early hour; and, luckily, the devil in her was tamed for
the
time.
She followed me into the parlor, and the meeting passed off
better
than I had ventured to forecast; with this one drawback, that
my
mother--though she tried hard to control herself--shrank
from
looking my wife in the face when she spoke to her. It was a
relief
to me when Alicia began to prepare the table for dinner.
She laid the cloth, brought in the bread tray, and cut some
slices
for us from the loaf. Then she returned to the kitchen. At
that
moment, while I was still anxiously watching my mother, I
was
startled by seeing the same ghastly change pass over her face
which
had altered it in the morning when Alicia and she first met.
Before I could say a word, she started up with a look of
horror.
"Take me back!--home, home again, Francis! Come with me, and
never
go back more!"
I was afraid to ask for an explanation; I could only sign her
to be
silent, and help her quickly to the door. As we passed the
bread
tray on the table, she stopped and pointed to it.
"Did you see what your wife cut your bread with?" she asked.
"No, mother; I was not noticing. What was it?"
"Look!"
I did look. A new clasp knife, with a buckhorn handle, lay
with
the loaf in the bread tray. I stretched out my hand to
possess
myself of it. At the same moment, there was a noise in the
kitchen, and my mother caught me by the arm.
"The knife of the Dream! Francis, I'm faint with fear--take
me
away before she comes back!"
I couldn't speak to comfort or even to answer her. Superior as
I
was to superstition, the discovery of the knife staggered me.
In
silence, I helped my mother out of the house; and took her
home.
I held out my hand to say good-by. She tried to stop me.
"Don't go back, Francis! don't go back!"
"I must get the knife, mother. I must go back by the next
train."
I held to that resolution. By the next train I went back.
My wife had, of course, discovered our secret departure from
the
house. She had been drinking. She was in a fury of passion.
The
dinner in the kitchen was flung under the grate; the cloth was
off
the parlor table. Where was the knife?
I was foolish enough to ask for it. She refused to give it to
me.
In the course of the dispute between us which followed, I
discovered that there was a horrible story attached to the
knife.
It had been used in a murder--years since--and had been so
skillfully hidden that the authorities had been unable to
produce
it at the trial. By help of some of her disreputable friends,
my
wife had been able to purchase this relic of a bygone crime.
Her
perverted nature set some horrid unacknowledged value on the
knife.
Seeing there was no hope of getting it by fair means, I
determined
to search for it, later in the day, in secret. The search
was
unsuccessful. Night came on, and I left the house to walk
about
the streets. You will understand what a broken man I was by
this
time, when I tell you I was afraid to sleep in the same room
with
her!
Three weeks passed. Still she refused to give up the knife;
and
still that fear of sleeping in the same room with her possessed
me.
I walked about at night, or dozed in the parlor, or sat watching
by
my mother's bedside. Before the end of the first week in the
new
month, the worst misfortune of all befell me--my mother died.
It
wanted then but a short time to my birthday. She had longed
to
live till that day. I was present at her death. Her last words
in
this world were addressed to me. "Don't go back, my son--don't
go
back!"
I was obliged to go back, if it was only to watch my wife. In
the
last days of my mother's illness she had spitefully added a
sting
to my grief by declaring she would assert her right to attend
the
funeral. In spite of all that I could do or say, she held to
her
word. On the day appointed for the burial she forced
herself,
inflamed and shameless with drink, into my presence, and swore
she
would walk in the funeral procession to my mother's grave.
This last insult--after all I had gone through already--was
more
than I could endure. It maddened me. Try to make allowances for
a
man beside himself. I struck her.
The instant the blow was dealt, I repented it. She crouched
down,
silent, in a corner of the room, and eyed me steadily. It was
a
look that cooled my hot blood in an instant. There was no time
now
to think of making atonement. I could only risk the worst,
and
make sure of her till the funeral was over. I locked her into
her
bedroom.
When I came back, after laying my mother in the grave, I found
her
sitting by the bedside, very much altered in look and bearing,
with
a bundle on her lap. She faced me quietly; she spoke with a
curious stillness in her voice--strangely and unnaturally
composed
in look and manner.
"No man has ever struck me yet," she said. "My husband shall
have
no second opportunity. Set the door open, and let me go."
She passed me, and left the room. I saw her walk away up
the
street. Was she gone for good?
All that night I watched and waited. No footstep came near
the
house. The next night, overcome with fatigue, I lay down on
the
bed in my clothes, with the door locked, the key on the table,
and
the candle burning. My slumber was not disturbed. The third
night, the fourth, the fifth, the sixth, passed, and nothing
happened. I lay down on the seventh night, still suspicious
of
something happening; still in my clothes; still with the
door
locked, the key on the table, and the candle burning.
My rest was disturbed. I awoke twice, without any sensation
of
uneasiness. The third time, that horrid shivering of the night
at
the lonely inn, that awful sinking pain at the heart, came
back
again, and roused me in an instant. My eyes turned to the
left-
hand side of the bed. And there stood, looking at me--
The Dream Woman again? No! My wife. The living woman, with
the
face of the Dream--in the attitude of the Dream--the fair arm
up;
the knife clasped in the delicate white hand.
I sprang upon her on the instant; but not quickly enough to
stop
her from hiding the knife. Without a word from me, without a
cry
from her, I pinioned her in a chair. With one hand I felt up
her
sleeve; and there, where the Dream Woman had hidden the knife,
my
wife had hidden it--the knife with the buckhorn handle, that
looked
like new.
What I felt when I made that discovery I could not realize at
the
time, and I can't describe now. I took one steady look at her
with
the knife in my hand. "You meant to kill me?" I said.
"Yes," she answered; "I meant to kill you." She crossed her
arms
over her bosom, and stared me coolly in the face. "I shall do
it
yet," she said. "With that knife."
I don't know what possessed me--I swear to you I am no coward;
and
yet I acted like a coward. The horrors got hold of me. I
couldn't
look at her--I couldn't speak to her. I left her (with the
knife
in my hand), and went out into the night.
There was a bleak wind abroad, and the smell of rain was in
the
air. The church clocks chimed the quarter as I walked beyond
the
last house in the town. I asked the first policeman I met
what
hour that was, of which the quarter past had just struck.
The man looked at his watch, and answered, "Two o'clock." Two
in
the morning. What day of the month was this day that had
just
begun? I reckoned it up from the date of my mother's funeral.
The
horrid parallel between the dream and the reality was
complete--it
was my birthday!
Had I escaped the mortal peril which the dream foretold? or
had I
only received a second warning? As that doubt crossed my mind
I
stopped on my way out of the town. The air had revived me--I
felt
in some degree like my own self again. After a little thinking,
I
began to see plainly the mistake I had made in leaving my wife
free
to go where she liked and to do as she pleased.
I turned instantly, and made my way back to the house. It
was
still dark. I had left the candle burning in the bedchamber.
When
I looked up to the window of the room now, there was no light
in
it. I advanced to the house door. On going away, I remembered
to
have closed it; on trying it now, I found it open.
I waited outside, never losing sight of the house till
daylight.
Then I ventured indoors--listened, and heard nothing--looked
into
the kitchen, scullery, parlor, and found nothing--went up at
last
into the bedroom. It was empty.
A picklock lay on the floor, which told me how she had
gained
entrance in the night. And that was the one trace I could find
of
the Dream Woman.
I waited in the house till the town was astir for the day, and
then
I went to consult a lawyer. In the confused state of my mind
at
the time, I had one clear notion of what I meant to do: I
was
determined to sell my house and leave the neighborhood. There
were
obstacles in the way which I had not counted on. I was told I
had
creditors to satisfy before I could leave--I, who had given my
wife
the money to pay my bills regularly every week! Inquiry
showed
that she had embezzled every farthing of the money I had
intrusted
to her. I had no choice but to pay over again.
Placed in this awkward position, my first duty was to set
things
right, with the help of my lawyer. During my forced sojourn in
the
town I did two foolish things. And, as a consequence that
followed, I heard once more, and heard for the last time, of
my
wife.
In the first place, having got possession of the knife, I was
rash
enough to keep it in my pocket. In the second place, having
something of importance to say to my lawyer, at a late hour of
the
evening, I went to his house after dark--alone and on foot. I
got
there safely enough. Returning, I was seized on from behind by
two
men, dragged down a passage and robbed--not only of the
little
money I had about me, but also of the knife. It was the
lawyer's
opinion (as it was mine) that the thieves were among the
disreputable acquaintances formed by my wife, and that they,
had
attacked me at her instigation. To confirm this view I received
a
letter the next day, without date or address, written in
Alicia's
hand. The first line informed me that the knife was back again
in
her possession. The second line reminded me of the day when
I
struck her. The third line warned me that she would wash out
the
stain of that blow in my blood, and repeated the words, "I shall
do
it with the knife!"
These things happened a year ago. The law laid hands on the
men
who had robbed me; but from that time to this, the law has
failed
completely to find a trace of my wife.
My story is told. When I had paid the creditors and paid the
legal
expenses, I had barely five pounds left out of the sale of
my
house; and I had the world to begin over again. Some months
since--
drifting here and there--I found my way to Underbridge. The
landlord of the inn had known something of my father's family
in
times past. He gave me (all he had to give) my food, and
shelter
in the yard. Except on market days, there is nothing to do.
In
the coming winter the inn is to be shut up, and I shall have
to
shift for myself. My old master would help me if I applied to
him--
but I don't like to apply: he has done more for me already than
I
deserve. Besides, in another year who knows but my troubles
may
all be at an end? Next winter will bring me nigh to my next
birthday, and my next birthday may be the day of my death.
Yes!
it's true I sat up all last night; and I heard two in the
morning
strike: and nothing happened. Still, allowing for that, the
time
to come is a time I don't trust. My wife has got the
knife--my
wife is looking for me. I am above superstition, mind! I
don't
say I believe in dreams; I only say, Alicia Warlock is looking
for
me. It is possible I may be wrong. It is possible I may be
right.
Who can tell?
We took leave of Francis Raven at the door of Farleigh Hall,
with
the understanding that he might expect to hear from us
again.
The same night Mrs. Fairbank and I had a discussion in the
sanctuary of our own room. The topic was "The Hostler's
Story";
and the question in dispute between us turned on the measure
of
charitable duty that we owed to the hostler himself.
The view I took of the man's narrative was of the purely
matter-of-
fact kind. Francis Raven had, in my opinion, brooded over
the
misty connection between his strange dream and his vile wife,
until
his mind was in a state of partial delusion on that subject. I
was
quite willing to help him with a trifle of money, and to
recommend
him to the kindness of my lawyer, if he was really in any
danger
and wanted advice. There my idea of my duty toward this
afflicted
person began and ended.
Confronted with this sensible view of the matter, Mrs.
Fairbank's
romantic temperament rushed, as usual, into extremes. "I should
no
more think of losing sight of Francis Raven when his next
birthday
comes round," says my wife, "than I should think of laying down
a
good story with the last chapters unread. I am positively
determined, Percy, to take him back with us when we return
to
France, in the capacity of groom. What does one man more or
less
among the horses matter to people as rich as we are?" In
this
strain the partner of my joys and sorrows ran on, perfectly
impenetrable to everything that I could say on the side of
common
sense. Need I tell my married brethren how it ended? Of course
I
allowed my wife to irritate me, and spoke to her sharply.
Of course my wife turned her face away indignantly on the
conjugal
pillow, and burst into tears. Of course upon that, "Mr." made
his
excuses, and "Mrs." had her own way.
Before the week was out we rode over to Underbridge, and
duly
offered to Francis Raven a place in our service as
supernumerary
groom.
At first the poor fellow seemed hardly able to realize his
own
extraordinary good fortune. Recovering himself, he expressed
his
gratitude modestly and becomingly. Mrs. Fairbank's ready
sympathies overflowed, as usual, at her lips. She talked to
him
about our home in France, as if the worn, gray-headed hostler
had
been a child. "Such a dear old house, Francis; and such
pretty
gardens! Stables! Stables ten times as big as your stables
here--
quite a choice of rooms for you. You must learn the name of
our
house--Maison Rouge. Our nearest town is Metz. We are within
a
walk of the beautiful River Moselle. And when we want a change
we
have only to take the railway to the frontier, and find
ourselves
in Germany."
Listening, so far, with a very bewildered face, Francis
started and
changed color when my wife reached the end of her last
sentence.
"Germany?" he repeated.
"Yes. Does Germany remind you of anything?"
The hostler's eyes looked down sadly on the ground.
"Germany
reminds me of my wife," he replied.
"Indeed! How?"
"She once told me she had lived in Germany--long before I knew
her-
-in the time when she was a young girl."
"Was she living with relations or friends?"
"She was living as governess in a foreign family."
"In what part of Germany?"
"I don't remember, ma'am. I doubt if she told me."
"Did she tell you the name of the family?"
"Yes, ma'am. It was a foreign name, and it has slipped my
memory
long since. The head of the family was a wine grower in a
large
way of business--I remember that."
"Did you hear what sort of wine he grew? There are wine
growers in
our neighborhood. Was it Moselle wine?"
"I couldn't say, ma'am, I doubt if I ever heard."
There the conversation dropped. We engaged to communicate
with
Francis Raven before we left England, and took our leave. I
had
made arrangements to pay our round of visits to English
friends,
and to return to Maison Rouge in the summer. On the eve of
departure, certain difficulties in connection with the
management
of some landed property of mine in Ireland obliged us to alter
our
plans. Instead of getting back to our house in France in the
Summer, we only returned a week or two before Christmas.
Francis
Raven accompanied us, and was duly established, in the
nominal
capacity of stable keeper, among the servants at Maison
Rouge.
Before long, some of the objections to taking him into our
employment, which I had foreseen and had vainly mentioned to
my
wife, forced themselves on our attention in no very agreeable
form.
Francis Raven failed (as I had feared he would) to get on
smoothly
with his fellow-servants. They were all French; and not one
of
them understood English. Francis, on his side, was equally
ignorant of French. His reserved manners, his melancholy
temperament, his solitary ways--all told against him. Our
servants
called him "the English Bear." He grew widely known in the
neighborhood under his nickname. Quarrels took place, ending
once
or twice in blows. It became plain, even to Mrs. Fairbank
herself,
that some wise change must be made. While we were still
considering what the change was to be, the unfortunate hostler
was
thrown on our hands for some time to come by an accident in
the
stables. Still pursued by his proverbial ill-luck, the poor
wretch's leg was broken by a kick from a horse.
He was attended to by our own surgeon, in his comfortable
bedroom
at the stables. As the date of his birthday drew near, he
was
still confined to his bed.
Physically speaking, he was doing very well. Morally speaking,
the
surgeon was not satisfied. Francis Raven was suffering under
some
mysterious mental disturbance, which interfered seriously with
his
rest at night. Hearing this, I thought it my duty to tell
the
medical attendant what was preying on the patient's mind. As
a
practical man, he shared my opinion that the hostler was in a
state
of delusion on the subject of his Wife and his Dream.
"Curable
delusion, in my opinion," the surgeon added, "if the
experiment
could be fairly tried."
"How can it be tried?" I asked. Instead of replying, the
surgeon
put a question to me, on his side.
"Do you happen to know," he said, "that this year is Leap Year?"
"Mrs. Fairbank reminded me of it yesterday," I answered.
"Otherwise I might NOT have known it."
"Do you think Francis Raven knows that this year is Leap Year?"
(I began to see dimly what my friend was driving at.)
"It depends," I answered, "on whether he has got an
English
almanac. Suppose he has NOT got the almanac--what then?"
"In that case," pursued the surgeon, "Francis Raven is
innocent of
all suspicion that there is a twenty-ninth day in February
this
year. As a necessary consequence--what will he do? He will
anticipate the appearance of the Woman with the Knife, at two
in
the morning of the twenty-ninth of February, instead of the
first
of March. Let him suffer all his superstitious terrors on
the
wrong day. Leave him, on the day that is really his birthday,
to
pass a perfectly quiet night, and to be as sound asleep as
other
people at two in the morning. And then, when he wakes
comfortably
in time for his breakfast, shame him out of his delusion by
telling
him the truth."
I agreed to try the experiment. Leaving the surgeon to
caution
Mrs. Fairbank on the subject of Leap Year, I went to the stables
to
see Mr. Raven.
The poor fellow was full of forebodings of the fate in store
for
him on the ominous first of March. He eagerly entreated me
to
order one of the men servants to sit up with him on the
birthday
morning. In granting his request, I asked him to tell me on
which
day of the week his birthday fell. He reckoned the days on
his
fingers; and proved his innocence of all suspicion that it was
Leap
Year, by fixing on the twenty-ninth of February, in the full
persuasion that it was the first of March. Pledged to try
the
surgeon's experiment, I left his error uncorrected, of course.
In
so doing, I took my first step blindfold toward the last act in
the
drama of the Hostler's Dream.
The next day brought with it a little domestic difficulty,
which
indirectly and strangely associated itself with the coming
end.
My wife received a letter, inviting us to assist in
celebrating the
"Silver Wedding" of two worthy German neighbors of ours--Mr.
and
Mrs. Beldheimer. Mr. Beldheimer was a large wine grower on
the
banks of the Moselle. His house was situated on the frontier
line
of France and Germany; and the distance from our house was
sufficiently considerable to make it necessary for us to
sleep
under our host's roof. Under these circumstances, if we
accepted
the invitation, a comparison of dates showed that we should be
away
from home on the morning of the first of March. Mrs.
Fairbank--
holding to her absurd resolution to see with her own eyes
what
might, or might not, happen to Francis Raven on his
birthday--
flatly declined to leave Maison Rouge. "It's easy to send an
excuse," she said, in her off-hand manner.
I failed, for my part, to see any easy way out of the
difficulty.
The celebration of a "Silver Wedding" in Germany is the
celebration
of twenty-five years of happy married life; and the host's
claim
upon the consideration of his friends on such an occasion is
something in the nature of a royal "command." After
considerable
discussion, finding my wife's obstinacy invincible, and
feeling
that the absence of both of us from the festival would
certainly
offend our friends, I left Mrs. Fairbank to make her excuses
for
herself, and directed her to accept the invitation so far as I
was
concerned. In so doing, I took my second step, blindfold,
toward
the last act in the drama of the Hostler's Dream.
A week elapsed; the last days of February were at hand.
Another
domestic difficulty happened; and, again, this event also proved
to
be strangely associated with the coming end.
My head groom at the stables was one Joseph Rigobert. He was
an
ill-conditioned fellow, inordinately vain of his personal
appearance, and by no means scrupulous in his conduct with
women.
His one virtue consisted of his fondness for horses, and in
the
care he took of the animals under his charge. In a word, he
was
too good a groom to be easily replaced, or he would have quitted
my
service long since. On the occasion of which I am now writing,
he
was reported to me by my steward as growing idle and disorderly
in
his habits. The principal offense alleged against him was, that
he
had been seen that day in the city of Metz, in the company of
a
woman (supposed to be an Englishwoman), whom he was entertaining
at
a tavern, when he ought to have been on his way back to
Maison
Rouge. The man's defense was that "the lady" (as he called
her)
was an English stranger, unacquainted with the ways of the
place,
and that he had only shown her where she could obtain some
refreshments at her own request. I administered the
necessary
reprimand, without troubling myself to inquire further into
the
matter. In failing to do this, I took my third step,
blindfold,
toward the last act in the drama of the Hostler's Dream.
On the evening of the twenty-eighth, I informed the servants
at the
stables that one of them must watch through the night by the
Englishman's bedside. Joseph Rigobert immediately volunteered
for
the duty--as a means, no doubt, of winning his way back to
my
favor. I accepted his proposal.
That day the surgeon dined with us. Toward midnight he and I
left
the smoking room, and repaired to Francis Raven's bedside.
Rigobert was at his post, with no very agreeable expression on
his
face. The Frenchman and the Englishman had evidently not got
on
well together so far. Francis Raven lay helpless on his bed,
waiting silently for two in the morning and the Dream Woman.
"I have come, Francis, to bid you good night," I said,
cheerfully.
"To-morrow morning I shall look in at breakfast time, before
I
leave home on a journey."
"Thank you for all your kindness, sir. You will not see me
alive
to-morrow morning. She will find me this time. Mark my
words--she
will find me this time."
"My good fellow! she couldn't find you in England. How in
the
world is she to find you in France?"
"It's borne in on my mind, sir, that she will find me here. At
two
in the morning on my birthday I shall see her again, and see
her
for the last time."
"Do you mean that she will kill you?"
"I mean that, sir, she will kill me--with the knife."
"And with Rigobert in the room to protect you?"
"I am a doomed man. Fifty Rigoberts couldn't protect me."
"And you wanted somebody to sit up with you?"
"Mere weakness, sir. I don't like to be left alone on my
deathbed."
I looked at the surgeon. If he had encouraged me, I should
certainly, out of sheer compassion, have confessed to Francis
Raven
the trick that we were playing him. The surgeon held to his
experiment; the surgeon's face plainly said--"No."
The next day (the twenty-ninth of February) was the day of
the
"Silver Wedding." The first thing in the morning, I went to
Francis Raven's room. Rigobert met me at the door.
"How has he passed the night?" I asked.
"Saying his prayers, and looking for ghosts," Rigobert
answered.
"A lunatic asylum is the only proper place for him."
I approached the bedside. "Well, Francis, here you are, safe
and
sound, in spite of what you said to me last night."
His eyes rested on mine with a vacant, wondering look.
"I don't understand it," he said.
"Did you see anything of your wife when the clock struck two?"
"No, sir."
"Did anything happen?"
"Nothing happened, sir."
"Doesn't THIS satisfy you that you were wrong?"
His eyes still kept their vacant, wondering look. He only
repeated
the words he had spoken already: "I don't understand it."
I made a last attempt to cheer him. "Come, come, Francis! keep
a
good heart. You will be out of bed in a fortnight."
He shook his head on the pillow. "There's something wrong,"
he
said. "I don't expect you to believe me, sir. I only say
there's
something wrong--and time will show it."
I left the room. Half an hour later I started for Mr.
Beldheimer's
house; leaving the arrangements for the morning of the first
of
March in the hands of the doctor and my wife.
The one thing which principally struck me when I joined the
guests
at the "Silver Wedding" is also the one thing which it is
necessary
to mention here. On this joyful occasion a noticeable lady
present
was out of spirits. That lady was no other than the heroine of
the
festival, the mistress of the house!
In the course of the evening I spoke to Mr. Beldheimer's
eldest son
on the subject of his mother. As an old friend of the family,
I
had a claim on his confidence which the young man willingly
recognized.
"We have had a very disagreeable matter to deal with," he
said;
"and my mother has not recovered the painful impression left on
her
mind. Many years since, when my sisters were children, we had
an
English governess in the house. She left us, as we then
understood, to be married. We heard no more of her until a week
or
ten days since, when my mother received a letter, in which our
ex-
governess described herself as being in a condition of great
poverty and distress. After much hesitation she had
ventured--at
the suggestion of a lady who had been kind to her--to write to
her
former employers, and to appeal to their remembrance of old
times.
You know my mother she is not only the most kind-headed, but
the
most innocent of women--it is impossible to persuade her of
the
wickedness that there is in the world. She replied by return
of
post, inviting the governess to come here and see her, and
inclosing the money for her traveling expenses. When my
father
came home, and heard what had been done, he wrote at once to
his
agent in London to make inquiries, inclosing the address on
the
governess' letter. Before he could receive the agent's reply
the
governess arrived. She produced the worst possible impression
on
his mind. The agent's letter, arriving a few days later,
confirmed
his suspicions. Since we had lost sight of her, the woman had
led
a most disreputable life. My father spoke to her privately:
he
offered--on condition of her leaving the house--a sum of money
to
take her back to England. If she refused, the alternative would
be
an appeal to the authorities and a public scandal. She
accepted
the money, and left the house. On her way back to England
she
appears to have stopped at Metz. You will understand what sort
of
woman she is when I tell you that she was seen the other day in
a
tavern with your handsome groom, Joseph Rigobert."
While my informant was relating these circumstances, my memory
was
at work. I recalled what Francis Raven had vaguely told us of
his
wife's experience in former days as governess in a German
family.
A suspicion of the truth suddenly flashed across my mind.
"What
was the woman's name?" I asked.
Mr. Beldheimer's son answered: "Alicia Warlock."
I had but one idea when I heard that reply--to get back to my
house
without a moment's needless delay. It was then ten o'clock
at
night--the last train to Metz had left long since. I arranged
with
my young friend--after duly informing him of the
circumstances--
that I should go by the first train in the morning, instead
of
staying to breakfast with the other guests who slept in the
house.
At intervals during the night I wondered uneasily how things
were
going on at Maison Rouge. Again and again the same question
occurred to me, on my journey home in the early morning--the
morning of the first of March. As the event proved, but one
person
in my house knew what really happened at the stables on
Francis
Raven's birthday. Let Joseph Rigobert take my place as
narrator,
and tell the story of the end to You--as he told it, in times
past,
to his lawyer and to Me.
RESPECTED SIR,--On the twenty-seventh of February I was sent,
on
business connected with the stables at Maison Rouge, to the city
of
Metz. On the public promenade I met a magnificent woman.
Complexion, blond. Nationality, English. We mutually admired
each
other; we fell into conversation. (She spoke French
perfectly--
with the English accent.) I offered refreshment; my proposal
was
accepted. We had a long and interesting interview--we
discovered
that we were made for each other. So far, Who is to blame?
Is it my fault that I am a handsome man--universally agreeable
as
such to the fair sex? Is it a criminal offense to be accessible
to
the amiable weakness of love? I ask again, Who is to blame?
Clearly, nature. Not the beautiful lady--not my humble self.
To resume. The most hard-hearted person living will
understand
that two beings made for each other could not possibly part
without
an appointment to meet again.
I made arrangements for the accommodation of the lady in
the
village near Maison Rouge. She consented to honor me with
her
company at supper, in my apartment at the stables, on the night
of
the twenty-ninth. The time fixed on was the time when the
other
servants were accustomed to retire--eleven o'clock.
Among the grooms attached to the stables was an Englishman,
laid up
with a broken leg. His name was Francis. His manners were
repulsive; he was ignorant of the French language. In the
kitchen
he went by the nickname of the "English Bear." Strange to say,
he
was a great favorite with my master and my mistress. They
even
humored certain superstitious terrors to which this
repulsive
person was subject--terrors into the nature of which I, as
an
advanced freethinker, never thought it worth my while to
inquire.
On the evening of the twenty-eighth the Englishman, being a
prey to
the terrors which I have mentioned, requested that one of
his
fellow-servants might sit up with him for that night only.
The
wish that he expressed was backed by Mr. Fairbank's
authority.
Having already incurred my master's displeasure--in what way,
a
proper sense of my own dignity forbids me to relate--I
volunteered
to watch by the bedside of the English Bear. My object was
to
satisfy Mr. Fairbank that I bore no malice, on my side, after
what
had occurred between us. The wretched Englishman passed a night
of
delirium. Not understanding his barbarous language, I could
only
gather from his gesture that he was in deadly fear of some
fancied
apparition at his bedside. From time to time, when this
madman
disturbed my slumbers, I quieted him by swearing at him. This
is
the shortest and best way of dealing with persons in his
condition.
On the morning of the twenty-ninth, Mr. Fairbank left us on
a
journey. Later in the day, to my unspeakable disgust, I found
that
I had not done with the Englishman yet. In Mr. Fairbank's
absence,
Mrs. Fairbank took an incomprehensible interest in the question
of
my delirious fellow-servant's repose at night. Again, one or
the
other of us was to watch at his bedside, and report it, if
anything
happened. Expecting my fair friend to supper, it was necessary
to
make sure that the other servants at the stables would be safe
in
their beds that night. Accordingly, I volunteered once more to
be
the man who kept watch. Mrs. Fairbank complimented me on my
humanity. I possess great command over my feelings. I
accepted
the compliment without a blush.
Twice, after nightfall, my mistress and the doctor (the
last
staying in the house in Mr. Fairbank's absence) came to make
inquiries. Once BEFORE the arrival of my fair friend--and
once
AFTER. On the second occasion (my apartment being next door to
the
Englishman's) I was obliged to hide my charming guest in the
harness room. She consented, with angelic resignation, to
immolate
her dignity to the servile necessities of my position. A
more
amiable woman (so far) I never met with!
After the second visit I was left free. It was then close
on
midnight. Up to that time there was nothing in the behavior of
the
mad Englishman to reward Mrs. Fairbank and the doctor for
presenting themselves at his bedside. He lay half awake,
half
asleep, with an odd wondering kind of look in his face. My
mistress at parting warned me to be particularly watchful of
him
toward two in the morning. The doctor (in case anything
happened)
left me a large hand bell to ring, which could easily be heard
at
the house.
Restored to the society of my fair friend, I spread the
supper
table. A pate, a sausage, and a few bottles of generous
Moselle
wine, composed our simple meal. When persons adore each other,
the
intoxicating illusion of Love transforms the simplest meal into
a
banquet. With immeasurable capacities for enjoyment, we sat
down
to table. At the very moment when I placed my fascinating
companion in a chair, the infamous Englishman in the next room
took
that occasion, of all others, to become restless and noisy
once
more. He struck with his stick on the floor; he cried out, in
a
delirious access of terror, "Rigobert! Rigobert!"
The sound of that lamentable voice, suddenly assailing our
ears,
terrified my fair friend. She lost all her charming color in
an
instant. "Good heavens!" she exclaimed. "Who is that in the
next
room?"
"A mad Englishman."
"An Englishman?"
"Compose yourself, my angel. I will quiet him." The
lamentable
voice called out on me again, "Rigobert! Rigobert!"
My fair friend caught me by the arm. "Who is he?" she
cried.
"What is his name?"
Something in her face struck me as she put that question. A
spasm
of jealousy shook me to the soul. "You know him?" I said.
"His name!" she vehemently repeated; "his name!"
"Francis," I answered.
"Francis--WHAT?"
I shrugged my shoulders. I could neither remember nor
pronounce
the barbarous English surname. I could only tell her it began
with
an "R."
She dropped back into the chair. Was she going to faint? No:
she
recovered, and more than recovered, her lost color. Her eyes
flashed superbly. What did it mean? Profoundly as I
understand
women in general, I was puzzled by THIS woman!
"You know him?" I repeated.
She laughed at me. "What nonsense! How should I know him? Go
and
quiet the wretch."
My looking-glass was near. One glance at it satisfied me that
no
woman in her senses could prefer the Englishman to Me. I
recovered
my self-respect. I hastened to the Englishman's bedside.
The moment I appeared he pointed eagerly toward my room.
He
overwhelmed me with a torrent of words in his own language. I
made
out, from his gestures and his looks, that he had, in some
incomprehensible manner, discovered the presence of my guest;
and,
stranger still, that he was scared by the idea of a person in
my
room. I endeavored to compose him on the system which I have
already mentioned--that is to say, I swore at him in MY
language.
The result not proving satisfactory, I own I shook my fist in
his
face, and left the bedchamber.
Returning to my fair friend, I found her walking backward
and
forward in a state of excitement wonderful to behold. She had
not
waited for me to fill her glass--she had begun the generous
Moselle
in my absence. I prevailed on her with difficulty to place
herself
at the table. Nothing would induce her to eat. "My appetite
is
gone," she said. "Give me wine."
The generous Moselle deserves its name--delicate on the
palate,
with prodigious "body." The strength of this fine wine produced
no
stupefying effect on my remarkable guest. It appeared to
strengthen and exhilarate her--nothing more. She always spoke
in
the same low tone, and always, turn the conversation as I
might,
brought it back with the same dexterity to the subject of
the
Englishman in the next room. In any other woman this
persistency
would have offended me. My lovely guest was irresistible; I
answered her questions with the docility of a child. She
possessed
all the amusing eccentricity of her nation. When I told her of
the
accident which confined the Englishman to his bed, she sprang
to
her feet. An extraordinary smile irradiated her countenance.
She
said, "Show me the horse who broke the Englishman's leg! I
must
see that horse!" I took her to the stables. She kissed the
horse-
-on my word of honor, she kissed the horse! That struck me.
I
said. "You DO know the man; and he has wronged you in some
way."
No! she would not admit it, even then. "I kiss all beautiful
animals," she said. "Haven't I kissed YOU?" With that
charming
explanation of her conduct, she ran back up the stairs. I
only
remained behind to lock the stable door again. When I
rejoined
her, I made a startling discovery. I caught her coming out of
the
Englishman's room.
"I was just going downstairs again to call you," she said.
"The
man in there is getting noisy once more."
The mad Englishman's voice assailed our ears once again.
"Rigobert! Rigobert!"
He was a frightful object to look at when I saw him this time.
His
eyes were staring wildly; the perspiration was pouring over
his
face. In a panic of terror he clasped his hands; he pointed up
to
heaven. By every sign and gesture that a man can make, he
entreated me not to leave him again. I really could not help
smiling. The idea of my staying with HIM, and leaving my
fair
friend by herself in the next room!
I turned to the door. When the mad wretch saw me leaving him
he
burst out into a screech of despair--so shrill that I feared
it
might awaken the sleeping servants.
My presence of mind in emergencies is proverbial among those
who
know me. I tore open the cupboard in which he kept his
linen--
seized a handful of his handkerchief's--gagged him with one
of
them, and secured his hands with the others. There was now
no
danger of his alarming the servants. After tying the last knot,
I
looked up.
The door between the Englishman's room and mine was open. My
fair
friend was standing on the threshold--watching HIM as he lay
helpless on the bed; watching ME as I tied the last knot.
"What are you doing there?" I asked. "Why did you open the door?"
She stepped up to me, and whispered her answer in my ear, with
her
eyes all the time upon the man on the bed:
"I heard him scream."
"Well?"
"I thought you had killed him."
I drew back from her in horror. The suspicion of me which
her
words implied was sufficiently detestable in itself. But her
manner when she uttered the words was more revolting still. It
so
powerfully affected me that I started back from that
beautiful
creature as I might have recoiled from a reptile crawling over
my
flesh.
Before I had recovered myself sufficiently to reply, my nerves
were
assailed by another shock. I suddenly heard my mistress's
voice
calling to me from the stable yard.
There was no time to think--there was only time to act. The
one
thing needed was to keep Mrs. Fairbank from ascending the
stairs,
and discovering--not my lady guest only--but the Englishman
also,
gagged and bound on his bed. I instantly hurried to the yard.
As
I ran down the stairs I heard the stable clock strike the
quarter
to two in the morning.
My mistress was eager and agitated. The doctor (in attendance
on
her) was smiling to himself, like a man amused at his own
thoughts.
"Is Francis awake or asleep?" Mrs. Fairbank inquired.
"He has been a little restless, madam. But he is now quiet
again.
If he is not disturbed" (I added those words to prevent her
from
ascending the stairs), "he will soon fall off into a quiet
sleep."
"Has nothing happened since I was here last?"
"Nothing, madam."
The doctor lifted his eyebrows with a comical look of
distress.
"Alas, alas, Mrs. Fairbank!" he said. "Nothing has happened!
The
days of romance are over!"
"It is not two o'clock yet," my mistress answered, a
little
irritably.
The smell of the stables was strong on the morning air. She
put
her handkerchief to her nose and led the way out of the yard by
the
north entrance--the entrance communicating with the gardens and
the
house. I was ordered to follow her, along with the doctor.
Once
out of the smell of the stables she began to question me
again.
She was unwilling to believe that nothing had occurred in
her
absence. I invented the best answers I could think of on the
spur
of the moment; and the doctor stood by laughing. So the
minutes
passed till the clock struck two. Upon that, Mrs. Fairbank
announced her intention of personally visiting the Englishman
in
his room. To my great relief, the doctor interfered to stop
her
from doing this.
"You have heard that Francis is just falling asleep," he said.
"If
you enter his room you may disturb him. It is essential to
the
success of my experiment that he should have a good night's
rest,
and that he should own it himself, before I tell him the truth.
I
must request, madam, that you will not disturb the man.
Rigobert
will ring the alarm bell if anything happens."
My mistress was unwilling to yield. For the next five minutes,
at
least, there was a warm discussion between the two. In the
end
Mrs. Fairbank was obliged to give way--for the time. "In half
an
hour," she said, "Francis will either be sound asleep, or
awake
again. In half an hour I shall come back." She took the
doctor's
arm. They returned together to the house.
Left by myself, with half an hour before me, I resolved to
take the
Englishwoman back to the village--then, returning to the
stables,
to remove the gag and the bindings from Francis, and to let
him
screech to his heart's content. What would his alarming the
whole
establishment matter to ME after I had got rid of the
compromising
presence of my guest?
Returning to the yard I heard a sound like the creaking of an
open
door on its hinges. The gate of the north entrance I had
just
closed with my own hand. I went round to the west entrance, at
the
back of the stables. It opened on a field crossed by two
footpaths
in Mr. Fairbank's grounds. The nearest footpath led to the
village. The other led to the highroad and the river.
Arriving at the west entrance I found the door open--swinging
to
and fro slowly in the fresh morning breeze. I had myself
locked
and bolted that door after admitting my fair friend at
eleven
o'clock. A vague dread of something wrong stole its way into
my
mind. I hurried back to the stables.
I looked into my own room. It was empty. I went to the
harness
room. Not a sign of the woman was there. I returned to my
room,
and approached the door of the Englishman's bedchamber. Was
it
possible that she had remained there during my absence? An
unaccountable reluctance to open the door made me hesitate, with
my
hand on the lock. I listened. There was not a sound inside.
I
called softly. There was no answer. I drew back a step,
still
hesitating. I noticed something dark moving slowly in the
crevice
between the bottom of the door and the boarded floor. Snatching
up
the candle from the table, I held it low, and looked. The
dark,
slowly moving object was a stream of blood!
That horrid sight roused me. I opened the door. The
Englishman
lay on his bed--alone in the room. He was stabbed in two
places--
in the throat and in the heart. The weapon was left in the
second
wound. It was a knife of English manufacture, with a handle
of
buckhorn as good as new.
I instantly gave the alarm. Witnesses can speak to what
followed.
It is monstrous to suppose that I am guilty of the murder. I
admit
that I am capable of committing follies: but I shrink from the
bare
idea of a crime. Besides, I had no motive for killing the
man.
The woman murdered him in my absence. The woman escaped by
the
west entrance while I was talking to my mistress. I have no
more
to say. I swear to you what I have here written is a true
statement of all that happened on the morning of the first
of
March.
Accept, sir, the assurance of my sentiments of profound
gratitude
and respect.
JOSEPH RIGOBERT.
Tried for the murder of Francis Raven, Joseph Rigobert was
found
Not Guilty; the papers of the assassinated man presented
ample
evidence of the deadly animosity felt toward him by his
wife.
The investigations pursued on the morning when the crime
was
committed showed that the murderess, after leaving the stable,
had
taken the footpath which led to the river. The river was
dragged--
without result. It remains doubtful to this day whether she
died
by drowning or not. The one thing certain is--that Alicia
Warlock
was never seen again.
So--beginning in mystery, ending in mystery--the Dream Woman
passes
from your view. Ghost; demon; or living human creature--say
for
yourselves which she is. Or, knowing what unfathomed wonders
are
around you, what unfathomed wonders are IN you, let the wise
words
of the greatest of all poets be explanation enough:
"We are such stuff
As dreams are made of, and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep."
Anonymous
"Has the duchess returned?"
"No, your grace."
Knowles came farther into the room. He had a letter on a
salver.
When the duke had taken it, Knowles still lingered. The duke
glanced at him.
"Is an answer required?"
"No, your grace." Still Knowles lingered. "Something a
little
singular has happened. The carriage has returned without the
duchess, and the men say that they thought her grace was in
it."
"What do you mean?"
"I hardly understand myself, your grace. Perhaps you would
like to
see Barnes."
Barnes was the coachman.
"Send him up." When Knowles had gone, and he was alone, his
grace
showed signs of being slightly annoyed. He looked at his
watch.
"I told her she'd better be in by four. She says that she's
not
feeling well, and yet one would think that she was not aware of
the
fatigue entailed in having the prince come to dinner, and a mob
of
people to follow. I particularly wished her to lie down for
a
couple of hours."
Knowles ushered in not only Barnes, the coachman, but Moysey,
the
footman, too. Both these persons seemed to be ill at ease.
The
duke glanced at them sharply. In his voice there was a
suggestion
of impatience.
"What is the matter?"
Barnes explained as best he could.
"If you please, your grace, we waited for the duchess outside
Cane
and Wilson's, the drapers. The duchess came out, got into
the
carriage, and Moysey shut the door, and her grace said, 'Home!'
and
yet when we got home she wasn't there."
"She wasn't where?"
"Her grace wasn't in the carriage, your grace."
"What on earth do you mean?"
"Her grace did get into the carriage; you shut the door,
didn't
you?"
Barnes turned to Moysey. Moysey brought his hand up to his
brow in
a sort of military salute--he had been a soldier in the regiment
in
which, once upon a time, the duke had been a subaltern.
"She did. The duchess came out of the shop. She seemed rather
in
a hurry, I thought. She got into the carriage, and she said,
'Home, Moysey!' I shut the door, and Barnes drove straight
home.
We never stopped anywhere, and we never noticed nothing happen
on
the way; and yet when we got home the carriage was empty."
The duke started.
"Do you mean to tell me that the duchess got out of the
carriage
while you were driving full pelt through the streets without
saying
anything to you, and without you noticing it?"
"The carriage was empty when we got home, your grace."
"Was either of the doors open?"
"No, your grace."
"You fellows have been up to some infernal mischief. You have
made
a mess of it. You never picked up the duchess, and you're
trying
to palm this tale off on me to save yourselves."
Barnes was moved to adjuration:
"I'll take my Bible oath, your grace, that the duchess got
into the
carriage outside Cane and Wilson's."
Moysey seconded his colleague.
"I will swear to that, your grace. She got into that carriage,
and
I shut the door, and she said, 'Home, Moysey!'"
The duke looked as if he did not know what to make of the
story and
its tellers.
"What carriage did you have?"
"Her grace's brougham, your grace."
Knowles interposed:
"The brougham was ordered because I understood that the
duchess was
not feeling very well, and there's rather a high wind, your
grace."
The duke snapped at him:
"What has that to do with it? Are you suggesting that the
duchess
was more likely to jump out of a brougham while it was
dashing
through the streets than out of any other kind of vehicle?"
The duke's glance fell on the letter which Knowles had brought
him
when he first had entered. He had placed it on his writing
table.
Now he took it up. It was, addressed:
"To His Grace the Duke of Datchet.
Private!
VERY PRESSING! ! !"
The name was written in a fine, clear, almost feminine hand.
The
words in the left-hand corner of the envelope were written in
a
different hand. They were large and bold; almost as though
they
had been painted with the end of the penholder instead of
being
written with the pen. The envelope itself was of an unusual
size,
and bulged out as though it contained something else besides
a
letter.
The duke tore the envelope open. As he did so something fell
out
of it on to the writing table. It looked as though it was a
lock
of a woman's hair. As he glanced at it the duke seemed to be
a
trifle startled. The duke read the letter:
"Your grace will be so good as to bring five hundred pounds in
gold
to the Piccadilly end of the Burlington Arcade within an hour
of
the receipt of this. The Duchess of Datchet has been kidnaped.
An
imitation duchess got into the carriage, which was waiting
outside
Cane and Wilson's, and she alighted on the road. Unless your
grace
does as you are requested, the Duchess of Datchet's
left-hand
little finger will be at once cut off, and sent home in time
to
receive the prince to dinner. Other portions of her grace
will
follow. A lock of her grace's hair is inclosed with this as
an
earnest of our good intentions.
"BEFORE 5:30 P.M. your grace is requested to be at the
Piccadilly
end of the Burlington Arcade with five hundred pounds in gold.
You
will there be accosted by an individual in a white top hat,
and
with a gardenia in his buttonhole. You will be entirely at
liberty
to give him into custody, or to have him followed by the police,
in
which case the duchess's left arm, cut off at the shoulder, will
be
sent home for dinner--not to mention other extremely
possible
contingencies. But you are ADVISED to give the individual in
question the five hundred pounds in gold, because in that case
the
duchess herself will he home in time to receive the prince
to
dinner, and with one of the best stories with which to
entertain
your distinguished guests they ever heard.
"Remember! NOT LATER THAN 5:30, unless you wish to receive
her
grace's little finger."
The duke stared at this amazing epistle when he had read it
as
though he found it difficult to believe the evidence of his
eyes.
He was not a demonstrative person, as a rule, but this
little
communication astonished even him. He read it again. Then
his
hands dropped to his sides, and he swore.
He took up the lock of hair which had fallen out of the
envelope.
Was it possible that it could be his wife's, the duchess? Was
it
possible that a Duchess of Datchet could be kidnaped, in
broad
daylight, in the heart of London, and be sent home, as it were,
in
pieces? Had sacrilegious hands already been playing pranks
with
that great lady's hair? Certainly, THAT hair was so like HER
hair
that the mere resemblance made his grace's blood run cold.
He
turned on Messrs. Barnes and Moysey as though he would have
liked
to rend them.
"You scoundrels!"
He moved forward as though the intention had entered his
ducal
heart to knock his servants down. But, if that were so, he did
not
act quite up to his intention. Instead, he stretched out his
arm,
pointing at them as if he were an accusing spirit:
"Will you swear that it was the duchess who got into the
carriage
outside Cane and Wilson's?"
Barnes began to stammer:
"I'll swear, your grace, that I--I thought--"
The duke stormed an interruption:
"I don't ask what you thought. I ask you, will you swear it was?"
The duke's anger was more than Barnes could face. He was
silent.
Moysey showed a larger courage.
"I could have sworn that it was at the time, your grace. But
now
it seems to me that it's a rummy go."
"A rummy go!" The peculiarity of the phrase did not seem to
strike
the duke just then--at least, he echoed it as if it didn't.
"You
call it a rummy go! Do you know that I am told in this letter
that
the woman who entered the carriage was not the duchess? What
you
were thinking about, or what case you will be able to make out
for
yourselves, you know better than I; but I can tell you
this--that
in an hour you will leave my service, and you may esteem
yourselves
fortunate if, to-night, you are not both of you sleeping in
jail."
One might almost have suspected that the words were spoken
in
irony. But before they could answer, another servant entered,
who
also brought a letter for the duke. When his grace's glance
fell
on it he uttered an exclamation. The writing on the envelope
was
the same writing that had been on the envelope which had
contained
the very singular communication--like it in all respects, down
to
the broomstick-end thickness of the "Private!" and "Very
pressing!!!" in the corner.
"Who brought this?" stormed the duke.
The servant appeared to be a little startled by the violence
of his
grace's manner.
"A lady--or, at least, your grace, she seemed to be a lady."
"Where is she?"
"She came in a hansom, your grace. She gave me that letter,
and
said, 'Give that to the Duke of Datchet at once--without a
moment's
delay!' Then she got into the hansom again, and drove away."
"Why didn't you stop her?"
"Your grace!"
The man seemed surprised, as though the idea of stopping
chance
visitors to the ducal mansion vi et armis had not, until
that
moment, entered into his philosophy. The duke continued to
regard
the man as if he could say a good deal, if he chose. Then he
pointed to the door. His lips said nothing, but his gesture
much.
The servant vanished.
"Another hoax!" the duke said grimly, as he tore the envelope open.
This time the envelope contained a sheet of paper, and in the
sheet
of paper another envelope. The duke unfolded the sheet of
paper.
On it some words were written. These:
"The duchess appears so particularly anxious to drop you a
line,
that one really hasn't the heart to refuse her.
"Her grace's communication--written amidst blinding
tears!--you
will find inclosed with this."
"Knowles," said the duke, in a voice which actually
trembled,
"Knowles, hoax or no hoax, I will be even with the gentleman
who
wrote that."
Handing the sheet of paper to Mr. Knowles, his grace turned
his
attention to the envelope which had been inclosed. It was a
small,
square envelope, of the finest quality, and it reeked with
perfume.
The duke's countenance assumed an added frown--he had no
fondness
for envelopes which were scented. In the center of the
envelope
were the words, "To the Duke of Datchet," written in the big,
bold,
sprawling hand which he knew so well.
"Mabel's writing," he said, half to himself, as, with
shaking
fingers, he tore the envelope open.
The sheet of paper which he took out was almost as stiff
as
cardboard. It, too, emitted what his grace deemed the
nauseous
odors of the perfumer's shop. On it was written this letter:
"MY DEAR HEREWARD--For Heaven's sake do what these people
require!
I don't know what has happened or where I am, but I am
nearly
distracted! They have already cut off some of my hair, and
they
tell me that, if you don't let them have five hundred pounds
in
gold by half-past five, they will cut off my little finger too.
I
would sooner die than lose my little finger--and--I don't know
what
else besides.
"By the token which I send you, and which has never, until
now,
been off my breast, I conjure you to help me.
"Hereward--HELP ME!"
When he read that letter the duke turned white--very white,
as
white as the paper on which it was written. He passed the
epistle
on to Knowles.
"I suppose that also is a hoax?"
Mr. Knowles was silent. He still yielded to his
constitutional
disrelish to commit himself. At last he asked:
"What is it that your grace proposes to do?"
The duke spoke with a bitterness which almost suggested a
personal
animosity toward the inoffensive Mr. Knowles.
"I propose, with your permission, to release the duchess from
the
custody of my estimable correspondent. I propose--always with
your
permission--to comply with his modest request, and to take him
his
five hundred pounds in gold." He paused, then continued in a
tone
which, coming from him, meant volumes: "Afterwards, I propose
to
cry quits with the concocter of this pretty little hoax, even if
it
costs me every penny I possess. He shall pay more for that
five
hundred pounds than he supposes."
The Duke of Datchet, coming out of the bank, lingered for a
moment
on the steps. In one hand he carried a canvas bag which
seemed
well weighted. On his countenance there was an expression which
to
a casual observer might have suggested that his grace was
not
completely at his ease. That casual observer happened to
come
strolling by. It took the form of Ivor Dacre.
Mr. Dacre looked the Duke of Datchet up and down in that
languid
way he has. He perceived the canvas bag. Then he remarked,
possibly intending to be facetious:
"Been robbing the bank? Shall I call a cart?"
Nobody minds what Ivor Dacre says. Besides, he is the duke's
own
cousin. Perhaps a little removed; still, there it is. So the
duke
smiled a sickly smile, as if Mr. Dacre's delicate wit had given
him
a passing touch of indigestion.
Mr. Dacre noticed that the duke looked sallow, so he gave
his
pretty sense of humor another airing.
"Kitchen boiler burst? When I saw the duchess just now I
wondered
if it had."
His grace distinctly started. He almost dropped the canvas bag.
"You saw the duchess just now, Ivor! When?"
The duke was evidently moved. Mr. Dacre was stirred to
languid
curiosity. "I can't say I clocked it. Perhaps half an hour
ago;
perhaps a little more."
"Half an hour ago! Are you sure? Where did you see her?"
Mr. Dacre wondered. The Duchess of Datchet could scarcely
have
been eloping in broad daylight. Moreover, she had not yet
been
married a year. Everyone knew that she and the duke were still
as
fond of each other as if they were not man and wife. So,
although
the duke, for some cause or other, was evidently in an odd state
of
agitation, Mr. Dacre saw no reason why he should not make a
clean
breast of all he knew.
"She was going like blazes in a hansom cab."
"In a hansom cab? Where?"
"Down Waterloo Place."
"Was she alone?"
Mr. Dacre reflected. He glanced at the duke out of the corners
of
his eyes. His languid utterance became a positive drawl.
"I rather fancy that she wasn't."
"Who was with her?"
"My dear fellow, if you were to offer me the bank I couldn't
tell
you."
"Was it a man?"
Mr. Dacre's drawl became still more pronounced.
"I rather fancy that it was."
Mr. Dacre expected something. The duke was so excited. But he
by
no means expected what actually came.
"Ivor, she's been kidnaped!"
Mr. Dacre did what he had never been known to do before within
the
memory of man--he dropped his eyeglass.
"Datchet!"
"She has! Some scoundrel has decoyed her away, and trapped
her.
He's already sent me a lock of her hair, and he tells me that if
I
don't let him have five hundred pounds in gold by half-past
five
he'll let me have her little finger."
Mr. Dacre did not know what to make of his grace at all. He
was a
sober man--it COULDN'T be that! Mr. Dacre felt really
concerned.
"I'll call a cab, old man, and you'd better let me see you home."
Mr. Dacre half raised his stick to hail a passing hansom. The
duke
caught him by the arm.
"You ass! What do you mean? I am telling you the simple
truth.
My wife's been kidnaped."
Mr. Dacre's countenance was a thing to be seen--and remembered.
"Oh! I hadn't heard that there was much of that sort of thing
about
just now. They talk of poodles being kidnaped, but as for
duchesses-- You'd really better let me call that cab."
"Ivor, do you want me to kick you? Don't you see that to me
it's a
question of life and death? I've been in there to get the
money."
His grace motioned toward the bank. "I'm going to take it to
the
scoundrel who has my darling at his mercy. Let me but have
her
hand in mine again, and he shall continue to pay for every
sovereign with tears of blood until he dies."
"Look here, Datchet, I don't know if you're having a joke with
me,
or if you're not well--"
The duke stepped impatiently into the roadway.
"Ivor, you're a fool! Can't you tell jest from earnest,
health
from disease? I'm off! Are you coming with me? It would be
as
well that I should have a witness."
"Where are you off to?"
"To the other end of the Arcade."
"Who is the gentleman you expect to have the pleasure of
meeting
there?"
"How should I know?" The duke took a letter from his
pocket--it
was the letter which had just arrived. "The fellow is to wear
a
white top hat, and a gardenia in his buttonhole."
"What is it you have there?"
"It's the letter which brought the news--look for yourself and
see;
but, for God's sake, make haste!" His grace glanced at his
watch.
"It's already twenty after five."
"And do you mean to say that on the strength of a letter such
as
this you are going to hand over five hundred pounds to--"
The duke cut Mr. Dacre short.
"What are five hundred pounds to me? Besides, you don't know
all.
There is another letter. And I have heard from Mabel. But I
will
tell you all about it later. If you are coming, come!"
Folding up the letter, Mr. Dacre returned it to the duke.
"As you say, what are five hundred pounds to you? It's as
well
they are not as much to you as they are to me, or I'm
afraid--"
"Hang it, Ivor, do prose afterwards!"
The duke hurried across the road. Mr. Dacre hastened after
him.
As they entered the Arcade they passed a constable. Mr.
Dacre
touched his companion's arm.
"Don't you think we'd better ask our friend in blue to walk
behind
us? His neighborhood might be handy."
"Nonsense!" The duke stopped short. "Ivor, this is my affair,
not
yours. If you are not content to play the part of silent
witness,
be so good as to leave me."
"My dear Datchet, I'm entirely at your service. I can be
every
whit as insane as you, I do assure you."
Side by side they moved rapidly down the Burlington Arcade.
The
duke was obviously in a state of the extremest nervous
tension.
Mr. Dacre was equally obviously in a state of the most
supreme
enjoyment. People stared as they rushed past. The duke saw
nothing. Mr. Dacre saw everything, and smiled.
When they reached the Piccadilly end of the Arcade the duke
pulled
up. He looked about him. Mr. Dacre also looked about him.
"I see nothing of your white-hatted and
gardenia-buttonholed
friend," said Ivor.
The duke referred to his watch.
"It's not yet half-past five. I'm up to time."
Mr. Dacre held his stick in front of him and leaned on it.
He
indulged himself with a beatific smile.
"It strikes me, my dear Datchet, that you've been the victim
of one
of the finest things in hoaxes--"
"I hope I haven't kept you waiting."
The voice which interrupted Mr. Dacre came from the rear.
While
they were looking in front of them some one approached them
from
behind, apparently coming out of the shop which was at their
backs.
The speaker looked a gentleman. He sounded like one, too.
Costume, appearance, manner, were beyond reproach--even beyond
the
criticism of two such keen critics as were these. The
glorious
attire of a London dandy was surmounted with a beautiful white
top
hat. In his buttonhole was a magnificent gardenia.
In age the stranger was scarcely more than a boy, and a
sunny-
faced, handsome boy at that. His cheeks were hairless, his
eyes
were blue. His smile was not only innocent, it was bland.
Never
was there a more conspicuous illustration of that repose
which
stamps the caste of Vere de Vere.
The duke looked at him and glowered. Mr. Dacre looked at him
and
smiled.
"Who are you?" asked the duke.
"Ah--that is the question!" The newcomer's refined and
musical
voice breathed the very soul of affability. "I am an
individual
who is so unfortunate as to be in want of five hundred
pounds."
"Are you the scoundrel who sent me that infamous letter?"
The charming stranger never turned a hair.
"I am the scoundrel mentioned in that infamous letter who
wants to
accost you at the Piccadilly end of the Burlington Arcade
before
half-past five--as witness my white hat and my gardenia."
"Where's my wife?"
The stranger gently swung his stick in front of him with his
two
hands. He regarded the duke as a merry-hearted son might
regard
his father. The thing was beautiful!
"Her grace will be home almost as soon as you are--when you
have
given me the money which I perceive you have all ready for me
in
that scarcely elegant-looking canvas bag." He shrugged his
shoulders quite gracefully. "Unfortunately, in these matters
one
has no choice--one is forced to ask for gold."
"And suppose, instead of giving you what is in this canvas
bag, I
take you by the throat and choke the life right out of you?"
"Or suppose," amended Mr. Dacre, "that you do better, and
commend
this gentleman to the tender mercies of the first policeman
we
encounter."
The stranger turned to Mr. Dacre. He condescended to
become
conscious of his presence.
"Is this gentleman your grace's friend? Ah--Mr. Dacre, I
perceive!
I have the honor of knowing Mr. Dacre, though, possibly, I
am
unknown to him."
"You were--until this moment."
With an airy little laugh the stranger returned to the duke.
He
brushed an invisible speck of dust off the sleeve of his
coat.
"As has been intimated in that infamous letter, his grace is
at
perfect liberty to give me into custody--why not? Only"--he
said
it with his boyish smile--"if a particular communication is
not
received from me in certain quarters within a certain time
the
Duchess of Datchet's beautiful white arm will be hacked off at
the
shoulder."
"You hound!"
The duke would have taken the stranger by the throat, and have
done
his best to choke the life right out of him then and there, if
Mr.
Dacre had not intervened.
"Steady, old man!" Mr. Dacre turned to the stranger. "You
appear
to be a pretty sort of a scoundrel."
The stranger gave his shoulders that almost imperceptible shrug.
"Oh, my dear Dacre, I am in want of money! I believe that
you
sometimes are in want of money, too."
Everybody knows that nobody knows where Ivor Dacre gets his
money
from, so the allusion must have tickled him immensely.
"You're a cool hand," he said.
"Some men are born that way."
"So I should imagine. Men like you must be born, not made."
"Precisely--as you say!" The stranger turned, with his
graceful
smile, to the duke: "But are we not wasting precious time? I
can
assure your grace that, in this particular matter, moments are
of
value."
Mr. Dacre interposed before the duke could answer.
"If you take my strongly urged advice, Datchet, you will
summon
this constable who is now coming down the Arcade, and hand
this
gentleman over to his keeping. I do not think that you need
fear
that the duchess will lose her arm, or even her little
finger.
Scoundrels of this one's kidney are most amenable to reason
when
they have handcuffs on their wrists."
The duke plainly hesitated. He would--and he would not.
The
stranger, as he eyed him, seemed much amused.
"My dear duke, by all means act on Mr. Dacre's valuable
suggestion.
As I said before, why not? It would at least be interesting to
see
if the duchess does or does not lose her arm--almost as
interesting
to you as to Mr. Dacre. Those blackmailing, kidnaping
scoundrels
do use such empty menaces. Besides, you would have the pleasure
of
seeing me locked up. My imprisonment for life would recompense
you
even for the loss of her grace's arm. And five hundred pounds
is
such a sum to have to pay--merely for a wife! Why not,
therefore,
act on Mr. Dacre's suggestion? Here comes the constable."
The
constable referred to was advancing toward them--he was not a
dozen
yards away. "Let me beckon to him--I will with pleasure." He
took
out his watch--a gold chronograph repeater. "There are
scarcely
ten minutes left during which it will be possible for me to
send
the communication which I spoke of, so that it may arrive in
time.
As it will then be too late, and the instruments are already
prepared for the little operation which her grace is eagerly
anticipating, it would, perhaps, be as well, after all, that
you
should give me into charge. You would have saved your five
hundred
pounds, and you would, at any rate, have something in exchange
for
her grace's mutilated limb. Ah, here is the constable!
Officer!"
The stranger spoke with such a pleasant little air of easy
geniality that it was impossible to tell if he were in jest or
in
earnest. This fact impressed the duke much more than if he
had
gone in for a liberal indulgence of the--under the
circumstances--
orthodox melodramatic scowling. And, indeed, in the face of
his
own common sense, it impressed Mr. Ivor Dacre too.
This well-bred, well-groomed youth was just the being to
realize--
aux bouts des ongles--a modern type of the devil, the type
which
depicts him as a perfect gentleman, who keeps smiling all the
time.
The constable whom this audacious rogue had signaled
approached the
little group. He addressed the stranger:
"Do you want me, sir?"
"No, I do not want you. I think it is the Duke of Datchet."
The constable, who knew the duke very well by sight, saluted
him as
he turned to receive instructions.
The duke looked white, even savage. There was not a pleasant
look
in his eyes and about his lips. He appeared to be endeavoring
to
put a great restraint upon himself. There was a momentary
silence.
Mr. Dacre made a movement as if to interpose. The duke caught
him
by the arm.
He spoke: "No, constable, I do not want you. This person
is
mistaken."
The constable looked as if he could not quite make out how
such a
mistake could have arisen, hesitated, then, with another salute,
he
moved away.
The stranger was still holding his watch in his hand.
"Only eight minutes," he said.
The duke seemed to experience some difficulty in giving
utterance
to what he had to say.
"If I give you this five hundred pounds, you--you--"
As the duke paused, as if at a loss for language which was
strong
enough to convey his meaning, the stranger laughed.
"Let us take the adjectives for granted. Besides, it is only
boys
who call each other names--men do things. If you give me the
five
hundred sovereigns, which you have in that bag, at once--in
five
minutes it will be too late--I will promise--I will not swear;
if
you do not credit my simple promise, you will not believe my
solemn
affirmation--I will promise that, possibly within an hour,
certainly within an hour and a half, the Duchess of Datchet
shall
return to you absolutely uninjured--except, of course, as you
are
already aware, with regard to a few of the hairs of her head.
I
will promise this on the understanding that you do not
yourself
attempt to see where I go, and that you will allow no one else
to
do so." This with a glance at Ivor Dacre. "I shall know at
once
if I am followed. If you entertain such intentions, you had
better, on all accounts, remain in possession of your five
hundred
pounds."
The duke eyed him very grimly.
"I entertain no such intentions--until the duchess returns."
Again the stranger indulged in that musical laugh of his.
"Ah, until the duchess returns! Of course, then the bargain's
at
an end. When you are once more in the enjoyment of her
grace's
society, you will be at liberty to set all the dogs in Europe at
my
heels. I assure you I fully expect that you will do so--why
not?"
The duke raised the canvas bag. "My dear duke, ten thousand
thanks! You shall see her grace at Datchet House, 'pon my
honor,
probably within the hour."
"Well," commented Ivor Dacre, when the stranger had vanished,
with
the bag, into Piccadilly, and as the duke and himself moved
toward
Burlington Gardens, "if a gentleman is to be robbed, it is as
well
that he should have another gentleman rob him."
Mr. Dacre eyed his companion covertly as they progressed.
His
Grace of Datchet appeared to have some fresh cause for
uneasiness.
All at once he gave it utterance, in a tone of voice which
was
extremely somber:
"Ivor, do you think that scoundrel will dare to play me
false?"
"I think," murmured Mr. Dacre, "that he has dared to play
you
pretty false already."
"I don't mean that. But I mean how am I to know, now that he
has
his money, that he will still not keep Mabel in his
clutches?"
There came an echo from Mr. Dacre.
"Just so--how are you to know?"
"I believe that something of this sort has been done in
the
States."
"I thought that there they were content to kidnap them after
they
were dead. I was not aware that they had, as yet, got quite so
far
as the living."
"I believe that I have heard of something just like this."
"Possibly; they are giants over there."
"And in that case the scoundrels, when their demands were
met,
refused to keep to the letter of their bargain and asked for
more."
The duke stood still. He clinched his fists, and swore:
"Ivor, if that ---- villain doesn't keep his word, and Mabel
isn't
home within the hour, by ---- I shall go mad!"
"My dear Datchet"--Mr. Dacre loved strong language as little
as he
loved a scene--"let us trust to time and, a little, to your
white-
hatted and gardenia-buttonholed friend's word of honor. You
should
have thought of possible eventualities before you showed
your
confidence--really. Suppose, instead of going mad, we first of
all
go home?"
A hansom stood waiting for a fare at the end of the Arcade.
Mr.
Dacre had handed the duke into it before his grace had quite
realized that the vehicle was there.
"Tell the fellow to drive faster." That was what the duke
said
when the cab had started.
"My dear Datchet, the man's already driving his geerage off
its
legs. If a bobby catches sight of him he'll take his
number."
A moment later, a murmur from the duke:
"I don't know if you're aware that the prince is coming to dinner?"
"I am perfectly aware of it."
"You take it uncommonly cool. How easy it is to bear our
brother's
burdens! Ivor, if Mabel doesn't turn up I shall feel like
murder."
"I sympathize with you, Datchet, with all my heart, though, I
may
observe, parenthetically, that I very far from realize the
situation even yet. Take my advice. If the duchess does not
show
quite as soon as we both of us desire, don't make a scene; just
let
me see what I can do."
Judging from the expression of his countenance, the duke
was
conscious of no overwhelming desire to witness an exhibition of
Mr.
Dacre's prowess.
When the cab reached Datchet House his grace dashed up the
steps
three at a time. The door flew open.
"Has the duchess returned?"
"Hereward!"
A voice floated downward from above. Some one came running
down
the stairs. It was her Grace of Datchet.
"Mabel!"
She actually rushed into the duke's extended arms. And he
kissed
her, and she kissed him--before the servants.
"So you're not quite dead?" she cried.
"I am almost," he said.
She drew herself a little away from him.
"Hereward, were you seriously hurt?"
"Do you suppose that I could have been otherwise than
seriously
hurt?"
"My darling! Was it a Pickford's van?"
The duke stared.
"A Pickford's van? I don't understand. But come in here.
Come
along, Ivor. Mabel, you don't see Ivor."
"How do you do, Mr. Dacre?"
Then the trio withdrew into a little anteroom; it was really
time.
Even then the pair conducted themselves as if Mr. Dacre had
been
nothing and no one. The duke took the lady's two hands in his.
He
eyed her fondly.
"So you are uninjured, with the exception of that lock of
hair.
Where did the villain take it from?"
The lady looked a little puzzled.
"What lock of hair?"
From an envelope which he took from his pocket the duke
produced a
shining tress. It was the lock of hair which had arrived in
the
first communication. "I will have it framed."
"You will have what framed?" The duchess glanced at what the
duke
was so tenderly caressing, almost, as it seemed, a little
dubiously. "Whatever is it you have there?"
"It is the lock of hair which that scoundrel sent me."
Something
in the lady's face caused him to ask a question:
"Didn't he tell you he had sent it to me?"
"Hereward!"
"Did the brute tell you that he meant to cut off your
little
finger?"
A very curious look came into the lady's face. She glanced at
the
duke as if she, all at once, was half afraid of him. She cast
at
Mr. Dacre what really seemed to be a look of inquiry. Her
voice
was tremulously anxious.
"Hereward, did--did the accident affect you mentally?"
"How could it not have affected me mentally? Do you think that
my
mental organization is of steel?"
"But you look so well."
"Of course I look well, now that I have you back again. Tell
me,
darling, did that hound actually threaten you with cutting off
your
arm? If he did, I shall feel half inclined to kill him yet."
The duchess seemed positively to shrink from her better half's
near
neighborhood.
"Hereward, was it a Pickford's van?"
The duke seemed puzzled. Well he might be.
"Was what a Pickford's van?"
The lady turned to Mr. Dacre. In her voice there was a ring
of
anguish.
"Mr. Dacre, tell me, was it a Pickford's van?" Ivor could
only
imitate his relative's repetition of her inquiry.
"I don't quite catch you--was what a Pickford's van?"
The duchess clasped her hands in front of her.
"What is it you are keeping from me? What is it you are trying
to
hide? I implore you to tell me the worst, whatever it may be!
Do
not keep me any longer in suspense; you do not know what I
already
have endured. Mr. Dacre, is my husband mad?"
One need scarcely observe that the lady's amazing appeal to
Mr.
Dacre as to her husband's sanity was received with something
like
surprise. As the duke continued to stare at her, a dreadful
fear
began to loom in his brain.
"My darling, your brain is unhinged!"
He advanced to take her two hands again in his; but, to
his
unmistakable distress, she shrank away from him.
"Hereward--don't touch me. How is it that I missed you? Why
did
you not wait until I came?"
"Wait until you came?"
The duke's bewilderment increased.
"Surely, if your injuries turned out, after all, to be slight,
that
was all the more reason why you should have waited, after
sending
for me like that."
"I sent for you--I?" The duke's tone was grave. "My
darling,
perhaps you had better come upstairs."
"Not until we have had an explanation. You must have known
that I
should come. Why did you not wait for me after you had sent
me
that?"
The duchess held out something to the duke. He took it. It was
a
card--his own visiting card. Something was written on the back
of
it. He read aloud what was written.
"'Mabel, come to me at once with the bearer. They tell me
that
they cannot take me home.' It looks like my own writing."
"Looks like it! It IS your writing."
"It looks like it--and written with a shaky pen."
"My dear child, one's hand would shake at such a moment as that."
"Mabel, where did you get this?"
"It was brought to me in Cane and Wilson's."
"Who brought it?"
"Who brought it? Why, the man you sent."
"The man I sent!" A light burst upon the duke's brain. He
fell
back a pace. "It's the decoy!"
Her grace echoed the words:
"The decoy?"
"The scoundrel! To set a trap with such a bait! My poor
innocent
darling, did you think it came from me? Tell me, Mabel, where
did
he cut off your hair?"
"Cut off my hair?"
Her grace put her hand to her head as if to make sure that her
hair
was there.
"Where did he take you to?"
"He took me to Draper's Buildings."
"Draper's Buildings?"
"I have never been in the City before, but he told me it
was
Draper's Buildings. Isn't that near the Stock Exchange?"
"Near the Stock Exchange?"
It seemed rather a curious place to which to take a
kidnaped
victim. The man's audacity!
"He told me that you were coming out of the Stock Exchange
when a
van knocked you over. He said that he thought it was a
Pickford's
van--was it a Pickford's van?"
"No, it was not a Pickford's van. Mabel, were you in
Draper's
Buildings when you wrote that letter?"
"Wrote what letter?"
"Have you forgotten it already? I do not believe that there is
a
word in it which will not be branded on my brain until I
die."
"Hereward! What do you mean?"
"Surely you cannot have written me such a letter as that, and
then
have forgotten it already?"
He handed her the letter which had arrived in the second
communication. She glanced at it, askance. Then she took it
with
a little gasp.
"Hereward, if you don't mind, I think I'll take a chair." She
took
a chair. "Whatever--whatever's this?" As she read the letter
the
varying expressions which passed across her face were, in
themselves, a study in psychology. "Is it possible that you
can
imagine that, under any conceivable circumstances, I could
have
written such a letter as this?"
"Mabel!"
She rose to her feet with emphasis.
"Hereward, don't say that you thought this came from me!"
"Not from you?" He remembered Knowles's diplomatic reception
of
the epistle on its first appearance. "I suppose that you will
say
next that this is not a lock of your hair?"
"My dear child, what bee have you got in your bonnet? This a
lock
of my hair! Why, it's not in the least bit like my hair!"
Which was certainly inaccurate. As far as color was concerned
it
was an almost perfect match. The duke turned to Mr. Dacre.
"Ivor, I've had to go through a good deal this afternoon. If
I
have to go through much more, something will crack!" He
touched
his forehead. "I think it's my turn to take a chair." Not the
one
which the duchess had vacated, but one which faced it. He
stretched out his legs in front of him; he thrust his hands
into
his trousers pockets; he said, in a tone which was not gloomy
but
absolutely grewsome:
"Might I ask, Mabel, if you have been kidnaped?"
"Kidnaped?"
"The word I used was 'kidnaped.' But I will spell it if you
like.
Or I will get a dictionary, that you may see its meaning."
The duchess looked as if she was beginning to be not quite
sure if
she was awake or sleeping. She turned to Ivor.
"Mr. Dacre, has the accident affected Hereward's brain?"
The duke took the words out of his cousin's mouth.
"On that point, my dear, let me ease your mind. I don't know
if
you are under the impression that I should be the same shape
after
a Pickford's van had run over me as I was before; but, in any
case,
I have not been run over by a Pickford's van. So far as I am
concerned there has been no accident. Dismiss that delusion
from
your mind."
"Oh!"
"You appear surprised. One might even think that you were
sorry.
But may I now ask what you did when you arrived at Draper's
Buildings?"
"Did! I looked for you!"
"Indeed! And when you had looked in vain, what was the next
item
in your programme?"
The lady shrank still farther from him.
"Hereward, have you been having a jest at my expense? Can you
have
been so cruel?" Tears stood in her eyes.
Rising, the duke laid his hand upon her arm.
"Mabel, tell me--what did you do when you had looked for me
in
vain?"
"I looked for you upstairs and downstairs and everywhere. It
was
quite a large place, it took me ever such a time. I thought that
I
should go distracted. Nobody seemed to know anything about you,
or
even that there had been an accident at all--it was all offices.
I
couldn't make it out in the least, and the people didn't seem to
be
able to make me out either. So when I couldn't find you anywhere
I
came straight home again."
The duke was silent for a moment. Then with funereal gravity
he
turned to Mr. Dacre. He put to him this question:
"Ivor, what are you laughing at?"
Mr. Dacre drew his hand across his mouth with rather a
suspicious
gesture.
"My dear fellow, only a smile!"
The duchess looked from one to the other.
"What have you two been doing? What is the joke?"
With an air of preternatural solemnity the duke took two
letters
from the breast pocket of his coat.
"Mabel, you have already seen your letter. You have already
seen
the lock of your hair. Just look at this--and that."
He gave her the two very singular communications which had
arrived
in such a mysterious manner, and so quickly one after the
other.
She read them with wide-open eyes.
"Hereward! Wherever did these come from?"
The duke was standing with his legs apart, and his hands in
his
trousers pockets. "I would give--I would give another five
hundred
pounds to know. Shall I tell you, madam, what I have been
doing?
I have been presenting five hundred golden sovereigns to a
perfect
stranger, with a top hat, and a gardenia in his buttonhole."
"Whatever for?"
"If you have perused those documents which you have in your
hand,
you will have some faint idea. Ivor, when it's your funeral,
I'LL
smile. Mabel, Duchess of Datchet, it is beginning to dawn upon
the
vacuum which represents my brain that I've been the victim of
one
of the prettiest things in practical jokes that ever yet was
planned. When that fellow brought you that card at Cane and
Wilson's--which, I need scarcely tell you, never came from
me--some
one walked out of the front entrance who was so exactly like
you
that both Barnes and Moysey took her for you. Moysey showed
her
into the carriage, and Barnes drove her home. But when the
carriage reached home it was empty. Your double had got out
upon
the road."
The duchess uttered a sound which was half gasp, half sigh.
"Hereward!"
"Barnes and Moysey, with beautiful and childlike innocence,
when
they found that they had brought the thing home empty, came
straightway and told me that YOU had jumped out of the
brougham
while it had been driving full pelt through the streets. While
I
was digesting that piece of information there came the first
epistle, with the lock of your hair. Before I had time to
digest
that there came the second epistle, with yours inside."
"It seems incredible!"
"It sounds incredible; but unfathomable is the folly of
man,
especially of a man who loves his wife." The duke crossed to
Mr.
Dacre. "I don't want, Ivor, to suggest anything in the way
of
bribery and corruption, but if you could keep this matter to
yourself, and not mention it to your friends, our white-hatted
and
gardenia-buttonholed acquaintance is welcome to his five
hundred
pounds, and--Mabel, what on earth are you laughing at?"
The duchess appeared, all at once, to be seized with
inextinguishable laughter.
"Hereward," she cried, "just think how that man must be
laughing at
you!"
And the Duke of Datchet thought of it.
It was Monday, and in the afternoon, as I was walking along
the
High Street of Marchbury, I was met by a
distinguished-looking
person whom I had observed at the services in the cathedral on
the
previous day. Now it chanced on that Sunday that I was singing
the
service. Properly speaking, it was not my turn; but, as my
brother
minor canons were either away from Marchbury or ill in bed, I
was
the only one left to perform the necessary duty. The
distinguished-looking person was a tall, big man with a round
fat
face and small features. His eyes, his hair and mustache (his
face
was bare but for a small mustache) were quite black, and he had
a
very pleasant and genial expression. He wore a tall hat, set
rather jauntily on his head, and he was dressed in black with
a
long frock coat buttoned across the chest and fitting him close
to
the body. As he came, with a half saunter, half swagger, along
the
street, I knew him again at once by his appearance; and, as he
came
nearer, I saw from his manner that he was intending to stop
and
speak to me, for he slightly raised his hat and in a soft,
melodious voice with a colonial "twang" which was far from
being
disagreeable, and which, indeed, to my ear gave a certain
additional interest to his remarks, he saluted me with "Good
day,
sir!"
"Good day," I answered, with just a little reserve in my
tone.
"I hope, sir," he began, "you will excuse my stopping you in
the
street, but I wish to tell you how very much I enjoyed the music
at
your cathedral yesterday. I am an Australian, sir, and we have
no
such music in my country."
"I suppose not," I said.
"No, sir," he went on, "nothing nearly so fine. I am very fond
of
music, and as my business brought me in this direction, I
thought I
would stop at your city and take the opportunity of paying a
visit
to your grand cathedral. And I am delighted I came; so
pleased,
indeed, that I should like to leave some memorial of my
visit
behind me. I should like, sir, to do something for your
choir."
"I am sure it is very kind of you," I replied.
"Yes, I should certainly be glad if you could suggest to
me
something I might do in this way. As regards money, I may say
that
I have plenty of it. I am the owner of a most valuable
property.
My business relations extend throughout the world, and if I am
as
fortunate in the projects of the future as I have been in the
past,
I shall probably one day achieve the proud position of being
the
richest man in the world."
I did not like to undertake myself the responsibility of
advising
or suggesting, so I simply said:
"I cannot venture to say, offhand, what would be the most
acceptable way of showing your great kindness and generosity,
but I
should certainly recommend you to put yourself in
communication
with the dean."
"Thank you, sir," said my Australian friend, "I will do so.
And
now, sir," he continued, "let me say how much I admire your
voice.
It is, without exception, the very finest and clearest voice I
have
ever heard."
"Really," I answered, quite overcome with such unqualified
praise,
"really it is very good of you to say so."
"Ah, but I feel it, my dear sir. I have been round the world,
from
Sydney to Frisco, across the continent of America" (he called
it
Amerrker) "to New York City, then on to England, and to-morrow
I
shall leave your city to continue my travels. But in all my
experience I have never heard so grand a voice as your own."
This and a great deal more he said in the same strain,
which
modesty forbids me to reproduce.
Now I am not without some knowledge of the world outside the
close
of Marchbury Cathedral, and I could not listen to such a
"flattering tale" without having my suspicions aroused. Who
and
what is this man? thought I. I looked at him narrowly. At
first
the thought flashed across me that he might be a "swell
mobsman."
But no, his face was too good for that; besides, no man with
that
huge frame, that personality so marked and so easily
recognizable,
could be a swindler; he could not escape detection a single
hour.
I dismissed the ungenerous thought. Perhaps he is rich, as
he
says. We do hear of munificent donations by benevolent
millionaires now and then. What if this Australian, attracted
by
the glories of the old cathedral, should now appear as a deus
ex
machina to reendow the choir, or to found a musical
professoriate
in connection with the choir, appointing me the first occupant
of
the professorial chair?
These thoughts flashed across my mind in the momentary pause
of his
fluent tongue.
"As for yourself, sir," he began again, "I have something
to
propose which I trust may not prove unwelcome. But the
public
street is hardly a suitable place to discuss my proposal. May
I
call upon you this evening at your house in the close? I
know
which it is, for I happened to see you go into it yesterday
after
the morning service."
"I shall be very pleased to see you," I replied. "We are going
out
to dinner this evening, but I shall be at home and disengaged
till
about seven."
"Thank you very much. Then I shall do myself the pleasure
of
calling upon you about six o'clock. Till then, farewell!" A
graceful wave of the hand, and my unknown friend had
disappeared
round the corner of the street.
Now at last, I thought, something is going to happen in my
uneventful life--something to break the monotony of existence.
Of
course, he must have inquired my name--he could get that from
any
of the cathedral vergers--and, as he said, he had observed
whereabouts in the close I lived. What is he coming to see me
for?
I wondered. I spent the rest of the afternoon in making the
wildest surmises. I was castle-building in Spain at a
furious
rate. At one time I imagined that this faithful son of the
church--
as he appeared to me--was going to build and endow a grand
cathedral in Australia on condition that I should be appointed
dean
at a yearly stipend of, say, ten thousand pounds. Or perhaps,
I
said to myself, he will beg me to accept a sum of money--I
never
thought of it as less than a thousand pounds--as a slight
recognition of and tribute to my remarkable vocal ability.
I took a long, lonely walk into the country to correct
these
ridiculous fancies and to steady my mind, and when I reached
home
and had refreshed myself with a quiet cup of afternoon tea, I
felt
I was morally and physically prepared for my interview with
the
opulent stranger.
Punctually as the cathedral clock struck six there was a ring
at
the visitor's bell. In a moment or two my unknown friend was
shown
into the drawing-room, which he entered with the easy air of a
man
of the world. I noticed he was carrying a small black bag.
"How do you do again, Mr. Dale?" he said as though we were
old
acquaintances; "you see I have come sharp to my time."
"Yes," I answered, "and I am pleased to see you; do sit down."
He
sank into my best armchair, and placed his bag on the floor
beside
him.
"Since we met in the afternoon," he said, "I have written a
letter
to your dean, expressing the great pleasure I felt in listening
to
your choir, and at the same time I inclosed a five-pound
note,
which I begged him to divide among the choir boys and men,
from
Alexander Poulter, Esq., of Poulter's Pills. You have of
course
heard of the world-renowned Poulter's Pills. I am Poulter!"
Poulter of Poulter's Pills! My heart sank within me! A
five-pound
note! My airy castles were tottering!
"I also sent him a couple of hundred of my pamphlets, which I
said
I trusted he would be so kind as to distribute in the
close."
I was aghast!
"And now, with regard to the special object of my call, Mr.
Dale.
If you will allow me to say so, you are not making the most of
that
grand voice of yours; you are hidden under an ecclesiastical
bushel
here--lost to the world. You are wasting your vocal strength
and
sweetness on the desert air, so to speak. Why, if I may hazard
a
guess, I don't suppose you make five hundred a year here, at
the
outside?
I could say nothing.
"Well, now, I can put you into the way of making at least
three or
four times as much as that. Listen! I am Alexander Poulter,
of
Poulter's Pills. I have a proposal to make to you. The scheme
is
bound to succeed, but I want your help. Accept my proposal
and
your fortune's made. Did you ever hear Moody and Sankey?" he
asked
abruptly.
The man is an idiot, thought I; he is now fairly carried away
with
his particular mania. Will it last long? Shall I ring?
"Novelty, my dear sir," he went on, "is the rule of the day;
and
there must be novelty in advertising, as in everything else,
to
catch the public interest. So I intend to go on a tour,
lecturing
on the merits of Poulter's Pills in all the principal halls of
all
the principal towns all over the world. But I have been delayed
in
carrying out my idea till I could associate myself with a
gentleman
such as yourself. Will you join me? I should be the Moody of
the
tour; you would be its Sankey. I would speak my patter, and
you
would intersperse my orations with melodious ballads bearing
upon
the virtues of Poulter's Pills. The ballads are all ready!"
So saying, he opened that bag and drew forth from its
recesses
nothing more alarming than a thick roll of manuscript music.
"The verses are my own," he said, with a little touch of
pride;
"and as for the music, I thought it better to make use of
popular
melodies, so as to enable an audience to join in the chorus.
See,
here is one of the ballads: 'Darling, I am better now.' It
describes the woes of a fond lover, or rather his physical
ailments, until he went through a course of Poulter. Here's
another: 'I'm ninety-five! I'm ninety-five!' You catch the
drift
of that, of course--a healthy old age, secured by taking
Poulter's
Pills. Ah! what's this? 'Little sister's last request.' I
fancy
the idea of that is to beg the family never to be without
Poulter's
Pills. Here again: 'Then you'll remember me!' I'm afraid
that
title is not original; never mind, the song is. And here
is--but
there are many more, and I won't detain you with them now."
He
saw, perhaps, I was getting impatient. Thank Heaven, however,
he
was no escaped lunatic. I was safe!
"Mr. Poulter," said I, "I took you this afternoon for a
disinterested and philanthropic millionaire; you take me
for--for--
something different from what I am. We have both made
mistakes.
In a word, it is impossible for me to accept your offer!"
"Is that final?" asked Poulter.
"Certainly," said I.
Poulter gathered his manuscripts together and replaced them in
the
bag, and got up to leave the room.
"Good evening, Mr. Dale," he said mournfully, as I opened the
door
of the room. "Good evening"--he kept on talking till he was
fairly
out of the house--"mark my words, you'll be sorry--very
sorry--one
day that you did not fall in with my scheme. Offers like
mine
don't come every day, and you will one day regret having
refused
it."
With these words he left the house.
I had little appetite for my dinner that evening.
"RANDOLPH CRESCENT, N. W.
MY DEAR PUGH--I hope you will like the pipe which I send with
this.
It is rather a curious example of a certain school of Indian
carving. And is a present from
"Yours truly, JOSEPH TRESS."
It was really very handsome of Tress--very handsome! The
more
especially as I was aware that to give presents was not exactly
in
Tress's line. The truth is that when I saw what manner of pipe
it
was I was amazed. It was contained in a sandalwood box, which
was
itself illustrated with some remarkable specimens of carving.
I
use the word "remarkable" advisedly, because, although the
workmanship was undoubtedly, in its way, artistic, the result
could
not be described as beautiful. The carver had thought proper
to
ornament the box with some of the ugliest figures I remember
to
have seen. They appeared to me to be devils. Or perhaps they
were
intended to represent deities appertaining to some
mythological
system with which, thank goodness, I am unacquainted. The
pipe
itself was worthy of the case in which it was contained. It was
of
meerschaum, with an amber mouthpiece. It was rather too large
for
ordinary smoking. But then, of course, one doesn't smoke a
pipe
like that. There are pipes in my collection which I should as
soon
think of smoking as I should of eating. Ask a china maniac to
let
you have afternoon tea out of his Old Chelsea, and you will
learn
some home truths as to the durability of human friendships.
The
glory of the pipe, as Tress had suggested, lay in its carving.
Not
that I claim that it was beautiful, any more than I make such
a
claim for the carving on the box, but, as Tress said in his
note,
it was curious.
The stem and the bowl were quite plain, but on the edge of the
bowl
was perched some kind of lizard. I told myself it was an
octopus
when I first saw it, but I have since had reason to believe that
it
was some almost unique member of the lizard tribe. The
creature
was represented as climbing over the edge of the bowl down
toward
the stem, and its legs, or feelers, or tentacula, or whatever
the
things are called, were, if I may use a vulgarism, sprawling
about
"all over the place." For instance, two or three of them
were
twined about the bowl, two or three of them were twisted round
the
stem, and one, a particularly horrible one, was uplifted in
the
air, so that if you put the pipe in your mouth the thing was
pointing straight at your nose.
Not the least agreeable feature about the creature was that it
was
hideously lifelike. It appeared to have been carved in amber,
but
some coloring matter must have been introduced, for inside
the
amber the creature was of a peculiarly ghastly green. The more
I
examined the pipe the more amazed I was at Tress's generosity.
He
and I are rival collectors. I am not going to say, in so
many
words, that his collection of pipes contains nothing but
rubbish,
because, as a matter of fact, he has two or three rather
decent
specimens. But to compare his collection to mine would be
absurd.
Tress is conscious of this, and he resents it. He resents it
to
such an extent that he has been known, at least on one occasion,
to
declare that one single pipe of his--I believe he alluded to
the
Brummagem relic preposterously attributed to Sir Walter
Raleigh--
was worth the whole of my collection put together. Although I
have
forgotten this, as I hope I always shall forgive remarks made
when
envious passions get the better of our nobler nature, even of
a
Joseph Tress, it is not to be supposed that I have forgotten
it.
He was, therefore, not at all the sort of person from whom I
expected to receive a present. And such a present! I do not
believe that he himself had a finer pipe in his collection. And
to
have given it to me! I had misjudged the man. I wondered where
he
had got it from. I had seen his pipes; I knew them off by
heart--
and some nice trumpery he has among them, too! but I had never
seen
THAT pipe before. The more I looked at it, the more my
amazement
grew. The beast perched upon the edge of the bowl was so
lifelike.
Its two bead-like eyes seemed to gleam at me with positively
human
intelligence. The pipe fascinated me to such an extent that
I
actually resolved to--smoke it!
I filled it with Perique. Ordinarily I use Birdseye, but on
those
very rare occasions on which I use a specimen I smoke Perique.
I
lit up with quite a small sensation of excitement. As I did so
I
kept my eyes perforce fixed upon the beast. The beast pointed
its
upraised tentacle directly at me. As I inhaled the pungent
tobacco
that tentacle impressed me with a feeling of actual
uncanniness.
It was broad daylight, and I was smoking in front of the
window,
yet to such an extent was I affected that it seemed to me that
the
tentacle was not only vibrating, which, owing to the peculiarity
of
its position, was quite within the range of probability, but
actually moving, elongating--stretching forward, that is,
farther
toward me, and toward the tip of my nose. So impressed was I
by
this idea that I took the pipe out of my mouth and minutely
examined the beast. Really, the delusion was excusable. So
cunningly had the artist wrought that he succeeded in producing
a
creature which, such was its uncanniness, I could only hope had
no
original in nature.
Replacing the pipe between my lips I took several whiffs.
Never
had smoking had such an effect on me before. Either the pipe,
or
the creature on it, exercised some singular fascination. I
seemed,
without an instant's warning, to be passing into some land
of
dreams. I saw the beast, which was perched upon the bowl,
writhe
and twist. I saw it lift itself bodily from the meerschaum.
"Feeling better now?"
I looked up. Joseph Tress was speaking.
"What's the matter? Have I been ill?"
"You appear to have been in some kind of swoon." Tress's tone
was
peculiar, even a little dry.
"Swoon! I never was guilty of such a thing in my life."
"Nor was I, until I smoked that pipe."
I sat up. The act of sitting up made me conscious of the fact
that
I had been lying down. Conscious, too, that I was feeling
more
than a little dazed. It seemed as though I was waking out of
some
strange, lethargic sleep--a kind of feeling which I have read
of
and heard about, but never before experienced.
"Where am I?"
"You're on the couch in your own room. You WERE on the floor;
but
I thought it would be better to pick you up and place you on
the
couch--though no one performed the same kind office to me when
I
was on the floor."
Again Tress's tone was distinctly dry.
"How came YOU here?"
"Ah, that's the question." He rubbed his chin--a habit of
his
which has annoyed me more than once before. "Do you think
you're
sufficiently recovered to enable you to understand a little
simple
explanation?" I stared at him, amazed. He went on stroking
his
chin. "The truth is that when I sent you the pipe I made a
slight
omission."
"An omission?"
"I omitted to advise you not to smoke it."
"And why?"
"Because--well, I've reason to believe the thing is drugged."
"Drugged!"
"Or poisoned."
"Poisoned!" I was wide awake enough then. I jumped off the
couch
with a celerity which proved it.
"It is this way. I became its owner in rather a singular
manner."
He paused, as if for me to make a remark; but I was silent. "It
is
not often that I smoke a specimen, but, for some reason, I
did
smoke this. I commenced to smoke it, that is. How long I
continued to smoke it is more than I can say. It had on me
the
same peculiar effect which it appears to have had on you. When
I
recovered consciousness I was lying on the floor."
"On the floor?"
"On the floor. In about as uncomfortable a position as you
can
easily conceive. I was lying face downward, with my legs
bent
under me. I was never so surprised in my life as I was when
I
found myself WHERE I was. At first I supposed that I had had
a
stroke. But by degrees it dawned upon me that I didn't FEEL
as
though I had had a stroke." Tress, by the way, has been an
army
surgeon. "I was conscious of distinct nausea. Looking about,
I
saw the pipe. With me it had fallen on to the floor. I took
it
for granted, considering the delicacy of the carving, that the
fall
had broken it. But when I picked it up I found it quite
uninjured.
While I was examining it a thought flashed to my brain. Might
it
not be answerable for what had happened to me? Suppose, for
instance, it was drugged? I had heard of such things. Besides,
in
my case were present all the symptoms of drug poisoning,
though
what drug had been used I couldn't in the least conceive. I
resolved that I would give the pipe another trial."
"On yourself? or on another party, meaning me?"
"On myself, my dear Pugh--on myself! At that point of my
investigations I had not begun to think of you. I lit up and
had
another smoke."
"With what result?"
"Well, that depends on the standpoint from which you regard
the
thing. From one point of view the result was wholly
satisfactory--
I proved that the thing was drugged, and more."
"Did you have another fall?"
"I did. And something else besides."
"On that account, I presume, you resolved to pass the treasure
on
to me?"
"Partly on that account, and partly on another."
"On my word, I appreciate your generosity. You might have
labeled
the thing as poison."
"Exactly. But then you must remember how often you have told
me
that you NEVER smoke your specimens."
"That was no reason why you shouldn't have given me a hint
that the
thing was more dangerous than dynamite."
"That did occur to me afterwards. Therefore I called to supply
the
slight omission."
"SLIGHT omission, you call it! I wonder what you would have
called
it if you had found me dead."
"If I had known that you INTENDED smoking it I should not have
been
at all surprised if I had."
"Really, Tress, I appreciate your kindness more and more!
And
where is this example of your splendid benevolence? Have you
pocketed it, regretting your lapse into the unaccustomed paths
of
generosity? Or is it smashed to atoms?"
"Neither the one nor the other. You will find the pipe upon
the
table. I neither desire its restoration nor is it in any way
injured. It is merely an expression of personal opinion when I
say
that I don't believe that it COULD be injured. Of course,
having
discovered its deleterious properties, you will not want to
smoke
it again. You will therefore be able to enjoy the consciousness
of
being the possessor of what I honestly believe to be the
most
remarkable pipe in existence. Good day, Pugh."
He was gone before I could say a word. I immediately
concluded,
from the precipitancy of his flight, that the pipe WAS
injured.
But when I subjected it to close examination I could discover
no
signs of damage. While I was still eying it with jealous
scrutiny
the door reopened, and Tress came in again.
"By the way, Pugh, there is one thing I might mention,
especially
as I know it won't make any difference to you."
"That depends on what it is. If you have changed your mind,
and
want the pipe back again, I tell you frankly that it won't. In
my
opinion, a thing once given is given for good."
"Quite so; I don't want it back again. You may make your mind
easy
on that point. I merely wanted to tell you WHY I gave it
you."
"You have told me that already."
"Only partly, my dear Pugh--only partly. You don't suppose
I
should have given you such a pipe as that merely because it
happened to be drugged? Scarcely! I gave it you because I
discovered from indisputable evidence, and to my cost, that it
was
haunted."
"Haunted?"
"Yes, haunted. Good day."
He was gone again. I ran out of the room, and shouted after
him
down the stairs. He was already at the bottom of the flight.
"Tress! Come back! What do you mean by talking such nonsense?"
"Of course it's only nonsense. We know that that sort of
thing
always is nonsense. But if you should have reason to suppose
that
there is something in it besides nonsense, you may think it
worth
your while to make inquiries of me, But I won't have that pipe
back
again in my possession on any terms--mind that!"
The bang of the front door told me that he had gone out into
the
street. I let him go. I laughed to myself as I reentered the
room. Haunted! That was not a bad idea of his. I saw the
whole
position at a glance. The truth of the matter was that he
did
regret his generosity, and he was ready to go any lengths if
he
could only succeed in cajoling me into restoring his gift. He
was
aware that I have views upon certain matters which are not
wholly
in accordance with those which are popularly supposed to be
the
views of the day, and particularly that on the question of what
are
commonly called supernatural visitations I have a standpoint of
my
own. Therefore, it was not a bad move on his part to try to
make
me believe that about the pipe on which he knew I had set my
heart
there was something which could not be accounted for by
ordinary
laws. Yet, as his own sense would have told him it would do, if
he
had only allowed himself to reflect for a moment, the move
failed.
Because I am not yet so far gone as to suppose that a pipe, a
thing
of meerschaum and of amber, in the sense in which I understand
the
word, COULD be haunted--a pipe, a mere pipe.
"Hollo! I thought the creature's legs were twined right round
the
bowl!"
I was holding the pipe in my hand, regarding it with the
affectionate eyes with which a connoisseur does regard a
curio,
when I was induced to make this exclamation. I was certainly
under
the impression that, when I first took the pipe out of the
box,
two, if not three of the feelers had been twined about the
bowl--
twined TIGHTLY, so that you could not see daylight between them
and
it. Now they were almost entirely detached, only the tips
touching
the meerschaum, and those particular feelers were gathered up
as
though the creature were in the act of taking a spring. Of
course
I was under a misapprehension: the feelers COULDN'T have
been
twined; a moment before I should have been ready to bet a
thousand
to one that they were. Still, one does make mistakes, and
very
egregious mistakes, at times. At the same time, I confess
that
when I saw that dreadful-looking animal poised on the extreme
edge
of the bowl, for all the world as though it were just going
to
spring at me, I was a little startled. I remembered that when
I
was smoking the pipe I did think I saw the uplifted tentacle
moving, as though it were reaching out to me. And I had a
clear
recollection that just as I had been sinking into that
strange
state of unconsciousness, I had been under the impression that
the
creature was writhing and twisting, as though it had
suddenly
become instinct with life. Under the circumstances, these
reflections were not pleasant. I wished Tress had not talked
that
nonsense about the thing being haunted. It was surely
sufficient
to know that it was drugged and poisonous, without anything
else.
I replaced it in the sandalwood box. I locked the box in a
cabinet. Quite apart from the question as to whether that pipe
was
or was not haunted, I know it haunted me. It was with me in
a
figurative--which was worse than actual--sense all the day.
Still
worse, it was with me all the night. It was with me in my
dreams.
Such dreams! Possibly I had not yet wholly recovered from
the
effects of that insidious drug, but, whether or no, it was
very
wrong of Tress to set my thoughts into such a channel. He
knows
that I am of a highly imaginative temperament, and that it
is
easier to get morbid thoughts into my mind than to get them
out
again. Before that night was through I wished very heartily that
I
had never seen the pipe! I woke from one nightmare to fall
into
another. One dreadful dream was with me all the time--of a
hideous, green reptile which advanced toward me out of some
awful
darkness, slowly, inch by inch, until it clutched me round
the
neck, and, gluing its lips to mine, sucked the life's blood out
of
my veins as it embraced me with a slimy kiss. Such dreams are
not
restful. I woke anything but refreshed when the morning came.
And
when I got up and dressed I felt that, on the whole, it
would
perhaps have been better if I never had gone to bed. My
nerves
were unstrung, and I had that generally tremulous feeling which
is,
I believe, an inseparable companion of the more advanced stages
of
dipsomania. I ate no breakfast. I am no breakfast eater as a
rule, but that morning I ate absolutely nothing.
"If this sort of thing is to continue, I will let Tress have
his
pipe again. He may have the laugh of me, but anything is
better
than this."
It was with almost funereal forebodings that I went to the
cabinet
in which I had placed the sandalwood box. But when I opened it
my
feelings of gloom partially vanished. Of what phantasies had
I
been guilty! It must have been an entire delusion on my part
to
have supposed that those tentacula had ever been twined about
the
bowl. The creature was in exactly the same position in which I
had
left it the day before--as, of course, I knew it would
be--poised,
as if about to spring. I was telling myself how foolish I had
been
to allow myself to dwell for a moment on Tress's words, when
Martin
Brasher was shown in.
Brasher is an old friend of mine. We have a common
ground--ghosts.
Only we approach them from different points of view. He takes
the
scientific--psychological--inquiry side. He is always anxious
to
hear of a ghost, so that he may have an opportunity of "showing
it
up."
"I've something in your line here," I observed, as he came in.
"In my line? How so? I'M not pipe mad."
"No; but you're ghost mad. And this is a haunted pipe."
"A haunted pipe! I think you're rather more mad about ghosts,
my
dear Pugh, than I am."
Then I told him all about it. He was deeply interested,
especially
when I told him that the pipe was drugged. But when I
repeated
Tress's words about its being haunted, and mentioned my own
delusion about the creature moving, he took a more serious view
of
the case than I had expected he would do.
"I propose that we act on Tress's suggestion, and go and
make
inquiries of him."
"But you don't really think that there is anything in it?"
"On these subjects I never allow myself to think at all. There
are
Tress's words, and there is your story. It is agreed on all
hands
that the pipe has peculiar properties. It seems to me that
there
is a sufficient case here to merit inquiry."
He persuaded me. I went with him. The pipe, in the
sandalwood
box, went too. Tress received us with a grin--a grin which
was
accentuated when I placed the sandalwood box on the table.
"You understand," he said, "that a gift is a gift. On no
terms
will I consent to receive that pipe back in my possession."
I was rather nettled by his tone.
"You need be under no alarm. I have no intention of
suggesting
anything of the kind."
"Our business here," began Brasher--I must own that his manner
is a
little ponderous--"is of a scientific, I may say also, and at
the
same time, of a judicial nature. Our object is the Pursuit
of
Truth and the Advancement of Inquiry."
"Have you been trying another smoke?" inquired Tress, nodding
his
head toward me.
Before I had time to answer, Brasher went droning on:
"Our friend here tells me that you say this pipe is haunted."
"I say it is haunted because it IS haunted."
I looked at Tress. I half suspected that he was poking fun at
us.
But he appeared to be serious enough.
"In these matters," remarked Brasher, as though he were
giving
utterance to a new and important truth, "there is a scientific
and
nonscientific method of inquiry. The scientific method is to
begin
at the beginning. May I ask how this pipe came into your
possession?"
Tress paused before he answered.
"You may ask." He paused again. "Oh, you certainly may ask.
But
it doesn't follow that I shall tell you."
"Surely your object, like ours, can be but the Spreading About
of
the Truth?"
"I don't see it at all. It is possible to imagine a case in
which
the spreading about of the truth might make me look a little
awkward."
"Indeed!" Brasher pursed up his lips. "Your words would
almost
lead one to suppose that there was something about your method
of
acquiring the pipe which you have good and weighty reasons
for
concealing."
"I don't know why I should conceal the thing from you. I
don't
suppose either of you is any better than I am. I don't mind
telling you how I got the pipe. I stole it."
"Stole it!"
Brasher seemed both amazed and shocked. But I, who had
previous
experience of Tress's methods of adding to his collection, was
not
at all surprised. Some of the pipes which he calls his, if
only
the whole truth about them were publicly known, would send him
to
jail.
"That's nothing!" he continued. "All collectors steal! The
eighth
commandment was not intended to apply to them. Why, Pugh there
has
'conveyed' three fourths of the pipes which he flatters himself
are
his."
I was so dumfoundered by the charge that it took my breath
away. I
sat in astounded silence. Tress went raving on:
"I was so shy of this particular pipe when I had obtained it,
that
I put it away for quite three months. When I took it out to have
a
look at it something about the thing so tickled me that I
resolved
to smoke it. Owing to peculiar circumstances attending the
manner
in which the thing came into my possession, and on which I need
not
dwell--you don't like to dwell on those sort of things, do
you,
Pugh?--I knew really nothing about the pipe. As was the case
with
Pugh, one peculiarity I learned from actual experience. It
was
also from actual experience that I learned that the thing
was--
well, I said haunted, but you may use any other word you
like."
"Tell us, as briefly as possible, what it was you really
did
discover."
"Take the pipe out of the box!" Brasher took the pipe out of
the
box and held it in his hand. "You see that creature on it.
Well,
when I first had it it was underneath the pipe."
"How do you mean that it was underneath the pipe?"
"It was bunched together underneath the stem, just at the end
of
the mouthpiece, in the same way in which a fly might be
suspended
from the ceiling. When I began to smoke the pipe I saw the
creature move."
"But I thought that unconsciousness immediately followed."
"It did follow, but not before I saw that the thing was
moving. It
was because I thought that I had been, in a way, a victim of
delirium that I tried the second smoke. Suspecting that the
thing
was drugged I swallowed what I believed would prove a
powerful
antidote. It enabled me to resist the influence of the
narcotic
much longer than before, and while I still retained my senses I
saw
the creature crawl along under the stem and over the bowl. It
was
that sight, I believe, as much as anything else, which sent
me
silly. When I came to I then and there decided to present the
pipe
to Pugh. There is one more thing I would remark. When the
pipe
left me the creature's legs were twined about the bowl. Now
they
are withdrawn. Possibly you, Pugh, are able to cap my story with
a
little one which is all your own."
"I certainly did imagine that I saw the creature move. But
I
supposed that while I was under the influence of the drug
imagination had played me a trick."
"Not a bit of it! Depend upon it, the beast is bewitched. Even
to
my eye it looks as though it were, and to a trained eye like
yours,
Pugh! You've been looking for the devil a long time, and
you've
got him at last."
"I--I wish you wouldn't make those remarks, Tress. They jar
on
me."
"I confess," interpolated Brasher--I noticed that he had put
the
pipe down on the table as though he were tired of holding
it--
"that, to MY thinking, such remarks are not appropriate. At
the
same time what you have told us is, I am bound to allow, a
little
curious. But of course what I require is ocular demonstration.
I
haven't seen the movement myself."
"No, but you very soon will do if you care to have a pull at
the
pipe on your own account. Do, Brasher, to oblige me! There's
a
dear!"
"It appears, then, that the movement is only observable when
the
pipe is smoked. We have at least arrived at step No. 1."
"Here's a match, Brasher! Light up, and we shall have arrived
at
step No. 2."
Tress lit a match and held it out to Brasher. Brasher
retreated
from its neighborhood.
"Thank you, Mr. Tress, I am no smoker, as you are aware. And
I
have no desire to acquire the art of smoking by means of a
poisoned
pipe."
Tress laughed. He blew out the match and threw it into the grate.
"Then I tell you what I'll do--I'll have up Bob."
"Bob--why Bob?"
"Bob"--whose real name was Robert Haines, though I should
think he
must have forgotten the fact, so seldom was he addressed by
it--was
Tress's servant. He had been an old soldier, and had
accompanied
his master when he left the service. He was as depraved a
character as Tress himself. I am not sure even that he was
not
worse than his master. I shall never forget how he once
behaved
toward myself. He actually had the assurance to accuse me of
attempting to steal the Wardour Street relic which Tress
fondly
deludes himself was once the property of Sir Walter Raleigh.
The
truth is that I had slipped it with my handkerchief into my
pocket
in a fit of absence of mind. A man who could accuse ME of such
a
thing would be guilty of anything. I was therefore quite at
one
with Brasher when he asked what Bob could possibly be wanted
for.
Tress explained.
"I'll get him to smoke the pipe," he said.
Brasher and I exchanged glances, but we refrained from speech.
"It won't do him any harm," said Tress.
"What--not a poisoned pipe?" asked Brasher.
"It's not poisoned--it's only drugged."
"ONLY drugged!"
"Nothing hurts Bob. He is like an ostrich. He has
digestive
organs which are peculiarly his own. It will only serve him as
it
served me--and Pugh--it will knock him over. It is all done in
the
Pursuit of Truth and for the Advancement of Inquiry."
I could see that Brasher did not altogether like the tone in
which
Tress repeated his words. As for me, it was not to be
supposed
that I should put myself out in a matter which in no way
concerned
me. If Tress chose to poison the man, it was his affair, not
mine.
He went to the door and shouted:
"Bob! Come here, you scoundrel!"
That is the way in which he speaks to him. No really
decent
servant would stand it. I shouldn't care to address Nalder,
my
servant, in such a way. He would give me notice on the spot.
Bob
came in. He is a great hulking fellow who is always on the
grin.
Tress had a decanter of brandy in his hand. He filled a
tumbler
with the neat spirit.
"Bob, what would you say to a glassful of brandy--the real
thing--
my boy?"
"Thank you, sir."
"And what would you say to a pull at a pipe when the brandy
is
drunk!"
"A pipe?" The fellow is sharp enough when he likes. I saw
him
look at the pipe upon the table, and then at us, and then a
gleam
of intelligence came into his eyes. "I'd do it for a dollar,
sir."
"A dollar, you thief?"
"I meant ten shillings, sir."
"Ten shillings, you brazen vagabond?"
"I should have said a pound."
"A pound! Was ever the like of that! Do I understand you to
ask a
pound for taking a pull at your master's pipe?"
"I'm thinking that I'll have to make it two."
"The deuce you are! Here, Pugh, lend me a pound."
"I'm afraid I've left my purse behind."
"Then lend me ten shillings--Ananias!"
"I doubt if I have more than five."
"Then give me the five. And, Brasher, lend me the other fifteen."
Brasher lent him the fifteen. I doubt if we shall either of
us
ever see our money again. He handed the pound to Bob.
"Here's the brandy--drink it up!" Bob drank it without a
word,
draining the glass of every drop. "And here's the pipe."
"Is it poisoned, sir?"
"Poisoned, you villain! What do you mean?"
"It isn't the first time I've seen your tricks, sir--is it
now?
And you're not the one to give a pound for nothing at all. If
it
kills me you'll send my body to my mother--she'd like to know
that
I was dead."
"Send your body to your grandmother! You idiot, sit down
and
smoke!"
Bob sat down. Tress had filled the pipe, and handed it, with
a
lighted match, to Bob. The fellow declined the match. He
handled
the pipe very gingerly, turning it over and over, eying it with
all
his eyes.
"Thank you, sir--I'll light up myself if it's the same to you.
I
carry matches of my own. It's a beautiful pipe, entirely. I
never
see the like of it for ugliness. And what's the
slimy-looking
varmint that looks as though it would like to have my life? Is
it
living, or is it dead?"
"Come, we don't want to sit here all day, my man!"
"Well, sir, the look of this here pipe has quite upset my
stomach.
I'd like another drop of liquor, if it's the same to you."
"Another drop! Why, you've had a tumblerful already!
Here's
another tumblerful to put on top of that. You won't want the
pipe
to kill you--you'll be killed before you get to it."
"And isn't it better to die a natural death?"
Bob emptied the second tumbler of brandy as though it were
water.
I believe he would empty a hogshead without turning a hair!
Then
he gave another look at the pipe. Then, taking a match from
his
waistcoat pocket, he drew a long breath, as though he were
resigning himself to fate. Striking the match on the seat of
his
trousers, while, shaded by his hand, the flame was gathering
strength, he looked at each of us in turn. When he looked at
Tress
I distinctly saw him wink his eye. What my feelings would
have
been if a servant of mine had winked his eye at me I am unable
to
imagine! The match was applied to the tobacco, a puff of
smoke
came through his lips--the pipe was alight!
During this process of lighting the pipe we had sat--I do not
wish
to use exaggerated language, but we had sat and watched that
alcoholic scamp's proceedings as though we were witnessing
an
action which would leave its mark upon the age. When we saw
the
pipe was lighted we gave a simultaneous start. Brasher put
his
hands under his coat tails and gave a kind of hop. I raised
myself
a good six inches from my chair, and Tress rubbed his palms
together with a chuckle. Bob alone was calm.
"Now," cried Tress, "you'll see the devil moving."
Bob took the pipe from between his lips.
"See what?" he said.
"Bob, you rascal, put that pipe back into your mouth, and
smoke it
for your life!"
Bob was eying the pipe askance.
"I dare say, but what I want to know is whether this here
varmint's
dead or whether he isn't. I don't want to have him flying at
my
nose--and he looks vicious enough for anything."
"Give me back that pound, you thief, and get out of my house,
and
bundle."
"I ain't going to give you back no pound."
"Then smoke that pipe!"
"I am smoking it, ain't I?"
With the utmost deliberation Bob returned the pipe to his
mouth.
He emitted another whiff or two of smoke.
"Now--now!" cried Tress, all excitement, and wagging his hand
in
the air.
We gathered round. As we did so Bob again withdrew the pipe.
"What is the meaning of all this here? I ain't going to have
you
playing none of your larks on me. I know there's something up,
but
I ain't going to throw my life away for twenty shillings--not
quite
I ain't."
Tress, whose temper is not at any time one of the best, was
seized
with quite a spasm of rage.
"As I live, my lad, if you try to cheat me by taking that pipe
from
between your lips until I tell you, you leave this room that
instant, never again to be a servant of mine."
I presume the fellow knew from long experience when his
master
meant what he said, and when he didn't. Without an attempt
at
remonstrance he replaced the pipe. He continued stolidly to
puff
away. Tress caught me by the arm.
"What did I tell you? There--there! That tentacle is moving."
The uplifted tentacle WAS moving. It was doing what I had seen
it
do, as I supposed, in my distorted imagination--it was
reaching
forward. Undoubtedly Bob saw what it was doing; but, whether
in
obedience to his master's commands, or whether because the drug
was
already beginning to take effect, he made no movement to
withdraw
the pipe. He watched the slowly advancing tentacle, coming
closer
and closer toward his nose, with an expression of such
intense
horror on his countenance that it became quite shocking.
Farther
and farther the creature reached forward, until on a sudden,
with a
sort of jerk, the movement assumed a downward direction, and
the
tentacle was slowly lowered until the tip rested on the stem of
the
pipe. For a moment the creature remained motionless. I was
quieting my nerves with the reflection that this thing was but
some
trick of the carver's art, and that what we had seen we had seen
in
a sort of nightmare, when the whole hideous reptile was seized
with
what seemed to be a fit of convulsive shuddering. It seemed to
be
in agony. It trembled so violently that I expected to see it
loosen its hold of the stem and fall to the ground. I was
sufficiently master of myself to steal a glance at Bob. We had
had
an inkling of what might happen. He was wholly unprepared. As
he
saw that dreadful, human-looking creature, coming to life, as
it
seemed, within an inch or two of his nose, his eyes dilated
to
twice their usual size. I hoped, for his sake, that
unconsciousness would supervene, through the action of the
drug,
before through sheer fright his senses left him. Perhaps
mechanically he puffed steadily on.
The creature's shuddering became more violent. It appeared
to
swell before our eyes. Then, just as suddenly as it began,
the
shuddering ceased. There was another instant of quiescence.
Then
the creature began to crawl along the stem of the pipe! It
moved
with marvelous caution, the merest fraction of an inch at a
time.
But still it moved! Our eyes were riveted on it with a
fascination
which was absolutely nauseous. I am unpleasantly affected even
as
I think of it now. My dreams of the night before had been
nothing
to this.
Slowly, slowly, it went, nearer and nearer to the smoker's
nose.
Its mode of progression was in the highest degree unsightly.
It
glided, never, so far as I could see, removing its tentacles
from
the stem of the pipe. It slipped its hindmost feelers onward
until
they came up to those which were in advance. Then, in their
turn,
it advanced those which were in front. It seemed, too, to
move
with the utmost labor, shuddering as though it were in pain.
We were all, for our parts, speechless. I was momentarily
hoping
that the drug would take effect on Bob. Either his
constitution
enabled him to offer a strong resistance to narcotics, or else
the
large quantity of neat spirit which he had drunk acted--as
Tress
had malevolently intended that it should--as an antidote. It
seemed to me that he would NEVER succumb. On went the
creature--
on, and on, in its infinitesimal progression. I was spellbound.
I
would have given the world to scream, to have been able to utter
a
sound. I could do nothing else but watch.
The creature had reached the end of the stem. It had gained
the
amber mouthpiece. It was within an inch of the smoker's
nose.
Still on it went. It seemed to move with greater freedom on
the
amber. It increased its rate of progress. It was actually
touching the foremost feature on the smoker's countenance. I
expected to see it grip the wretched Bob, when it began to
oscillate from side to side. Its oscillations increased in
violence. It fell to the floor. That same instant the
narcotic
prevailed. Bob slipped sideways from the chair, the pipe
still
held tightly between his rigid jaws.
We were silent. There lay Bob. Close beside him lay the
creature.
A few more inches to the left, and he would have fallen on
and
squashed it flat. It had fallen on its back. Its feelers
were
extended upward. They were writhing and twisting and turning
in
the air.
Tress was the first to speak.
"I think a little brandy won't be amiss." Emptying the
remainder
of the brandy into a glass, he swallowed it at a draught. "Now
for
a closer examination of our friend." Taking a pair of tongs
from
the grate he nipped the creature between them. He deposited
it
upon the table. "I rather fancy that this is a case for
dissection."
He took a penknife from his waistcoat pocket. Opening the
large
blade, he thrust its point into the object on the table. Little
or
no resistance seemed to be offered to the passage of the blade,
but
as it was inserted the tentacula simultaneously began to writhe
and
twist. Tress withdrew the knife.
"I thought so!" He held the blade out for our inspection.
The
point was covered with some viscid-looking matter. "That's
blood!
The thing's alive!"
"Alive!"
"Alive! That's the secret of the whole performance!"
"But--"
"But me no buts, my Pugh! The mystery's exploded! One more
ghost
is lost to the world! The person from whom I OBTAINED that
pipe
was an Indian juggler--up to many tricks of the trade. He, or
some
one for him, got hold of this sweet thing in reptiles--and a
sweeter thing would, I imagine, be hard to find--and covered
it
with some preparation of, possibly, gum arabic. He allowed this
to
harden. Then he stuck the thing--still living, for those sort
of
gentry are hard to kill--to the pipe. The consequence was
that
when anyone lit up, the warmth was communicated to the
adhesive
agent--again some preparation of gum, no doubt--it moistened
it,
and the creature, with infinite difficulty, was able to move.
But
I am open to lay odds with any gentleman of sporting tastes
that
THIS time the creature's traveling days ARE done. It has given
me
rather a larger taste of the horrors than is good for my
digestion."
With the aid of the tongs he removed the creature from the
table.
He placed it on the hearth. Before Brasher or I had a notion
of
what it was he intended to do he covered it with a heavy
marble
paper weight. Then he stood upon the weight, and between the
marble and the hearth he ground the creature flat.
While the execution was still proceeding, Bob sat up upon
the
floor.
"Hollo!" he asked, "what's happened?"
"We've emptied the bottle, Bob," said Tress. "But there's
another
where that came from. Perhaps you could drink another
tumblerful,
my boy?"
Bob drank it!
"Those gentry are hard to kill." Here is fact, not
fantasy.
Lizard yarns no less sensational than this Mystery Story can
be
found between the covers of solemn, zoological textbooks.
Reptiles, indeed, are far from finicky in the matters of
air,
space, and especially warmth. Frogs and other such sluggish-
blooded creatures have lived after being frozen fast in ice.
Their
blood is little warmer than air or water, enjoying no extra
casing
of fur or feathers.
Air and food seem held in light esteem by lizards. Their
blood
need not be highly oxygenated; it nourishes just as well
when
impure. In temperate climes lizards lie torpid and buried
all
winter; some species of the tropic deserts sleep peacefully
all
summer. Their anatomy includes no means for the continuous
introduction and expulsion of air; reptilian lungs are little
more
than closed sacs, without cell structure.
If any further zoological fact were needed to verify the
denouement
of "The Pipe," it might be the general statement that lizards
are
abnormal brutes anyhow. Consider the chameleons of unsettled
hue.
And what is one to think of an animal which, when captured by
the
tail, is able to make its escape by willfully shuffling off
that
appendage?--EDITOR.
Pugh came into my room holding something wrapped in a piece
of
brown paper.
"Tress, I have brought you something on which you may exercise
your
ingenuity." He began, with exasperating deliberation, to untie
the
string which bound his parcel; he is one of those persons who
would
not cut a knot to save their lives. The process occupied him
the
better part of a quarter of an hour. Then he held out the
contents
of the paper.
"What do you think of that?" he asked. I thought nothing of
it,
and I told him so. "I was prepared for that confession. I
have
noticed, Tress, that you generally do think nothing of an
article
which really deserves the attention of a truly thoughtful
mind.
Possibly, as you think so little of it, you will be able to
solve
the puzzle."
I took what he held out to me. It was an oblong box, perhaps
seven
inches long by three inches broad.
"Where's the puzzle?" I asked.
"If you will examine the lid of the box, you will see." I
turned
it over and over; it was difficult to see which was the lid.
Then
I perceived that on one side were printed these words:
"PUZZLE: TO OPEN THE BOX"
The words were so faintly printed that it was not surprising
that I
had not noticed them at first. Pugh explained.
"I observed that box on a tray outside a second-hand
furniture
shop. It struck my eye. I took it up. I examined it. I
inquired
of the proprietor of the shop in what the puzzle lay. He
replied
that that was more than he could tell me. He himself had
made
several attempts to open the box, and all of them had failed.
I
purchased it. I took it home. I have tried, and I have failed.
I
am aware, Tress, of how you pride yourself upon your ingenuity.
I
cannot doubt that, if you try, you will not fail."
While Pugh was prosing, I was examining the box. It was at
least
well made. It weighed certainly under two ounces. I struck
it
with my knuckles; it sounded hollow. There was no hinge;
nothing
of any kind to show that it ever had been opened, or, for
the
matter of that, that it ever could be opened. The more I
examined
the thing, the more it whetted my curiosity. That it could
be
opened, and in some ingenious manner, I made no doubt--but
how?
The box was not a new one. At a rough guess I should say that
it
had been a box for a good half century; there were certain signs
of
age about it which could not escape a practiced eye. Had it
remained unopened all that time? When opened, what would be
found
inside? It SOUNDED hollow; probably nothing at all--who
could
tell?
It was formed of small pieces of inlaid wood. Several woods
had
been used; some of them were strange to me. They were of
different
colors; it was pretty obvious that they must all of them have
been
hard woods. The pieces were of various shapes--hexagonal,
octagonal, triangular, square, oblong, and even circular.
The
process of inlaying them had been beautifully done. So nicely
had
the parts been joined that the lines of meeting were difficult
to
discover with the naked eye; they had been joined solid, so
to
speak. It was an excellent example of marquetry. I had been
over-
hasty in my deprecation; I owed as much to Pugh.
"This box of yours is better worth looking at than I first
supposed. Is it to be sold?"
"No, it is not to be sold. Nor"--he "fixed" me with his
spectacles--"is it to be given away. I have brought it to you
for
the simple purpose of ascertaining if you have ingenuity enough
to
open it."
"I will engage to open it in two seconds--with a hammer."
"I dare say. I will open it with a hammer. The thing is to
open
it without."
"Let me see." I began, with the aid of a microscope, to
examine
the box more closely. "I will give you one piece of
information,
Pugh. Unless I am mistaken, the secret lies in one of these
little
pieces of inlaid wood. You push it, or you press it, or
something,
and the whole affair flies open."
"Such was my own first conviction. I am not so sure of it now.
I
have pressed every separate piece of wood; I have tried to
move
each piece in every direction. No result has followed. My
theory
was a hidden spring."
"But there must be a hidden spring of some sort, unless you
are to
open it by a mere exercise of force. I suppose the box is
empty."
"I thought it was at first, but now I am not so sure of
that
either. It all depends on the position in which you hold it.
Hold
it in this position--like this--close to your ear. Have you
a
small hammer?" I took a small hammer. "Tap it softly, with
the
hammer. Don't you notice a sort of reverberation within?"
Pugh was right, there certainly was something within;
something
which seemed to echo back my tapping, almost as if it were a
living
thing. I mentioned this, to Pugh.
"But you don't think that there is something alive inside the
box?
There can't be. The box must be airtight, probably as much
air-
tight as an exhausted receiver."
"How do we know that? How can we tell that no minute
interstices
have been left for the express purpose of ventilation?" I
continued tapping with the hammer. I noticed one peculiarity,
that
it was only when I held the box in a particular position,
and
tapped at a certain spot, there came the answering taps from
within. "I tell you what it is, Pugh, what I hear is the
reverberation of some machinery."
"Do you think so?"
"I'm sure of it."
"Give the box to me." Pugh put the box to his ear. He
tapped.
"It sounds to me like the echoing tick, tick of some great
beetle;
like the sort of noise which a deathwatch makes, you know."
Trust Pugh to find a remarkable explanation for a simple fact;
if
the explanation leans toward the supernatural, so much the
more
satisfactory to Pugh. I knew better.
"The sound which you hear is merely the throbbing or the
trembling
of the mechanism with which it is intended that the box should
be
opened. The mechanism is placed just where you are tapping it
with
the hammer. Every tap causes it to jar."
"It sounds to me like the ticking of a deathwatch. However,
on
such subjects, Tress, I know what you are."
"My dear Pugh, give it an extra hard tap, and you will see."
He gave it an extra hard tap. The moment he had done so,
he
started.
"I've done it now."
"What have you done?"
"Broken something, I fancy." He listened intently, with his
ear to
the box. "No--it seems all right. And yet I could have sworn
I
had damaged something; I heard it smash."
"Give me the box." He gave it me. In my turn, I listened.
I
shook the box. Pugh must have been mistaken. Nothing
rattled;
there was not a sound; the box was as empty as before. I gave
a
smart tap with the hammer, as Pugh had done. Then there
certainly
was a curious sound. To my ear, it sounded like the smashing
of
glass. "I wonder if there is anything fragile inside your
precious
puzzle, Pugh, and, if so, if we are shivering it by
degrees?"
"What IS that noise?"
I lay in bed in that curious condition which is between sleep
and
waking. When, at last, I KNEW that I was awake, I asked
myself
what it was that had woke me. Suddenly I became conscious
that
something was making itself audible in the silence of the
night.
For some seconds I lay and listened. Then I sat up in bed.
"What IS that noise?"
It was like the tick, tick of some large and unusually
clear-toned
clock. It might have been a clock, had it not been that the
sound
was varied, every half dozen ticks or so, by a sort of
stifled
screech, such as might have been uttered by some small creature
in
an extremity of anguish. I got out of bed; it was ridiculous
to
think of sleep during the continuation of that uncanny
shrieking.
I struck a light. The sound seemed to come from the
neighborhood
of my dressing-table. I went to the dressing-table, the
lighted
match in my hand, and, as I did so, my eyes fell on Pugh's
mysterious box. That same instant there issued, from the bowels
of
the box, a more uncomfortable screech than any I had
previously
heard. It took me so completely by surprise that I let the
match
fall from my hand to the floor. The room was in darkness. I
stood, I will not say trembling, listening--considering
their
volume--to the EERIEST shrieks I ever heard. All at once
they
ceased. Then came the tick, tick, tick again. I struck
another
match and lit the gas.
Pugh had left his puzzle box behind him. We had done all we
could,
together, to solve the puzzle. He had left it behind to see what
I
could do with it alone. So much had it engrossed my attention
that
I had even brought it into my bedroom, in order that I
might,
before retiring to rest, make a final attempt at the solution
of
the mystery. NOW what possessed the thing?
As I stood, and looked, and listened, one thing began to be
clear
to me, that some sort of machinery had been set in motion
inside
the box. How it had been set in motion was another matter.
But
the box had been subjected to so much handling, to such
pressing
and such hammering, that it was not strange if, after all, Pugh
or
I had unconsciously hit upon the spring which set the whole
thing
going. Possibly the mechanism had got so rusty that it had
refused
to act at once. It had hung fire, and only after some hours
had
something or other set the imprisoned motive power free.
But what about the screeching? Could there be some living
creature
concealed within the box? Was I listening to the cries of
some
small animal in agony? Momentary reflection suggested that
the
explanation of the one thing was the explanation of the
other.
Rust!--there was the mystery. The same rust which had
prevented
the mechanism from acting at once was causing the screeching
now.
The uncanny sounds were caused by nothing more nor less than
the
want of a drop or two of oil. Such an explanation would not
have
satisfied Pugh, it satisfied me.
Picking up the box, I placed it to my ear.
"I wonder how long this little performance is going to
continue.
And what is going to happen when it is good enough to cease?
I
hope"--an uncomfortable thought occurred to me--"I hope Pugh
hasn't
picked up some pleasant little novelty in the way of an
infernal
machine. It would be a first-rate joke if he and I had been
endeavoring to solve the puzzle of how to set it going."
I don't mind owning that as this reflection crossed my mind
I
replaced Pugh's puzzle on the dressing-table. The idea did
not
commend itself to me at all. The box evidently contained
some
curious mechanism. It might be more curious than
comfortable.
Possibly some agreeable little device in clockwork. The
tick,
tick, tick suggested clockwork which had been planned to go
a
certain time, and then--then, for all I knew, ignite an
explosive,
and--blow up. It would be a charming solution to the puzzle if
it
were to explode while I stood there, in my nightshirt, looking
on.
It is true that the box weighed very little. Probably, as I
have
said, the whole affair would not have turned the scale at a
couple
of ounces. But then its very lightness might have been part of
the
ingenious inventor's little game. There are explosives with
which
one can work a very satisfactory amount of damage with
considerably
less than a couple of ounces.
While I was hesitating--I own it!--whether I had not better
immerse
Pugh's puzzle in a can of water, or throw it out of the window,
or
call down Bob with a request to at once remove it to his
apartment,
both the tick, tick, tick, and the screeching ceased, and
all
within the box was still. If it WAS going to explode, it was
now
or never. Instinctively I moved in the direction of the
door.
I waited with a certain sense of anxiety. I waited in
vain.
Nothing happened, not even a renewal of the sound.
"I wish Pugh had kept his precious puzzle at home. This sort
of
thing tries one's nerves."
When I thought that I perceived that nothing seemed likely
to
happen, I returned to the neighborhood of the table. I looked
at
the box askance. I took it up gingerly. Something might go off
at
any moment for all I knew. It would be too much of a joke if
Pugh's precious puzzle exploded in my hand. I shook it
doubtfully;
nothing rattled. I held it to my ear. There was not a sound.
What had taken place? Had the clockwork run down, and was
the
machine arranged with such a diabolical ingenuity that a
certain
interval was required, after the clockwork had run down, before
an
explosion could occur? Or had rust caused the mechanism to
again
hang fire?
"After making all that commotion the thing might at least
come
open." I banged the box viciously against the corner of the
table.
I felt that I would almost rather that an explosion should
take
place than that nothing should occur. One does not care to
be
disturbed from one's sound slumber in the small hours of the
morning for a trifle.
"I've half a mind to get a hammer, and try, as they say in
the
cookery books, another way."
Unfortunately I had promised Pugh to abstain from using force.
I
might have shivered the box open with my hammer, and then
explained
that it had fallen, or got trod upon, or sat upon, or
something,
and so got shattered, only I was afraid that Pugh would not
believe
me. The man is himself such an untruthful man that he is in
a
chronic state of suspicion about the truthfulness of others.
"Well, if you're not going to blow up, or open, or something,
I'll
say good night."
I gave the box a final rap with my knuckles and a final
shake,
replaced it on the table, put out the gas, and returned to
bed.
I was just sinking again into slumber, when that box began
again.
It was true that Pugh had purchased the puzzle, but it was
evident
that the whole enjoyment of the purchase was destined to be
mine.
It was useless to think of sleep while that performance was
going
on. I sat up in bed once more.
"It strikes me that the puzzle consists in finding out how it
is
possible to go to sleep with Pugh's purchase in your bedroom.
This
is far better than the old-fashioned prescription of cats on
the
tiles."
It struck me the noise was distinctly louder than before;
this
applied both to the tick, tick, tick, and the screeching.
"Possibly," I told myself, as I relighted the gas, "the
explosion
is to come off this time."
I turned to look at the box. There could be no doubt about it;
the
noise was louder. And, if I could trust my eyes, the box was
moving--giving a series of little jumps. This might have been
an
optical delusion, but it seemed to me that at each tick the
box
gave a little bound. During the screeches--which sounded more
like
the cries of an animal in an agony of pain even than before--if
it
did not tilt itself first on one end, and then on another, I
shall
never be willing to trust the evidence of my own eyes again.
And
surely the box had increased in size; I could have sworn not
only
that it had increased, but that it was increasing, even as I
stood
there looking on. It had grown, and still was growing, both
broader, and longer, and deeper. Pugh, of course, would have
attributed it to supernatural agency; there never was a man
with
such a nose for a ghost. I could picture him occupying my
position, shivering in his nightshirt, as he beheld that
miracle
taking place before his eyes. The solution which at once
suggested
itself to me--and which would NEVER have suggested itself to
Pugh!--
was that the box was fashioned, as it were, in layers, and
that
the ingenious mechanism it contained was forcing the sides at
once
both upward and outward. I took it in my hand. I could feel
something striking against the bottom of the box, like the
tap,
tap, tapping of a tiny hammer.
"This is a pretty puzzle of Pugh's. He would say that that is
the
tapping of a deathwatch. For my part I have not much faith
in
deathwatches, et hoc genus omne, but it certainly is a
curious
tapping; I wonder what is going to happen next?"
Apparently nothing, except a continuation of those
mysterious
sounds. That the box had increased in size I had, and have,
no
doubt whatever. I should say that it had increased a good inch
in
every direction, at least half an inch while I had been looking
on.
But while I stood looking its growth was suddenly and
perceptibly
stayed; it ceased to move. Only the noise continued.
"I wonder how long it will be before anything worth happening
does
happen! I suppose something is going to happen; there can't be
all
this to-do for nothing. If it is anything in the infernal
machine
line, and there is going to be an explosion, I might as well
be
here to see it. I think I'll have a pipe."
I put on my dressing-gown. I lit my pipe. I sat and stared at
the
box. I dare say I sat there for quite twenty minutes when,
as
before, without any sort of warning, the sound was stilled.
Its
sudden cessation rather startled me.
"Has the mechanism again hung fire? Or, this time, is the
explosion coming off?" It did not come off; nothing came
off.
"Isn't the box even going to open?"
It did not open. There was simply silence all at once, and
that
was all. I sat there in expectation for some moments longer.
But
I sat for nothing. I rose. I took the box in my hand. I
shook
it.
"This puzzle IS a puzzle." I held the box first to one ear,
then
to the other. I gave it several sharp raps with my knuckles.
There was not an answering sound, not even the sort of
reverberation which Pugh and I had noticed at first. It
seemed
hollower than ever. It was as though the soul of the box was
dead.
"I suppose if I put you down, and extinguish the gas and return
to
bed, in about half an hour or so, just as I am dropping off
to
sleep, the performance will be recommenced. Perhaps the third
time
will be lucky."
But I was mistaken--there was no third time. When I returned
to
bed that time I returned to sleep, and I was allowed to
sleep;
there was no continuation of the performance, at least so far as
I
know. For no sooner was I once more between the sheets than I
was
seized with an irresistible drowsiness, a drowsiness which
so
mastered me that I--I imagine it must have been
instantly--sank
into slumber which lasted till long after day had dawned.
Whether
or not any more mysterious sounds issued from the bowels of
Pugh's
puzzle is more than I can tell. If they did, they did not
succeed
in rousing me.
And yet, when at last I did awake, I had a sort of
consciousness
that my waking had been caused by something strange. What it was
I
could not surmise. My own impression was that I had been
awakened
by the touch of a person's hand. But that impression must
have
been a mistaken one, because, as I could easily see by
looking
round the room, there was no one in the room to touch me.
It was broad daylight. I looked at my watch; it was nearly
eleven
o'clock. I am a pretty late sleeper as a rule, but I do not
usually sleep as late as that. That scoundrel Bob would let
me
sleep all day without thinking it necessary to call me. I was
just
about to spring out of bed with the intention of ringing the
bell
so that I might give Bob a piece of my mind for allowing me
to
sleep so late, when my glance fell on the dressing-table on
which,
the night before, I had placed Pugh's puzzle. It had gone!
Its absence so took me by surprise that I ran to the table. It
HAD
gone. But it had not gone far; it had gone to pieces! There
were
the pieces lying where the box had been. The puzzle had
solved
itself. The box was open, open with a vengeance, one might
say.
Like that unfortunate Humpty Dumpty, who, so the chroniclers
tell
us, sat on a wall, surely "all the king's horses and all the
king's
men" never could put Pugh's puzzle together again!
The marquetry had resolved itself into its component parts.
How
those parts had ever been joined was a mystery. They had been
laid
upon no foundation, as is the case with ordinary inlaid work.
The
several pieces of wood were not only of different shapes and
sizes,
but they were as thin as the thinnest veneer; yet the box had
been
formed by simply joining them together. The man who made that
box
must have been possessed of ingenuity worthy of a better
cause.
I perceived how the puzzle had been worked. The box had
contained
an arrangement of springs, which, on being released, had
expanded
themselves in different directions until their mere expansion
had
rent the box to pieces. There were the springs, lying amid
the
ruin they had caused.
There was something else amid that ruin besides those
springs;
there was a small piece of writing paper. I took it up. On
the
reverse side of it was written in a minute, crabbed hand: "A
Present For You." What was a present for me? I looked, and,
not
for the first time since I had caught sight of Pugh's
precious
puzzle, could scarcely believe my eyes.
There, poised between two upright wires, the bent ends of
which
held it aloft in the air, was either a piece of glass or--a
crystal. The scrap of writing paper had exactly covered it.
I
understood what it was, when Pugh and I had tapped with the
hammer,
had caused the answering taps to proceed from within. Our
taps
caused the wires to oscillate, and in these oscillations the
crystal, which they held suspended, had touched the side of
the
box.
I looked again at the piece of paper. "A Present For You."
Was
THIS the present--this crystal? I regarded it intently.
"It CAN'T be a diamond."
The idea was ridiculous, absurd. No man in his senses would
place
a diamond inside a twopenny-halfpenny puzzle box. The thing was
as
big as a walnut! And yet--I am a pretty good judge of
precious
stones--if it was not an uncut diamond it was the best imitation
I
had seen. I took it up. I examined it closely. The more
closely
I examined it, the more my wonder grew.
"It IS a diamond!"
And yet the idea was too preposterous for credence. Who
would
present a diamond as big as a walnut with a trumpery puzzle?
Besides, all the diamonds which the world contains of that size
are
almost as well known as the Koh-i-noor.
"If it is a diamond, it is worth--it is worth--Heaven only
knows
what it isn't worth if it's a diamond."
I regarded it through a strong pocket lens. As I did so I
could
not restrain an exclamation.
"The world to a China orange, it IS a diamond!"
The words had scarcely escaped my lips than there came a
tapping at
the door.
"Come in!" I cried, supposing it was Bob. It was not Bob, it
was
Pugh. Instinctively I put the lens and the crystal behind my
back.
At sight of me in my nightshirt Pugh began to shake his
head.
"What hours, Tress, what hours! Why, my dear Tress, I've
breakfasted, read the papers and my letters, came all the way
from
my house here, and you're not up!"
"Don't I look as though I were up?"
"Ah, Tress! Tress!" He approached the dressing-table. His
eye
fell upon the ruins. "What's this?"
"That's the solution to the puzzle."
"Have you--have you solved it fairly, Tress?"
"It has solved itself. Our handling, and tapping, and
hammering
must have freed the springs which the box contained, and during
the
night, while I slept, they have caused it to come open."
"While you slept? Dear me! How strange! And--what are these?"
He had discovered the two upright wires on which the crystal
had
been poised.
"I suppose they're part of the puzzle."
"And was there anything in the box? What's this?" he picked up
the
scrap of paper; I had left it on the table. He read what was
written on it: "'A Present For You.' What's it mean? Tress,
was
this in the box?"
"It was."
"What's it mean about a present? Was there anything in the
box
besides?"
"Pugh, if you will leave the room I shall be able to dress; I
am
not in the habit of receiving quite such early calls, or I
should
have been prepared to receive you. If you will wait in the
next
room, I will be with you as soon as I'm dressed. There is a
little
subject in connection with the box which I wish to discuss
with
you."
"A subject in connection with the box? What is the subject?"
"I will tell you, Pugh, when I have performed my toilet."
"Why can't you tell me now?"
"Do you propose, then, that I should stand here shivering in
my
shirt while you are prosing at your ease? Thank you; I am
obliged,
but I decline. May I ask you once more, Pugh, to wait for me
in
the adjoining apartment?"
He moved toward the door. When he had taken a couple of steps,
he
halted.
"I--I hope, Tress, that you're--you're going to play no tricks
on
me?"
"Tricks on you! Is it likely that I am going to play tricks
upon
my oldest friend?"
When he had gone--he vanished, it seemed to me, with a
somewhat
doubtful visage--I took the crystal to the window. I drew
the
blind. I let the sunshine fall on it. I examined it again,
closely and minutely, with the aid of my pocket lens. It WAS
a
diamond; there could not be a doubt of it. If, with my
knowledge
of stones, I was deceived, then I was deceived as never man
had
been deceived before. My heart beat faster as I recognized
the
fact that I was holding in my hand what was, in all probability,
a
fortune for a man of moderate desires. Of course, Pugh knew
nothing of what I had discovered, and there was no reason why
he
should know. Not the least! The only difficulty was that if
I
kept my own counsel, and sold the stone and utilized the
proceeds
of the sale, I should have to invent a story which would
account
for my sudden accession to fortune. Pugh knows almost as much
of
my affairs as I do myself. That is the worst of these old
friends!
When I joined Pugh I found him dancing up and down the floor
like a
bear upon hot plates. He scarcely allowed me to put my nose
inside
the door before attacking me.
"Tress, give me what was in the box."
"My dear Pugh, how do you know that there was something in the
box
to give you?"
"I know there was!"
"Indeed! If you know that there was something in the box,
perhaps
you will tell me what that something was."
He eyed me doubtfully. Then, advancing, he laid upon my arm a
hand
which positively trembled.
"Tress, you--you wouldn't play tricks on an old friend."
"You are right, Pugh, I wouldn't, though I believe there have
been
occasions on which you have had doubts upon the subject. By
the
way, Pugh, I believe that I am the oldest friend you have."
"I--I don't know about that. There's--there's Brasher."
"Brasher! Who's Brasher? You wouldn't compare my friendship
to
the friendship of such a man as Brasher? Think of the tastes
we
have in common, you and I. We're both collectors."
"Ye-es, we're both collectors."
"I make my interests yours, and you make your interests
mine.
Isn't that so, Pugh?"
"Tress, what--what was in the box?"
"I will be frank with you, Pugh. If there had been something
in
the box, would you have been willing to go halves with me in
my
discovery?"
"Go halves! In your discovery, Tress! Give me what is mine!"
"With pleasure, Pugh, if you will tell me what is yours."
"If--if you don't give me what was in the box I'll--I'll send
for
the police."
"Do! Then I shall be able to hand to them what was in the box
in
order that it may be restored to its proper owner."
"Its proper owner! I'm its proper owner!"
"Excuse me, but I don't understand how that can be; at least,
until
the police have made inquiries. I should say that the proper
owner
was the person from whom you purchased the box, or, more
probably,
the person from whom he purchased it, and by whom, doubtless,
it
was sold in ignorance, or by mistake. Thus, Pugh, if you will
only
send for the police, we shall earn the gratitude of a person
of
whom we never heard in our lives--I for discovering the contents
of
the box, and you for returning them."
As I said this, Pugh's face was a study. He gasped for breath.
He
actually took out his handkerchief to wipe his brow.
"Tress, I--I don't think you need to use a tone like that to
me.
It isn't friendly. What--what was in the box?"
"Let us understand each other, Pugh. If you don't hand over
what
was in the box to the police, I go halves."
Pugh began to dance about the floor.
"What a fool I was to trust you with the box! I knew I
couldn't
trust you." I said nothing. I turned and rang the bell.
"What's
that for?"
"That, my dear Pugh, is for breakfast, and, if you desire it,
for
the police. You know, although you have breakfasted, I
haven't.
Perhaps while I am breaking my fast, you would like to summon
the
representatives of law and order." Bob came in. I ordered
breakfast. Then I turned to Pugh. "Is there anything you
would
like?"
"No, I--I've breakfasted."
"It wasn't of breakfast I was thinking. It was of--something
else.
Bob is at your service, if, for instance, you wish to send him
on
an errand."
"No, I want nothing. Bob can go." Bob went. Directly he
was
gone, Pugh turned to me. "You shall have half. What was in
the
box?"
"I shall have half?"
"You shall!"
"I don't think it is necessary that the terms of our
little
understanding should be expressly embodied in black and white.
I
fancy that, under the circumstance, I can trust you, Pugh. I
believe that I am capable of seeing that, in this matter, you
don't
do me. That was in the box."
I held out the crystal between my finger and thumb.
"What is it?"
"That is what I desire to learn."
"Let me look at it."
"You are welcome to look at it where it is. Look at it as long
as
you like, and as closely."
Pugh leaned over my hand. His eyes began to gleam. He is
himself
not a bad judge of precious stones, is Pugh.
"It's--it's--Tress!--is it a diamond?"
"That question I have already asked myself."
"Let me look at it! It will be safe with me! It's mine!"
I immediately put the thing behind my back.
"Pardon me, it belongs neither to you nor to me. It belongs,
in
all probability, to the person who sold that puzzle to the man
from
whom you bought it--perhaps some weeping widow, Pugh, or
hopeless
orphan--think of it. Let us have no further misunderstanding
upon
that point, my dear old friend. Still, because you are my dear
old
friend, I am willing to trust you with this discovery of mine,
on
condition that you don't attempt to remove it from my sight,
and
that you return it to me the moment I require you."
"You're--you're very hard on me." I made a movement toward
my
waistcoat pocket. "I'll return it to you!"
I handed him the crystal, and with it I handed him my pocket lens.
"With the aid of that glass I imagine that you will be able
to
subject it to a more acute examination, Pugh."
He began to examine it through the lens. Directly he did so,
he
gave an exclamation. In a few moments he looked up at me.
His
eyes were glistening behind his spectacles. I could see he
trembled.
"Tress, it's--it's a diamond, a Brazil diamond. It's worth
a
fortune!"
"I'm glad you think so."
"Glad I think so! Don't you think that it's a diamond?"
"It appears to be a diamond. Under ordinary conditions I
should
say, without hesitation, that it was a diamond. But when I
consider the circumstances of its discovery, I am driven to
doubts.
How much did you give for that puzzle, Pugh?"
"Ninepence; the fellow wanted a shilling, but I gave him
ninepence.
He seemed content."
"Ninepence! Does it seem reasonable that we should find a
diamond,
which, if it is a diamond, is the finest stone I ever saw
and
handled, in a ninepenny puzzle? It is not as though it had
got
into the thing by accident, it had evidently been placed there
to
be found, and, apparently, by anyone who chanced to solve
the
puzzle; witness the writing on the scrap of paper."
Pugh re-examined the crystal.
"It is a diamond! I'll stake my life that it's a diamond!"
"Still, though it be a diamond, I smell a rat!"
"What do you mean?"
"I strongly suspect that the person who placed that diamond
inside
that puzzle intended to have a joke at the expense of the
person
who discovered it. What was to be the nature of the joke is
more
than I can say at present, but I should like to have a bet with
you
that the man who compounded that puzzle was an ingenious
practical
joker. I may be wrong, Pugh; we shall see. But, until I have
proved the contrary, I don't believe that the maddest man that
ever
lived would throw away a diamond worth, apparently, shall we say
a
thousand pounds?"
"A thousand pounds! This diamond is worth a good deal more
than a
thousand pounds."
"Well, that only makes my case the stronger; I don't believe
that
the maddest man that ever lived would throw away a diamond
worth
more than a thousand pounds with such utter wantonness as seems
to
have characterized the action of the original owner of the
stone
which I found in your ninepenny puzzle, Pugh."
"There have been some eccentric characters in the world, some
very
eccentric characters. However, as you say, we shall see. I
fancy
that I know somebody who would be quite willing to have such
a
diamond as this, and who, moreover, would be willing to pay a
fair
price for its possession; I will take it to him and see what
he
says."
"Pugh, hand me back that diamond."
"My dear Tress, I was only going--"
Bob came in with the breakfast tray.
"Pugh, you will either hand me that at once, or Bob shall
summon
the representatives of law and order."
He handed me the diamond. I sat down to breakfast with a
hearty
appetite. Pugh stood and scowled at me.
"Joseph Tress, it is my solemn conviction, and I have no
hesitation
in saying so in plain English, that you're a thief."
"My dear Pugh, it seems to me that we show every promise
of
becoming a couple of thieves."
"Don't bracket me with you!"
"Not at all, you are worse than I. It is you who decline to
return
the contents of the box to its proper owner. Put it to
yourself,
you have SOME common sense, my dear old friend I--do you
suppose
that a diamond worth more than a thousand pounds is to be
HONESTLY
bought for ninepence?"
He resumed his old trick of dancing about the room.
"I was a fool ever to let you have the box! I ought to have
known
better than to have trusted you; goodness knows you have given
me
sufficient cause to mistrust you! Over and over again! Your
character is only too notorious! You have plundered friend and
foe
alike--friend and foe alike! As for the rubbish which you
call
your collection, nine tenths of it, I know as a positive fact,
you
have stolen out and out."
"Who stole my Sir Walter Raleigh pipe? Wasn't it a man
named
Pugh?"
"Look here, Joseph Tress!"
"I'm looking."
"Oh, it's no good talking to you, not the least!
You're--you're
dead to all the promptings of conscience! May I inquire, Mr.
Tress, what it is you propose to do?"
"I PROPOSE to do nothing, except summon the representatives of
law
and order. Failing that, my dear Pugh, I had some faint,
vague,
very vague idea of taking the contents of your ninepenny puzzle
to
a certain firm in Hatton Garden, who are dealers in precious
stones, and to learn from them if they are disposed to give
anything for it, and if so, what."
"I shall come with you."
"With pleasure, on condition that you pay the cab."
"I pay the cab! I will pay half."
"Not at all. You will either pay the whole fare, or else I
will
have one cab and you shall have another. It is a
three-shilling
cab fare from here to Hatton Garden. If you propose to share
my
cab, you will be so good as to hand over that three
shillings
before we start."
He gasped, but he handed over the three shillings. There are
few
things I enjoy so much as getting money out of Pugh!
On the road to Hatton Garden we wrangled nearly all the way. I
own
that I feel a certain satisfaction in irritating Pugh, he is
such
an irritable man. He wanted to know what I thought we should
get
for the diamond.
"You can't expect to get much for the contents of a
ninepenny
puzzle, not even the price of a cab fare, Pugh."
He eyed me, but for some minutes he was silent. Then he
began
again.
"Tress, I don't think we ought to let it go for less
than--than
five thousand pounds."
"Seriously, Pugh, I doubt whether, when the whole affair is
ended,
we shall get five thousand pence for it, or, for the matter
of
that, five thousand farthings."
"But why not? Why not? It's a magnificent
stone--magnificent!
I'll stake my life on it."
I tapped my breast with the tips of my fingers.
"There's a warning voice within my breast that ought to be
in
yours, Pugh! Something tells me, perhaps it is the unusually
strong vein of common sense which I possess, that the contents
of
your ninepenny puzzle will be found to be a magnificent
do--an
ingenious practical joke, my friend."
"I don't believe it."
But I think he did; at any rate, I had unsettled the
foundations of
his faith.
We entered the Hatton Garden office side by side; in his
anxiety
not to let me get before him, Pugh actually clung to my arm.
The
office was divided into two parts by a counter which ran from
wall
to wall. I advanced to a man who stood on the other side of
this
counter.
"I want to sell you a diamond."
"WE want to sell you a diamond," interpolated Pugh.
I turned to Pugh. I "fixed" him with my glance.
"I want to sell you a diamond. Here it is. What will you give
me
for it?"
Taking the crystal from my waistcoat pocket I handed it to the
man
on the other side of the counter. Directly he got it between
his
fingers, and saw that it was that he had got, I noticed a
sudden
gleam come into his eyes.
"This is--this is rather a fine stone."
Pugh nudged my arm.
"I told you so." I paid no attention to Pugh. "What will you
give
me for it?"
"Do you mean, what will I give you for it cash down upon the nail?"
"Just so--what will you give me for it cash down upon the nail?"
The man turned the crystal over and over in his fingers.
"Well,
that's rather a large order. We don't often get a chance of
buying
such a stone as this across the counter. What do you say
to--well--
to ten thousand pounds?"
Ten thousand pounds! It was beyond my wildest imaginings.
Pugh
gasped. He lurched against the counter.
"Ten thousand pounds!" he echoed.
The man on the other side glanced at him, I thought, a
little
curiously.
"If you can give me references, or satisfy me in any way as to
your
bona fides, I am prepared to give you for this diamond an
open
check for ten thousand pounds, or if you prefer it, the cash
instead."
I stared; I was not accustomed to see business transacted on
quite
such lines as those.
"We'll take it," murmured Pugh; I believe he was too much
overcome
by his feelings to do more than murmur. I interposed.
"My dear sir, you will excuse my saying that you arrive
very
rapidly at your conclusions. In the first place, how can you
make
sure that it is a diamond?"
The man behind the counter smiled.
"I should be very ill-fitted for the position which I hold if
I
could not tell a diamond directly I get a sight of it,
especially
such a stone as this."
"But have you no tests you can apply?"
"We have tests which we apply in cases in which doubt exists,
but
in this case there is no doubt whatever. I am as sure that this
is
a diamond as I am sure that it is air I breathe. However, here
is
a test."
There was a wheel close by the speaker. It was worked by a
treadle. It was more like a superior sort of
traveling-tinker's
grindstone than anything else. The man behind the counter put
his
foot upon the treadle. The wheel began to revolve. He brought
the
crystal into contact with the swiftly revolving wheel. There was
a
s--s--sh! And, in an instant, his hand was empty; the crystal
had
vanished into air.
"Good heavens!" he gasped. I never saw such a look of
amazement on
a human countenance before. "It's splintered!"
It WAS a diamond, although it HAD splintered. In that fact lay
the
point of the joke. The man behind the counter had not been
wrong;
examination of such dust as could be collected proved that
fact
beyond a doubt. It was declared by experts that the diamond,
at
some period of its history, had been subjected to intense
and
continuing heat. The result had been to make it as brittle
as
glass.
There could be no doubt that its original owner had been an
expert
too. He knew where he got it from, and he probably knew what
it
had endured. He was aware that, from a mercantile point of
view,
it was worthless; it could never have been cut. So, having a
turn
for humor of a peculiar kind, he had devoted days, and weeks,
and
possibly months, to the construction of that puzzle. He had
placed
the diamond inside, and he had enjoyed, in anticipation and
in
imagination, the Alnaschar visions of the lucky finder.
Pugh blamed me for the catastrophe. He said, and still says,
that
if I had not, in a measure, and quite gratuitously, insisted on
a
test, the man behind the counter would have been satisfied with
the
evidence of his organs of vision, and we should have been richer
by
ten thousand pounds. But I satisfy my conscience with the
reflection that what I did at any rate was honest, though, at
the
same time, I am perfectly well aware that such a reflection
gives
Pugh no sort of satisfaction.
I know more about it than anyone else in the world, its
present
owner not excepted. I can give its whole history, from the
Cingalese who found it, the Spanish adventurer who stole it,
the
cardinal who bought it, the Pope who graciously accepted it,
the
favored son of the Church who received it, the gay and giddy
duchess who pawned it, down to the eminent prelate who now holds
it
in trust as a family heirloom.
It will occupy a chapter to itself in my forthcoming work on
"Historic Stones," where full details of its weight, size,
color,
and value may be found. At present I am going to relate an
incident in its history which, for obvious reasons, will not
be
published--which, in fact, I trust the reader will consider
related
in strict confidence.
I had never seen the stone itself when I began to write about
it,
and it was not till one evening last spring, while staying with
my
nephew, Sir Thomas Acton, that I came within measurable distance
of
it. A dinner party was impending, and, at my instigation,
the
Bishop of Northchurch and Miss Panton, his daughter and
heiress,
were among the invited guests.
The dinner was a particularly good one, I remember that
distinctly.
In fact, I felt myself partly responsible for it, having
engaged
the new cook--a talented young Italian, pupil of the admirable
old
chef at my club. We had gone over the menu carefully
together,
with a result refreshing in its novelty, but not so daring as
to
disturb the minds of the innocent country guests who were
bidden
thereto.
The first spoonful of soup was reassuring, and I looked to the
end
of the table to exchange a congratulatory glance with Leta.
What
was amiss? No response. Her pretty face was flushed, her
smile
constrained, she was talking with quite unnecessary empressement
to
her neighbor, Sir Harry Landor, though Leta is one of those
few
women who understand the importance of letting a man settle
down
tranquilly and with an undisturbed mind to the business of
dining,
allowing no topic of serious interest to come on before the
releves, and reserving mere conversational brilliancy for
the
entremets.
Guests all right? No disappointments? I had gone through the
list
with her, selecting just the right people to be asked to meet
the
Landors, our new neighbors. Not a mere cumbrous county
gathering,
nor yet a showy imported party from town, but a skillful
blending
of both. Had anything happened already? I had been late for
dinner and missed the arrivals in the drawing-room. It was
Leta's
fault. She has got into a way of coming into my room and
putting
the last touches to my toilet. I let her, for I am doubtful
of
myself nowadays after many years' dependence on the best of
valets.
Her taste is generally beyond dispute, but to-day she had
indulged
in a feminine vagary that provoked me and made me late for
dinner.
"Are you going to wear your sapphire, Uncle Paul!" she cried
in a
tone of dismay. "Oh, why not the ruby?"
"You WOULD have your way about the table decorations," I
gently
reminded her. "with that service of Crown Derby repousse and
orchids, the ruby would look absolutely barbaric. Now if you
would
have had the Limoges set, white candles, and a yellow silk
center--"
"Oh, but--I'm SO disappointed--I wanted the bishop to see
your
ruby--or one of your engraved gems--"
"My dear, it is on the bishop's account I put this on. You
know
his daughter is heiress of the great Valdez sapphire--"
"Of course she is, and when he has the charge of a stone
three
times as big as yours, what's the use of wearing it? The
ruby,
dear Uncle Paul, PLEASE!"
She was desperately in earnest I could see, and considering
the
obligations which I am supposed to be under to her and Tom, it
was
but a little matter to yield, but it involved a good deal of
extra
trouble. Studs, sleeve-links, watch-guard, all carefully
selected
to go with the sapphire, had to be changed, the emerald which
I
chose as a compromise requiring more florid accompaniments of
a
deeper tone of gold; and the dinner hour struck as I replaced
my
jewel case, the one relic left me of a once handsome fortune, in
my
fireproof safe.
The emerald looked very well that evening, however. I kept my
eyes
upon it for comfort when Miss Panton proved trying.
She was a lean, yellow, dictatorial young person with no
conversation. I spoke of her father's celebrated sapphires.
"MY
sapphires," she amended sourly; "though I am legally debarred
from
making any profitable use of them." She furthermore informed
me
that she viewed them as useless gauds, which ought to be
disposed
of for the benefit of the heathen. I gave the subject up,
and
while she discoursed of the work of the Blue Ribbon Army among
the
Bosjesmans I tried to understand a certain dislocation in
the
arrangement of the table. Surely we were more or less in
number
than we should be? Opposite side all right. Who was extra on
ours? I leaned forward. Lady Landor on one side of Tom, on
the
other who? I caught glimpses of plumes pink and green nodding
over
a dinner plate, and beneath them a pink nose in a green visage
with
a nutcracker chin altogether unknown to me. A sharp gray eye
shot
a sideway glance down the table and caught me peeping, and I
retreated, having only marked in addition two clawlike hands,
with
pointed ruffles and a mass of brilliant rings, making good
play
with a knife and fork. Who was she? At intervals a high acid
voice could be heard addressing Tom, and a laugh that made
me
shudder; it had the quality of the scream of a bird of prey or
the
yell of a jackal. I had heard that sort of laugh before, and
it
always made me feel like a defenseless rabbit.
Every time it sounded I saw Leta's fan flutter more furiously
and
her manner grow more nervously animated. Poor dear girl! I
never
in all my recollection wished a dinner at an end so earnestly so
as
to assure her of my support and sympathy, though without the
faintest conception why either should be required.
The ices at last. A menu card folded in two was laid beside
me. I
read it unobserved. "Keep the B. from joining us in the
drawing-
room." The B.? The bishop, of course. With pleasure. But
why?
And how? THAT'S the question, never mind "why." Could I lure
him
into the library--the billiard room--the conservatory? I
doubted
it, and I doubted still more what I should do with him when I
got
him there.
The bishop is a grand and stately ecclesiastic of the
mediaeval
type, broad-chested, deep-voiced, martial of bearing. I
could
picture him charging mace in hand at the head of his vassals,
or
delivering over a dissenter of the period to the rack and
thumbscrew, but not pottering among rare editions, tall copies
and
Grolier bindings, nor condescending to a quiet cigar among the
tree
ferns and orchids. Leta must and should be obeyed, I swore,
nevertheless, even if I were driven to lock the door in the
fearless old fashion of a bygone day, and declare I'd shoot any
man
who left while a drop remained in the bottles.
The ladies were rising. The lady at the head of the line
smirked
and nodded her pink plumes coquettishly at Tom, while her
hawk's
eyes roved keen and predatory over us all. She stopped
suddenly,
creating a block and confusion.
"Ah, the dear bishop! YOU there, and I never saw you! You
must
come and have a nice long chat presently. By-by--!" She shook
her
fan at him over my shoulder and tripped off. Leta, passing
me
last, gave me a look of profound despair.
"Lady Carwitchet!" somebody exclaimed. "I couldn't believe
my
eyes."
"Thought she was dead or in penal servitude. Never should
have
expected to see her HERE," said some one else behind me
confidentially.
"What Carwitchet? Not the mother of the Carwitchet who--"
"Just so. The Carwitchet who---" Tom assented with a shrug.
"We
needn't go farther, as she's my guest. Just my luck. I met
them
at Buxton, thought them uncommonly good company--in fact,
Carwitchet laid me under a great obligation about a horse I
was
nearly let in for buying--and gave them a general invitation
here,
as one does, you know. Never expected her to turn up with
her
luggage this afternoon just before dinner, to stay a week, or
a
fortnight if Carwitchet can join her." A groan of sympathy
ran
round the table. "It can't be helped. I've told you this just
to
show that I shouldn't have asked you here to meet this sort
of
people of my own free will; but, as it is, please say no more
about
them." The subject was not dropped by any means, and I took
care
that it should not be. At our end of the table one story
after
another went buzzing round--sotto voce, out of deference to
Tom--
but perfectly audible.
"Carwitchet? Ah, yes. Mixed up in that Rawlings divorce
case,
wasn't he? A bad lot. Turned out of the Dragoon Guards for
cheating at cards, or picking pockets, or something--remember
the
row at the Cerulean Club? Scandalous exposure--and that
forged
letter business--oh, that was the mother--prosecution hushed
up
somehow. Ought to be serving her fourteen years--and that
business
of poor Farrars, the banker--got hold of some of his secrets
and
blackmailed him till he blew his brains out--"
It was so exciting that I clean forgot the bishop, till a low
gasp
at my elbow startled me. He was lying back in his chair, his
mighty shaven jowl a ghastly white, his fierce imperious
eyebrows
drooping limp over his fishlike eyes, his splendid figure
shrunk
and contracted. He was trying with a shaken hand to pour out
wine.
The decanter clattered against the glass and the wine spilled
on
the cloth.
"I'm afraid you find the room too warm. Shall we go into
the
library?"
He rose hastily and followed me like a lamb.
He recovered himself once we got into the hall, and
affably
rejected all my proffers of brandy and soda--medical
advice--
everything else my limited experience could suggest. He only
demanded his carriage "directly" and that Miss Panton should
be
summoned forthwith.
I made the best use I could of the time left me.
"I'm uncommonly sorry you do not feel equal to staying a
little
longer, my lord. I counted on showing you my few trifles of
precious stones, the salvage from the wreck of my
possessions.
Nothing in comparison with your own collection."
The bishop clasped his hand over his heart. His breath came
short
and quick.
"A return of that dizziness," he explained with a faint
smile.
"You are thinking of the Valdez sapphire, are you not? Some
day,"
he went on with forced composure, "I may have the pleasure
of
showing it to you. It is at my banker's just now."
Miss Panton's steps were heard in the ball. "You are well
known as
a connoisseur, Mr. Acton," he went on hurriedly. "Is your
collection valuable? If so, keep it safe; don't trust a ring
off
your hand, or the key of your jewel case out of your pocket
till
the house is clear again." The words rushed from his lips in
an
impetuous whisper, he gave me a meaning glance, and departed
with
his daughter. I went back to the drawing-room, my head
swimming
with bewilderment.
"What! The dear bishop gone!" screamed Lady Carwitchet from
the
central ottoman where she sat, surrounded by most of the
gentlemen,
all apparently well entertained by her conversation. "And I
wanted
to talk over old times with him so badly. His poor wife was
my
greatest friend. Mira Montanaro, daughter of the great banker,
you
know. It's not possible that that miserable little prig is my
poor
Mira's girl. The heiress of all the Montanaros in a black
lace
gown worth twopence! When I think of her mother's beauty and
her
toilets! Does she ever wear the sapphires? Has anyone ever
seen
her in them? Eleven large stones in a lovely antique setting,
and
the great Valdez sapphire--worth thousands and thousands--for
the
pendant." No one replied. "I wanted to get a rise out of the
bishop to-night. It used to make him so mad when I wore
this."
She fumbled among the laces at her throat, and clawed out a
pendant
that hung to a velvet band around her neck. I fairly gasped
when
she removed her hand. A sapphire of irregular shape flashed
out
its blue lightning on us. Such a stone! A true, rich,
cornflower
blue even by that wretched artificial light, with soft
velvety
depths of color and dazzling clearness of tint in its lights
and
shades--a stone to remember! I stretched out my hand
involuntarily, but Lady Carwitchet drew back with a
coquettish
squeal. "No! no! You mustn't look any closer. Tell me what
you
think of it now. Isn't it pretty?"
"Superb!" was all I could ejaculate, staring at the azure
splendor
of that miraculous jewel in a sort of trance.
She gave a shrill cackling laugh of mockery.
"The great Mr. Acton taken in by a bit of Palais Royal
gimcrackery!
What an advertisement for Bogaerts et Cie! They are perfect
artists in frauds. Don't you remember their stand at the
first
Paris Exhibition? They had imitations there of every
celebrated
stone; but I never expected anything made by man could delude
Mr.
Acton, never!" And she went off into another mocking cackle,
and
all the idiots round her haw-hawed knowingly, as if they had
seen
the joke all along. I was too bewildered to reply, which was
on
the whole lucky. "I suppose I mustn't tell why I came to
give
quite a big sum in francs for this?" she went on, tapping
her
closed lips with her closed fan, and cocking her eye at us all
like
a parrot wanting to be coaxed to talk. "It's a queer story."
I didn't want to hear her anecdote, especially as I saw she
wanted
to tell it. What I DID want was to see that pendant again.
She
had thrust it back among her laces, only the loop which held it
to
the velvet being visible. It was set with three small
sapphires,
and even from a distance I clearly made them out to be
imitations,
and poor ones. I felt a queer thrill of self-mistrust. Was
the
large stone no better? Could I, even for an instant, have
been
dazzled by a sham, and a sham of that quality? The events of
the
evening had flurried and confused me. I wished to think them
over
in quiet. I would go to bed.
My rooms at the Manor are the best in the house. Leta will
have it
so. I must explain their position for a reason to be
understood
later. My bedroom is in the southeast angle of the house; it
opens
on one side into a sitting-room in the east corridor, the rest
of
which is taken up by the suite of rooms occupied by Tom and
Leta;
and on the other side into my bathroom, the first room in the
south
corridor, where the principal guest chambers are, to one of
which
it was originally the dressing-room. Passing this room I noticed
a
couple of housemaids preparing it for the night, and
discovered
with a shiver that Lady Carwitchet was to be my next-door
neighbor.
It gave me a turn.
The bishop's strange warning must have unnerved me. I was
perfectly safe from her ladyship. The disused door into her
room
was locked, and the key safe on the housekeeper's bunch. It
was
also undiscoverable on her side, the recess in which it stood
being
completely filled by a large wardrobe. On my side hung a
thick
sound-proof portiere. Nevertheless, I resolved not to use
that
room while she inhabited the next one. I removed my
possessions,
fastened the door of communication with my bedroom, and dragged
a
heavy ottoman across it.
Then I stowed away my emerald in my strong-box. It is built
into
the wall of my sitting-room, and masked by the lower part of an
old
carved oak bureau. I put away even the rings I wore
habitually,
keeping out only an inferior cat's-eye for workaday wear. I
had
just made all safe when Leta tapped at the door and came in to
wish
me good night. She looked flushed and harassed and ready to
cry.
"Uncle Paul," she began, "I want you to go up to town at once,
and
stay away till I send for you."
"My dear--!" I was too amazed to expostulate.
"We've got a--a pestilence among us," she declared, her
foot
tapping the ground angrily, "and the least we can do is to go
into
quarantine. Oh, I'm so sorry and so ashamed! The poor
bishop!
I'll take good care that no one else shall meet that woman
here.
You did your best for me, Uncle Paul, and managed admirably, but
it
was all no use. I hoped against hope that what between the dusk
of
the drawing-room before dinner, and being put at opposite ends
of
the table, we might get through without a meeting--"
"But, my dear, explain. Why shouldn't the bishop and Lady
Carwitchet meet? Why is it worse for him than anyone else?"
"Why? I thought everybody had heard of that dreadful wife of
his
who nearly broke his heart. If he married her for her money
it
served him right, but Lady Landor says she was very handsome
and
really in love with him at first. Then Lady Carwitchet got hold
of
her and led her into all sorts of mischief. She left her
husband--
he was only a rector with a country living in those days--and
went
to live in town, got into a horrid fast set, and made
herself
notorious. You MUST have heard of her."
"I heard of her sapphires, my dear. But I was in Brazil at
the
time."
"I wish you had been at home. You might have found her out.
She
was furious because her husband refused to let her wear the
great
Valdez sapphire. It had been in the Montanaro family for
some
generations, and her father settled it first on her and then on
her
little girl--the bishop being trustee. He felt obliged to
take
away the little girl, and send her off to be brought up by some
old
aunts in the country, and he locked up the sapphire. Lady
Carwitchet tells as a splendid joke how they got the copy made
in
Paris, and it did just as well for the people to stare at.
No
wonder the bishop hates the very name of the stone."
"How long will she stay here?" I asked dismally.
"Till Lord Carwitchet can come and escort her to Paris to
visit
some American friends. Goodness knows when that will be! Do go
up
to town, Uncle Paul!"
I refused indignantly. The very least I could do was to stand
by
my poor young relatives in their troubles and help them through.
I
did so. I wore that inferior cat's eye for six weeks!
It is a time I cannot think of even now without a shudder.
The
more I saw of that terrible old woman the more I detested her,
and
we saw a very great deal of her. Leta kept her word, and
neither
accepted nor gave invitations all that time. We were cut off
from
all society but that of old General Fairford, who would go
anywhere
and meet anyone to get a rubber after dinner; the doctor, a
sporting widower; and the Duberlys, a giddy, rather rackety
young
couple who had taken the Dower House for a year. Lady
Carwitchet
seemed perfectly content. She reveled in the soft living and
good
fare of the Manor House, the drives in Leta's big barouche,
and
Domenico's dinners, as one to whom short commons were not
unknown.
She had a hungry way of grabbing and grasping at everything
she
could--the shillings she won at whist, the best fruit at
dessert,
the postage stamps in the library inkstand--that was
infinitely
suggestive. Sometimes I could have pitied her, she was so
greedy,
so spiteful, so friendless. She always made me think of some
wicked old pirate putting into a peaceful port to provision
and
repair his battered old hulk, obliged to live on friendly
terms
with the natives, but his piratical old nostrils asniff for
plunder
and his piratical old soul longing to be off marauding once
more.
When would that be? Not till the arrival in Paris of her
distinguished American friends, of whom we heard a great
deal.
"Charming people, the Bokums of Chicago, the American branch of
the
English Beauchamps, you know!" They seemed to be taking an
unconscionable time to get there. She would have insisted on
being
driven over to Northchurch to call at the palace, but that
the
bishop was understood to be holding confirmations at the other
end
of the diocese.
I was alone in the house one afternoon sitting by my window,
toying
with the key of my safe, and wondering whether I dare treat
myself
to a peep at my treasures, when a suspicious movement in the
park
below caught my attention. A black figure certainly dodged
from
behind one tree to the next, and then into the shadow of the
park
paling instead of keeping to the footpath. It looked queer.
I
caught up my field glass and marked him at one point where he
was
bound to come into the open for a few steps. He crossed the
strip
of turf with giant strides and got into cover again, but not
quick
enough to prevent me recognizing him. It was--great
heavens!--the
bishop! In a soft hat pulled over his forehead, with a long
cloak
and a big stick, he looked like a poacher.
Guided by some mysterious instinct I hurried to meet him. I
opened
the conservatory door, and in he rushed like a hunted
rabbit.
Without explanation I led him up the wide staircase to my
room,
where he dropped into a chair and wiped his face.
"You are astonished, Mr. Acton," he panted. "I will
explain
directly. Thanks." He tossed off the glass of brandy I had
poured
out without waiting for the qualifying soda, and looked
better.
"I am in serious trouble. You can help me. I've had a shock
to-
day--a grievous shock." He stopped and tried to pull himself
together. "I must trust you implicitly, Mr. Acton, I have no
choice. Tell me what you think of this." He drew a case from
his
breast pocket and opened it. "I promised you should see the
Valdez
sapphire. Look there!"
The Valdez sapphire! A great big shining lump of blue
crystal--
flawless and of perfect color--that was all. I took it up,
breathed on it, drew out my magnifier, looked at it in one
light
and another. What was wrong with it? I could not say. Nine
experts out of ten would undoubtedly have pronounced the
stone
genuine. I, by virtue of some mysterious instinct that has
hitherto always guided me aright, was the unlucky tenth. I
looked
at the bishop. His eyes met mine. There was no need of
spoken
word between us.
"Has Lady Carwitchet shown you her sapphire?" was his most
unexpected question. "She has? Now, Mr. Acton, on your honor as
a
connoisseur and a gentleman, which of the two is the
Valdez?"
"Not this one." I could say naught else.
"You were my last hope." He broke off, and dropped his face on
his
folded arms with a groan that shook the table on which he
rested,
while I stood dismayed at myself for having let so hasty a
judgment
escape me. He lifted a ghastly countenance to me. "She vowed
she
would see me ruined and disgraced. I made her my enemy by
crossing
some of her schemes once, and she never forgives. She will
keep
her word. I shall appear before the world as a fraudulent
trustee.
I can neither produce the valuable confided to my charge nor
make
the loss good. I have only an incredible story to tell," be
dropped his head and groaned again. "Who will believe me?"
"I will, for one."
"Ah, you? Yes, you know her. She took my wife from me, Mr.
Acton.
Heaven only knows what the hold was that she had over poor
Mira.
She encouraged her to set me at defiance and eventually to
leave
me. She was answerable for all the scandalous folly and
extravagance of poor Mira's life in Paris--spare me the telling
of
the story. She left her at last to die alone and uncared for.
I
reached my wife to find her dying of a fever from which Lady
Carwitchet and her crew had fled. She was raving in delirium,
and
died without recognizing me. Some trouble she had been in which
I
must never know oppressed her. At the very last she roused from
a
long stupor and spoke to the nurse. 'Tell him to get the
sapphire
back--she stole it. She has robbed my child.' Those were her
last
words. The nurse understood no English, and treated them as
wandering; but I heard them, and knew she was sane when she
spoke."
"What did you do?"
"What could I? I saw Lady Carwitchet, who laughed at me,
and
defied me to make her confess or disgorge. I took the pendant
to
more than one eminent jeweler on pretense of having the
setting
seen to, and all have examined and admired without giving a hint
of
there being anything wrong. I allowed a celebrated mineralogist
to
see it; he gave no sign--"
"Perhaps they are right and we are wrong."
"No, no. Listen. I heard of an old Dutchman celebrated for
his
imitations. I went to him, and he told me at once that he had
been
allowed by Montanaro to copy the Valdez--setting and all--for
the
Paris Exhibition. I showed him this, and he claimed it for his
own
work at once, and pointed out his private mark upon it. You
must
take your magnifier to find it; a Greek Beta. He also told me
that
he had sold it to Lady Carwitchet more than a year ago.
"It is a terrible position."
"It is. My co-trustee died lately. I have never dared to
have
another appointed. I am bound to hand over the sapphire to
my
daughter on her marriage, if her husband consents to take the
name
of Montanaro."
The bishop's face was ghastly pale, and the moisture started
on his
brow. I racked my brain for some word of comfort.
"Miss Panton may never marry."
"But she will!" he shouted. "That is the blow that has been
dealt
me to-day. My chaplain--actually, my chaplain--tells me that he
is
going out as a temperance missionary to equatorial Africa, and
has
the assurance to add that he believes my daughter is not
indisposed
to accompany him!" His consummating wrath acted as a
momentary
stimulant. He sat upright, his eyes flashing and his brow
thunderous. I felt for that chaplain. Then he collapsed
miserably. "The sapphires will have to be produced,
identified,
revalued. How shall I come out of it? Think of the disgrace,
the
ripping up of old scandals! Even if I were to compound with
Lady
Carwitchet, the sum she hinted at was too monstrous. She
wants
more than my money. Help me, Mr. Acton! For the sake of your
own
family interests, help me!"
"I beg your pardon--family interests? I don't understand."
"If my daughter is childless, her next of kin is poor
Marmaduke
Panton, who is dying at Cannes, not married, or likely to
marry;
and failing him, your nephew, Sir Thomas Acton, succeeds."
My nephew Tom! Leta, or Leta's baby, might come to be the
possible
inheritor of the great Valdez sapphire! The blood rushed to
my
head as I looked at the great shining swindle before me.
"What
diabolic jugglery was at work when the exchange was made?" I
demanded fiercely.
"It must have been on the last occasion of her wearing the
sapphires in London. I ought never to have let her out of my
sight"
"You must put a stop to Miss Panton's marriage in the first
place,"
I pronounced as autocratically as he could have done
himself.
"Not to be thought of," he admitted helplessly. "Mira has my
force
of character. She knows her rights, and she will have her
jewels.
I want you to take charge of the--thing for me. If it's in
the
house she'll make me produce it. She'll inquire at the
banker's.
If YOU have it we can gain time, if but for a day or two."
He
broke off. Carriage wheels were crashing on the gravel
outside.
We looked at one another in consternation. Flight was
imperative.
I hurried him downstairs and out of the conservatory just as
the
door bell rang. I think we both lost our heads in the
confusion.
He shoved the case into my hands, and I pocketed it, without
a
thought of the awful responsibility I was incurring, and saw
him
disappear into the shelter of the friendly night.
When I think of what my feelings were that evening--of my
murderous
hatred of that smirking, jesting Jezebel who sat opposite me
at
dinner, my wrathful indignation at the thought of the poor
little
expected heir defrauded ere his birth; of the crushing contempt
I
felt for myself and the bishop as a pair of witless idiots
unable
to see our way out of the dilemma; all this boiling and
surging
through my soul, I can only wonder--Domenico having given
himself a
holiday, and the kitchen maid doing her worst and
wickedest--that
gout or jaundice did not put an end to this story at once.
"Uncle Paul!" Leta was looking her sweetest when she tripped
into
my room next morning. "I've news for you. She," pointing a
delicate forefinger in the direction of the corridor, "is
going!
Her Bokums have reached Paris at last, and sent for her to
join
them at the Grand Hotel."
I was thunderstruck. The longed-for deliverance had but come
to
remove hopelessly and forever out of my reach Lady Carwitchet
and
the great Valdez sapphire.
"Why, aren't you overjoyed? I am. We are going to celebrate
the
event by a dinner party. Tom's hospitable soul is vexed by
the
lack of entertainment we had provided her. We must ask the
Brownleys some day or other, and they will be delighted to
meet
anything in the way of a ladyship, or such smart folks as
the
Duberly-Parkers. Then we may as well have the Blomfields, and
air
that awful modern Sevres dessert service she gave us when we
were
married." I had no objection to make, and she went on, rubbing
her
soft cheek against my shoulder like the purring little cat she
was:
"Now I want you to do something to please me--and Mrs.
Blomfield.
She has set her heart on seeing your rubies, and though I know
you
hate her about as much as you do that Sevres china--"
"What! Wear my rubies with that! I won't. I'll tell you what
I
will do, though. I've got some carbuncles as big as prize
gooseberries, a whole set. Then you have only to put those
Bohemian glass vases and candelabra on the table, and let
your
gardener do his worst with his great forced, scentless,
vulgar
blooms, and we shall all be in keeping." Leta pouted. An
idea
struck me. "Or I'll do as you wish, on one condition. You
get
Lady Carwitchet to wear her big sapphire, and don't tell her I
wish
it."
I lived through the next few days as one in some evil dream.
The
sapphires, like twin specters, haunted me day and night. Was
ever
man so tantalized? To hold the shadow and see the substance
dangled temptingly within reach. The bishop made no sign of
ridding me of my unwelcome charge, and the thought of what
might
happen in a case of burglary--fire--earthquake--made me start
and
tremble at all sorts of inopportune moments.
I kept faith with Leta, and reluctantly produced my
beautiful
rubies on the night of her dinner party. Emerging from my room
I
came full upon Lady Carwitchet in the corridor. She was
dressed
for dinner, and at her throat I caught the blue gleam of the
great
sapphire. Leta had kept faith with me. I don't know what I
stammered in reply to her ladyship's remarks; my whole soul
was
absorbed in the contemplation of the intoxicating loveliness of
the
gem. THAT a Palais Royal deception! Incredible! My fingers
twitched, my breath came short and fierce with the lust of
possession. She must have seen the covetous glare in my eyes.
A
look of gratified spiteful complacency overspread her features,
as
she swept on ahead and descended the stairs before me. I
followed
her to the drawing-room door. She stopped suddenly, and
murmuring
something unintelligible hurried back again.
Everybody was assembled there that I expected to see, with
an
addition. Not a welcome one by the look on Tom's face. He
stood
on the hearthrug conversing with a great hulking,
high-shouldered
fellow, sallow-faced, with a heavy mustache and drooping
eyelids,
from the corners of which flashed out a sudden suspicious look
as I
approached, which lighted up into a greedy one as it rested on
my
rubies, and seemed unaccountably familiar to me, till Lady
Carwitchet tripping past me exclaimed:
"He has come at last! My naughty, naughty boy! Mr. Acton, this
is
my son, Lord Carwitchet!"
I broke off short in the midst of my polite acknowledgments
to
stare blankly at her. The sapphire was gone! A great gilt
cross,
with a Scotch pebble like an acid drop, was her sole
decoration.
"I had to put my pendant away," she explained confidentially;
"the
clasp had got broken somehow." I didn't believe a word.
Lord Carwitchet contributed little to the general
entertainment at
dinner, but fell into confidential talk with Mrs.
Duberly-Parker.
I caught a few unintelligible remarks across the table. They
referred, I subsequently discovered, to the lady's little book
on
Northchurch races, and I recollected that the Spring Meeting
was
on, and to-morrow "Cup Day." After dinner there was great
talk
about getting up a party to go on General Fairford's drag.
Lady
Carwitchet was in ecstasies and tried to coax me into
joining.
Leta declined positively. Tom accepted sulkily.
The look in Lord Carwitchet's eye returned to my mind as I
locked
up my rubies that night. It made him look so like his mother!
I
went round my fastenings with unusual care. Safe and closets
and
desk and doors, I tried them all. Coming at last to the
bathroom,
it opened at once. It was the housemaid's doing. She had
evidently taken advantage of my having abandoned the room to
give
it "a thorough spring cleaning," and I anathematized her.
The
furniture was all piled together and veiled with sheets, the
carpet
and felt curtain were gone, there were new brooms about. As
I
peered around, a voice close at my ear made me jump--Lady
Carwitchet's!
"I tell you I have nothing, not a penny! I shall have to borrow
my
train fare before I can leave this. They'll be glad enough to
lend
it."
Not only had the portiere been removed, but the door behind it
had
been unlocked and left open for convenience of dusting behind
the
wardrobe. I might as well have been in the bedroom.
"Don't tell me," I recognized Carwitchet's growl. "You've not
been
here all this time for nothing. You've been collecting for a
Kilburn cot or getting subscriptions for the distressed
Irish
landlords. I know you. Now I'm not going to see myself ruined
for
the want of a paltry hundred or so. I tell you the colt is a
dead
certainty. If I could have got a thousand or two on him last
week,
we might have ended our dog days millionaires. Hand over what
you
can. You've money's worth, if not money. Where's that
sapphire
you stole?"
"I didn't. I can show you the receipted bill. All I possess
is
honestly come by. What could you do with it, even if I gave
it
you? You couldn't sell it as the Valdez, and you can't get it
cut
up as you might if it were real."
"If it's only bogus, why are you always in such a flutter
about it?
I'll do something with it, never fear. Hand over."
"I can't. I haven't got it. I had to raise something on it
before
I left town."
"Will you swear it's not in that wardrobe? I dare say you
will. I
mean to see. Give me those keys."
I heard a struggle and a jingle, then the wardrobe door must
have
been flung open, for a streak of light struck through a crack
in
the wood of the back. Creeping close and peeping through, I
could
see an awful sight. Lady Carwitchet in a flannel wrapper,
minus
hair, teeth, complexion, pointing a skinny forefinger that
quivered
with rage at her son, who was out of the range of my vision.
"Stop that, and throw those keys down here directly, or I'll
rouse
the house. Sir Thomas is a magistrate, and will lock you up
as
soon as look at you." She clutched at the bell rope as she
spoke.
"I'll swear I'm in danger of my life from you and give you
in
charge. Yes, and when you're in prison I'll keep you there
till
you die. I've often thought I'd do it. How about the hotel
robberies last summer at Cowes, eh? Mightn't the police be
grateful for a hint or two? And how about--"
The keys fell with a crash on the bed, accompanied by some
bad
language in an apologetic tone, and the door slammed to. I
crept
trembling to bed.
This new and horrible complication of the situation filled me
with
dismay. Lord Carwitchet's wolfish glance at my rubies took a
new
meaning. They were safe enough, I believed--but the sapphire!
If
he disbelieved his mother, how long would she be able to keep
it
from his clutches? That she had some plot of her own of which
the
bishop would eventually be the victim I did not doubt, or why
had
she not made her bargain with him long ago? But supposing she
took
fright, lost her head, allowed her son to wrest the jewel from
her,
or gave consent to its being mutilated, divided! I lay in a
cold
perspiration till morning.
My terrors haunted me all day. They were with me at breakfast
time
when Lady Carwitchet, tripping in smiling, made a last attempt
to
induce me to accompany her and keep her "bad, bad boy" from
getting
among "those horrid betting men."
They haunted me through the long peaceful day with Leta and
the
tete-a-tete dinner, but they swarmed around and beset me
sorest
when, sitting alone over my sitting-room fire, I listened for
the
return of the drag party. I read my newspaper and brewed
myself
some hot strong drink, but there comes a time of night when no
fire
can warm and no drink can cheer. The bishop's despairing face
kept
me company, and his troubles and the wrongs of the future heir
took
possession of me. Then the uncanny noises that make all old
houses
ghostly during the small hours began to make themselves
heard.
Muffled footsteps trod the corridor, stopping to listen at
every
door, door latches gently clicked, boards creaked
unreasonably,
sounds of stealthy movements came from the locked-up bathroom.
The
welcome crash of wheels at last, and the sound of the
front-door
bell. I could hear Lady Carwitchet making her shrill adieux to
her
friends and her steps in the corridor. She was softly humming
a
little song as she approached. I heard her unlock her bedroom
door
before she entered--an odd thing to do. Tom came sleepily
stumbling to his room later. I put my head out. "Where is
Lord
Carwitchet?"
"Haven't you seen him? He left us hours ago. Not come home,
eh?
Well, he's welcome to stay away. I don't want to see more of
him."
Tom's brow was dark and his voice surly. "I gave him to
understand
as much." Whatever had happened, Tom was evidently too
disgusted
to explain just then.
I went back to my fire unaccountably relieved, and brewed
myself
another and a stronger brew. It warmed me this time, but
excited
me foolishly. There must be some way out of the difficulty.
I
felt now as if I could almost see it if I gave my mind to it.
Why--
suppose--there might be no difficulty after all! The bishop was
a
nervous old gentleman. He might have been mistaken all
through,
Bogaerts might have been mistaken, I might--no. I could not
have
been mistaken--or I thought not. I fidgeted and fumed and
argued
with myself till I found I should have no peace of mind without
a
look at the stone in my possession, and I actually went to the
safe
and took the case out.
The sapphire certainly looked different by lamplight. I sat
and
stared, and all but over-persuaded my better judgment into
giving
it a verdict. Bogaerts's mark--I suddenly remembered it. I
took
my magnifier and held the pendant to the light. There,
scratched
upon the stone, was the Greek Beta! There came a tap on my
door,
and before I could answer, the handle turned softly and Lord
Carwitchet stood before me. I whipped the case into my
dressing-
gown pocket and stared at him. He was not pleasant to look
at,
especially at that time of night. He had a disheveled,
desperate
air, his voice was hoarse, his red-rimmed eyes wild.
"I beg your pardon," he began civilly enough. "I saw your
light
burning, and thought, as we go by the early train to-morrow,
you
might allow me to consult you now on a little business of my
mother's." His eyes roved about the room. Was he trying to
find
the whereabouts of my safe? "You know a lot about precious
stones,
don't you?"
"So my friends are kind enough to say. Won't you sit down? I
have
unluckily little chance of indulging the taste on my own
account,"
was my cautious reply.
"But you've written a book about them, and know them when you
see
them, don't you? Now my mother has given me something, and
would
like you to give a guess at its value. Perhaps you can put me
in
the way of disposing of it?"
"I certainly can do so if it is worth anything. Is that it?"
I
was in a fever of excitement, for I guessed what was clutched
in
his palm. He held out to me the Valdez sapphire.
How it shone and sparkled like a great blue star! I made
myself a
deprecating smile as I took it from him, but how dare I call
it
false to its face? As well accuse the sun in heaven of being
a
cheap imitation. I faltered and prevaricated feebly. Where was
my
moral courage, and where was the good, honest, thumping lie
that
should have aided me? "I have the best authority for
recognizing
this as a very good copy of a famous stone in the possession of
the
Bishop of Northchurch." His scowl grew so black that I saw
he
believed me, and I went on more cheerily: "This was manufactured
by
Johannes Bogaerts--I can give you his address, and you can
make
inquiries yourself--by special permission of the then owner,
the
late Leone Montanaro."
"Hand it back!" he interrupted (his other remarks were
outrageous,
but satisfactory to hear); but I waved him off. I couldn't give
it
up. It fascinated me. I toyed with it, I caressed it. I made
it
display its different tones of color. I must see the two
stones
together. I must see it outshine its paltry rival. It was a
whimsical frenzy that seized me--I can call it by no other
name.
"Would you like to see the original? Curiously enough, I have
it
here. The bishop has left it in my charge."
The wolfish light flamed up in Carwitchet's eyes as I drew
forth
the case. He laid the Valdez down on a sheet of paper, and I
placed the other, still in its case, beside it. In that
moment
they looked identical, except for the little loop of sham
stones,
replaced by a plain gold band in the bishop's jewel.
Carwitchet
leaned across the table eagerly, the table gave a lurch, the
lamp
tottered, crashed over, and we were left in semidarkness.
"Don't stir!" Carwitchet shouted. "The paraffin is all over
the
place!" He seized my sofa blanket, and flung it over the
table
while I stood helpless. "There, that's safe now. Have you
candles
on the chimney-piece? I've got matches."
He looked very white and excited as he lit up. "Might have
been an
awkward job with all that burning paraffin running about," he
said
quite pleasantly. "I hope no real harm is done." I was
lifting
the rug with shaking hands. The two stones lay as I had
placed
them. No! I nearly dropped it back again. It was the stone
in
the case that had the loop with the three sham sapphires!
Carwitchet picked the other up hastily. "So you say this
is
rubbish?" he asked, his eyes sparkling wickedly, and an attempt
at
mortification in his tone.
"Utter rubbish!" I pronounced, with truth and decision,
snapping up
the case and pocketing it. "Lady Carwitchet must have known
it."
"Ah, well, it's disappointing, isn't it? Good-by, we shall
not
meet again."
I shook hands with him most cordially. "Good-by, Lord
Carwitchet.
SO glad to have met you and your mother. It has been a source
of
the GREATEST pleasure, I assure you."
I have never seen the Carwitchets since. The bishop drove
over
next day in rather better spirits. Miss Panton had refused
the
chaplain.
"It doesn't matter, my lord," I said to him heartily. "We've
all
been under some strange misconception. The stone in your
possession is the veritable one. I could swear to that
anywhere.
The sapphire Lady Carwitchet wears is only an excellent
imitation,
and--I have seen it with my own eyes--is the one bearing
Bogaerts's
mark, the Greek Beta."
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