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      The Other World, by Frank Frankfort Moore
    </title>
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<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 51963 ***</div>

    <div style="height: 8em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h1>
      THE OTHER WORLD
    </h1>
    <h2>
      By Frank Frankfort Moore
    </h2>
    <h4>
      Author of &lsquo;The Jessamy Bride,&rsquo; &lsquo;Nell Gwyn, Comedian,&rsquo; &lsquo;The Original
      Woman,&rsquo; &lsquo;Castle Omeragii,&rsquo; Etc. Etc.
    </h4>
    <h4>
      London: Eveleigh Nash
    </h4>
    <h3>
      MCMIV
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br /><br /><a name="linkimage-0001" id="linkimage-0001"> </a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig" style="width:50%;">
      <img src="images/0001.jpg" alt="0001 " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0001.jpg"><img src="images/enlarge.jpg" alt="" /> </a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      <br /><br /><a name="linkimage-0002" id="linkimage-0002"> </a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig" style="width:50%;">
      <img src="images/0007.jpg" alt="0007 " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0007.jpg"><img src="images/enlarge.jpg" alt="" /> </a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      &ldquo;<i>This Other World is indeed not so far distant from our own that is
      ruled by the sunne and moon. Therein the Prince of the Power of the Air
      hath his dominion, whose servants are the Witch and the Warlock,... the
      Night hagge,... and those that some, for want of a better name, term
      Ghosts, Ghouls (breeders of sadde dreams),... also the Hob Goblin (himself
      a foul fiend, albeit full of pranks),... Lyars all, but dangerous to
      trajfick with and very treacherous to Mankind. They lure to Perdition
      soone or late.</i>&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <p>
      <b>CONTENTS</b>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> A PROVIDENTIAL ESCAPE. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> &ldquo;MAGIC IN THE WEB OF IT.&rdquo; </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> THE BASELESS FABRIC </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> BLACK AS HE IS PAINTED. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> THE GHOST OF BARMOUTH MANOR. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2H_4_0006"> THE BLOOD ORANGES </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2H_4_0007"> THE STRANGE STORY OF NORTHAVON PRIORY. </a>
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      A PROVIDENTIAL ESCAPE.
    </h2>
    <p class="pfirst">
      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>he majority of the
      passengers aboard the steam yacht <i>Bluebottle</i> said that it was
      anybody&rsquo;s game. In the smoking-room&mdash;when neither Somers nor Norgate
      was present of course&mdash;the betting varied daily according to the
      events of the day. At first the odds were slightly in favour of Teddy
      Somers&mdash;yes, she undoubtedly gave signs of enjoying the companionship
      of Mr Somers. She had been seen by trustworthy witnesses standing behind
      him while he sketched with a rapid pencil the group of Portuguese boatmen
      surrounding the solitary Scotchman, who had got the better of them all in
      a bargain, within the first hour of the arrival of the yacht in Funchal
      Bay. Afterwards she had been noticed carefully gumming the drawing upon a
      cardboard mount. Would a girl take all that trouble about a man unless she
      had a sincere regard for him? was the question which a sapient one put to
      a section of his fellow passengers, accompanying an offer of three to one
      on Somers.
    </p>
    <p>
      But after a pause, which somehow seemed to suggest an aggregation of
      thought&mdash;the pauses of a conscientious smoker are frequently fraught
      with suggestions&mdash;a youth who had been accused of writing poetry, but
      whose excellent cigars did much to allay that suspicion, remarked&mdash;&ldquo;What
      you say about the drawing suggests that the girl takes an interest in him,
      and that would be fatal to her falling in love with him.&rdquo; There was
      another long pause, during which the smokers looked at one another,
      carefully refraining from glancing at the speaker, until the man who had
      offered the odds said&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you mean to tell us that a girl&rsquo;s being interested in a chap isn&rsquo;t the
      first step to her falling in love with him?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have no hesitation in saying so much&mdash;I could say a good deal more
      on the same subject,&rdquo; replied the propounder of the theory.
    </p>
    <p>
      Then it was that a number of the men glanced quickly toward him,&mdash;there
      was something of an appeal for mercy in the glance of most of them: it
      seemed as if they were not particularly anxious to hear a good deal more
      on the same subject.
    </p>
    <p>
      It is scarcely necessary to say, however, that the circumstance of their
      not wanting to hear a good deal more did not prevent the poet (alleged)
      from telling them a good deal more. It took him twenty-five minutes to
      formulate his theory, which was to the effect that it is impossible&mdash;impossible
      was the word he employed: there is no spirit of compromise on the part of
      a theorist, especially when he is young, and more especially when he has
      been suspected of writing poetry&mdash;<i>impossible</i> for a woman to
      love a man who has at first merely interested her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Love is a passion, whereas interest is&mdash;well, interest is merely
      interest,&rdquo; said he, with that air of finality which a youthful theorist
      assumes when he is particularly absurd&mdash;and knows it. &ldquo;Yes, when a
      woman hates a man thoroughly, and for the best of reasons,&mdash;though
      for that matter she may hate him thoroughly without having any reason for
      it,&mdash;she is nearer to loving him thoroughly than she is to loving a
      man who merely interests her, however deep may be the interest which he
      arouses.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll give three to one in sovereigns on Somers,&rdquo; said the man who had
      originally offered the same odds. He was clearly not amenable to the
      dictates of reason, the theorist said: he certainly was not amenable to
      the dictates of a theory, which, however, is not exactly the same thing.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s anybody&rsquo;s game, just now,&rdquo; remarked another of the sapient ones.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Anybody&rsquo;s except the man&rsquo;s in whom she has become interested,&rdquo; said the
      theorist.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My dear young man,&rdquo; said the professional cynic&mdash;he had scarcely
      recovered from a severe attack of <i>mal de mer</i>&mdash;&ldquo;My dear young
      man, you&rsquo;re not a very much greater ass than most boys of your age; but
      you will really not strike people as being much below the average if you
      only refrain from formulating any theory respecting any woman. The only
      thing that it is safe to say about a woman&mdash;any woman&mdash;every
      woman&mdash;is that no human being knows what she will do next.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, but we were not talking about what a woman will do next, but what
      she will do first,&rdquo; said the poet, who was not easily crushed. &ldquo;Now I say
      that she&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, do dry up!&rdquo; shouted a smoking man in a corner, who had just rung for
      a whisky-and-soda. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve heard more nonsense within the past half-hour
      than I ever heard during an entire year of my life. There is no sense in
      arguing, but there is some sense in betting. If you believe in your
      theory, back it with a sovereign to show that you&rsquo;re in earnest.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But the young man&rsquo;s theory did not run into coin; though in other
      directions three to one on Teddy Somers was officially reported as offered
      and taken.
    </p>
    <p>
      Two days afterwards the layer of the odds tried to hedge. The fact was
      that the girl had shown such a marked inclination for the society of Jack
      Norgate in preference to that of Teddy Somers, it seemed as if the former
      would, to make use of an apt phrase, romp in. But before the steam yacht
      <i>Bluebottle</i> had crossed the equator the odds were even, as a
      passenger named Molloy&mdash;he was reputed to be of Irish descent&mdash;remarked.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was a pleasant company that had left Gravesend on September 10th, for
      the six months&rsquo; cruise to cheat the winter (see advertisements) in the
      steam yacht <i>Bluebottle</i>, 3500 tons, Captain Grosvenor, R.N.R., in
      command. The passengers numbered sixty, and included singularly few
      disagreeable persons, in spite of the fact that the voyage was one that
      only people with money and leisure could afford. The vessel was well
      found, and her commander and officers were the pick of the Company&rsquo;s
      fleet, and possessed innumerable resources in the way of deck games. The
      report found ready credence in the service that Captain Grosvenor had
      gained his position through being the originator of deck-golf. However
      this may be, he certainly recognised in the amplest way the
      responsibilities of the position of trust which he occupied, and he never
      allowed any duty to interfere with his daily exposition of the splendid
      possibilities of deck-golf. He had started a golf tournament before the
      yacht had left the Channel, and he hove to for three days in the Bay of
      Biscay, when the heavy sea that was running threatened to interfere with
      the playing off of the tie between Colonel Mydleton and Sir Edwin Everard.
    </p>
    <p>
      The cruise promised to be all that the advertisements had predicted it
      would be. But before Madeira was reached comments were made upon the
      extraordinary scarcity of young girls among the passengers. Among a
      certain section of the passengers the comments on this point had a highly
      congratulatory tone, but among another section the matter was touched upon
      with a considerable amount of grumbling. Old voyagers, who were
      accompanied by vigilant wives (their own), foresaw a tranquil voyage,
      undisturbed by those complications which their experience told them
      invariably arise when attractive young women are to be found in graceful
      attitudes on deck chairs. On the other hand, however, there were several
      men aboard who had just sufficient experience of going down to the sea in
      steam yachts to cause them to look askance, during their first day aboard,
      over the deck chairs, which were occupied mainly by fathers and matrons.
      Yes, there was, undoubtedly, a scarcity of girls.
    </p>
    <p>
      The fact is that such a pleasure cruise as that which had been mapped out
      for the <i>Bluebottle</i> differs essentially from the ordinary Indian or
      Australian voyage. On the two last-named, girls are to be found by the
      score going out or returning. It is not a matter of pleasure with them&mdash;though
      most of them contrive to get a good deal of pleasure out of it&mdash;but a
      matter of necessity. The majority of people who set out on a cruise in a
      steam yacht do so only because time hangs heavy on their hands, and they
      do not take their daughters with them, for the simple reason that their
      daughters decline to expatriate themselves for six or eight months at the
      most critical period of their lives.
    </p>
    <p>
      Only six young women were among the passengers, of the <i>Bluebottle</i>;
      of these only three were quite good-looking, and of these three the only
      really beautiful one was Viola Compton. It did not take the experienced
      voyagers long to perceive that Miss Compton would have an extremely good
      time aboard the yacht. With all their experience they knew no better than
      to suppose that a girl is having a good time when she has half a dozen men
      at her feet, and a reserve force of twenty others ready to prostrate
      themselves before her at a moment&rsquo;s notice&mdash;when she is sneered at by
      her less pretty sisters, who tell one another that she gives herself
      insufferable airs&mdash;when she is frowned at by the wives of uncertain
      husbands, who call her (among themselves) a forward minx, and when she
      cannot snub the most odious of the men who disarrange her cushions for
      her, and prevent her from reading her novels by insisting on chatting to
      her on all the inanities which a long voyage fosters in men who on shore
      are alluded to as &ldquo;genial.&rdquo; If to be in such a position is to be having a
      good time, Viola had certainly the best time on record even before the
      yacht had crossed the Line. She had about a score of men around her who
      never allowed her to have a moment to herself; she was bored by Colonel
      Mydleton&rsquo;s story of Lord Roberts&rsquo; mistakes when in India, the crowning one
      being&mdash;according to Colonel Mydleton&mdash;the march to Kandahar,
      which he assured her was one of the greatest fiascos of the century; she
      was rendered uncomfortable for a whole afternoon of exquisite sunshine by
      the proximity of the poet, who insisted on repeating to her a volume of
      lyrics that only awaited a publisher; she was awakened from a delightful
      doze after tiffin by the commonplace jests of the young man who fondly
      believed himself to be a humourist; she was sneered at by the other girls
      and frowned upon by the matrons, and she was made the subject of bets in
      the smoking-room,&mdash;in short, she was having, most people agreed, an
      uncommonly good time aboard.
    </p>
    <p>
      The captain knew better, however: he had kept his eyes open during a
      lifetime of voyages on passenger steamers, and he could see a good deal
      with his eyes without the aid of a binocular telescope.
    </p>
    <p>
      There could be no doubt that Miss Compton treated both Teddy Somers and
      Jack Norgate with a favour which she could not see her way to extend to
      the other passengers. It was only natural that she should do so, the
      captain saw at once, though he was too experienced to say so even to his
      chief engineer, who was a Scotchman. Norgate and Somers were both nice
      chaps, and had won distinction for themselves in the world. The former was
      a mighty hunter, and had slain lions in the region of the Zambesi and
      bears in the Rockies: the latter was well known as an artist; he was
      something of a musician as well, and he had once had a play produced which
      had taken a very respectable position amongst the failures of the season.
      Both men were very well off,&mdash;the one could afford to be a hunter,
      and the other could even afford to be an artist. They were both clearly
      devoted to Viola; but this fact did not seem to interfere with the
      friendship which existed between them. Neither of the two tried to cut out
      the other so far as the girl was concerned. When Somers was sitting by her
      side, Norgate kept apart from them, and when Norgate chanced to find
      himself with her, his friend&mdash;although the tropical moonlight was
      flooding the heaven&mdash;continued his smoking on the bridge with the
      captain.
    </p>
    <p>
      The captain was lost in admiration of both men; he reserved some for the
      girl, however: he acknowledged that she was behaving very well indeed&mdash;that
      is, of course, for the only really pretty girl aboard a ship. The captain
      was a strong believer in the advantages of a healthy competition between
      young women: the tyranny of the monopolist had frequently come within his
      range of vision. Yes, he saw that Miss Compton was behaving discreetly.
      She did not seek to play off one man against the other, nor did she make
      the attempt to play off a third man against both. For his own part, he
      utterly failed in his attempt to find out in what direction her affections
      tended. He saw that the girl liked both men, but he did not know which of
      them she loved&mdash;assuming that she actually did love one of them. He
      wondered if the girl herself knew. He was strongly inclined to believe
      that she did not.
    </p>
    <p>
      But that was just where he made a mistake. She did know, and she
      communicated her knowledge to Teddy Somers one night when they stood
      together watching the marvellous phosphorescence of the South Atlantic
      within ten days&rsquo; sail of the Cape. A concert was going on in the great
      saloon, so that there was an appropriate musical background, so to speak,
      for their conversation. Teddy had said something to her that forced from
      her an involuntary cry&mdash;or was it a sigh?
    </p>
    <p>
      Then there was a pause&mdash;with appropriate music: it came from a banjo
      in the saloon.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is that your answer?&rdquo; he inquired, laying one of his hands upon hers as
      it lay on the brass plating of the bulwarks.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My answer?&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;I&rsquo;m so sorry&mdash;so very sorry, Mr Somers.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sorry? Why should you be sorry?&rdquo; he said softly. &ldquo;I tell you that I love
      you with all&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, do not say it again&mdash;for pity&rsquo;s sake do not say it again,&rdquo; she
      cried, almost piteously. &ldquo;You must never speak to me of love; I have
      promised to love only Jack&mdash;Mr Norgate.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What&mdash;you have promised?&mdash;you have&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It only happened after tiffin to-day. I thought perhaps he might have
      told you&mdash;I thought perhaps you noticed that he and I&mdash;oh yes,
      you certainly behaved as if you took it for granted that... ah, I am so
      sorry that you misunderstood.... I think that I must have loved him from
      the first.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      There was another long pause. He looked down into the gleaming water that
      rushed along the side of the ship. Then she laid one of her hands on his,
      saying&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Believe me, Mr Somers, I am sorry&mdash;oh, so sorry!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He took her hand tenderly, looking into her face as he said&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My dear child, you have no reason to be sorry: I know Jack Norgate well,
      and I know that a better fellow does not live: you will be happy with him,
      I am sure. And as for me&mdash;well, I suppose I was a bit of a fool to
      think that you&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do not say that,&rdquo; she cried. &ldquo;I am not worthy of you&mdash;I am not
      worthy of him. Oh, who am I that I should break up such a friendship as
      yours and his? I begin to wish that I had never come aboard this steamer.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do not flatter yourself that you have come between us, my dear,&rdquo; he said,
      with a little laugh. &ldquo;Oh no; &lsquo;shall I, wasting with despair?&rsquo;&mdash;well,
      I think not. Men don&rsquo;t waste with despair except on the lyric stage. My
      dear girl, he has won you fairly, and I congratulate him; and you&mdash;yes,
      I congratulate you. He is a white man, as they say on the Great Pacific
      slope. Listen to that banjo! Confound it! I wonder shall I ever be able to
      listen to the banjo again.... Shall we join the revellers in the saloon?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They went into the saloon together, and took seats on a vacant sofa. Some
      people eyed them suspiciously and said that Miss Compton was having an
      exceedingly good time aboard the yacht.
    </p>
    <p>
      Later on, Somers congratulated his friend very sincerely, and his friend
      accepted his congratulations in a very tolerant spirit.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh yes,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;I suppose it&rsquo;s what every chap must come to sooner or
      later. Viola is far better than I deserve&mdash;than any chap deserves.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s a very poor sort of girl that isn&rsquo;t better than the best chap
      deserves, and although I think you are the best chap in the world, I
      should be sorry to think that Miss Compton has not made a wise choice. May
      you be happy together!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thank you, old chap. I must confess to you frankly that some days ago I
      thought that you&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That I?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, that you had a certain tendresse for her yourself.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I! Oh, your judgment must have been warped by a lover&rsquo;s jealousy. &lsquo;The
      thief doth think each bush an officer&rsquo;&mdash;the lover fancies that every
      man&rsquo;s taste must be the same as his own. May you both be happy!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It seemed that his prayer was granted so far at least as the next day was
      concerned, for certainly no two people could appear happier than the
      lovers, as they sat together under the awning, watching half a dozen of
      their fellow-passengers perspiring over their golf.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs Compton&mdash;she was an invalid taking the cruise for her health&rsquo;s
      sake&mdash;was compelled to remain in her berth all day, but Jack Norgate
      visited her with her daughter after tiffin and doubtless obtained the
      maternal blessing, for when he came on deck alone in the afternoon his
      face was beaming as Moses&rsquo; face beamed on one occasion. There was a slight
      tornado about dinner-time and the vessel rolled about so as to necessitate
      the use of the &ldquo;fiddles&rdquo; on the table. It continued blowing and raining
      until darkness set in, so that the smoking-room was crowded, and three
      bridge-parties assembled in the chief saloon as well as a poker-party and
      a chess-party. Four bells had just been made, when one of the stewards
      startled all the saloon by crying out of the pantries&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Coming, sir!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A moment afterwards he hurried into the saloon, putting on his jacket, and
      looked round as if waiting to receive an order. The passengers glanced at
      him and laughed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What&rsquo;s the matter?&rdquo; asked the doctor.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Didn&rsquo;t some one call me, sir?&rdquo; the man inquired.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not that we heard,&rdquo; replied the doctor.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I thought I heard some one sing out, sir,&rdquo; said the steward, looking
      round.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It must have been some one on deck,&rdquo; suggested Colonel Mydleton. &ldquo;Shall I
      cut the cards for you, doctor?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The steward went on deck. He was met by Mr Somers, who, in reply to the
      man&rsquo;s inquiry, said&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Call you? No, I didn&rsquo;t call you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The infant Samuel,&rdquo; said one of the poker players, and the others at the
      table laughed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s raining cats and dogs, or whatever the equivalent to cats and dogs
      is in these parallels,&rdquo; said Somers. &ldquo;I got wet watching the <i>Bluebottle</i>
      show a clean pair of heels to a tramp. She&rsquo;s in our wake just now. I think
      I&rsquo;ll turn into my berth.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He went to the bar and called for a brandy-and-soda, and then sang out
      &ldquo;Good night,&rdquo; as he hurried to his cabin.
    </p>
    <p>
      The next morning Miss Compton appeared at the breakfast table, and so did
      Somers, but Norgate had clearly overslept himself, for he was absent. The
      captain inquired for him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He must be on deck, sir,&rdquo; said one of the stewards, &ldquo;for he was not in
      his cabin when I went with his chocolate an hour ago.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, he&rsquo;ll turn up before we have finished breakfast,&rdquo; said Somers,
      attacking his devilled kidneys.
    </p>
    <p>
      But his prediction was not realised. A pantry boy was sent on deck in
      search of Mr Norgate, but Mr Norgate was not to be found. A steward
      hurried to his cabin, but returned in a few minutes, saying that his bunk
      had not been slept in. The captain rose from the table with a
      well-simulated laugh. A search was organised. It failed to find him. The
      awful truth had to be faced: Mr Norgate was not aboard. Viola Compton was
      hysterical. Teddy Somers was silent; no one had ever seen him so deathly
      pale before.
    </p>
    <p>
      Theories were forthcoming to account for Norgate&rsquo;s suicide&mdash;people
      took it for granted, of course, that he had committed suicide. Only one
      person suggested the possibility of his having fallen overboard, and of
      his cry being that which the steward had heard, for a part of the pantry
      was open on the starboard side. But against this it was urged that Mr
      Somers must have been on deck at the time the steward had heard, or had
      fancied he heard, that cry, and Mr Somers said he had heard nothing.
    </p>
    <p>
      For a week the gloom hung over the whole party; but by the time the Cape
      was reached, Miss Compton was able to appear at the table once more. She
      looked heartbroken; but every one said she was bearing up wonderfully.
      Only the poet had the bad taste to offer her his sympathy through the
      medium of a sonnet.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <p>
      On leaving the Cape the bereaved girl seemed to find a certain plaintive
      consolation in the society of Mr Somers. He sat beside her in his deck
      chair, and they talked together about poor Jack Norgate; but after a week
      or two, steaming from Bombay to Ceylon, and thence through the Straits to
      Sydney, they began to talk about other subjects, and before long the girl
      began visibly to brighten. The passengers said she was a woman.
    </p>
    <p>
      And she proved that they were right, for when one lovely night Teddy
      Somers suggested very delicately to her that his affection for her was the
      same as it had always been, there was more than a little reproach in her
      voice as she cried&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, stop&mdash;stop&mdash;for Heaven&rsquo;s sake! My love is dead&mdash;buried
      with him. I cannot hear any one talk to me of love.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He pressed her hand and left her without another word.
    </p>
    <p>
      She remained in her deck chair far removed from the rest of the passengers
      for a long time, thinking her thoughts, whatever they may have been. The
      moon was almost at the full, so that it was high in the sky before the
      quartermaster made six bells, and those of the passengers who had not
      already gone to their berths arose from their chairs, murmuring that they
      had no notion it was within an hour of midnight. A few of them, passing
      the solitary figure of the girl on her chair, said &ldquo;Good night&rdquo; to her in
      a cheery way, and then shook their heads suggestively together with such
      an exchange of sentiments as &ldquo;Poor girl!&mdash;Poor girl!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very sad!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Melancholy affair!&rdquo; but it is doubtful if their hearts were so
      overcharged with sympathy as to interfere to any marked degree with their
      slumbers.
    </p>
    <p>
      The girl remained upon the deserted deck and watched the quartermasters
      collecting and storing away all the passengers&rsquo; chairs which lay scattered
      about, just as their owners had vacated them. When they had finished their
      job no one of the ship&rsquo;s company remained on the quarterdeck. The sound of
      the little swish made by a leaping flying-fish had a suggestion of
      something mysterious about it as it reached her ears: it seemed like the
      faint whisper of a secret of the sea&mdash;it seemed as if some voice
      outside the ship was saying &ldquo;Hist!&rdquo; to her, to attract her attention
      before making a revelation to her.
    </p>
    <p>
      But she knew what the sound was, and she did not move from her chair.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Alas&mdash;alas!&rdquo; she murmured, &ldquo;you can tell me nothing. Ah! there is
      nothing for me to be told. I know all that will be known until the sea
      gives up its dead. He loved me, and the sea snatched him from me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The tears with which her heart was filled began to overflow. She wept
      softly for a long time, and when at last she gave a sigh and wiped the
      mist from her eyes she found that the moon, previously so brilliant, had
      become dim. Its outline was blurred, so that, although the atmosphere was
      full of moonlight, it was impossible to say what was the centre of the
      illumination. It seemed to Viola as if a thin diaphanous silk curtain had
      fallen between the moon and the sea. Every object which an hour before had
      cast a black shadow athwart the deck&mdash;the spars of the mainmast, the
      quarterboat hanging in its davits&mdash;was clearly seen as ever, only
      without the strong contrasts of light and shade. The sea out to the
      horizon was of a luminous grey, which bore but a shadowy resemblance to
      the dark-blue carpet traversed by the glittering golden pathway to the
      moon, over which Viola had pensively gazed in the early night before
      Somers had come to her side.
    </p>
    <p>
      She now stood at the bulwarks looking across that shadowy expanse,
      marvelling at the change which had come about within so short a space of
      time.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My life&mdash;it is my life,&rdquo; she sighed. &ldquo;A short time ago it was made
      luminous by love; but now&mdash;ah! now&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She turned away with another sigh and walked back to her deck chair. She
      was in the act of picking up her cushions from the seat when, glancing
      astern, she was amazed on becoming aware of the fact that she was not
      alone at that part of the ship. She saw two figures standing together on
      the raised poop that covered the steam-steering apparatus at the farthest
      curve of the stern.
    </p>
    <p>
      She was amazed. She asked herself how it was possible that she had failed
      to see them when she had looked astern a few minutes before. The figures
      were of course shadowy in the strange mistily luminous atmosphere, but
      they were sufficiently conspicuous in the place where they stood to make
      her confident that, had they been there five minutes before, she would
      have seen them.
    </p>
    <p>
      She stood there wondering, the cushion which she had picked up hanging
      from her hand, who the men were that had come so mysteriously before her
      eyes an hour after the last of the passengers had, as she thought,
      descended to their berths.
    </p>
    <p>
      She could not recognise either of them. They were separated from her by
      half the length of the stern.
    </p>
    <p>
      Suddenly she gave a little gasp. The cushion which she had held dropped
      from her hand, for one of the figures made a movement, turning his back to
      the low poop rail over which he had been leaning, and that moment was
      enough, even in the pale light, to allow of her recognising the features
      of Jack Norgate.
    </p>
    <p>
      She gave a little cry of mingled wonder and joy, but before she had taken
      even a step toward that tableau, she had shrieked out; for in the second
      that separated her exclamations, the figure whom she saw in front of the
      one she knew had sprung upon him, causing him to overbalance himself on
      the low rail against which he was leaning, and to disappear over the side.
    </p>
    <p>
      She shrieked and sprang forward; at that moment the second figure seemed
      to fade away and to vanish into nothingness before her eyes. She staggered
      diagonally across the deck astern, but before she had taken more than a
      dozen blind steps her foot caught in the lashing of the tarpaulin which
      was spread over a pile of deck chairs, and she fell forward. One of the
      officers on watch, who had heard her cry, swung himself down from the roof
      of the deckhouse and ran to her help.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good God! Miss Compton, what has happened anyway?&rdquo; he cried.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There&mdash;there,&rdquo; she gasped, pointing to the poop. &ldquo;He went over the
      side&mdash;a minute ago&mdash;there is still time to stop the steamer and
      pick him up.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who went over the side? No one was aft but yourself,&rdquo; said the officer.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was Jack&mdash;Mr Norgate. Oh, why will you make no effort to rescue
      him? I tell you that I saw him go over.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The officer felt how she was trembling with excitement. She tried to rush
      across the deck, but would have fallen through sheer weakness, if the man
      had not supported her. He brought her to the seat at the side of the cabin
      dome-light.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are overcome, Miss Compton,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;You must calm yourself while I
      look into this business.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You do not believe that I saw anything; but I tell you&mdash;oh, he will
      be lost while you are delaying,&rdquo; she cried.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nothing of the sort,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;But for heaven&rsquo;s sake sit here. Leave the
      thing to me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He ran astern and made a pretence of peering into the distance of the
      ship&rsquo;s seething wake. He was wondering what he should do. The poor girl
      was evidently the victim of a hallucination. Several weeks had passed
      since her lover had disappeared, and all this time her grief at his loss
      had been poignant. This thing that had happened was the natural result of
      the terrible strain upon her nerves. Of course he never thought of awaking
      the captain or of stopping the vessel.
    </p>
    <p>
      While he was still peering over the taffrail, her voice sounded beside
      him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Here&mdash;it was just here,&rdquo; she said.
    </p>
    <p>
      He turned about.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good Lord! Miss Compton, you should not have left your seat,&rdquo; he cried.
      &ldquo;Let me help you down to the cabin.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Have you not seen him in the water?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There is no one in the water. In this light I would be able to see a
      man&rsquo;s head a mile astern. I will put my arm under yours and help you to
      get below. Trust to me. We would all do whatever it was in our power for
      your sake. We all sympathise with you. Shall I send a quartermaster for
      the doctor?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Viola had thrown herself down on the seat where he had placed her, and was
      sobbing with her hands before her face. The man did his best to soothe
      her. He made a sign to a quartermaster who had come aft to register the
      patent log, and told him to send the ship&rsquo;s doctor aft. He had no notion
      of accepting the sole responsibility of soothing a young woman who was
      subject to disquieting hallucinations.
    </p>
    <p>
      In a few minutes the doctor relieved him of his charge. Miss Compton had
      become quite tranquil. Only now and again she gazed into the steamer&rsquo;s
      wake and pressed her hand to her side. She allowed herself to be helped
      below in a short time, and did not refuse the dose of bromide which the
      doctor thought it his duty to administer to her.
    </p>
    <p>
      The next day the doctor and the fourth officer had a whispered conference.
      They agreed that it would be better to say nothing to any of the other
      passengers respecting Miss Compton&rsquo;s hallucination.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Poor girl&mdash;poor girl!&rdquo; said the doctor. &ldquo;I have been observing her
      for some time, and I cannot say that I was surprised at what occurred last
      night.. It is only remarkable that the breakdown did not happen sooner.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am glad that none of the rest of the ship&rsquo;s company heard her when she
      cried out,&rdquo; said the officer. &ldquo;Lord! you should have seen the look in her
      eyes when she stretched out her hand and insisted that she had seen the
      man topple over. I thought it well to do my best to humour her until I had
      a chance of sending for you. I felt that it was on the cards that she
      might throw herself over the side.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was touch and go,&rdquo; said the doctor. &ldquo;Ah, poor girl!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A week had passed before Viola reappeared among the passengers. Her mother
      explained to kind inquirers that she had remained on deck quite too late
      one night and had caught a chill. The doctor bore out her unimaginative
      explanation of the girl&rsquo;s absence, and added that it was much easier than
      most people suspected to catch a chill south of the Line. When Viola was
      at last permitted to come on deck she received many tokens of the interest
      which her fellow-passengers had in her progress toward recovery.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was not until the evening of her first day out of her cabin that Somers
      contrived to get a word or two with her alone.
    </p>
    <p>
      He was asking after her health when she turned upon him suddenly, saying&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mr Somers, it was you who threw Jack overboard!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good God!&rdquo; he cried, starting back from her. &ldquo;For heaven&rsquo;s sake, Viola,
      do not say so monstrous a thing! What!&mdash;I&mdash;Jack&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;-&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You did it,&rdquo; she said firmly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My dear child, how on earth have you got hold of such a notion?&rdquo; he asked
      her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was revealed to me that night&mdash;the night before I broke down,&rdquo;
       she replied. &ldquo;I had been sitting alone in my deck chair, and I was at the
      point of going below, when there&mdash;there on the poop at the side of
      the wheel astern, the whole dreadful scene was revealed to me. I tell you
      that I saw it all&mdash;Jack and you: I was not sure at first that the
      second figure was you, but I know now that it was you. I saw Jack turn
      round and lean against the rail, and that was the moment when you sprang
      at him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The man took some steps away from her.
    </p>
    <p>
      He took off his hat and wiped his forehead. He returned to her in a few
      moments, and said&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My dear child&mdash;oh, Viola! how is it possible for you to entertain so
      horrible a thought? Jack Norgate&mdash;my best friend!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You hoped to marry me&mdash;he is your rival&mdash;you murdered him!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Somers flung up his hands with an exclamation and hurried down to his
      cabin.
    </p>
    <p>
      The next day he came to her after tiffin.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I want to speak a word to you apart,&rdquo; he said.
    </p>
    <p>
      She went with him very far forward. Only a few passengers were on deck,
      and these were in their chairs astern.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I want to confess to you,&rdquo; he said in a low voice. &ldquo;I want to confess to
      you that it was I who threw Jack Norgate overboard.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She started and stared at him. She could not speak for some time. At last
      she was able to say in a whisper&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You&mdash;you&mdash;murdered him?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I murdered him. The temptation came over me. Oh, Viola, you do not know
      how I loved you&mdash;how I love you! My God!&mdash;should do it again if
      I thought it would give me a chance of you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She continued staring at him, and then seated herself by his side.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You&mdash;threw him overboard?&rdquo; she whispered again.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We were standing side by side on the poop deck far aft, watching the
      tramp steamer on that night; the yacht was rolling&mdash;he slipped&mdash;I
      gave him a push.... I have lost my soul for love of you, and you think the
      sacrifice worthless.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, it is too horrible&mdash;too terrible!&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;For me&mdash;for
      me!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He was silent. So was she. They sat together side by side for an hour. His
      terrible confession had dazed her. She was the first to break the silence.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Terrible&mdash;it is terrible!&rdquo; she murmured. &ldquo;Who could have told me
      that there was any love such as this in the world?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is my love for you,&rdquo; he said quietly. &ldquo;It is the love that dares all&mdash;all
      the powers of time and eternity. I tell you that I would do it again; I
      would kill any other man who came between us. But my crime has been
      purposeless; we are to part for ever at Sydney in two days.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;It is better that we should part.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She gave him her hand. He held it tightly for a moment, then dropped it
      suddenly, and left her standing alone on the deck.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Was there ever such love in the world?&rdquo; she murmured. &ldquo;But it is terrible&mdash;terrible!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The next day she went to where he was sitting alone, far from the other
      passengers.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mr Somers,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;you will not really leave the yacht at Sydney?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If you tell me to stay, I will stay by the ship&mdash;I will stay by you,
      and you shall know what love means,&rdquo; he said.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;I think I have learned that already.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My beloved&mdash;you tell me to stay?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I believe that you love me,&rdquo; said she.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My darling&mdash;my beloved! You are more to me than all the world&mdash;you
      are dearer to me than my hope of heaven!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes: you have shown me that you are speaking the truth. It is very
      terrible, but I know that it is the truth.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is the truth. And I know that you love me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I wonder if I ever loved any one else,&rdquo; said she, after a pause&mdash;&ldquo;that
      is, I wonder if any one else ever loved me as you have done.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      That was all that passed between them at the time; but two days later his
      hand was clasping hers as the steamer went past the Heads into the
      loveliest harbour of the world.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <p>
      It was very early in the morning when he left his cabin to go on deck. The
      yacht was swinging at anchor. The sound of many voices came from the deck.
    </p>
    <p>
      She was waiting to receive him at the door of his cabin. He put both his
      hands out to her: she did not take even one of them. She stared at him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I suppose you are the greatest scoundrel in the world,&rdquo; she said.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Viola&mdash;dearest!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I say you are the greatest scoundrel that ever lived, for you tried to
      obtain my love by telling me a lie&mdash;a lie&mdash;a horrible lie. You
      did not murder Jack Norgate. He fell overboard by accident that night,
      when no one was near him, and he was picked up by the ocean tramp which
      you had been watching&mdash;not beside him, but on the bridge. You are a
      wicked man. You told me that you murdered him, but you did nothing of the
      sort. There he is, coming toward us. I did not tell him how false you
      were, and I do not intend to tell him; but I know it for myself.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was you yourself who suggested the thing to me,&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;Did you not
      come to me accusing me of having murdered him? Did you not say that it had
      been revealed to you in a vision?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A vision? Oh, I was in need of a dose of bromide&mdash;that&rsquo;s all,&rdquo; said
      she.
    </p>
    <p>
      Then Jack Norgate came up with the captain by his side. The hand that Mr
      Somers offered him was limp and clammy.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Here&rsquo;s another of the ghost seers,&rdquo; laughed Jack. &ldquo;They all look on me as
      a ghost aboard this craft.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was a marvellous escape,&rdquo; said the captain. &ldquo;Luckily the tramp was a
      fine old slow tub, and still more luckily she had a good look-out for one
      hour only. Why, you couldn&rsquo;t have been in the water for more than ten
      minutes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It seemed about a week to me, old man,&rdquo; said Jack. &ldquo;And as for the tramp&mdash;well,
      we arrived at Sydney before you any way.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The captain laughed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was a providential escape,&rdquo; said he.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was a providential escape,&rdquo; said Viola, putting her arm through Jack&rsquo;s
      and walking away with him.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      &ldquo;MAGIC IN THE WEB OF IT.&rdquo;
     </h2>
    <h3>
      I.
    </h3>
    <p class="pfirst">
      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span> am so pleased
      that it has come about, my dearest Madge,&rdquo; said Mrs Harland. &ldquo;I always
      hoped that Julian would take a fancy&mdash;I mean that you&mdash;that you
      would come to think tenderly of Julian. It was the one hope of my life.
      What should I have done if he had come to me with a story of having fallen
      in love with one of those horrid modern young women&mdash;the sort who are
      for ever having their names in the papers about something or other&mdash;charities
      and things? Charity has become the most effective means of
      self-advertisement in these days.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If he had come to you saying that he loved such a girl, you&mdash;you
      would have loved her too, you dear old thing!&rdquo; cried Madge, kissing her on
      both cheeks.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Madge, I&rsquo;m ashamed of you,&rdquo; said Mrs Harland with dignity&mdash;the
      dignity of the lady with a grievance.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is of yourself you would feel ashamed if your son came to you with a
      tale of loving a girl&mdash;any girl&mdash;and you failed to see her
      exactly with his eyes,&rdquo; laughed Madge. &ldquo;But I know you are glad that your
      duty in this respect is so easy: you have always loved me, haven&rsquo;t you?
      How could you help it? When I think of how naughty I used to be; of the
      panes in the greenhouse I used to break, playing cricket with Julian&mdash;panes
      that involved no penalties; when I think of your early peas that I used to
      steal and eat raw out of the pods; when I think of all the mischief I used
      to put poor Julian up to, usually giving him a good lead over; and when I
      reflect that not once did I ever receive more than a verbal reproof from
      you, then I know that you could not help loving me,&mdash;it was not my
      fault that you did not think of me as the greatest nuisance in the
      county.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs Harland laughed, though she had entered upon this interview with the
      girl who was to be her daughter-in-law very seriously, and in by no means
      a laughing spirit.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I loved you always, because you were always a girl to be loved, and my
      prayer day and night, dear, was that Julian would come to think so in good
      time,&rdquo; said she. &ldquo;I was, I admit, slightly alarmed to find how very
      friendly you and he always were: every one knows that nothing is so fatal
      to falling in love as great friendliness.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of course,&rdquo; said Madge. &ldquo;How funny it was that I should never think about
      the matter at all! And yet I feel that I must always have loved him, just
      as I do now. How could any one help it, my dearest mother?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The fond mother of Julian Harland made no attempt to answer so difficult a
      question. Some mothers may be able to formulate on economic grounds how it
      is that young men do not find it impossible to resist the charms of their
      numerous daughters; but the mother of an only son declines to entertain
      the notion that he may fail to attract any girl who has had the good
      fortune to appear attractive in his eyes. That was why Mrs Harland fully
      acquiesced in Madge&rsquo;s view of the irresistible qualities of Julian.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He is a good boy, he has never been otherwise than a good boy,&rdquo; she said.
      &ldquo;Still&mdash;well, I know that his future is safe in your keeping, my
      Madge.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She had heard of extremely good boys making extremely undesirable matches
      with young women in tobacconists&rsquo; shops. It would seem as if every
      university town must be overflowing with tobacconists&rsquo; shops, and as if
      every tobacconist&rsquo;s shop must be overcrowded with attractive young ladies;
      one reads so much (in books written by ladies) of the undergraduate
      victims to tobacconists&rsquo; girls. She felt glad that her son Julian had not
      come to her from Oxford with a story of having made up his mind that he
      could only be entirely happy if married to one of these. She felt that he
      had been a really good son in choosing Madge Winston, the most beautiful
      girl in the county, rather than a snub-nosed, golden-haired girl from
      behind a tobacconist&rsquo;s counter. Yes, he deserved great credit for his
      discrimination.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And I am doubly glad that you have become engaged just now,&rdquo; she
      continued. &ldquo;You will keep him at home, Madge.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He has never shown any tendency to roam again,&rdquo; said Madge, with an
      inquiring look into Mrs Harland&rsquo;s eyes. &ldquo;He has often said that having had
      his tiger-shooting in Kashmir, he is perfectly satisfied.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was not that sort of shooting that was in my mind,&rdquo; said Mrs Harland.
      &ldquo;But his father was a soldier&mdash;my father was a soldier. Look round
      the hall, Madge&mdash;nothing but uniforms in every picture. That is why&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are afraid that if this war breaks out in earnest&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s it&mdash;that&rsquo;s it. He belongs to a race of soldiers. There has
      not been a war since Blenheim between England and any other Power in which
      a Harland and a Severn have not fought.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That is a splendid thing to be able to say; and yet Julian was content
      with his Militia. Isn&rsquo;t that strange?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was for my sake, dearest Madge. I saw in his face before he was
      sixteen the old racial longing to be a soldier, and I made an appeal to
      him. He put his career away from him for my sake, Madge. He promised to
      stay at home with me in my loneliness.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You were able to make such an appeal to him?&rdquo; There was a suggestion of
      surprise in the girl&rsquo;s voice, and it carried with it a curious suggestion
      of coldness as well.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Was it selfish of me&mdash;was it, Madge? Oh! I dare say it was. Yes, it
      must have been selfish; but think of my position, dear. He is all I have
      in the world now. What would life be worth to me if he were away, or if he
      were in danger? And then, think of his responsibilities. The property is
      not a large one, and it requires careful treatment. You don&rsquo;t think that I
      was unreasonable, Madge?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh no, no,&rdquo; said the girl. &ldquo;You were right, quite right; only&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Only&mdash;only what, dear?&rdquo; said Mrs Harland. &ldquo;What is on my mind
      exactly at this moment,&rdquo; said Madge, &ldquo;is, that I&mdash;I would not have
      been strong enough to say that to him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To say what to him, Madge?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What you said&mdash;to ask him to stay at home when he had his heart set
      on being a soldier, as his father and as his grandfathers were. Even now&mdash;but
      what&rsquo;s the use of discussing a situation that cannot arise? Even if the
      war breaks out, he is only a Militia captain, so that he cannot be called
      on for duty in a campaign.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of course, the war will be over in a month or two, and there is no chance
      of the Militia being called out; but it is just for the next month or so
      that I have my fears&mdash;my fears, I should say. I have none now that I
      know that you have promised to make him happy&mdash;to make <i>me</i>
      happy. I had my fears that at the first sound of the trumpet in his ears
      all the instincts of his house... Look at those uniforms in every picture
      round the hall.... Ah, I was afraid that he might ask me to release him
      from his promise.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And you knew that you would have released him without a word of demur,&rdquo;
       said Madge. &ldquo;You know that you would do so, for you belong to a fighting
      house, too. Bless me, I&rsquo;m the only representative of civilianism among you
      all. Oh, it is high time that the fighting Severns and the fighting
      Harlands got a pacific element introduced among them.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That is what I feel,&rdquo; said Mrs Harland. &ldquo;Madge, you will not allow him
      ever to yield to that tradition of his house. I feel that so long as he is
      by your side he is safe. One campaign at least will take place without a
      descendant of the Harlands having anything to do with it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Before Madge had time to make a reply the gravel of the drive was sent
      flying against the lowest panes of the room by the feet of a horse reined
      in suddenly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Julian has returned with some important news,&rdquo; said Madge, glancing
      outside.
    </p>
    <p>
      In another instant a man&rsquo;s step sounded in the porch, and Julian Harland
      entered the old oak hall with a newspaper in the same hand that held his
      hunting crop.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It has come at last!&rdquo; he cried. &ldquo;War! war! war!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;England has declared war against the Transvaal!&rdquo; said Madge.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;On the contrary, it is Mr Kruger, the Boer farmer, who has declared war
      against Great Britain!&rdquo; said he.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Poor Mr Kruger!&rdquo; said Madge.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am sorry&mdash;very sorry! War is terrible! I know what war means,&rdquo;
       said Mrs Harland.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sorry!&mdash;sorry!&rdquo; cried her son. &ldquo;Why, what is there to be grieved,
      about? You&rsquo;re not a friend of Mr Kruger&rsquo;s, mother?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know what war means,&rdquo; said she.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And I don&rsquo;t,&rdquo; said he.
    </p>
    <p>
      There was something in his voice that suggested a sigh, and it seemed that
      he was aware of this himself, for he threw his riding crop into a corner,
      and cried out quite cheerily&mdash;&ldquo;I&rsquo;m happy to feel all the springs of
      domesticity welling up within my bosom since you made me the happiest chap
      in the county, my Madge. I have no greater ambition than to sit in a chair
      at one side of the fire with you to look at, my Madge. How rosy you are,
      my dear. What is keeping the lunch, mother? We must drink together
      &lsquo;Confusion to Kruger!&rsquo; His ultimatum&mdash;fancy a half-caste Dutch
      peasant having the impudence to write an ultimatum to Great Britain!&mdash;it
      expires to-day. We&rsquo;ll not leave the hall till we are sure it has expired.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He continued in this excited strain during lunch, and Madge found that she
      too was in the same vein. War was in the air, and while the crowds in
      London were cheering aloud and singing &ldquo;God Save the Queen!&rdquo; with flashing
      eyes, the little group of three at the table in that old Somerset hall
      stood up and drank to the success of the Queen&rsquo;s soldiers in South Africa.
      Around them on the oak panels were the pictures of Harlands in red coats,
      Harlands in blue coats, Harlands in the demi-armour of the Stuarts,
      Harlands in the chain mail of the Lancastrians. Every man of them carried
      a sword and kept his eyes fixed on the living head of their house sternly,
      anxiously.
    </p>
    <p>
      And that was why Julian, after drinking to the toast which he had given a
      moment before, remained on his feet with his glass still in his hand, and
      with his eyes looking from picture to picture as though he had never seen
      one of them previously in his life.
    </p>
    <p>
      His mother watched him, so did Madge.
    </p>
    <p>
      The glass dropped from his hand and was smashed in pieces on the floor,
      and he fell back into his chair and gave a loud laugh.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s Kruger!&rdquo; he cried: &ldquo;smashed!&mdash;smashed!&mdash;beyond recovery!&mdash;beyond
      coaguline&mdash;smashed&mdash;and without a Harland raising his hand
      against him,&mdash;that&rsquo;s what they are saying&mdash;those Harlands that
      have had their eyes fixed on me, as if I needed their prompting. Come
      along, sweet womenfolk, and have a look at the sundial that Rogers
      unearthed when digging the new rose-bed, where the remains of the old maze
      were,&mdash;the date is carved on it, 1472 a.d. Just think of it, hidden
      for perhaps three hundred years and only unearthed yesterday, at the very
      hour that you promised to be my own Madge! A good omen! What does it mean
      except that a new era for the old house is beginning? Come along, my
      dearest.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      There was no great alacrity in Madge&rsquo;s response to his challenge.
    </p>
    <h3>
      II.
    </h3>
    <p class="pfirst">
      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">H</span>is father was
      killed in the Soudan, having inherited the property when his elder brother
      had been killed, a few years before, in Zulu-land. Four brothers, all of
      them men of splendid physique, had been slain in battle within a space of
      four years, and three widows and many children had been left desolate.
    </p>
    <p>
      He knew the story of heroism associated with every one of the four, and he
      knew the stories of the heroism associated with the death of his
      grandfather at the Alma, and his greatgrandfather at Waterloo. That was
      why he had taken it for granted from his earliest years that he was to be
      a solder. It never occurred to him that there was any other destiny
      possible for a Harland of the Hall.
    </p>
    <p>
      But when his mother came to him one day and poured her plaint into his
      ear, entreating him for her sake to think of himself as associated with a
      happier fate, he had yielded to her, though he made no admissions in
      regard to the comparative happiness involved in the fate of dying on the
      field of battle, or as a senile fox-hunter after a protracted run to
      hounds. He showed himself to be a dutiful son, and he went to Oxford and
      then ate his dinners at the Temple, as he believed a reasonably aspiring
      country gentleman should do if he wished to retain his self-respect. He
      had also drilled every year with the Militia regiment in which he held a
      commission, and was rapidly qualifying for the rank of major.
    </p>
    <p>
      But during these years the country was engaged in no war that made any
      great demand upon its resources: he had no great temptation to go against
      the Afridis, and he felt sure that Khartoum could be reached by Kitchener
      without his personal supervision. But his mother noticed a change upon him
      as he read day by day of the probabilities of a war breaking out between
      England and the Transvaal. A strange uneasiness seemed to have come over
      him, and he talked of nothing except South Africa as a campaigning ground.
    </p>
    <p>
      His mother became more uneasy than he was, and she was only in a measure
      relieved when one day he came to her, telling her that he had asked Madge
      Winston, the daughter of the Vicar of Hurst Harland, to marry him, and
      that she had consented. Mrs Harland told him that he had made her the
      happiest mother in the world; but from the chat, just recorded, which she
      had with Madge in the hall before Julian had returned with the news of the
      ultimatum, it will be gathered that she had still some misgivings.
    </p>
    <p>
      They were strengthened by observing Julian&rsquo;s strange behaviour during the
      drinking of the toast. She saw the light that was in his eyes as he talked
      a little wildly about the coming campaign. She had seen such a light in
      the eyes of his father when talking of a coming campaign. She knew what it
      meant.
    </p>
    <p>
      She did not accompany Julian and Madge when they went out together to look
      at the old pillar sundial which a gardener had dug up the day before. She
      was happily able to make a reasonable excuse for staying behind: a servant
      had just brought her a message to the effect that one of the lacemakers of
      the village had come by appointment to see her. She had interested herself
      for several years in the lacemaking, and was in the habit of getting old
      pieces of her own splendid collection repaired by one of the cleverest of
      the girls.
    </p>
    <p>
      This girl was still in the hall when Julian and Madge were driven indoors
      by a slight shower, and Mrs Harland showed them the piece of work which
      she had had mended. It was a delicate handkerchief bordered with rosebuds,
      and curiously enough, as Julian pointed out, the sprays arranged
      themselves so as to form a constant repetition of the letter M.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That stands for Madge, doesn&rsquo;t it?&rdquo; cried he.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It stands for Medici,&rdquo; said his mother. &ldquo;This particular piece of lace
      belonged to Marie de&rsquo; Medici, though no one ever noticed that the rosebuds
      entwined themselves into the letter M.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will buy the handkerchief from my mother for you, Madge,&rdquo; he cried.
      &ldquo;Who knows what magic may be &lsquo;in the web of it,&rsquo; like poor Desdemona&rsquo;s!
      These Medici were uncanny folk. The earlier ones certainly understood the
      art of magic as practised by the highest authorities in the Middle Ages.
      Yes, the M stands for Madge. Take it, dear, I won&rsquo;t be so ungracious as to
      add Othello&rsquo;s charge to Desdemona about keeping it; and if I should find
      it in a railway carriage or anywhere else in years to come, you may make
      your mind easy. I&rsquo;ll not strangle you on that account.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I got it mended on purpose for you, Madge,&rdquo; said Mrs Harland.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are so good,&rdquo; said the girl, spreading out the filmy thing
      admiringly. &ldquo;You know that there is nothing I love so well as lace, and
      this design is the most perfect that could be imagined. A thousand thanks,
      dearest mother.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Julian seemed before the evening to have become quite resigned to staying
      at home; and during the next few weeks, though he followed the progress of
      the preparations for the campaign with great interest, pointing out what
      he believed would be the plans of each of the divisional commanders to his
      mother and Madge, yet he never semed to be unduly eager in the matter. He
      seemed to look on the campaign in a purely academic spirit&mdash;merely as
      a Kriegspiel,&mdash;and his mother&rsquo;s fears vanished. She blessed the day
      that Madge had come to the Hall. It was Madge, and Madge only, who had
      succeeded in restraining his burning desire to be in the thick of the
      fight.
    </p>
    <p>
      But, then, following swiftly upon the news of the arrival of the First
      Army Corps and the successes of the sorties from Ladysmith, which elated
      the whole of England for some days, came like a thunderclap the news of a
      disaster&mdash;a second disaster&mdash;a third! It seemed as if the
      campaign was going to collapse before it had well begun. The change made
      itself apparent in every part of England&mdash;in every household in
      England, and in none more vividly than at Harland Hall. A change had come
      over Julian; he had no word for any one; he walked moodily about the house
      and the grounds, taking no interest in anything. He made an excuse for
      going up to London for a day or two, and he returned with a mass of news.
      The country had been taken by surprise in regard to the Boer preparations.
      The campaign was going to be a long one, and every available man was to be
      called out; he had it from good authority&mdash;the best authority in the
      world.
    </p>
    <p>
      His mother saw that the old light had come back to his eyes, and she
      shuddered.
    </p>
    <p>
      The next morning when Madge came downstairs she saw her sitting in the
      hall, with her head bent down, her son standing over her with a paper in
      his hands.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Madge! Madge!&rdquo; cried the mother, &ldquo;you will tell him to stay; he is going
      to leave us, but you will tell him to stay. He will stay if you implore of
      him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;I will stay if Madge asks me; but she will not ask me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You will ask him&mdash;you will implore of him to stay, Madge, my
      daughter!&rdquo; cried Mrs Harland.
    </p>
    <p>
      There was a long silence. The girl had become deathly pale. She stood at
      her chair at the table. She did not speak.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why are you silent?&mdash;why are you dumb?&rdquo; cried the mother. &ldquo;Will you
      see him go forth to die, as all the others of his family have done in the
      past? Cannot you understand what has happened? Oh! you have only just come
      down. You have not heard the news: the last of the Reserves have been
      called out, and volunteers are being called on from the Militia!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And I have volunteered,&rdquo; said Julian in a low voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      She was still deathly pale. Her hands grasped the carved back of the
      chair. She did not speak.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dear Madge, you will tell him?&rdquo; began Mrs Harland.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; said the girl, &ldquo;I will tell him that I am proud of him&mdash;that
      if he had remained at home now I would never have married him!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She walked steadily across the hall and put both her hands out to him. He
      took them in his own, and bent his head down to them, kissing each of
      them.
    </p>
    <p>
      Then he raised his head and looked round at the portraits in the panels,
      and laughed.
    </p>
    <p>
      He left the Hall in the evening.
    </p>
    <h3>
      III.
    </h3>
    <p class="pfirst">
      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>t was the most
      dismal Christmas that any one in England could remember. Here and there a
      success had been snatched from the enemy; but the list of casualties
      published every day made the morning papers a terror to read. The British
      losses had passed the tenth thousand, and still Buller could not reach
      Ladysmith and Methuen could not cross the Modder. It seemed as if the last
      of the Egyptian plagues had fallen on England, and there was not a
      household in which there was not one dead!
    </p>
    <p>
      It was a dreary Christmas at Harland Hall. News had arrived a few days
      previously of Julian&rsquo;s safe arrival at the Cape and of his having taken
      part in a skirmish on his way to the front. Every morning his mother and
      Madge&mdash;who had come to stay at the Hall for another month&mdash;picked
      up the newspaper and glanced with fearing eyes down the usual casualty
      list. When they failed to find his name there they breathed again. There
      was no thought of festivity in the Hall this Christmas Day, and it was a
      relief to Madge as well as to Mrs Harland when bedtime came. Before going
      to bed the girl sat for some time before the fire in her room, with
      Julian&rsquo;s portrait in her hand, and on her lap some of the things which his
      hands had touched&mdash;a shrivelled November rose which he had discovered
      on the last stroll they had together through the garden&mdash;a swan&rsquo;s
      feather which he had picked up and thrust with a laugh and a mock taunt
      into her hair&mdash;the lace handkerchief which had been given to her on
      the day of the outbreak of the war. She sat there lost in her own thoughts&mdash;praying
      her own prayers.
    </p>
    <p>
      Suddenly she became aware of an unusual sound&mdash;a sort of tap at rare
      intervals upon her window-pane. At first she fancied that it was a twig of
      ivy which was being blown by the breeze against the window, but the next
      time the sound came she felt sure that it could only be produced by a tiny
      pebble flung up from the carriage drive.
    </p>
    <p>
      For a few moments she was slightly alarmed. She quickly extinguished her
      candle, however, and then went to the window, drawing the blind a little
      way to one side and peering out. There was no moon, but the sky was full
      of stars, and she knew that if any one was on the drive there was light
      enough to make her aware of the fact. For some time, however, her eyes,
      accustomed to the light of her room, were unable to make out any figure
      below; but after waiting at the window for a few minutes, it seemed to her
      that she could detect the figure of a man in the middle of the drive.
    </p>
    <p>
      She shut out all the light of the fire behind her and continued peering.
      Beyond a doubt there was a man outside. He was waving something white up
      to her. In another instant she knew him. A terrible fear took hold upon
      her, for she knew that she was looking out at a man in khaki uniform, and
      she knew that that man was Julian Harland. And now she saw him distinctly
      in the starlight: he was making signs to her, pointing to the porch and
      walking in that direction.
    </p>
    <p>
      She dropped the blind. There was no doubt whatever in her mind now: Julian
      had returned suddenly, and for some reason he wished to be admitted into
      the house secretly.
    </p>
    <p>
      She stole down the broad shallow staircase into the hall, and by the light
      of the glowing logs which smouldered in the big grate she found her way to
      the oaken door that shut off the porch from the hall. She loosened its
      chains as silently as possible, and opened it. Then she went through to
      the porch and found herself standing opposite the studded hall door. There
      she paused for an instant, asking herself if she should open it.
    </p>
    <p>
      A low tap sounded on it from the outside.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am here,&rdquo; she said in a low voice; &ldquo;am I to open the door for you,
      Julian?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Open, Madge, quick&mdash;quick, I am wounded,&rdquo; he said.
    </p>
    <p>
      With trembling fingers she unfastened the bolt, opened the door, and
      allowed him to pass into the porch.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;O, my darling, have you been wounded?&rdquo; she cried. She had not put herself
      into his arms: she had a sense of his being wounded, and she was afraid of
      hurting him by coming in contact with the wound. She felt his hand on
      hers.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is really only a trifle, Madge,&rdquo; said he; &ldquo;you will be able to bind it
      up for me, and you must not awaken poor mother. The shock of seeing me
      might kill her.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They went side by side into the hall, and he sank down with a sigh of
      relief on the big settee before the fire. She broke up one of the
      smouldering logs, and it glowed into a great flame which showed her that
      his face was very pale and that he had grown a beard.
    </p>
    <p>
      She was on her knees at his knees in a moment.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dearest Julian!&rdquo; she cried, with her arms about him, &ldquo;how did you come
      without sending me word? Oh, where are you wounded?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The arm&mdash;the right,&rdquo; he said rather feebly. &ldquo;It is only a flesh
      wound, I know, but it was enough to knock me over, and it has been
      bleeding badly. If you wash it and bind it up a bit, however, it will be
      all right until the morning, when I can have it looked to.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Slowly and painfully he raised his right arm. He had apparently slit up
      the sleeve of his tunic, and the pieces fell away to the right and left of
      his arm, showing her a wound black with coagulated blood.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My poor boy&mdash;my poor boy!&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;I shall do my best with it;
      but it is an ugly wound. Why should I not send a man to the surgery? Dr
      Gwynne will come at once.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, no,&rdquo; he said; &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t want to make a fuss at this hour. You can
      manage without outside help. Hadn&rsquo;t you better light the candles?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She sprang to her feet, and picking up one of the long chips from the log
      basket, lighted it in the fire and then transferred the flame to two of
      the old sconces at the side of the fireplace. As the light flickered on
      him she saw that his tunic was torn and splashed, and that his putties
      were caked with mire. No wayside tramp could be in a more dilapidated
      condition than Julian was in. He had clearly been walking some distance;
      and yet she could not recollect seeing any clay for miles around of the
      same tint as that which was caked upon his garments.
    </p>
    <p>
      She was about to ask him why he should not go upstairs to his own room
      where she could attend to him properly, but she restrained her nurse&rsquo;s
      instinct to ask an irritated patient questions. She examined the wound and
      said&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will wash it for you and bind it up till the morning. I shall get a
      basin in my own room.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;A ministering angel thou!&rsquo;&rdquo; he said, with a very wan smile. &ldquo;By the way,
      Madge, do you remember the lace handkerchief&mdash;the Medici
      handkerchief?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I was looking at it only an hour ago,&rdquo; she said.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;There&rsquo;s magic in the web of it,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;Fetch it and bind up my wound
      with that cobweb drawn over rosebuds and I shall be all right.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She hastened to her room, and in a few moments had picked out from a
      drawer some soft linen, a bottle of arnica, and a pair of scissors. She
      had attended ambulance classes, and had confidence in her own capacity to
      deal with any ordinary &ldquo;case.&rdquo; Then she put the lace Medici handkerchief
      with the other appliances, and, carrying a large china bowl with her water
      jug, came quietly down the stairs once more.
    </p>
    <p>
      He had fallen asleep on the settee, but in an instant he was awake. He was
      plainly vigilant at once.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is beginning to feel a bit stiff, but that is on account of the
      bleeding,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;I knew I was doing wisely in awaking you only. I
      couldn&rsquo;t stand a fuss.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will make no fuss,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;and I shall hurt you as little as
      possible. I will even refrain from asking you any questions.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s right; I feel so sleepy,&rdquo; said he.
    </p>
    <p>
      In a deft and businesslike way she washed the clotted blood from the
      wound, and she quickly perceived that it was only a deep flesh wound, but
      it had bled a great deal and that had weakened him. She bandaged the arm
      with layers of linen, and when the bandage was secure he cried&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now for the handkerchief&mdash;that will make me all right in a moment.
      The earlier Medici were, I told you, wonderful folk, though the later&mdash;&mdash;Ah,
      you are a good girl.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She knew that he must be humoured. She made no protest against using her
      handkerchief in such a way.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You have no idea how relieved I feel,&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;My dearest girl, I knew
      that I would be safe in your hands. Now get me a big drink of water and I
      shall be all right.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She hastened to where a great cut-glass carafe and its goblet stood on the
      oak sideboard. He gave an exclamation that suggested more than
      satisfaction while the water was sobbing in the throat of the bottle, and
      when he had drunk a clear pint he gave a sigh.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I haven&rsquo;t had such a drink for weeks,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;Now, dear girl, I&rsquo;m
      dying with sleep, and so, I fancy, are you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You do not mean to sleep here?&rdquo; she cried. &ldquo;You will go to your own room,
      Julian, dear; a fire has been lighted in it every day to keep out any
      possible damp.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I couldn&rsquo;t think of such luxury when so many of my poor comrades are
      lying under the cold stars,&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t urge me, Madge; but go to
      your own bed and sleep well.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Even while she was still looking at him, he laid his head back among the
      pillows of the settee and fell asleep. She waited by his side only for a
      few moments, and then went quietly up to her room. She threw herself on
      her knees by her bedside and wept tears of joy at the thought that he had
      come safe home again, with only a wound that a few weeks would heal.
    </p>
    <p>
      But when she had undressed and got into bed she could not help feeling
      that his homecoming was strange beyond imagination. He had sent no
      telegram, he had arrived with the stains of battle still on his uniform,
      and, strangest of all, his wound was not an old one. Not many hours had
      passed since he had sustained it.
    </p>
    <p>
      What on earth was the explanation of all this?
    </p>
    <p>
      She felt unequal to the task of working out the question. She felt that
      all other thoughts should give place to the glorious thought that he was
      safe at home. He would explain everything in the morning.
    </p>
    <h3>
      IV.
    </h3>
    <p class="pfirst">
      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">W</span>hen she awoke this
      thought was dominant. He was at home&mdash;safe&mdash;safe!
    </p>
    <p>
      She listened at the door of his room to catch his cheery laughter with the
      first of the servants who might discover him. But no such sound came to
      her ears. She was nearly dressed when Mrs Harland entered her room.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well!&rdquo; she cried. &ldquo;Well! you have seen him? Good heavens, why do you look
      at me in that way? Have you not seen him?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dear Madge,&rdquo; said Mrs Harland, &ldquo;your eyes have a strange gleam in them.
      What do you mean by asking me if I have seen him&mdash;<i>him?</i> Is
      there more than one <i>him</i> for me and for you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But he came here late last night, he threw pebbles up at that window, and
      I let him into the hall and bound up a wound of his&mdash;a flesh wound
      only. I left him sleeping on the settee.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs Harland stared at her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My poor Madge!&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;You have had a vivid dream. How could he
      possibly have been here when not a week has passed since we got a
      cablegram from him? It would take him a week to get back to Cape Town
      alone.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t try to explain anything,&rdquo; said she. &ldquo;Only he came into the hall
      as sure as we stand here together, and I bound up his wound&mdash;just
      below the elbow of the right arm. If I did not do so, where is the lace
      handkerchief? Here are all the things I was looking at before I heard the
      sound of the pebbles on the window, and the Medici handkerchief was there
      too. Where is it now?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Poor child! Poor Madge!&rdquo; cried Mrs Harland. &ldquo;You must try to keep your
      thoughts away from him for a day or two. You and I need a change of scene
      badly.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, no; I am not going mad, I can assure you, my dearest mother,&rdquo; said
      Madge. &ldquo;I tell you that&mdash;where is the handkerchief?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There is the breakfast gong,&rdquo; said Mrs Harland. &ldquo;I believe you, dear; you
      were with him in heart.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Madge laughed, and went downstairs. She gave a glance at the sconce in
      which she had lighted the candles; it contained four candles burnt down to
      the sockets.
    </p>
    <p>
      The papers had no special news; but later in the day two telegrams
      arrived. One was for Mrs Harland, the other for Madge.
    </p>
    <p>
      They tore open the covers with palpitating fingers.
    </p>
    <p>
      The first dispatch said:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;<i>Flesh wound&mdash;very slight.</i>&rdquo; The second&mdash;that addressed to
      Madge&mdash;said: &ldquo;<i>Thank you, dearest</i>.&rdquo; They exchanged telegrams,
      but not a word.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <p>
      He was invalided home after acting as escort to Cronje down to Cape Town,
      and saving a gun at Reddersburg (mentioned in despatches), but no one
      alluded to the wound which he had sustained on Christmas Day in a skirmish
      at the Modder.
    </p>
    <p>
      One evening, however, when he was able to sit outside the house, Madge
      turned to him, saying: &ldquo;What did you mean by sending me that telegram, &lsquo;<i>Thank
      you, dearest?</i>&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He gave a laugh.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I wonder if you have still by you that Medici handkerchief?&rdquo; he said.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No,&rdquo; she said, after a moment&rsquo;s hesitation, &ldquo;I must plead as Desdemona
      did about hers, it disappeared mysteriously. I cannot produce it for you,
      my lord.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, now I should get as mad as any Othello,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;but on second
      thoughts I will refrain.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Listen, dear Julian,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;I am resolved to confess all to you,
      though you may think me a bit of a fool. Listen: on Christmas night I went
      to my room and seated myself before the fire, thinking of you, dearest,&mdash;your
      portrait was in my hands, and on the table were some of the treasures your
      hands had touched, the handkerchief among them. Then I heard&mdash;I
      seemed to hear&mdash;no, I prefer to tell the truth&mdash;I actually heard
      the sound of a pebble flung against my window. I looked out, I saw you on
      the drive, and I went downstairs and opened the hall door for you. You
      were wounded just where you were actually wounded&mdash;and I bound up
      your arm with the handkerchief and went to bed. In the morning there was
      no sign of your having been here, but&mdash;but&mdash;the handkerchief was
      gone. Don&rsquo;t think me a goose.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A goose? Heavens! a goose!&rdquo; he cried. &ldquo;Listen to my story, dear. When I
      was wounded in that scrimmage, I fainted through loss of blood, and when I
      recovered my senses I went in search of the ambulance tent. It was late
      before I came across a transport waggon, which had been disabled by a
      shell. I crept inside it, but found nothing there, and I was dying of
      thirst. And then&mdash;then&mdash;you came to me with bandages and water&mdash;plenty
      of water in the cut-glass carafe that stands on the sideboard. You lighted
      a candle, bound up my arm, and left me comfortably asleep, where I was
      found by our ambulance in the morning. Yes, that&rsquo;s the truth, and that is
      why I sent you the telegram, and this is the handkerchief with the stains
      upon it still.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He drew the lace handkerchief out of his pocket and handed it to her. She
      gazed at it, but he only laughed and said&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I told you &lsquo;there&rsquo;s magic in the web of it.&rsquo;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      THE BASELESS FABRIC
    </h2>
    <p class="pfirst">
      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>is sorry that
      you&rsquo;ll be to hear that ould Denny Callan is dead, sir,&rdquo; said the
      station-master&mdash;he was, strictly speaking, the junction-master&mdash;at
      Mallow, to whom I had confided my hopes of eventually reaching my
      destination at St Barter&rsquo;s, in the same county. He had been courteously
      voluble, and sometimes even explicit, in giving me advice on this subject;
      he also took an optimistic view of the situation. All things considered,
      and with a moderate share of good luck, I might reasonably hope to reach
      St Barter&rsquo;s House within a couple of hours. That point, which was becoming
      one of great interest to me, being settled, he thought that he was
      entitled to assume that I should be grieved to hear of the death of &ldquo;ould
      Denny Callan.&rdquo; He assumed too much. I had never heard the name of the
      lamented Mr Callan. I could not pretend to be overwhelmed with grief at
      the news that some one was dead whom I had never heard of being alive.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Tubbe sure, you&rsquo;re a stranger, sir&mdash;what am I thinking of at all&mdash;or
      you&rsquo;d know all about the road to St Barter&rsquo;s,&rdquo; said the official. &ldquo;Oh, but
      you&rsquo;d have liked ould Denny, sir, if you&rsquo;d but have known him. A more
      harmless crayture you couldn&rsquo;t find, search high or low. &lsquo;Tis a great
      favourite that he was with the gentlemen&mdash;ay, and for that matter,
      the ladies&mdash;though I wouldn&rsquo;t like to say a word against him that&rsquo;s
      gone. Oh, they all come away from St Barter&rsquo;s with a good word for Denny.
      Well, well, he&rsquo;s at rest, and I don&rsquo;t expect that you&rsquo;ll have to wait much
      longer for your train, sir.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      When I had got out of my compartment in the express from Dublin an hour
      before, I was told that I should only have to wait for ten minutes to make
      the connection that would take me on to Blarney&mdash;the station for St
      Barter&rsquo;s&mdash;but the train which was reputed to be able to perform this
      service for me had not yet been signalled. After the lapse of another
      twenty minutes I began to think that the stationmaster had taken too
      roseate a view of my future. It did not seem likely that I should, in the
      language of the &lsquo;Manual,&rsquo; &ldquo;attain my objective&rdquo; that day.
    </p>
    <p>
      I had reached a stage of bewildering doubt, which was not mitigated by the
      arrival at the junction of a long train, and the announcement of the guard
      to the passengers, &ldquo;Change here for Ameriky,&rdquo;&mdash;it was explained to me
      that the train was full of emigrants bound for America via Queenstown,&mdash;when
      the station-master bustled up to tell me that the Blarney special had just
      been signalled from Kilmallock&mdash;the Blarney special was getting on
      very well, and with good luck should be available for passengers from
      Mallow within half an hour.
    </p>
    <p>
      The good luck on which this estimate was founded was not lacking. My train
      crawled alongside the platform only five minutes over the half-hour, and
      the official wished me a continuance of good luck, adding&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It wouldn&rsquo;t be like going back to the same place now that poor ould Denny
      is gone, if you had ever been there before, sir. Best his sowl! &lsquo;Tis the
      harmless crayture that he was. You&rsquo;ll be sorry that you didn&rsquo;t know him,
      sir, when you find the place a bit lonesome.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      I was half-way to Blarney before my sluggish mind was able to appreciate
      the contingencies suggested by the station-master. I had never before been
      to St Barter&rsquo;s, but if I had ever been there I should regret my returning
      to the place now that a certain person, of whose existence I had been
      unaware, was gone. That was how I worked out the matter, and before I had
      concluded the operation I had become quite emotional in regard to the
      demise of Denny. I shook my head mournfully at the thought that I should
      never see him&mdash;that I had come too late&mdash;too late! I had no idea
      that the local colour, which is associated by tradition with this
      neighbourhood, was so potent; but, indeed, when the obliging
      station-master at Blarney, who entered into conversation with me while the
      porter was looking after my luggage, remarked&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So poor ould Denny is gone at last, sir!&rdquo; I shook my head sadly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Poor old Denny! poor old Denny!&rdquo; I said with a sigh. &ldquo;Ah, we&rsquo;ll all miss
      poor old Denny. He was the most harmless man&mdash;St Barter&rsquo;s will not be
      the same without him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The station-master did his best to comfort me for half an hour&mdash;that
      was the exact space that I had to wait for the car which was to carry me
      to St Barter&rsquo;s. When it did arrive, the excuse given by the red-haired boy
      who had charge of the &ldquo;wee mare&rdquo; was that it was a grand wake entirely
      that Denny had last night.
    </p>
    <p>
      He told me more about it (with statistics of certain comestibles, mostly
      liquid) when driving along one of the loveliest roads possible to imagine,
      past the grey square tower of Blarney Castle, embowered among its trees,
      and on by the side of the greenest slopes I had ever seen, beneath the
      branches of one of the groves renowned in history and in song. A broad
      stream flowed parallel with the road, and every glimpse that I had through
      the trees on both sides was of emerald hills&mdash;some in the distance,
      others apparently sending their soft ridges athwart the road. I felt that
      at last I was in Ireland.
    </p>
    <p>
      On the side of a gracious slope, gradually approached by broad zigzag
      drives which follow the swelling curves of long grassy billows, the
      buildings of St Barter&rsquo;s stand. They are neither venerable nor imposing&mdash;only
      queer. It seemed to me that everybody must have been concerned in their
      construction except an architect. But the compiler of a guide-book could,
      with every desire to be economical of his space, fill half a dozen pages
      with a description of the landscape which faces the windows of the front.
      The green terraces below the gardens dip toward the brink of a glen
      through which a trout stream rushes, and the woods of this sylvan hollow
      straggle up the farther slope, and spread over it in a blaze of autumnal
      gold that glows half through the winter. Where the wooded slopes and the
      range of green hills begin, undulating into a soft distance of pasturages,
      with here and there a white farmhouse shining out of the shadow of an
      orchard, and at the dividing line of the low slopes, the turret of Blarney
      Castle appears above the dark cloud of its own woods.
    </p>
    <p>
      Before I found myself facing this entrancing landscape, I could not for
      the life of me understand why my client, who might have lived where she
      pleased, should spend half the year at St Barter&rsquo;s. But now I understood,
      and I took back the words which I had spoken more than once, when in
      mid-channel the previous night. A family solicitor may be pardoned for
      occasionally calling a client a fool. I had called several of my most
      valued clients by this name. I did so for the same reason that Adam gave
      for calling the fox a fox&mdash;because it was a fox. But I had never to
      retract until now. &ldquo;Hydros&rdquo; are horrors as a rule, but St Barter&rsquo;s is a
      beatitude.
    </p>
    <p>
      A couple of hours after lunch&mdash;the water which was placed on our
      table was as exhilarating as champagne&mdash;sufficed for the transaction
      of the business which had brought me to Ireland, and I was free to return
      by the night train. I had, however, no mind to be so businesslike; for the
      scenery had clasped me tightly in its embrace, and in addition I found
      that the resident medico had been in my form at Marlborough, and I was
      delighted to meet him again. I had lost sight of him for nine or ten
      years.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was by the side of Dr Barnett that I strolled about the grounds and
      learned something of the history of the curious old place.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Rambling? I should think it is rambling,&rdquo; he said, acquiescing in my
      remark. &ldquo;How could it be anything else, considering the piecemeal way in
      which it was built? It was begun by a very brilliant and highly practical
      physician more than fifty years ago. When the house, as it was then, was
      fully occupied, and he got a letter from a person of quality inquiring for
      rooms, he simply put the inquirer off for a week, then set to, built on a
      few more rooms, and had them ready for occupation within the time stated.
      This went on for several years. If the Lord Lieutenant had written for a
      suite of apartments he would have had them ready in ten days. That sort of
      thing produces this style of architecture. St Barter&rsquo;s is the finest
      example extant of the pure rambling. But it is the healthiest place in the
      world. People come here expecting to die within a fortnight, and they live
      on for thirty years.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But now and again there is a death,&rdquo; said I. &ldquo;What about poor ould Denny?
      The most harmless crayture&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Dr Barnett stared at me.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Was it in the London papers?&rdquo; he cried. &ldquo;Oh, I see; you have been talking
      to the driver of the car. Poor ould Denny! He was everybody&rsquo;s friend.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And yet quite harmless? The place will never seem the same to me as it
      would have done if I had not arrived too late to see Denny. Was he your
      assistant, or what?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The doctor laughed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He was simply &lsquo;poor ould Denny!&rdquo;&rsquo; he said. &ldquo;That was his profession. It
      was pretty comprehensive, I can tell you. He was here when the house would
      be overcrowded with ten guests. He roofed a whole wing with his own hands.
      Then he dug the pit for the gasometer, thirty years ago, and he lived to
      dam the trout stream that works the dynamo for the electric light. He was
      also an accomplished <i>masseur</i>, and set up the hatchery that supplied
      the stream with trout.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;His name should have been Crichton, not Callan. Anything else?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He could do tricks on the billiard table, and he knew all that there is
      to be known about hair-cutting.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is that all?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s all&mdash;no, stay! he was a sculptor&rsquo;s model for some time. I can
      show you the result of his labours in this direction, if you would care to
      see it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I certainly should care to see it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come along, then.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He led me half-way round the building, from where the two storeys of the
      centre block dwindled away to the single bedroom sheds of one wing. We
      passed by the side of the terrace garden, and I made a remark respecting
      the fine carving on some of the stone vases.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They were the work of the sculptor who chose Denny for his model,&rdquo; said
      the doctor. &ldquo;Here we are.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      I followed him between two fine cedars, and in another instant we were
      face to face with a very striking colossal figure of a man holding aloft a
      goblet. The head and the torso were very powerful, but the latter was
      joined on to a conventional Greek pedestal, at the foot of which there
      peeped out four tiny hoofs of satyrs.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What do you think of it? my friend inquired?&rdquo; I told him that I thought
      there was a good deal of strength in the modelling of the figure, but I
      could not understand the satyrs&rsquo; hoofs.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I take it for granted that the sculptor left the hair unfinished,&rsquo; I
      added; for one could not help remarking the roughness of the masses at the
      top of the head. The sculptor had merely blocked out the heavy locks of
      hair; he had made no attempt to define them.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The story of the work is rather a sad one,&rdquo; said the doctor. &ldquo;The
      sculptor was a nephew of the man who built this place. He had worked in a
      good studio in Italy, and was, I believe, a pupil of the distinguished
      Irishman, Foley. He was devoted to his profession, and exhibited in some
      of the London galleries. But every one knows that it is very difficult to
      make a name&mdash;and a profit&mdash;as a sculptor, and he realised this
      truth only when he had spent the greater part of his small patrimony. He
      came here, and built for himself that cottage which you see at the other
      side of the terrace, and, in order to keep himself employed, he carved all
      these vases and urns which you have been admiring. Unfortunately, however,
      among the doctor&rsquo;s patients at the house there was a wealthy linen
      merchant from Ulster&mdash;one of that vulgar crowd who had become
      suddenly prosperous when the American Civil War prevented the export of
      cotton from the southern ports; and this gentleman, meeting the sculptor
      daily, and feeling probably that he would like to pose before the world as
      a patron of Art, gave him a commission to execute a colossal figure to
      support a lamp at the entrance to the new house which he was building for
      himself. He made no stipulation as to the design, only the cost was not to
      exceed a thousand pounds, and the work was to be ready within a year. Of
      course, the poor sculptor was delighted. He accepted the commission, and,
      thinking of the artistic rather than the business side of the transaction,
      never dreamt of drawing up an agreement with his generous patron. Before a
      month had passed, he had obtained his material and made his clay sketches.
      Looking about for a model for the figure, he was struck by the fine
      proportions of Denny, and had no difficulty in inducing him to add to his
      other occupations the more restful one of a sculptor&rsquo;s model. For several
      months the work progressed satisfactorily, and it was very near its
      completion, when the model contracted a malady which necessitated the
      shaving of his head and interrupted his sittings. The sculptor was not
      greatly inconvenienced, however. He turned his attention for some weeks to
      the carving of the pedestal, and got that completed before his model was
      able to resume his sittings. But even then the sculptor could only deal
      with the torso, for Denny&rsquo;s crown was as bald as an egg. In a couple of
      months, however, the doctor assured him that he would have as luxuriant a
      crop as would qualify him to pose for one of the artists who produce the
      advertisements for hair-restorers. The work was now practically finished.
      As the model remarked, the edifice only needed the thatch to be put on the
      roof to make it presentable. Then the proud artist wrote to his patron,
      telling him that his commission was executed, and inviting him to come and
      see it. After the lapse of a week or two the patron arrived, and was
      conducted by the sculptor to view his masterpiece. The patron viewed it in
      silence for some minutes, and then burst into a fit of laughter. &lsquo;Man,
      dear!&rsquo; he managed at last to gasp in the raucous accent of his native
      province&mdash;&lsquo;Man, dear! what&rsquo;s that thing, anyway? Tell us what it is,
      if you can. A Greek figure? They must have had funny figures, them Greeks,
      if they had feet like yon. You must take me for a queer fool if you fancy
      that I&rsquo;d let the like o&rsquo; yon stand fornenst my house. You may make a fool
      of yourself as much as you please, but I&rsquo;ll take good care that you don&rsquo;t
      make a fool of me!&rsquo; What could a refined man say to a brute like this?
      Well, he said nothing. He stood there in silence, with his eyes fixed upon
      the face that he had carved, and the patron left him staring at it. He
      stared at it all day, and the doctor, walking round the garden that night,
      saw him staring at it in the moonlight, and led him away to the cottage,
      and sent him to bed. He never rose from that bed, except once. Two days
      later, his housemaid entered his room and found him kneeling at his window&mdash;the
      statue could be seen where he had placed it&mdash;where it now stands&mdash;and
      he was quite dead.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      I could not speak for some time after the doctor had told me the story,
      for I felt that it was the saddest I had ever heard.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;His heart was broken,&rdquo; I said. &ldquo;But perhaps you will tell me that science
      has proved that such a rupture is impossible.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will tell you nothing of the sort,&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;A broken heart is the
      best possible way to describe the effect upon a sensitive brain of such a
      shock as the sculptor sustained. His heart was broken. I am sorry that I
      hadn&rsquo;t a livelier story for you. People come to Ireland expecting to be
      amused; but it seems to me that the history of the island from the
      earliest times is one prolonged lament. The finest music of the national
      melodies is to be found in the most mournful.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      I stood with my eyes fixed upon the statue.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Strange, isn&rsquo;t it, that I should arrive here to be told that pitiful
      story within an hour or two of the death of the model?&rdquo; said I. &ldquo;The poor
      artist! I am sure that he felt that he was immortalising Denny; and yet&mdash;I
      suppose that in a year or two no one will know anything either of the
      sculptor or his model. Perhaps the vulgarity of the Ulster patron is,
      after all, the most enduring of all the qualities that went to the
      production of this work.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The patron eventually became one of the most distinguished bankrupts of
      his generation,&rdquo; said Dr Barnett. &ldquo;He died a few years ago, but vulgarity
      did not die with him. Yes, I think you are right&mdash;vulgarity is
      immortal.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I wonder if our friend Denny was proud to be reproduced in the stone, or
      was he mortified at the result of his first connection with art?&rdquo; I
      remarked, while we were strolling back to the house.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He took an interest in the thing up to the very last,&rdquo; replied the
      doctor. &ldquo;I have often seen him take a surreptitious glance at it, and pass
      away from it, stroking his head mournfully. He confided in me once that
      his sorrow was that the sculptor had not lived to reproduce his fine head
      of hair; and I know that he believed that it was the unfinished state of
      the crown of the figure that brought about its rejection. His widow told
      me only yesterday that this was the greatest trouble of his last hours.
      You see, the figure was a record of his early manhood, but the pride that
      he had in looking at it must have been chastened by the feeling that it
      did not do justice to his curls&mdash;his one vanity was his curly head.
      He was nicknamed in Irish &lsquo;The curly-headed boy.&rsquo; It was pathetic to hear
      his widow repeat the phrase over his body when I visited her in her
      trouble yesterday. &lsquo;He was my curly-headed boy&mdash;my curly-headed boy
      will never know the touch of my comb again!&rsquo; she wailed in Irish.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Poor old Denny!&rdquo; said I.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That seems by one consent to be his most appropriate epitaph,&rdquo; said the
      doctor.
    </p>
    <p>
      After dinner that night I played a very pleasant rubber of whist with my
      client, and the doctor and his wife. When the party separated I went to
      the billiard-room with Barnett, and we played a hundred up. Lighting a
      cigar then, I strolled out alone upon the terrace, the doctor having gone
      to his room. The night was a brilliant one, and the landscape lay bare and
      white beneath the moonlight, which flooded the far-off hills and spread a
      garment of filigree over the foliage of the glen and of the slope beyond.
      Beneath its brilliance the trout stream, whose voice came fitfully through
      the brooding silence of the night, flashed here and there among the trees.
      The square tower of the Castle shone like marble in the distance. From one
      of the farms of the hillside the faint sound of a dog&rsquo;s bark reached my
      ears.
    </p>
    <p>
      I seated myself on one of the terrace chairs, languidly smoking my cigar
      and breathing the strong perfume of the stocks of the garden. I confess
      that my mind was dwelling upon the story of that queer piece of sculpture
      before which I had stood in the afternoon. It was as sad a story as that
      of the poet Keats, only the brutal criticism of the sculptor&rsquo;s patron was
      more savage than the &lsquo;Quarterly Review&rsquo; which had bludgeoned the fine poet
      to the death. But my sympathy was not given to the artist so fully as to
      leave no pity to bestow upon his model, who had lived on for thirty or
      forty years with his humble grievance. I could appreciate the feelings of
      poor old Denny all the years that he had laboured beneath the burden of
      being handed down in effigy to coming generations shorn of his greatest
      glory. The one who was known to all men as the curly-haired hoy was doomed
      to stand before the eyes of all comers as the possessor of shapeless,
      matted locks that were not locks at all!
    </p>
    <p>
      He was not made of the same fibre as the artist; he had not broken down
      beneath the weight of that reflection; but I knew it must have been a
      heaviness to him all his days.
    </p>
    <p>
      I remained seated in the moonlight for a long time, and just as I thought
      that I should turn in, I noticed a figure crossing the little grassy slope
      toward the garden. It was, I perceived, the figure of a man, and he was
      wearing what I took at first to be an ordinary night suit of light silk;
      but before he had gone a dozen steps I perceived that his garment was a
      painter&rsquo;s blouse. He moved silently over the grass, and I could not help
      feeling, as I had often done before, how a glance of moonlight on a figure
      may produce such an effect of mystery as can never be gained in daylight.
      I assumed that the object which was passing away among the flower-beds was
      one of the household staff on duty&mdash;a watchman, it might be, or a
      gardener going to regulate the heating apparatus in a greenhouse. And yet,
      looking at him from my seat, he seemed as weird and unsubstantial as a
      whiff of mountain mist.
    </p>
    <p>
      I rose from my place, and was about to walk round to the entrance to the
      house and get to bed, when I became aware of another figure moving through
      the moonlight along the grassy terrace. I gave an exclamation of surprise
      when I saw that this one was half nude and white&mdash;white as the stone
      of the statue beyond the trees&mdash;there, it moved&mdash;<i>the statue
      itself</i>&mdash;-I saw it&mdash;the figure of the man with his hands held
      aloft&mdash;the features were the same&mdash;the proportions of the body&mdash;only
      this one was more perfect than the other, for he had a mass of curly locks
      clustering over his head like the curls of the Herakles of the Vatican.
    </p>
    <p>
      And even while I stood there watching him, the figure passed away among
      the trees.
    </p>
    <p>
      I waited in such a state of amazement as I had never experienced before. I
      had the sensation of being newly awakened; but I knew that I had not
      fallen asleep for a moment. I was not afraid; only, finding myself in a
      situation to which I was unaccustomed, I did not know what I should do. It
      took me some minutes to collect myself.
    </p>
    <p>
      Through the stillness I became aware of a curious dull tapping sound&mdash;there
      it went, tap, tap, tap; then a slight pause, and again tap, tap, tap, tap.
    </p>
    <p>
      A dog behind the house gave a prolonged howl, and along the path below me
      a fox-terrier, which I had seen during the day, scurried, its tail between
      its legs, and every limb trembling.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Tap, tap, tap&rdquo;&mdash;a pause&mdash;&ldquo;tap, tap, tap, tap.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      My mind was made up. I went cautiously along the terrace in the direction
      of the garden. I found myself walking stealthily on my toes, as though I
      was anxious not to disturb someone who was desirous of quiet; and as I
      went on, the sounds of the tapping became more distinct. Almost before I
      knew it, I reached that part of the grassy terrace which commanded a view
      of the garden; and in an instant I was standing still. I could hear the
      beating of my own heart as I saw, under my very eyes, not twenty yards
      away, three figures, equally white and shadowy.
    </p>
    <p>
      The nearest to me was of the half-naked man with the head of curls; the
      one in the middle was in exactly the same posture&mdash;it was the figure
      of the statue; and the third was the one which I had seen wearing the long
      white blouse, and this was the only one of the three that moved. He was
      standing, as it seemed, on the ledge of the pedestal, and a sculptor&rsquo;s
      chisel was in one hand and a mallet in the other. He was working at the
      head of the statue, every now and again glancing at the head of the model,
      pausing while he did so, and beginning to work again after the lapse of a
      second or two.
    </p>
    <p>
      I stood there on the terrace watching this strange scene, and the curious
      part of it was that it did not seem in the least degree curious to me
      while it was being enacted. On the contrary, I had a distinct sense of
      harmony&mdash;of artistic finish&mdash;the pleasurable sensation of which
      one is conscious on the completion of the <i>leit motif</i> of a symphony,&mdash;that
      is how I can best express what my feelings were at the time. During the
      hour that I remained there it never occurred to me that I should draw any
      nearer to the shadowy group. As a matter of fact, I believe that there was
      uppermost in my mind an apprehension that it was necessary for me to keep
      very still, lest I should interfere with the work. I have had precisely
      the same feeling when in the studio of a painter while he was at work and
      I was watching him. But I could not leave the place where I stood, so long
      as that scene was being enacted in the silence, and the three figures were
      equally silent. The night knew no sound except that caused by the
      chiselling of the stone.
    </p>
    <p>
      An hour must have passed&mdash;perhaps more than an hour&mdash;and then,
      still in silence, the sculptor threw his chisel and his mallet to the
      ground. I heard the little thud which each gave on the turf. Then he
      sprang to the ground; but his feet made no sound in alighting. I stood on
      the terrace and watched him and his model move away across the garden as
      silently as they had come, and disappear among the trees at the entrance
      to the glen.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <p>
      The next morning when I had breakfasted I sought my friend Dr Barnett, and
      told him my experience of the night. He did not smile. But he was strictly
      scientific. We were smoking together on one of the paths bordered by
      laurels, and when I had told him all that I had to tell, he put his hand
      on my arm, saying&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My dear boy, the phenomena of ghosts are invariably interesting, and, on
      the whole, not more perplexing than other natural phenomena. Sometimes
      they are due to one cause, sometimes to another. Most frequently they must
      be attributed to the projection of an image upon the eye from within, not
      from without. Now, in your case&mdash;but we had better stroll round to
      the scene of your illusion.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      We went together across the lawn in the direction of the companion cedars,
      and he continued his discourse.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;All that you have told me interests me greatly, showing as it does how,
      under certain conditions, the most admirably balanced brain may become
      what I may call sensitised&mdash;susceptible as a photographic plate to an
      image&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      At this point his speech was arrested. We had passed between the cedars,
      and the statue was facing us. The doctor was gazing up at it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good heavens!&rdquo; he said in a whisper; &ldquo;he has finished it!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      I looked up and saw that the head of the figure was covered with curls.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He has finished it&mdash;he has finished it,&rdquo; the doctor whispered again.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; I said, &ldquo;he has finished it. I saw him do it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      BLACK AS HE IS PAINTED.
    </h2>
    <h3>
      I.
    </h3>
    <p class="pfirst">
      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>he houses which
      constitute the town of Picotee&mdash;in the Gambia region a commendable
      liberality of spirit prevails as to the requisite elements of a town&mdash;were
      glistening beneath the intolerable rays of the afternoon sun. To the eyes
      of all aboard the mail steamer <i>Penguin</i>, which had just run up a
      blue-peter in the anchorage, the town seemed of dazzling whiteness. It was
      only the inhabitants of Picotee who knew that the walls of the houses were
      not white, but of a sickly yellow tinge; consequently, it was only the
      inhabitants who knew how inappropriate it was to allude to their town as
      the &ldquo;whited sepulchre&rdquo;&mdash;a term of reproach which was frequently
      levelled against it rather on account of the appalling percentage of
      mortality among its inhabitants than by reason of the spotlessness of the
      walls, though they did appear spotless when viewed from the sea. In the
      saloon of the <i>Penguin</i> the thermometer registered 95°, and when the
      passengers complained to the captain of the steamer respecting the
      temperature, holding him personally responsible for every degree that it
      rose above 70°, he pointed across the dazzling blue waters of the
      anchorage to where the town was painfully glistening, and asked his
      complainants how they would like to be there.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was universally believed that when the captain had put this inquiry,
      the last word had been said regarding the temperature: he, at any rate,
      seemed to fancy that he had relieved himself from all responsibility in
      the matter.
    </p>
    <p>
      At Picotee things were going on pretty much as usual. But what is progress
      at Picotee would be regarded as stagnation elsewhere.
    </p>
    <p>
      There was a fine suggestion of repose about the Kroomen who were dozing in
      unpicturesque attitudes in the shade of the palms on the ridge nearest to
      the beach; and even Mr Caractacus Brown, who, being one of the merchants
      of the place,&mdash;he sold parrots to the sailors, and would accept a
      contract for green monkeys from the more ambitious collectors of the fauna
      of the West Coast,&mdash;was not supposed to give way to such weaknesses
      as were exhibited by the Kroomen&mdash;even Mr Caractacus Brown wiped his
      woolly head and admitted to his neighbour, Mr Coriolanus White, that the
      day was warm. Having seen Coriolanus selling liquid lard by the spoonful,
      he could scarcely do otherwise than admit that the temperature was high.
      Devonshire cream was solid in comparison with the lard sold at Picotee.
      But, in spite of the heat, a pepper-bird was warbling among the bananas,
      and its song broke the monotony of the roar of the great rollers that
      broke upon the beach&mdash;a roar that varies but that never ends in the
      ears of the people of Picotee.
    </p>
    <p>
      Dr Claude Koomadhi, who occupied a villa built on the lovely green slope
      above the town, opened the shutters of the room in which he sat, and
      listened to the song of the pepper-bird. Upon his features, which seemed
      as if they were carved out of black oak and delicately polished, a
      sentimental expression appeared. His eyes showed a large proportion of
      white as he sighed and remarked to his servant, who brought him a glass of
      iced cocoanut milk, that the song of the pepper-bird reminded him of home.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of &lsquo;ome, sah?&rdquo; said the old woman. &ldquo;Lor&rsquo; bress yah, sah! dere ain&rsquo;t no
      peppah-buds at Ashantee.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Dr Koomadhi&rsquo;s eyes no longer wore a sentimental expression. They flashed
      when the old woman had spoken, but she did not notice this circumstance.
      She only laid down the tumbler on the table, hitched up her crimson shawl,
      and roared with negress&rsquo; laughter.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You don&rsquo;t understand, Sally. I said home&mdash;England,&rdquo; remarked the
      doctor.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, beg pardung, sah; thought yah &lsquo;looded to Ashantee,&rdquo; said the old
      woman as she rolled out of the room, still uttering that senseless laugh.
    </p>
    <p>
      Dr Koomadhi did not seem to be greatly put out by that reminder of the
      fact that Ashantee was his birthplace. He threw himself back in his cane
      chair and took a sip from the tumbler. He then resumed his perusal of the
      &lsquo;Saturday Review&rsquo; brought by the <i>Penguin</i> in the morning.
    </p>
    <p>
      He did not get through many pages. He shook his head gravely. He could not
      approve of the tone of the political article. It suggested compromise. It
      was not Conservative enough for Dr Koomadhi. He began to fear that he must
      give up the &lsquo;Saturday.&rsquo; It was clearly temporising with the enemy. This
      would not do for Dr Koomadhi.
    </p>
    <p>
      He took another sip of cocoanut milk, and then began pacing the room. He
      was clearly restless in his mind; but, perhaps, it would be going too far
      to suggest that he was perturbed owing to the spirit of compromise
      displayed in the political article which he had just read. No; though a
      staunch Conservative, he was still susceptible of a passion beyond the
      patriotic desire to assist in maintaining the integrity of the Empire.
      This was the origin of his uneasiness. He had been awake all the previous
      night thinking over his past life, and trying to think out his future. The
      conclusion to which he had come was that as he had successfully overthrown
      all the obstacles which had been in his path, to success in the past,
      there was no reason why he might not overthrow all that might threaten to
      bar his progress in the future. But, in spite of having come to this
      conclusion, he was very uneasy.
    </p>
    <p>
      He did not become more settled when he had gone to a drawer in his
      writing-desk and had taken out a cabinet portrait&mdash;the portrait of a
      lady&mdash;and had gazed at it for several minutes. He laid it back with
      something like a sigh, and then brought out of the same receptacle a
      quantity of manuscript, every page of which consisted of a number of
      lines, irregular as to their length, but each one beginning with a capital
      letter. This is the least compromising way of referring to such
      manuscripts. To say that they were poetry would, perhaps, be to place a
      fictitious value upon them; but they certainly had one feature in common
      with the noblest poems ever written in English: every line began with a
      capital letter.
    </p>
    <p>
      Dr Koomadhi&rsquo;s lips&mdash;they constituted not the least prominent of his
      features&mdash;moved as he read to himself the lines which he had written
      during the past three months,&mdash;since his return to Picotee with
      authority to spend some thousands of pounds in carrying out certain
      experiments, the result of which would, it was generally hoped, transform
      the region of the Gambia into one of the healthiest of her Majesty&rsquo;s
      possessions. Then he sighed again and laid the manuscripts over the
      photograph, closing and locking the drawer of the desk.
    </p>
    <p>
      He walked fitfully up and down the room for another hour. Then he opened
      his shutters, and the first breath of the evening breeze from the sea came
      upon his face.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll do it,&rdquo; he said resolutely. &ldquo;Why should I not do it? Surely that old
      ridiculous prejudice is worn out. Surely she, at least, will be superior
      to such prejudice. Yes, she must&mdash;she must. I have succeeded hitherto
      in everything that I have attempted, and shall I fail in this?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The roar of the rollers along the beach filled the room, at the open
      window of which Dr Koomadhi remained standing for several minutes.
    </p>
    <h3>
      II.
    </h3>
    <p class="pfirst">
      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">D</span>r Koomadhi
      belonged to a race who are intolerant of any middle course so far as dress
      is concerned. They are either very much dressed or very much undressed.
      But he had lived long enough in England to have chastened whatever
      yearning he may have had for running into either extreme. Only now and
      again&mdash;usually when in football costume&mdash;he had felt a strange
      longing to forswear the more cumbersome tweeds of daily life. This
      longing, combined with the circumstance of his being extremely fond of
      football, might be accepted as evidence that the traditions of the savages
      from whom he had sprung survived in his nature, just as they do in the
      youth of Great Britain, only he had not to go so far back as have the most
      of the youth of Great Britain, to reach the fountain-head.
    </p>
    <p>
      The evening attire which he now resumed was wholly white,&mdash;from his
      pith helmet down to his canvas shoes, he was in white, with the exception
      of his tie, which was black. He looked at himself in a glass when at the
      point of leaving his house, and he felt satisfied with his appearance;
      only he should have dearly liked to exchange his black tie for one of
      scarlet. He could not understand how it was that he had never passed a
      draper&rsquo;s window in London without staring with envious eyes at the crimson
      scarves displayed for sale. No one could know what heroic sacrifices he
      made in rejecting all such allurements. No one could know what he suffered
      while crushing down that uncivilised longing for a brilliant colour.
    </p>
    <p>
      Just before leaving the house he went to his desk and brought out of one
      of the drawers a small ivory box. He unlocked it and stood for some time
      with his face down to the thing that the box contained&mdash;a
      curiously-speckled stone, somewhat resembling a human ear. While keeping
      his head down to this thing his lips were moving. He was clearly murmuring
      some phrases in a strange language into that curiously shaped stone.
    </p>
    <p>
      Relocking the ivory box, he returned it to the drawer, which he also
      locked. Then he left his house, and took a path leading to a well-built
      villa standing in front of a banana-jungle, with a tall flag-pole before
      its hall door&mdash;a flag-pole from which the union-jack fluttered,
      indicating to all casual visitors that this was the official residence of
      her Majesty&rsquo;s Commissioner to the Gambia, Commander Hope, R.N.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hallo, Koomadhi!&rdquo; came a voice from the open window to the right of the
      door. &ldquo;Pardon me for five minutes. I&rsquo;m engaged at my correspondence to go
      to England by the <i>Penguin</i> this evening. But don&rsquo;t mind me. Go
      through to the drawing-room and my daughter will give you a cup of tea.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;All right, sir,&rdquo; said Dr Koomadhi. &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t hurry on my account. I was
      merely calling to mention that I had forwarded my report early in the day;
      but I&rsquo;ll wait inside.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;All right,&rdquo; came the voice from the window. &ldquo;I&rsquo;m at the last folios.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Dr Koomadhi was in the act of entering the porch when his pith helmet was
      snatched off by some unseen hand, and a curious shriek sounded on the
      balcony above the porch.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The ruffian!&rdquo; said Koomadhi, with a laugh. &ldquo;The ruffian! He&rsquo;s at his
      tricks again.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He took a few steps back and looked up to the balcony. There sat an
      immense tame baboon, wearing the helmet and screeching with merriment.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll have to give you another lesson, my gentleman,&rdquo; said the doctor,
      shaking his finger at the creature. &ldquo;Hand me down that helmet at once.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The baboon made a grimace and then raised his right hand to the salute&mdash;his
      favourite trick.
    </p>
    <p>
      Suddenly the doctor produced a sound with his lips, and in an instant the
      monkey had dropped the helmet and had fled in alarm from the balcony to
      the roof of the house, whence he gazed in every direction, while the
      doctor went into the house with his helmet in his hand. He had merely
      given the simian word of alarm, which the creature, understanding its
      mother tongue, had promptly acted upon.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;You may break, you may shatter the vase if you will, but the scent&rsquo;&mdash;you
      know the rest, sir,&rdquo; remarked Mr Letts, the Commissioner&rsquo;s Secretary, who
      had observed from his window the whole transaction.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What was that, Letts?&rdquo; asked the Commissioner.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Koomadhi spoke to the baboon in its own tongue, sir, and it took the hint
      of a man and a brother and cleared off.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, but where does the shattering of the vase come in?&rdquo; asked the
      Commissioner.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I mean to suggest that a nigger remains a nigger, and remains on speaking
      terms with a baboon, even though he has a college degree and wears
      tweeds,&rdquo; said Mr Letts.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh,&rdquo; said the Commissioner.
    </p>
    <p>
      He had heard the same opinion expressed by various members of his staff
      ever since he had anything to do with the administration of affairs on the
      West Coast. He had long ago ceased to take even the smallest amount of
      interest in the question of the exact depth of a negro&rsquo;s veneer of
      civilisation.
    </p>
    <h3>
      III.
    </h3>
    <p class="pfirst">
      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">B</span>ut while Mr Letts
      was quoting Thomas Moore&rsquo;s line&mdash;in a corrupt form&mdash;to the
      Commissioner, Dr Koomadhi was accepting, with a certain amount of dignity,
      the greeting which was extended to him by Miss Hope, the Commissioner&rsquo;s
      daughter, in the drawing-room. She had been trying over some songs which
      had just arrived from England. Two of them were of a high colour of
      sentimentalism, another belonged to that form of poetic composition known
      as a coon song. It had a banjo obbligato; but the pianoforte accompaniment
      of itself gave more than a suggestion of the twanging of strings and the
      banging of a tambourine. Had Dr Koomadhi arrived a few minutes sooner it
      would have been his privilege to hear Gertrude Hope chant the chorus&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t you belieb un, Massa John,
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      Jes&rsquo; winkie mid y o&rsquo; eye,
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      Kick up yo&rsquo; heels to de gasalier&mdash;
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      Say, how am dat for high?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      But Gertrude had, after singing the melody, pushed the copy under a pile
      of music, and had risen from the piano to receive her visitor, at the same
      time ringing for tea.
    </p>
    <p>
      He apologised for interrupting her at the piano.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If I had only known that you were singing, I should certainly have&mdash;well,
      not exactly, stayed away; no, I should have come sooner, and remained a
      worshipper in the outer court.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, I wasn&rsquo;t singing&mdash;not regularly singing,&rdquo; said she, with a
      laugh. &ldquo;Trying over stupid songs about lovers&rsquo; partings is not singing, Dr
      Koomadhi.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Lovers&rsquo; partings?&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;They seem particularly well adapted to
      lyrical treatment.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The songs at any rate are heart-breaking,&rdquo; said she.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They represent the most acute stage of the lovers&rsquo; feelings, then?&rdquo; said
      he.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I daresay. I suppose there are degrees of feelings even of lovers.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I&rsquo;m sure of it, Miss Hope.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He was seated in a wicker chair; she had thrown herself into another&mdash;a
      seat that gave her the appearance of lying in a hammock. He scanned her
      from her white forehead down to the dainty feet that crossed one another
      on the sloping support of cane-work. She would have been looked on as a
      very pretty girl in a London drawing-room; and even a girl who would be
      regarded as commonplace there would pass as a marvel of loveliness on the
      West Coast of Africa.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; continued Dr Koomadhi, &ldquo;I&rsquo;m sure there are degrees of feeling even
      among lovers.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are a doctor, and so doubtless have had many opportunities of
      diagnosing the disease in all its stages,&rdquo; said she.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, I am a doctor,&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;I am also a man. I have felt. I feel.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She gave another laugh.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A complete conjugation of the verb,&rdquo; said she. &ldquo;Past and present tenses.
      How about the future?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      There was only a little pause before he said&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The future is in your hands, Miss Hope. I have come here to-day to tell
      you that I have never loved any one in all my life but you, and to ask you
      if you will marry me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      There was now a long pause&mdash;so long that he became hopeful of her
      answer. Then he saw the blank look that was upon her face change&mdash;he
      saw the flush that came over her white face when she had had time to
      realise the import of his words.
    </p>
    <p>
      She started up, and at the same instant the baboon came in front of the
      window and raised his right hand to the salute.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are mad&mdash;mad!&rdquo; she said, in a whisper that had something fierce
      about it. Then she lay back in her chair with a laugh. &ldquo;<i>I</i> marry you&mdash;<i>you</i>.
      I should as soon marry&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She had pointed to the baboon before she had checked herself.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You would as soon marry the baboon as me?&rdquo; said he in a low and laboured
      voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I did not say that, although&mdash;Dr Koomadhi, what you have told me has
      given me a shock&mdash;such a shock as I have never had before. I am not
      myself&mdash;if I said anything hurtful to you I know that you will
      attribute it to the shock&mdash;I ask your pardon&mdash;sincerely&mdash;humbly.
      I never thought it possible that you&mdash;you&mdash;oh, you must have
      been mad! You&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Give me a cup of tea, my dearest, if you don&rsquo;t want to see me perish
      before your eyes.&rdquo; The words came from outside a window behind Dr
      Koomadhi, and in another second a man had entered from the verandah, and
      had given a low whistle on perceiving that Miss Hope had a visitor.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come along,&rdquo; said Miss Hope, when she had drawn a deep breath&mdash;&ldquo;Come
      along and be introduced to Dr Koomadhi. You have often heard of Dr
      Koomadhi, I&rsquo;m sure, Dick. Dr Koomadhi, this is Major Minton.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How do you do?&rdquo; said the stranger, giving his hand to the doctor. &ldquo;I&rsquo;m
      glad to meet you. I&rsquo;ve heard a lot about you, and how clever you are.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You flatter me,&rdquo; said Dr Koomadhi, shaking hands with the new-comer. &ldquo;I
      must now rush away, Miss Hope,&rdquo; he added. &ldquo;I only called to tell your
      father that I had forwarded some reports by the <i>Penguin</i>.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Jolly old tub, the <i>Penguin</i>&mdash;glad I&rsquo;ve seen the last of her,&rdquo;
       said Major Minton.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Major Minton arrived by the <i>Penguin</i> this morning,&rdquo; said Gertrude.
      &ldquo;Must you really go away, Dr Koomadhi?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not even the prospect of a cup of your tea would make me swerve from the
      path of duty, Miss Hope,&rdquo; said the doctor, with a smile so chastened as to
      be deprived of all its Ethiopian character.
    </p>
    <p>
      He shook hands gracefully with her and Major Minton, and passed out by the
      verandah, the baboon standing to one side and solemnly saluting. The Major
      was the only one who laughed, and his laugh was a roar.
    </p>
    <h3>
      IV.
    </h3>
    <p class="pfirst">
      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">D</span>r Koomadhi found
      waiting for him at his house his old friend Mr Ross, the surgeon of the <i>Penguin</i>.
      He had been unable to leave the steamer earlier in the day, and he had
      only an hour to spend ashore. No, he did not think that anything was the
      matter with a bottle of champagne, provided that it was large enough and
      dry enough, and that it had been plunged into ice, not ice plunged into
      it.
    </p>
    <p>
      These essentials being guaranteed by Dr Koomadhi, Mr Ross&rsquo;s hour passed&mdash;as
      he thought&mdash;pleasantly enough. The two men sat together on cane
      chairs on the balcony facing the sea. It is at such a time, and under such
      conditions, that existence on the Gambia becomes not merely endurable, but
      absolutely delightful. Mr Ross made a remark to this effect, and expressed
      the opinion that his friend was in luck.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In luck? Oh yes. I&rsquo;m the luckiest fellow in the world,&rdquo; responded
      Koomadhi grimly. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve everything that heart can wish for.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, you&rsquo;re well paid, you don&rsquo;t mind the climate, and you&rsquo;re honoured
      and respected by the whole community,&rdquo; said Ross.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of course&mdash;honoured and respected&mdash;that&rsquo;s the strong point of
      the situation,&rdquo; said Koomadhi.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The only drawback seems to me to be the rather narrow limits of the
      society. Still, the Commissioner is a decent enough sort of old boy, and
      Letts has a good deal to recommend him. By the way, you&rsquo;ll not be so badly
      off in this matter during the next six months as you have been. We brought
      out a chap named Minton&mdash;a chap that any one could get on with. He&rsquo;s
      just chucked the service and is going to marry Miss Hope.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have just met him at the Residency,&rdquo; said Koomadhi, filling up with a
      steady hand the glass of his guest. &ldquo;And so he&rsquo;s going to marry Miss Hope,
      is he?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes; he confided a lot in me&mdash;mostly on the bridge toward the hour
      of midnight. The young woman has been engaged to him for a year past. They
      met just before the Commissioner got his berth, but the daughter being a
      good daughter, and with a larger sense of duty than is possessed by most
      girls, swore&mdash;in her own way, of course&mdash;that nothing should
      tempt her to desert her father for at least a year. Much to Minton&rsquo;s
      disgust, as you can understand, she came out here, telling him that if he
      still was anxious to marry her, he might follow her at the end of a year.
      Well, as he retained his fancy, he came out with us, and I believe you&rsquo;ll
      be in a position to add an official wedding to your other experiences,
      Koomadhi.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s something to look forward to,&rdquo; said Koomadhi. &ldquo;But how will that
      incident improve society in this neighbourhood? I suppose Minton and his
      wife will get off to England as soon as possible?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not they. Although they are to get married at once, they are to remain
      here for six or seven months&mdash;until, in fact, the Commissioner gets
      his leave, and then they all mean to go home together. Minton has a trifle
      of six thousand a-year and a free house in Yorkshire, so Miss Hope is in
      luck&mdash;so, for that matter, is Minton; she&rsquo;s a fine young woman, I
      believe. I only met her once.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I&rsquo;m not so certain about her constitution,&rdquo; said Koomadhi. &ldquo;Her lungs
      are, I believe, all right, but her circulation is defective, and she
      suffers from headaches just when she should be at her best.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, hang it all! a girl&rsquo;s a girl for a&rsquo; that!&rdquo; cried Ross. &ldquo;Your
      circulation&rsquo;s defective, Koomadhi, if you&rsquo;re capable only of judging a
      girl by the stethoscope. You&rsquo;re too much absorbed in your profession,
      that&rsquo;s what&rsquo;s the matter with you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I daresay you are right,&rdquo; Koomadhi admitted after a pause of a few
      seconds.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the course of the next half-hour, several other topics in addition to
      the matrimonial prospects of Major Minton and the constitutional
      shortcomings of Miss Hope were discussed on the verandah, until, at
      length, the sound of the steam-whistle of the <i>Penguin</i> was borne
      shore-wards by the breeze.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s a message to me,&rdquo; said Ross, starting up. &ldquo;Come down to the shore
      and see the last of me for three months at any rate.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Dr Koomadhi put on his helmet, and saw his friend safely through the surf
      on his way to where the steamer was swinging at her anchor. The sun had
      set before he returned to his house to dinner; and before he had risen
      from the table a message came to him that one of the officers of the
      Houssas was anxious to see him, being threatened with an attack of fever.
      The great stars were burning overhead before he returned from the barrack
      of the Houssas, and was able to throw off his coat and lie back in his
      chair in his own sitting-room.
    </p>
    <p>
      He had a good deal to think about before going to his bedroom, and he
      seemed to find the darkness congenial with his thoughts. In fact, the
      negro acknowledged a sort of brotherhood in the night, and he remained for
      some hours in that fraternal darkness. It was just midnight when he went,
      with only a small amount of groping, to his desk, and took out of its
      drawer the ivory box containing the earshaped stone, into whose orifice he
      had spoken some words before leaving for the Commissioner&rsquo;s house in the
      afternoon. He unlocked the box and removed the stone. He left his villa,
      taking the stone with him, and strolled once more to the house which he
      had visited a few hours before.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lights were in the windows of the Residency, and certain musical sounds
      were coming from the room where he had been. With the twanging of the
      banjo there came the sound of a light bass voice of no particular timbre,
      chanting the words of the latest plantation melody&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t you belieb un, Massa John,
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      Jes&rsquo; winkie mid yo&rsquo; eye,
    </p>
    <p class="indent15">
      Kick up yo&rsquo; heels to de gasalier&mdash;
    </p>
    <p class="indent20">
      Say, how am dat for high?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      Dr Koomadhi listened while three stanzas of the doggerel were being sung
      by Major Minton; then he raised the ear-shaped stone that was in the
      hollow of his hand, and whispered some words into it as he had done in the
      afternoon. In a second the song stopped, although the singer was in the
      middle of a stanza.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Confound it all!&rdquo; cried Major Minton&mdash;Koomadhi heard his voice
      distinctly. &ldquo;One of my strings is broken. I suppose it was the sudden
      change of atmosphere that made it give way. It&rsquo;s a good bit drier here
      than aboard the <i>Penguin</i>.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The concert is over for to-night,&rdquo; came the voice of the Commissioner.
      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s about time for all of us to be in our beds.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s my notion too,&rdquo; said Letts. &ldquo;Those who object can have their money
      returned at the doors.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was strange&mdash;that breaking of the string without warning,&rdquo; Dr
      Koomadhi heard Gertrude say.
    </p>
    <p>
      He smiled.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was only at midnight in the open air, and when he was alone, that he
      allowed himself the luxury of an unbridled smile. He knew the weaknesses
      of his race.
    </p>
    <p>
      He put the stone into the pocket of his coat and returned to his house.
    </p>
    <h3>
      V.
    </h3>
    <p class="pfirst">
      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>he marriage of
      Major Minton to Miss Hope took place in another week. Of course the
      ceremony was performed by the Lord Bishop of Bonny, who was also
      Metropolitan of the Gambia and Senegal. The gunboat that was at the
      anchorage displayed every available rag of bunting, and the lieutenant who
      commanded her said he would gladly have fired a salute in honour of the
      event, only for the fact that the Admiralty made him accountable for every
      ounce of powder that he burned, and, in addition, for the wear and tear on
      every gun. The guns didn&rsquo;t bear much tampering with, and there was nothing
      so bad for them as firing them: it wore them out, the Admiralty stated,
      and the practice must be put a stop to.
    </p>
    <p>
      But if there was no official burning of powder to mark the happy event,
      there was a great deal of it that was unofficial and wholly irregular. Dr
      Koomadhi spent several hours of the afternoon amputating fingers of
      Krooboys that had been mutilated through an imperfect acquaintance, on the
      part of the native populace, with the properties of gunpowder when
      ignited. An eye or two were reported to be missing, and in the cool of the
      evening the Doctor had brought to him, by a conscientious townsman, a
      human ear for which no owner could be found.
    </p>
    <p>
      The happy pair went to the Canary Islands for their honeymoon, and
      returned radiant at the end of six weeks; and the Commissioner&rsquo;s <i>ménage</i>,
      which had suffered materially through the absence of the Commissioner&rsquo;s
      daughter, was restored in all its former perfection. Every night varied
      strains of melody floated to the ears of such persons as were in the
      neighbourhood of the Residency; and it was a fact that Major Minton&rsquo;s
      banjo never twanged without attracting an audience of from ten to five
      hundred of the negro population of Picotee. The pathway was every night
      paved with negroes, who listened, shoulder to shoulder, and kneecap to
      kneecap&mdash;they sat upon their haunches&mdash;to the fascinating songs.
      They felt that if the Commissioner had only introduced a tom-tom obbligato
      to the tom-tom melodies, the artistic charm of the performance would be
      complete.
    </p>
    <p>
      The native evangelist, who occasionally contrived to fill a schoolhouse
      with young Christians by the aid of a harmonium,&mdash;a wheezy asthmatic
      instrument, which, in spite of a long lifetime spent on the West Coast,
      had never become fully acclimatised,&mdash;felt that his success was
      seriously jeopardised by the Major&rsquo;s secular melodies. When the flock were
      privileged to hear such fascinating music unconditionally, he knew that it
      was unreasonable to expect them to be regular in their attendance at the
      schoolhouse, where the harmonium wheezed only after certain religious
      services had been forced on them.
    </p>
    <p>
      He wondered if the Bishop might be approached on the subject of
      introducing the banjo into the schoolhouse services. He believed that with
      such auxiliaries as the banjo, and perhaps&mdash;but this was optional&mdash;the
      bones, a large evangelistic work might be done in the outlying districts
      of Picotee.
    </p>
    <p>
      Dr Koomadhi had always been a frequent visitor at the Residence, but for
      some time after the marriage of the Commissioner&rsquo;s daughter he was not
      quite so often to be found in the drawing-room of an evening. Gradually,
      however, he increased the number of his weekly visits. He was the only
      person in the neighbourhood who could (occasionally) beat Major Minton at
      billiards, and this fact helped, in a large measure, to overcome the
      prejudice which Major Minton frankly admitted (to his wife) he entertained
      against the native races of West Africa. Major Minton was becoming a
      first-class billiard-player, as any active person who understands the game
      is likely to become after a few months&rsquo; residence at a West Coast
      settlement.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dr Koomadhi is a gentleman and a Christian,&rdquo; Mrs Minton remarked one day
      when Mr Letts, the Secretary, had challenged discussion upon his favourite
      topic&mdash;namely, the thinness of the veneer of civilisation upon the
      most civilised savage.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He&rsquo;s a negro-gentleman, I admit,&rdquo; said Letts.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A man who plays so straight a game of billiards can&rsquo;t be far wrong,&rdquo;
       remarked Major Minton.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have reasons&mdash;the best of reasons&mdash;for knowing that Dr
      Koomadhi is a forgiving Christian gentleman,&rdquo; said Gertrude. &ldquo;Yes, he
      shall always be my friend.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She had not forgiven herself for that terrible half-spoken sentence, &ldquo;I
      would as soon marry&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She had not forgiven herself for having glanced at the baboon as she
      checked the words that sprang from her almost involuntarily.
    </p>
    <p>
      But Dr Koomadhi was showing day by day that he had forgiven them.
    </p>
    <p>
      And thus it was she felt that he was worthy to be regarded by all men as a
      gentleman and a Christian.
    </p>
    <h3>
      VI.
    </h3>
    <p class="pfirst">
      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">A</span> few days later Dr
      Koomadhi was visited by Major Minton. The Major was anxious to have some
      shooting at big game, and he was greatly disappointed at being unable to
      find in the neighbourhood of Picotee any one who could put him on the
      right track to gratify his longing for slaughter. The ivory-hunters did
      not find an outlet for their business at Picotee, and the majority of the
      inhabitants were as unenterprising, Major Minton said, as the chaw-bacons
      of an English village; nay, more so, for the chawbacons were beginning to
      know the joy of a metropolitan music hall, and that meant enterprise. He
      wondered if Koomadhi would allow him to accompany him on his next
      excursion inland.
    </p>
    <p>
      Koomadhi said that no proposal could give him greater pleasure. He would
      be going up again in a week or two, and he could promise Major Minton some
      first-class sport. He could show him some queer things.
    </p>
    <p>
      Talking of queer things, had Major Minton ever seen a piece of the famous
      African sound-stone?
    </p>
    <p>
      It was supposed that the famous statue of Memnon had been carved out of
      that stone.
    </p>
    <p>
      Major Minton had considered all that had been written on the subject of
      the talking statue utter rot, and he believed so still. Could any sane man
      credit a story like that, he was anxious to know?
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I suppose not,&rdquo; said Koomadhi.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But anyhow, I have now and again come upon pieces of the sound-stone.
      I&rsquo;ll show you a couple of bits.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He produced the roughly cut stone ear, and then an equally rough stone
      chipped into the form of a mouth&mdash;a negro&rsquo;s mouth.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They are rum things, to be sure,&rdquo; said Minton. &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t think that I ever
      saw stones just the same. Is the material marble?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I haven&rsquo;t the least idea,&rdquo; said Koomadhi. &ldquo;But just put that stone to
      your ear for a few moments.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Minton had the mouth-stone in his hand. Koomadhi retained the ear-stone
      and put it to his lips the moment that the Major raised his hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No,&rdquo; said the Major. &ldquo;I hear nothing. That sound-stone myth isn&rsquo;t good
      enough for me. I&rsquo;m not exactly a lunatic yet, and that&rsquo;s why I&rsquo;m going to
      climb up to your roof to enjoy the sea-breeze. Take your marvellous
      sound-stone, and I&rsquo;ll show you what it is to be a gymnast.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He opened the shutters, got out upon the verandah, and began climbing one
      of the supports of the verandah roof. He was a pretty fair athlete, but
      when the thermometer registers 97° is not, perhaps, the most favourable
      time for violent exercise. Still, he reached the roof with his hands and
      threw one leg up; in another moment he was sitting on the highest part of
      the roof, and was inviting Koomadhi to join him, declaring that only a
      fool would remain indoors on such a day.
    </p>
    <p>
      Koomadhi smiled and shook his head.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You must have some refreshment after your exertions,&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;What
      would you like&mdash;a brandy-and-soda, with a lump of ice clinking the
      sides of the tumbler?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That sounds inviting,&rdquo; said Major Minton, scratching his chest with a
      forefinger&mdash;it had apparently been chafed in his ascent of the roof.
      &ldquo;Yes; but if you chance to have a banana and a few nuts&mdash;by Jingo I
      should like a nut or two. Has no dietist written a paper on the dietetic
      value of the common or garden nut, Koomadhi?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come down and I&rsquo;ll give you as many nuts as you can eat,&rdquo; said Koomadhi.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, I&rsquo;ll come down this way,&rdquo; said the Major. He swung himself by one
      arm from the side of the roof to the bough of a tree. There he hung
      suspended by the other arm, and swinging slowly backward and forward. Even
      then he scraped the breast of his shirt, uttering a number of sounds that
      might have meant laughter. Then he caught a lower branch with his loose
      arm and dropped to the ground. Again he scraped at his chest and laughed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How about those nuts?&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;I think I&rsquo;ve earned them. How the
      mischief is it that I neglected my gymnastics all these months? What a
      fool I was! Walking along in the open day by day, when I might have been
      enjoying the free life of the jungle!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come inside and try a bit of cocoanut,&rdquo; said Koomadhi.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I&rsquo;m your man,&rdquo; said the Major.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My man&mdash;man?&rdquo; laughed the Doctor. &ldquo;Oh yes, you&rsquo;ve earned the
      cocoanut.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The soft flesh of a green cocoanut lay on the table of the sitting-room,
      and Major Minton caught it up and swallowed it without ceremony. The
      Doctor watched him with a curious expression on his face.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s the most refreshing tiffin I&rsquo;ve had for a long time,&rdquo; said the
      Major. &ldquo;Now, I&rsquo;ll have to get back to the Residency. Will you drop in for
      a game of billiards?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Perhaps I may,&rdquo; said the Doctor. &ldquo;Take that sound-stone again, and try if
      you really cannot hear anything when you put it to your ear.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My dear fellow, I&rsquo;m not the sort of a chap to become the victim of a
      delusion,&rdquo; said the Major, picking up the stone and holding it to his ear.
      &ldquo;Not a sound do I hear. Hang it all, man, I&rsquo;d get more sound out of a
      common shell. <i>Au revoir</i>.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He had his eyes fixed upon the ink-bottle that stood on the desk beside a
      blotter and a sheet of writing-paper. Dr Koomadhi noticed the expression
      in his eyes, and turned to open the door. The very instant that his back
      was turned, Major Minton ran to the ink-bottle, upset it upon the blotter,
      and then rushed off by the open window, laughing heartily.
    </p>
    <p>
      And yet there was no human being who so detested the playing of practical
      jokes as Major Minton.
    </p>
    <p>
      Dr Koomadhi put away the stones, and called his servant to wipe up the
      ink, which was dripping down to the floor.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Lorramussy!&rdquo; cried the old woman. &ldquo;How eber did yo&rsquo; make dat muss?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I didn&rsquo;t know that it was on the blotter until too late,&rdquo; said he. And
      yet Dr Koomadhi was a most truthful man&mdash;for a doctor.
    </p>
    <h3>
      VII.
    </h3>
    <p class="pfirst">
      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">H</span>ullo!&rdquo; said Letts,
      &ldquo;what have you been doing to yourself?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Major Minton had thrown himself into the Secretary&rsquo;s cosiest chair on his
      return from visiting Dr Koomadhi, and was wiping his forehead.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve been doing more to myself than I should have done,&rdquo; replied Minton.
      &ldquo;For heaven&rsquo;s sake, ring for a brandy-and-soda!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A brandy-and-soda? That&rsquo;s an extreme measure,&rdquo; said Letts. &ldquo;But you look
      as if you needed one.&rdquo; He went to his own cupboard and produced the
      brandy, and then rang the bell for the soda-water, which was of course
      kept in the refrigerator. Then he looked curiously at the man in the
      chair. &ldquo;By the Lord Harry! you&rsquo;ve been in a fight,&rdquo; he cried, when his
      examination had concluded. &ldquo;You&rsquo;re an ass to come between any belligerents
      in this neighbourhood: you forget that Picotee Street is not Regent
      Street. You got your collar torn off your coat for your pains; and, O
      Lord, your trousers!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I did not notice how much out of line I had fallen until now,&rdquo; said
      Minton, with a laugh. &ldquo;By George, Letts, that tear in my knee does suggest
      a free-and-easy tussle.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But how on earth did it come about?&rdquo; asked Letts. &ldquo;Surely you should know
      better than to go for a nigger as you would for a Christian! Why the
      mischief didn&rsquo;t you kick him on the shins, and then put your knee into his
      face?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Give me the tumbler.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Secretary handed him the tumbler, containing a stiff &ldquo;peg,&rdquo; and he
      drained it without giving any evidence of dissatisfaction.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now, how did it come about?&rdquo; inquired Letts. &ldquo;I hope you haven&rsquo;t dragged
      us into the business. If you have, there&rsquo;ll be a question asked about it
      in the House of Commons by one of those busybodies who have no other way
      of proving to their constituents that they&rsquo;re in attendance. &lsquo;Mr Jones
      asked the Secretary of State for the Colonies if he had any information to
      give to the House regarding an alleged outrage by a white man, closely
      associated with the family of her Majesty&rsquo;s Commissioner at Picotee, upon
      a native or natives of that colony.&rsquo; That&rsquo;s how it will read. Then
      there&rsquo;ll be puppy leaders in those papers that deal with &lsquo;justices&rsquo; 
      justice&rsquo;: the boy who gets a month&rsquo;s imprisonment for stealing a turnip&mdash;you
      know that sort of thing.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Keep your hair on,&rdquo; said Minton; &ldquo;there&rsquo;ll be no show in the House about
      this. There has been no row. I went round to Koomadhi&rsquo;s, and when we were
      talking together I suddenly fancied that the day was just one for a
      gymnastic display. I don&rsquo;t know whether it was that polite manner of
      Koomadhi&rsquo;s or something else set me off, but I felt an irresistible
      impulse to bounce. Without waiting to take off my coat I went out on the
      verandah and hauled myself up to the roof: I don&rsquo;t know how I did it. I
      might have managed it ten years ago, when I was in condition; but,
      considering how far off colour I am just now, by George! I don&rsquo;t know how
      I managed it. Anyhow, I did manage it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;At some trifling cost,&rdquo; said Letts. &ldquo;And what did you do on the roof when
      you got there?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, I swung myself down again. But I seemed to have a notion in the
      meantime that that nice, well-groomed nigger would try to climb up beside
      me, and I know that I had an impulse to catch him by the tail&mdash;the
      tail of his coat, of course&mdash;and swing him through the shutters.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But he didn&rsquo;t make such an ass of himself as to go through some
      gymnastics, and the thermometer standing a degree or two under a hundred.
      Well, you&rsquo;ve got off well this time, Minton; but don&rsquo;t do it again, that&rsquo;s
      all.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I tell you it was an impulse&mdash;a curious&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, impulses like that don&rsquo;t come to chaps who have their wits about
      them.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I suppose it was a bit of bounding, after all. But, somehow&mdash;well,
      you wouldn&rsquo;t just call me a bounder, would you, Letts?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why shouldn&rsquo;t I call you a bounder, I&rsquo;d like to know? A bounder is one
      who bounds, isn&rsquo;t he?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, I suppose&mdash;but I give you my word, I felt at that moment that
      it was the most natural thing I could have done&mdash;climbing up to the
      roof of the verandah, and then&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And then?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Swinging down again, I suppose.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He was afraid to tell Letts of that practical joke which he had played off
      on Koomadhi, when he found that the Doctor did not lend himself to that
      subtle piece of jocularity which Minton said he had conceived when sitting
      on the roof of the verandah. Letts had been pretty hard on him for having
      gone so far as to climb up to the roof; but what would he have said if he
      had been told about that ink-bottle incident?
    </p>
    <p>
      Minton thought it would, on the whole, be doing himself more ample justice
      if he were to withhold from Letts all information regarding that
      ink-bottle business. He said nothing about it, and when Letts mumbled
      something when in the act of lighting a cigar&mdash;something about
      fellows, who behave like idiots, going home and giving the whole West
      Coast a bad name, whereas, properly treated, the climate was one of the
      most salubrious, he remarked confidentially&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I say, old chap, you needn&rsquo;t mind jawing to the missus or the Governor
      about this business; it&rsquo;s not worth talking about, you know; but they&rsquo;re
      both given to exaggerate the importance of such things&mdash;Gertrude
      especially. I&rsquo;m a bit afraid of her still, I admit: we&rsquo;ve only been
      married about three months, you&rsquo;ll remember.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Great Duke! here&rsquo;s a chap who fancies that as time goes on he&rsquo;ll get less
      afraid of his wife,&rdquo; cried Letts. &ldquo;Well, well, some chaps do get
      hallucinations early in life.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t say a word about it, Letts. Where&rsquo;s the good of making a poor girl
      uneasy?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where, indeed? But why &lsquo;poor girl&rsquo;?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Because she&rsquo;s liable to be made uneasy at trifles. You&rsquo;re not&mdash;only
      riled. But I don&rsquo;t blame you: you&rsquo;ve been on this infernal coast for three
      years.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There&rsquo;s nothing the matter with the coast: it&rsquo;s only the idiots&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Quite so: I seem somehow to feel that I&rsquo;ve heard all that sort of thing
      before. I&rsquo;m one of the idiots.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Far be it from me to contradict so able a diagnosis of&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He caught the cushion which Minton hurled at him, and laughed. Then he
      became curiously thoughtful.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;By the way,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;wasn&rsquo;t it a bit rum that Koomadhi didn&rsquo;t try to
      prevent your swinging out to that roof? He&rsquo;s a medico, and so should know
      how such unnatural exertion is apt to play the mischief with a chap in
      such a temperature as this. Didn&rsquo;t he abuse you in his polite way?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not he,&rdquo; said Minton; &ldquo;on the contrary, I believe I had an idea that I
      heard him suggest... no, no; that&rsquo;s a mistake, of course.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What&rsquo;s a mistake?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That idea of mine&mdash;I don&rsquo;t know how I came to have it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You were under the impression, somehow, that he suggested your climbing
      to the roof? That was a rummy notion, wasn&rsquo;t it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A bit too rummy for general use. Oh no: he only said&mdash;now, what the
      mischief did he say? Oh, no matter.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If he said &lsquo;no matter&rsquo; when he saw that you were bent on gymnastics in
      the middle of a day with the temperature hovering about a hundred, he
      should be ashamed of himself.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He didn&rsquo;t say &lsquo;no matter.&rsquo; I&rsquo;ve just said it. Let me say it again. You
      should be a cross-examiner at the Bailey and Middlesex Session, Letts.
      Now, mind, not a word to the missus. Don&rsquo;t let her cross-examine you:
      evade her as I&rsquo;m evading you. I&rsquo;ll see you after dinner: maybe we&rsquo;ll have
      a billiard together&mdash;I&rsquo;m too tired now.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He went off, leaving Letts trying to find out the place where he had left
      off in a novel of George Eliot&rsquo;s. George Eliot is still read on the West
      Coast of Africa.
    </p>
    <p>
      But when Minton had left the room Letts did not trouble himself further
      with the novel. He tossed it away and lay back in his Madeira chair with a
      frown, suggesting perplexity, on his face.
    </p>
    <p>
      Some five minutes had passed, and yet the frown, so far from departing,
      had but increased in intensity.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I should like very much to know what his game is,&rdquo; he muttered. &ldquo;It
      wouldn&rsquo;t at all be a bad idea to induce sunstroke by over-exertion on a
      day like this. But why can&rsquo;t he remember if the nigger tried on that game
      with him? P&rsquo;chut! what&rsquo;s the good of bothering about it when the game
      didn&rsquo;t come off, whatever it was?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But in spite of his attempted dismissal of the whole matter from his mind,
      he utterly failed to give to the confession of the youth in &lsquo;Middlemarch&rsquo; 
      (it was to the effect that his father had been a pawnbroker, and it was
      very properly made to the young woman to the accompaniment of the peals of
      a terrific thunderstorm) the attention which so striking an incident
      demanded.
    </p>
    <h3>
      VIII.
    </h3>
    <p class="pfirst">
      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>f it&rsquo;s a command,
      sir, I&rsquo;ll obey; if not, well&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, nonsense, Letts!&rdquo; said the Commissioner. &ldquo;There&rsquo;s no command to a
      dinner with my daughter, her husband, and another man.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, that other man,&rdquo; said Letts.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now, I hope I&rsquo;ll hear nothing more about your absurd objection to that
      other man,&rdquo; said the Commissioner. &ldquo;I tell you that it&rsquo;s not only
      ridiculous, that old-fashioned prejudice of yours, it&rsquo;s prejudicial to the
      Service&mdash;it is, upon my soul, Letts. You know as well as I do that
      the great thing is to get in touch with the natives, to show them that, as
      common subjects of the Sovereign, enjoying equal rights wherever that flag
      waves, we are, we are&mdash;well, we must show them that we&rsquo;ve no
      prejudices. You&rsquo;ll admit that we must do that, Letts.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      (As Letts had not written out this particular speech for him, the
      Commissioner was a trifle shaky, and found it to his advantage to abandon
      the oratorical in favour of the colloquial style.)
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t feel called on to show that I&rsquo;m not prejudiced against the whole
      race, sir&mdash;the whole race as a race, and Dr Koomadhi as an
      individual,&rdquo; said Letts. &ldquo;Therefore I hope that you and Mrs Minton will
      excuse me from your dinner.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Upon my soul, I&rsquo;m surprised at you, Letts,&rdquo; said Commander Hope. &ldquo;I
      didn&rsquo;t expect to find in these days of enlightenment such old-fashioned
      prejudices as regards race. Great heavens! sir, is the accident of a man&rsquo;s
      being a negro to be looked on as debarring him from&mdash;from&mdash;well,
      from all that you would make out&mdash;the friendship of the superior
      race, the&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, there you are, sir; the superior race. In matters of equality there&rsquo;s
      no superior.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, of course I don&rsquo;t mean to suggest that there isn&rsquo;t some difference
      between the two races. Don&rsquo;t they say it was the effects of the curse,
      Letts&mdash;the curse of Ham? If a race was subject to the disabilities of
      an early curse duly recorded, you can&rsquo;t quite expect them to recover
      themselves all in a moment: it wouldn&rsquo;t be reasonable&mdash;it wouldn&rsquo;t be
      Scriptural either. But I think that common charity should make us&mdash;well,
      should make us do our best to mitigate their unfortunate position. That
      appeal of yours to Scripture, Letts, was used as an argument in favour of
      slavery. It&rsquo;s unworthy of you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I agree with you, sir; and I do so the more readily as I don&rsquo;t recollect
      ever having made use of such an authority as Scripture to bear out my
      contention that the polish of a nigger is no deeper than the polish on a
      mahogany table,&mdash;a thin and transparent film of lacquer. You see I&rsquo;ve
      had the advantage of living in Ashantee for six months, and when there I
      got pretty well grounded on the negro as a man and a brother. A man&mdash;well,
      perhaps; a brother, yes, own brother to the devil himself.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nonsense, Letts! Can&rsquo;t you keep Scripture out of the argument?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I tell you, sir, I saw things in the Ashantee country that made me feel
      certain that the archfiend made that region his headquarters many years
      ago, and that he has devoted himself ever since to the training of the
      inhabitants. They are his chosen people. If you had seen the unspeakable
      things that I saw during my six months in Ashantee, you would hold to my
      belief that the people have been taught by Satan himself, and that they
      have gone one better than their instructor. No, sir, I&rsquo;ll not dine with
      Koomadhi.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Commander Hope shook his head.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You&rsquo;re very pig-headed, Letts,&rdquo; he remarked; &ldquo;but we won&rsquo;t quarrel. I&rsquo;ll
      see if I can make Gertrude understand how it is you refuse her
      invitation.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I hope to heaven that she&rsquo;ll never get a glimpse of the real negro, sir&mdash;the
      negro with his lacquer scratched off.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Commissioner laughed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll not tell her that, Letts,&rdquo; he said.
    </p>
    <p>
      Letts did not laugh.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was really Gertrude who had suggested inviting Dr Koomadhi to dinner at
      the Residency. He had frequently partaken of the refreshment of tea in her
      drawing-room, but she knew that tea counts for nothing in the social scale
      even at Picotee: it conferred no more distinction upon one than a
      presentation at the White House does upon a citizen of the United States,
      or a citizen&rsquo;s wife or sister. He had never been asked to dine at the
      Commissioner&rsquo;s table, and that she knew to be a distinction, and one which
      he would be certain to value.
    </p>
    <p>
      But when she suggested to her father that there would be a certain
      gracefulness in the act of inviting Dr Koomadhi to dinner, she found her
      suggestion treated with that form of contumely known as the snub. Her
      father had looked at her sternly and walked away, saying&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Impossible! What! a nig&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;Oh, my dear, you don&rsquo;t
      understand these things. Impossible&mdash;impossible!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Gertrude Minton, being a woman, may not have understood some things, but
      she thoroughly understood how her father (and all other men) should be
      treated upon occasions. She took her snubbing meekly, as every clever
      woman takes a snubbing, when administered by a father, or a husband, or a
      brother; and of course, later on, she carried her point&mdash;as any
      clever woman will; for a properly sustained scheme of meekness, if
      persisted in, will accomplish anything, by making the man who snubs
      thoroughly ashamed of himself, and the man who is thoroughly ashamed of
      himself will be glad to come to terms, no matter how disadvantageous to
      himself, in order to avert a continuance of that reproachful meekness.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was the Commissioner himself who, a few days later, went to his
      daughter and told her that if she had her heart set upon inviting Dr
      Koomadhi to dinner he would not interfere. It had at first seemed to him a
      monstrous proposal, he admitted; but on thinking over it calmly, and with
      the recollection of the circumstances (1) that the present day was one of
      innovations; (2) that the negroes were treated on terms of the most
      perfect equality by the people of the United States of America,&mdash;he
      had come to the conclusion that it was necessary even for a British naval
      officer to march with the times; consequently he was prepared to do
      anything that his daughter suggested. He added, however, that up to the
      date at which he was speaking he had got on very well without once asking
      a nig&mdash;&mdash;that is, a negro gentleman, to dine at his table.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I knew you would consent, papa,&rdquo; said Gertrude, throwing off her mask of
      meekness in a moment, much to the satisfaction of her father. &ldquo;I knew you
      would consent: it would be quite unlike you not to consent. You are so
      broad-minded&mdash;so generous&mdash;so reasonable in your views on all
      native questions. I feel that I&mdash;that we&mdash;owe some amends&mdash;that
      is, we should do our best to give him to understand that we do not regard
      a mere accident of colour as disqualifying him from&mdash;from&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Quite so,&rdquo; said her father. &ldquo;We&rsquo;ll ask Letts: he won&rsquo;t come, though.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why should he not come?&rdquo; she asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Letts is full of prejudice, my dear. He has more than once made
      disparaging remarks regarding Koomadhi. You see, he lived for some months
      in the Ashantee country, and saw the human sacrifices and other
      barbarities.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If you speak to him with due authority, he will be compelled to come,&rdquo;
       said Gertrude warmly. &ldquo;You are the head here, are you not?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He looked at her and assented, though he knew perfectly well that it was
      not he who was the head of the Residency. Would he ask a nigger to dine at
      his table if he was at the head of it? he asked himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, then, just tell Letts that you expect him to dine here on Wednesday
      next, and he is bound to come. He is only secretary here.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My dear Gertrude, you know as well as I do what it is to be secretary
      here,&rdquo; said the Commissioner. &ldquo;Letts can do what he pleases. I shall
      certainly not coerce him in any way: I know it would be no use trying.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But you must try,&rdquo; cried Gertrude. She had, undoubtedly, quite got rid of
      her meekness. &ldquo;You must try; and you must succeed too.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Well, the Commissioner had tried, and the result of his attempt has just
      been recorded.
    </p>
    <p>
      He told his daughter of the firm attitude that Letts had assumed&mdash;it
      was just the attitude which he himself would like to assume if he had the
      courage; but of course he did not suggest so much to Gertrude.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The foolish fellow! I shall have to go to him myself,&rdquo; said she.
    </p>
    <p>
      And she went to him.
    </p>
    <h3>
      IX.
    </h3>
    <p class="pfirst">
      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">S</span>he had at one time
      fancied that Letts was fond of her, and she had thought that her liking
      for him was no mere fancy. A young woman with good looks and a pleasant
      manner and a young man with a career before him are very apt to have
      fancies in respect to each other on the West Coast of Africa, where good
      looks and pleasant manners are not to be met with daily. Of course when
      Gertrude had gone home for some months, and had met Major Minton, she
      became aware of the fact that her liking for Letts was the merest fancy;
      and perhaps when she returned with the story of her having promised (under
      certain conditions) to marry Major Minton, Letts had also come to the
      conclusion that his feeling towards Miss Hope was also a fancy. This is,
      however, not quite so certain. At any rate, Letts and she had always been
      very good friends.
    </p>
    <p>
      For half-an-hour she talked to him quite pleasantly at first, then quite
      earnestly&mdash;didactically and sarcastically&mdash;on the subject of his
      foolish prejudice. She called it foolish when she was pleasant, and she
      called it contemptible when she ceased to be pleasant, on a matter which
      she, for her part, thought had been long ago passed out of the region of
      controversy. Surely a man of Mr Letts&rsquo; intelligence and observation could
      not be serious in objecting to dine with Dr Koomadhi simply because he
      chanced to be a negro.
    </p>
    <p>
      But Mr Letts assured her that he was quite serious in the matter. He
      didn&rsquo;t pretend, he said, to be superior in point of intelligence or power
      of observation to men who made no objection to meet on terms of perfect
      equality the whole Ethiopian race; but he had had certain experiences, he
      said, and so long as he retained a recollection of these experiences he
      would decline to sit at the same table with Dr Koomadhi or any of his
      race. Then it was that Mrs Minton ceased to be altogether pleasant as to
      the phrases which she employed in order to induce Mr Letts to change his
      mind.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are not the only one with experiences,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;I have had
      experience not merely of negroes generally, but of Dr Koomadhi in
      particular, and, as I told you some time ago, I have reason to believe him
      to be a generous, Christian gentleman. That is why I wish to do all that
      is in my power to make him understand that I regard his possession of the
      characteristics of a gentleman and a Christian as more than placing him on
      a level with us. I feel that I am inferior to Dr Koomadhi in those
      qualities which our religion teaches us to regard as noblest.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And I hope with all my soul that you will never have a different
      experience of him,&rdquo; said Letts.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know that I shall have no different experience of him,&rdquo; said she, with
      confidence in her pose and in her tone.
    </p>
    <p>
      He made no reply to this. And then she went on to ask him some interesting
      questions regarding the general design of the Maker of the Universe, and
      His intention in respect of the negro; and though Letts answered all to
      the best of his ability, he was not persuaded to accept Mrs Minton&rsquo;s
      invitation to dinner.
    </p>
    <p>
      She was naturally very angry, and even went so far as to assure Mr Letts
      that his refusal to accept the invitation which she offered him might be
      prejudicial to his being offered any future invitations to dine at her
      table&mdash;an assurance which he received without emotion.
    </p>
    <p>
      She told her father of her failure, and though he shook his head with due
      seriousness, yet he refrained from saying &ldquo;I told you so.&rdquo; But when her
      husband heard that Letts would not be persuaded, he treated the incident
      with a really remarkable degree of levity, declaring that if he himself
      were independent, he would see Koomadhi and all the nigger race sent to a
      region of congenial blackness before he would sit down to dinner with the
      best of them. He thought Letts, however, something of an ass for not
      swallowing his prejudices in a neighbourhood where there were so few
      decent billiard-players. For himself, he said he would have no objection
      to dine with bandits and cut-throats if they consented to join in a good
      pool afterwards.
    </p>
    <p>
      When Dr Koomadhi received his invitation to dine at the Residency&mdash;it
      was in the handwriting of Mrs Minton&mdash;he smiled. His smiles worked at
      low pressure in the daytime; he felt that he could not be too careful in
      this respect; he might, if taken suddenly, be led on to smile naturally in
      the presence of a man with a kodak, and where would he be then?
    </p>
    <p>
      He smiled. He went to the drawer where he kept the curious stones, and
      looked at them for some time, but without touching them. Then he went to
      the drawer in which he kept the verses that he had written expressive of
      the effect of Miss Hope&rsquo;s eyes upon his soul. By a poetic licence he
      assumed that he had a soul, and he liked to write about it: it gave him an
      opportunity of making it the last word in a line following one that ended
      with the word &ldquo;control.&rdquo; He read some of the pages, and honestly believed
      that they were covered with poetry of the highest character. He felt
      convinced that there was not another man in the whole Ashantee country who
      could write as good poetry; and perhaps he was not wrong in his estimate
      of his own powers, and the powers of his Ashantee brethren.
    </p>
    <p>
      As he closed the door with a bang his face would have seemed to any one
      who might have chanced to see it one mass of ivory. This effect, startling
      though it was, was due merely to an incidental change of expression. He
      had ceased to smile; his teeth were tightly closed, and his lips had
      receded from them as a tidal wave recedes from the strand of a coral
      island, disclosing an unsuspected reef. His lips hid in their billowy
      depths the remainder of his face, and only that fearful double ridge of
      locked teeth would have been visible to any one, had any one been present.
    </p>
    <p>
      The words that Dr Koomadhi managed to utter without unlocking his teeth
      were undoubtedly suggestive of very strong feeling; but no literary
      interest attaches to their repetition.
    </p>
    <p>
      He seated himself at his desk&mdash;after an interval&mdash;and wrote a
      letter which was rather over than under the demands made by politeness
      upon a man who has been asked to dinner in a rather formal way. He said it
      would give him the greatest pleasure to accept the most kind invitation
      with which he had been honoured by the Commissioner and Mrs Minton; and
      then he added a word or two, which an ordinary gentleman would possibly
      have thought superfluous, regarding the pride which he felt at being the
      recipient of such a distinction.
    </p>
    <p>
      It could not be said, however, that there was anything in his mode of
      conducting himself at the dinner-table that suggested any want of
      familiarity on his part with the habits of good society. He did not eat
      with his knife, though he might have done so without imperilling in any
      degree the safety of his mouth, nor did he make any mistake regarding his
      ice-pudding or his jelly. He also drank his champagne out of the right
      glass, and he did not take it for granted that the water in his
      finger-bowl was for any but external use.
    </p>
    <p>
      As he lay back in his chair, with his serviette across his knees and a
      cigarette between his fingers, discussing with the Commissioner, with that
      mild forbearance which one assumes towards one&rsquo;s host, the political
      situation of the hour, when Mrs Minton had left the room, he looked the
      picture of a model English gentleman&mdash;a silhouette picture. He hoped
      that the Conservatives would not go to the country without a programme.
      What were the leaders thinking of that they hadn&rsquo;t familiarised the
      country with the policy they meant to pursue should they be returned to
      power? Home Rule for Ireland! Was there ever so ridiculous a demand
      seriously made to the country? Why, the Irish were, he assured his host,
      very little better than savages: he should know&mdash;he had been in
      Ireland for close upon a fortnight. He had some amusing Irish stories. He
      imitated the brogue of the peasantry. He didn&rsquo;t say it was unmusical; but
      Home Rule!... the idea was too ridiculous to be entertained by any one who
      knew the people.
    </p>
    <p>
      His political views were sound beyond a doubt. They were precisely the
      views of the Commissioner and his son-in-law, and the green chartreuse was
      velvety as it should be.
    </p>
    <p>
      For this evening only Major Minton sang to his wife&rsquo;s accompaniment a
      sentimental song which dwelt upon the misery of meeting daily with smiles
      a certain person, while his, the singer&rsquo;s, heart was breaking. He sang it
      with well-simulated feeling. One would never have thought that there was a
      banjo in the house.
    </p>
    <p>
      Then Mrs Minton sang a lovely Scotch song about a burn; but it turned out
      that the burn was water and not fire, and the Commissioner dozed in a
      corner.
    </p>
    <p>
      At last Major Minton suggested a game of billiards, and the suggestion was
      acted on without delay.
    </p>
    <p>
      After playing a game with Dr Koomadhi, while her husband looked on and
      criticised the strokes from the standpoint of a lenient if discriminating
      observer, Mrs Minton said &ldquo;goodnight&rdquo;; she was tired, she said, and she
      knew that her husband and Dr Koomadhi meant to play all night, so she
      thought she might as well go soon as late.
    </p>
    <p>
      Of course Dr Koomadhi entreated her not to leave them. They would, he
      assured her, do anything to retain her; they would even play a four game&mdash;abhorred
      of billiard-players&mdash;if she would stay. Her husband did not join in
      the entreaties of their guest. He played tricky cannons until she had left
      the room.
    </p>
    <h3>
      X.
    </h3>
    <p class="pfirst">
      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">S</span>hall I break?&rdquo;
       Minton asked. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll play with spot for a change.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Before he had completed his second break of twenty-eight the Commissioner
      had fallen asleep with his cigar between his fingers. When they had
      commenced he had been critical. But he broke down under the monotony of
      the second moderate break.
    </p>
    <p>
      For about a quarter of an hour the game went on, and all the variations
      from &ldquo;Hard lines!&rdquo; to &ldquo;Dammitall!&rdquo; were indulged in by the players. Minton
      had scored eighty against Koomadhi&rsquo;s seventy-one, and was about to play a
      hazard requiring great judgment, when his opponent came behind him, saying&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t see how it can be done: a cannon is the easier game.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, I&rsquo;ll try the hazard anyway, and try to leave the red over the
      pocket.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You&rsquo;ll need to do it very gently,&rdquo; said his opponent, almost leaning over
      him as he took his aim at the red ball.
    </p>
    <p>
      For quite half a minute Minton hung over his cue, and in that space of
      time Koomadhi had taken out of his pocket the curious stone shaped like a
      broad ear, and had put it to his own mouth for a second or two while he
      stood behind the player, returning it quickly to his pocket before the cue
      had struck the ball.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What a stroke!&rdquo; cried Minton. &ldquo;It would disgrace our friend Jacco.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I said the cannon was the easier game,&rdquo; remarked Koomadhi, chalking his
      cue. &ldquo;Hallo! what are you going to do?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who the mischief could play billiards a night like this in such a suit of
      armour as this?&rdquo; laughed Minton. He was in the act of pulling his shirt
      over his head, and he spoke from within its folds. In another second he
      was stripped to the waist. &ldquo;Now, my friend,&rdquo; he chuckled, &ldquo;we&rsquo;ll see
      who&rsquo;ll win this game. This is the proper rig for any one who means to play
      billiards as billiards should be played.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I wouldn&rsquo;t have done that if I were you,&rdquo; said Koomadhi. &ldquo;Come; you had
      much better put on your shirt. The Commissioner may object.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let him object,&rdquo; laughed the half-naked man; &ldquo;he&rsquo;s an old fogey anyway.
      Like most naval men, he has no heart in anything beyond the shape of a
      button and the exact spot where it should be worn. How was it we had no
      nuts for dinner, I should like to know?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Koomadhi had made a cannon. He walked half-way round the table to get the
      chalk, and in a second Major Minton had picked up the red ball and slipped
      it into his pocket.
    </p>
    <p>
      When Koomadhi turned to play the screw back, which he meant to do
      carefully, only the white balls were on the table, and Minton denied all
      knowledge of the whereabouts of the red.
    </p>
    <p>
      Koomadhi laughed, and put his cue into the stand.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, I say, a joke&rsquo;s a joke!&rdquo; chuckled Minton, producing the ball from,
      his pocket. &ldquo;You won&rsquo;t play any more? Oh, yes; we&rsquo;ll have another game,
      only for a change we&rsquo;ll play it with our feet. Now, why the mischief
      people don&rsquo;t play it with their feet I can&rsquo;t understand. It stands to
      reason that the stroke must be far surer. I&rsquo;ll show you what I mean. Oh,
      confound those things!&mdash;I&rsquo;ll have them off in a moment.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You&rsquo;ll do nothing of the kind,&rdquo; said the Doctor firmly, as Major Minton
      kicked off his shoes and hastened to get rid of the only garments that he
      was wearing. &ldquo;For God&rsquo;s sake, don&rsquo;t make such a fool of yourself!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He had caught his hands, preventing his carrying out his singular design
      of illustrating the prehensile character of the muscles of the human foot.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now, then, put on your shirt and finish your soda-water. I must be off.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Major Minton grinned, and, turning suddenly, caught Dr Koomadhi by the
      tail of his dress-coat&mdash;he had just put it on&mdash;and with a quick
      jerk upset him on the floor.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;God bless my soul!&rdquo; cried the Commissioner, waking up.
    </p>
    <p>
      Dr Koomadhi was brushing the dust off his waistcoat; Major Minton was
      swinging halfway up one of the ropes that controlled the ventilator of the
      roof.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What in the name of all that&rsquo;s ridiculous is this?&rdquo; said the
      Commissioner. &ldquo;By the Lord! I seem to be still dreaming&mdash;a nightmare,
      by George, sir!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I really must ask your pardon, sir,&rdquo; said Koomadhi; &ldquo;I had no idea that
      the thing would go on so far as it has. Major Minton and I were having a
      rather funny trial of strength. He was on one rope, I was on the other. I
      let go my hold. Come down, man&mdash;come down&mdash;the game is over.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And a most peculiar game it seems to have been,&rdquo; said the Commissioner.
      &ldquo;Great heavens! it can&rsquo;t be possible that he took off his shirt!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was very foolish, sir,&rdquo; said Koomadhi. &ldquo;I think I&rsquo;ll say good-night.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Commissioner paid no attention to him; all his attention was given to
      his son-in-law, who was swinging negligently with one hand on the
      ventilator rope. When he at last dropped to the floor, Minton rubbed his
      eyes and looked around him in a dazed way.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My God!&rdquo; he muttered. &ldquo;How do I come to be like this&mdash;this? Where&rsquo;s
      my shirt?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You should be ashamed of yourself, sir,&rdquo; said the Commissioner sternly.
      &ldquo;What have you been drinking in your soda-water?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nothing,&rdquo; said Minton, putting on his shirt. &ldquo;I drank nothing but
      soda-water. What possessed me to make such an ass of myself I can&rsquo;t tell.
      I beg your pardon, Koomadhi. I assure you I didn&rsquo;t mean to&mdash;why, it
      all appears like a dream to me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, a dream! Good night, Dr Koomadhi,&rdquo; said the Commissioner. &ldquo;I&rsquo;m sorry
      that anything should happen&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t say another word, sir, I entreat of you,&rdquo; cried Koomadhi. &ldquo;I fear
      that I was, after all, the most to blame. I should have known where this
      sort of horse-play was likely to land us. Good night, sir; I really feel
      that an apology should come from me. Good night, Minton. No, no; don&rsquo;t say
      a word. I feel that I have disgraced myself for ever.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Minton, now clothed and in his right mind, saw him off, and then returned
      to the presence of his father-in-law. He knew that the Commissioner was
      desirous of having a word or two with him, and he was not the man to run
      away from such an interview. In fact, he himself was anxious to have the
      first word; and he had it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Look here, sir,&rdquo; he said; &ldquo;I want to say that I know I made an infernal
      fool of myself. Why I did it I can&rsquo;t tell; I touched nothing but
      soda-water all night.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then there is the less excuse for your behaviour,&rdquo; said the Commissioner
      drily. &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t want to say anything more about this unhappy business.
      Only, I will point out to you that Koomadhi could easily make things very
      disagreeable for us if he were so minded. You threw him on the floor.
      Heavens above!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I suppose I did throw him; but why?&mdash;why?&mdash;why?&mdash;that&rsquo;s
      what I want to know.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Perhaps an explanation may come to you in the course of a day or two. You
      had better go to bed now.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes; I&rsquo;ll go to bed. Only&mdash;of course there&rsquo;s no reason why you
      should let the matter go farther.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I certainly, for my own sake and yours, will keep it as secret as
      possible. I only hope that Koomadhi&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, Koomadhi is all right. But I don&rsquo;t see that Gertrude or Letts should
      hear anything of it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They don&rsquo;t hear anything of it from me, I promise you. Will you ring for
      the lamps to be turned out?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Dick Minton pulled the bell. His father-inlaw went to his bed without a
      word.
    </p>
    <p>
      But an hour had passed before Dick went to his room. He lit a cigar and
      strolled away from the Residency to the brink of the sea; and there, on
      the low scrub, looking out to the enormous rollers that broke on the
      shallow beach two miles from where he stood, spreading their white foam
      all around, he tried to think how it was he had been led to behave more
      foolishly than he had ever behaved since the days of his youth.
    </p>
    <p>
      He was not successful in his attempts in this direction.
    </p>
    <p>
      And Dr Koomadhi also remained thinking his thoughts for fully half an hour
      after reaching that pleasant verandah of his, which got every breath that
      came inland from the sea.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I can do it easily enough&mdash;yes, in his presence; but what good is
      that to me?&rdquo; he muttered. &ldquo;No good whatever&mdash;just the opposite. I
      must have the Khabela&mdash;ah, the Khabela! That works miles apart.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Two days later he paid his visit to the Residency and drank tea with Mrs
      Minton. He told her that he found it necessary to go up country for ten
      days or so. He knew of a nice miasma tract, and he hoped to gain in a few
      days as much information regarding its operations on the human frame as he
      could obtain in as many years in the comparative salubriousness of the
      coast.
    </p>
    <p>
      Her husband did not put in an appearance while Koomadhi was in the
      drawing-room. His wife reproached him for that.
    </p>
    <p>
      He took her reproach meekly.
    </p>
    <h3>
      XI.
    </h3>
    <p class="pfirst">
      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">M</span>oonlight was
      flooding the forest beyond the native village of Moumbossa on the Upper
      Gambia, but where Dr Koomadhi was walking no moonbeam penetrated. The
      branches formed an arch above him as dense with interwoven boughs and
      thick leaves as though the arch was a railway tunnel. Only in the far
      distance a gleam of light could be seen.
    </p>
    <p>
      At times the deep silence of the night was broken by the many sounds of
      the tropical jungle. Every sound was familiar to Dr Koomadhi, and he
      laughed joyously as one laughs on recognising the voice of a friend. The
      wild shriek of a monkey pounced upon by some other creature, the horrible
      laugh of a hyena, the yell of a lory, and then a deep silence. He felt at
      home in the midst of that forest, though when he spoke of home within the
      hearing of civilised people, he meant it to be understood that he referred
      to England.
    </p>
    <p>
      When he emerged from the brake he found himself gazing at a solitary
      beehive hut in the centre of a great cleared space, A quarter of a mile
      away the moonlight showed him the village of Moumbossa, with its lines of
      palms and plantains.
    </p>
    <p>
      He walked up to the hut without removing his rifle from his shoulder, and
      stood for some moments at the entrance. Then he heard a voice saying to
      him in the tongue of the Ashantees&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Enter, my son, and let thy mother see if thy face is changed.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I cannot enter, mother,&rdquo; he replied in the same language. &ldquo;But I have
      come far and in peril to talk with you. We must talk together in the
      moonlight.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He retained among his other memories a vivid recollection of the interior
      of a native hut. He could not bring himself to face the ordeal of entering
      the one before him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will soon be beside you,&rdquo; came the voice; and in a few moments there
      crawled out from the entering-place a half-naked old negress, of great
      stature, and with only the smallest perceptible stoop. She walked round Dr
      Koomadhi, and then looked into his face with a laugh.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;it is indeed you, my son, and I see that you need my
      services.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are right, mother,&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;I wondered if you still retained your
      old powers. That is why I stood for some minutes outside the hut. I said,
      &lsquo;If my mother has still her messengers in the air, and in the earth, they
      will tell her that her son has come to her once more.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You should not have doubted,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;Do you fancy that such powers as
      have come to me by the possession of the Sacred Khabela can decay by
      reason of age or the weight of days?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If that had been my belief, should I have come to you this night?&rdquo; he
      asked. &ldquo;I have need of all your powers. I have need of all the powers of
      the Khabela.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You shall have all that I can command: are you not my son?&rdquo; said the old
      woman. &ldquo;But have you found the Sacred Ear to fail you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Never, mother,&rdquo; said Dr Koomadhi. &ldquo;You told me what it could do, and it
      has never failed me within its limits. But I must have the more powerful
      charm of the Sacred Mouth. My need is extreme.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It must be extreme, and I will not deny it to you,&rdquo; said his mother. &ldquo;You
      know what it can do. No man or woman can withstand it. If any offspring of
      woman should hold that Sacred Mouth to his ear, or her ear, as the case
      may be, the words which you whisper into the Sacred Ear will seem the
      truth, whatever those words may be. You know that. But the magic of the
      Khabela is far greater. It will work at a distance. But if it is lost you
      know what the consequences will be. You know the decree of the great
      Fanshatee, the monkey-god?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know it. The stone Khabela shall not be lost. I accept the
      responsibility. I must have command over it until the return of the moon.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And thou shalt have control of it, whether for good or evil. It told me
      that thou wert nigh to-night, so that thou must have the Ear charm in thy
      possession even now.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is here, mother, in this pocket. I have shown it to no mortal whose
      colour is not as our colour, whose hair is not as our hair.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The white men laugh at all magic such as ours, I have heard.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, they laugh at it. But some of them practise a form of it themselves.
      I have seen one practise it in a great room in England. Without the aid of
      a mystic stone he told sober men that they were drunk, and they acted as
      drunk men; he told rough fellows that they were priests, and they preached
      sermons as long and as stupid as any that we have heard missionaries
      preach.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And yet they say that our magic is a thing accursed.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes; that is the way with the white men. When they have said their word
      &lsquo;damn&rsquo; on any matter, they believe that the last word has been said upon
      it, and all that other men may say they laugh at.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They are fools, my son; and thou art a fool to dwell among them.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They are wise men up to a certain point. They are only fools on the
      subject of names. They say that magic is accursed; but they say that
      hypnotism is science, and science is the only thing in which they
      believe.&rdquo; He had some trouble translating the word hypnotism into the
      native speech. &ldquo;Enough about them. Let me have the mystery, and then let
      me have a cake that has been baked in the earth with the leaves of the
      betel.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thou shalt have both, ray son, before the morning light. Enter my hut,
      and I will dream that thou art a child again.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But that was just where Dr Koomadhi drew the line. He would not crawl into
      the hut even to make his venerable mother fancy that his youth was renewed
      like the eagles.
    </p>
    <p>
      He returned to Picotee the next day, and as he walked through the forest
      each side of the bush track was lined with monkeys. They came from far and
      near and put their faces down to the ground, their fore-hands at the back
      of their heads.
    </p>
    <p>
      He talked to them in simian.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;Ye know that I am the holder of the Khabela, intrusted to
      me by my brother Fanshatee; but if I lose it your attitude will not be the
      same.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <h3>
      XII.
    </h3>
    <p class="pfirst">
      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>wo days had
      passed, after his return to Picotee, before Dr Koomadhi found time to call
      at the Residency. He found Major Minton lying on the cane settee in a
      condition of perspiration and exhaustion.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I&rsquo;m sure Dr Koomadhi will bear me out in what I say,&rdquo; said Mrs Minton, as
      the Doctor entered the room. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve been lecturing my husband upon the
      danger of taking such violent exercise as he has been indulging in,&rdquo; she
      continued. &ldquo;Just look at the state that he is in, Doctor. The idea of any
      sane man on a day like this entering into a climbing contest with a
      monkey!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Great heavens! Is that what he has been about&mdash;and the thermometer
      nearer a hundred than ninety?&rdquo; cried the Doctor.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I admit that I was an ass,&rdquo; muttered the Major. &ldquo;But somehow I felt that
      I should show Jacco that I could lick him on his own ground,&mdash;not
      exactly his ground&mdash;we were never on the ground.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And when I went out I found them swinging on the topmost bough of one of
      the trees,&rdquo; said Mrs Minton. &ldquo;Upon my word, my father will feel
      scandalised. Such a thing never occurred at the Residency before.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Apart from the social aspect of the incident, I am bound to say that it
      was most indiscreet,&rdquo; said Dr Koomadhi. &ldquo;Nothing precipitates sunstroke
      like over-exertion in a high temperature. Major, this must not occur
      again.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;All right: don&rsquo;t make a fuss, or you&rsquo;ll soon be as hot as I am,&rdquo; said the
      Major, rising with difficulty and crossing the room&mdash;he was bent
      almost double&mdash;to his wife&rsquo;s tea-table.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hallo,&rdquo; said the Doctor, &ldquo;what have you been doing to yourself?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is not what I have been doing but what I&rsquo;ve left undone that you
      notice,&rdquo; laughed the Major. &ldquo;The fact is that I couldn&rsquo;t be bothered
      shaving for the last few mornings. That&rsquo;s what you notice.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      That was precisely what the Doctor did notice. He noticed the tossed hair
      of the Major&rsquo;s head and such bristles of a beard and whiskers as had
      completely altered the appearance of his face. He also noticed that when
      Mrs Minton turned away for a moment her husband deftly abstracted two
      lumps of sugar from the bowl and began eating them surreptitiously.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No nuts,&rdquo; he heard him mutter contemptuously some time afterwards.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nuts?&rdquo; said Mrs Minton. &ldquo;You&rsquo;ll ruin your digestion if you eat any more
      nuts, Dick. Dr Koomadhi, will you join your voice with mine in protest
      against this foolish boy&rsquo;s fancy for nuts? You speak with the recognised
      authority of a medical man. I can only speak as a wife, and I am not so
      foolish as to fancy that that constitutes any claim to attention. If you
      continue rubbing your chest in that absurd way, Dick, you&rsquo;ll certainly
      make a raw.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Dr Koomadhi did not fail to observe that the Major was rubbing his chest
      with his bent-up fingers.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I&rsquo;m quite surprised at your imprudence,&rdquo; said he, shaking his head. &ldquo;You
      told me some time ago that though you had been for seven years in India,
      you never had a touch of fever, and you attributed this to the attention
      you paid to your diet. Now you know as well as I do that if a man requires
      to be careful in India, there is double reason for him to be careful on
      the West Coast of Africa. How can you so disregard the most elementary
      laws of health?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Major Minton laughed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There&rsquo;s nothing like exercise,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;and the best of all exercise is
      climbing. Why, my dear Koomadhi, haven&rsquo;t the greatest intellects of the
      age taken to climbing? Wasn&rsquo;t Tyndall a splendid mountaineer? I don&rsquo;t
      profess to be superior to Tyndall. Now, as I can&rsquo;t get mountains to climb
      in this neighbourhood I take naturally to the trees. I think sometimes I
      could pass the rest of my life pleasantly enough here. Man wants but
      little here below. Give me a branch to swing on, a green cocoa-nut, and a
      friend who won&rsquo;t resent a practical joke&mdash;I want nothing more. By the
      way, it&rsquo;s odd that I never saw until lately&mdash;in fact, until two days
      ago&mdash;what good fun there is in a practical joke.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;His perception of what he calls good fun deprived me of my brushes and
      comb this morning,&rdquo; said Mrs Minton. &ldquo;I must confess I fail to see the
      humour in hiding one&rsquo;s brushes and comb.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was the most innocent lark in the world, and you had no reason to be
      so put out about it,&rdquo; said her husband, leaning over the back of her
      chair. Dr Koomadhi saw that he was tying the sash of her loose gown to the
      wickerwork of the table at which she was sitting, so that she could not
      rise without overturning the tray with the cups.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My dear Major,&rdquo; said the Doctor, &ldquo;a jest is a jest, but your wife&rsquo;s china&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, you have given me away; but I&rsquo;ll be equal to you, never fear,&rdquo; said
      the Major, shambling off as his wife prepared to loose the knot of her
      sash from the table.
    </p>
    <p>
      She did not speak a word, but her face was flushed, and it was plain that
      she was greatly annoyed. The flush upon her face deepened when her husband
      went out to the verandah and uttered a curious guttural cry.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How has he learned that?&rdquo; asked Dr Koomadhi.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Learned what?&rdquo; asked Mrs Minton.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That cry.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, it&rsquo;s some of his foolishness.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I daresay; but&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, I thought I could bring you here, my friend,&rdquo; cried the Major, as
      Jacco the baboon swung off his usual place over the porch into his arms.
    </p>
    <p>
      Dr Koomadhi watched the creature run its fingers through the Major&rsquo;s
      disordered hair. He heard the guttural sound made by the baboon, and he
      heard it responded to by the Major.
    </p>
    <p>
      He found that Major Minton was on a level with himself in his acquaintance
      with the simian language.
    </p>
    <p>
      He rose and took leave of Mrs Minton, and then, with a word of warning in
      regard to his imprudent exercises, of the Major, left the Residency.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was not until he had reached his own house that he discovered that upon
      the back of his spotless linen coat there had been executed in ink the
      grinning face of a clown. He recollected that he had seen Major Minton
      toying with a quill pen behind him as he sat drinking tea.
    </p>
    <h3>
      XIII.
    </h3>
    <p class="pfirst">
      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">A</span> few days later Dr
      Koomadhi was visited&mdash;unofficially&mdash;by Commander Hope. The poor
      Commissioner was as grave as if an impetuous French naval officer had just
      been reported to have insulted the British flag on some part of the coast
      protected (nominally) by that variegated bunting. He was anxious to
      consult the Doctor regarding the condition of Major Minton.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Indeed?&rdquo; said the Doctor. &ldquo;What do you suppose is the matter with him,
      sir?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Commissioner tapped his forehead significantly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A slight touch of sunstroke, I fancy,&rdquo; he replied. &ldquo;He has been behaving
      strangely&mdash;giving us a great deal of uneasiness, Koomadhi. Oh yes,
      it&rsquo;s clearly a touch of sunstroke.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s bad&mdash;but not sufficiently bad to be very grave about, sir,&rdquo;
       said the Doctor. &ldquo;You know how these attacks pass away, leaving scarcely a
      trace behind, if properly treated. You have, of course, applied the ice?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We&rsquo;ve applied nothing,&rdquo; said the Commissioner. &ldquo;He&rsquo;s beyond our control,
      Koomadhi. He left the Residency last evening and has not turned up since.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Great heavens!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s a fact. Oh, he must be stark, staring mad&rdquo;&mdash;the Commissioner
      was walking up and down the Doctor&rsquo;s room in a state of most unofficial
      perturbation. &ldquo;I found it necessary to speak to him pretty plainly a
      couple&rsquo; of days ago. It was bad enough for him to climb up the mast and
      nail the flag to the pole so that it could not be hauled down at sunset,
      but when it conies to dropping the keys of the despatch-boxes into the
      water-tank, the thing ceases to be a joke. I gave him a good slating, and
      he sulked. He had an idea, his wife told me, that he understood the simian
      language, and he was for ever practising his knowledge upon our tame
      baboon. What on earth does that mean, if not sunstroke&mdash;tell me that,
      Koomadhi?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It looks very like sunstroke, indeed,&rdquo; said the Doctor. &ldquo;But where can he
      have disappeared to?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s the question that makes me feel uneasy,&rdquo; said the Commissioner. &ldquo;I
      don&rsquo;t like to make a fuss just yet, but&mdash;I&rsquo;ll tell you what it is,
      Koomadhi,&rdquo;&mdash;he lowered his voice to a whisper,&mdash;&ldquo;the man has a
      delusion that he is an ape&mdash;it&rsquo;s impossible to keep it a secret any
      longer. God help us all! God help my poor girl&mdash;my poor girl!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Commissioner broke down completely, and wept with his face bowed down
      to his hands. He was very unofficial&mdash;tears are not official.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come, sir, you must not give way like this,&rdquo; said the Doctor. &ldquo;This coast
      is the very devil for men like Minton, who will not take reasonable
      precautions. But there&rsquo;s no reason to be alarmed just yet. The <i>Penguin</i>
      will be here in a few days, and the instant the steamer drops her anchor
      we&rsquo;ll ship him aboard. He&rsquo;ll be all right, take my word for it, when he
      sails a few degrees northward.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But where is he now?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He&rsquo;s probably loafing around the outskirts of the jungle; but he&rsquo;ll be
      safe enough, and he&rsquo;ll return, most likely, within the next few hours.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are of that opinion?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Assuredly. Above all things, there must be no talk about this business,&mdash;it
      might ruin him socially; and your daughter&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Poor girl! poor girl! I agree with you, Koomadhi,&mdash;it must be kept a
      secret; no human being must know about this shocking business.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If he does not return before to-night, send a message to me, sir.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll not fail. Poor girl! Oh, Koomadhi, her heart will be broken&mdash;her
      heart will be broken!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Commissioner went away, looking at least ten years older than when he
      had last been seen by Dr Koomadhi.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Doctor watched him stumbling down the pathway: then he laughed and
      opened a bottle of champagne, which he drank at a gulp&mdash;it was only
      when he was alone that he allowed himself the luxury of drinking champagne
      in gulps.
    </p>
    <p>
      Shortly before midnight he paid a visit to the barracks of the Houssas,
      and found that the officer who was on the sick list was very much better.
      Returning by the side of the jungle, he heard the sound of steps and a
      laugh behind him. It might have been the laugh of a man, but the steps
      were not those of a man.
    </p>
    <p>
      He looked round.
    </p>
    <p>
      A shambling creature was following him&mdash;a creature with a hairy face
      and matted locks&mdash;a creature whose eyes gleamed wildly in the
      moonlight.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How the mischief can you walk so fast along a path like this?&rdquo; came the
      voice of Major Minton from the hairy jaws of the Thing.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I&rsquo;m not walking so fast, after all,&rdquo; said the Doctor. He had not given
      the least start on coming face to face with the Thing.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t care much about walking on roads; but I&rsquo;ll back myself to cross a
      forest without leaving the trees,&rdquo; said the Thing. &ldquo;That would beat you,
      Koomadhi. Oh, by the way&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo; Here he emitted some guttural
      sounds.
    </p>
    <p>
      The simian language was recognised by the Doctor, and replied to with a
      smile, and for some time the two exchanged remarks. The Doctor was the
      first to break down.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t understand that expression,&rdquo; said he, when the other had repeated
      some sounds.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, you fool, that means, &lsquo;Is there anything to drink handy?&rsquo;&rdquo; said the
      voice of Major Minton. &ldquo;Why, I know more of the language than you. We&rsquo;ve
      been talking nothing else for the past day or two.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where have you been?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In the jungle. Where else would you have me be?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where, indeed? You&rsquo;d better stay with me to-night. I&rsquo;ll give you
      something to drink.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That will suit me nicely. I&rsquo;m a bit thirsty, and&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo; Here he
      lapsed into the simian jabber.
    </p>
    <p>
      He curled himself up in a corner of the sofa, and took the tumbler that Dr
      Koomadhi offered to him, drinking off the contents pretty much after the
      style of the Doctor when alone. He then began talking about the sense of
      freedom incidental to a life spent in the jungle, and every now and again
      his words became what was long ago known as gibberish; but nearly every
      utterance was intelligible to the Doctor.
    </p>
    <p>
      After some time had passed, the Doctor took the carved stones out of the
      desk drawer, and, handing one to his companion, said&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;By the way, I wonder if you are still deaf to the sound of this thing.
      Try it again.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What&rsquo;s the good? I&rsquo;m not such a fool as to fancy that any sound can come
      from a stone.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Doesn&rsquo;t Shakespeare say something about &lsquo;sermons in stones&rsquo;?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, Shakespeare? He could hear things and see things that no one else
      could. Well, give me the stone.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He put the roughly carved lips to his ear, while the Doctor raised the
      other to his own mouth.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You can hear no murmur?&rdquo; said the Doctor.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nothing whatever. I think, if you don&rsquo;t mind, I&rsquo;ll go asleep.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I can give you a bed.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A bed? What rot! No, thank you, I&rsquo;ll be comfortable enough here.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He curled himself up and went asleep before the Doctor&rsquo;s eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      When the Doctor entered his sitting-room the next morning the apartment
      was empty.
    </p>
    <h3>
      XIV.
    </h3>
    <p class="pfirst">
      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span> was a fool for
      not detaining him by force,&rdquo; said Dr Koomadhi, in telling the
      Commissioner, a few hours later, that his son-in-law had paid a visit to
      his (the Doctor&rsquo;s) house. &ldquo;But there really is nothing to be alarmed
      about. He has a whim, but he&rsquo;ll soon tire of it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I hope to heavens he&rsquo;ll return by to-morrow evening,&rdquo; said the Commander.
      &ldquo;The <i>Penguin</i> will be here in the morning, and we must get him
      aboard by some means. What a pity you didn&rsquo;t lock him in.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To tell you the truth, I was afraid to do so&mdash;if he had made a row
      in the morning on feeling himself a prisoner the thing would be over the
      town before noon. Oh, you may be certain that he&rsquo;ll turn up again either
      to-day or tomorrow.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      That night one of the officers of the Houssas gave Dr Koomadhi a
      circumstantial account of a strange chimpanzee which one of the men had
      seen on the outskirts of the jungle at daybreak. If the thing wasn&rsquo;t a
      chimpanzee it certainly was a gorilla, the officer said, and he meant to
      have a shot at it. Would the Doctor join him in the hunt? he inquired.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Doctor said he would be delighted to do so, but not before the next
      evening, he had so much on hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      The <i>Penguin&rsquo;s</i> gun was heard early in the morning, and Dr Koomadhi
      had the privilege of reading his &lsquo;Saturday Review&rsquo; at breakfast.
    </p>
    <p>
      He went to the Residency before noon. The Commissioner was not there. He
      had gone aboard the <i>Penguin</i>, Mr Letts, the Secretary, said, without
      looking up from his paper.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I wonder if you know anything about Minton, Mr Letts,&rdquo; whispered
      Koomadhi.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I wonder if you know anything about him, Dr Koomadhi,&rdquo; said Mr Letts.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He has not been near me since the night before last,&rdquo; said the Doctor.
      &ldquo;Has he been here?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Before the Secretary could reply a servant knocked at the office door
      conveying Mrs Minton&rsquo;s compliments to Dr Koomadhi, and to inquire if he
      would be good enough to step into the breakfast-room until the
      Commissioner returned from the mail steamer.
    </p>
    <p>
      Dr Koomadhi said he would be pleased to do so, and he left the office and
      followed the servant into the breakfast-room&mdash;an apartment which
      occupied one end of the Residency, and had windows opening upon the
      verandah, and affording a view of that portion of the jungle which was
      nearest Picotee.
    </p>
    <p>
      He scarcely recognised Gertrude Minton. The deadly pale, worn woman who
      greeted him silently, had nothing in common with the brilliant daughter of
      the Commissioner who, a few months before, had been as exquisite as a lily
      in the midst of a jungle.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What are we to do&mdash;what are we to do?&rdquo; she whispered. &ldquo;You have seen
      him since we saw him. What did he say? Will he return in time to be put
      aboard the steamer? Oh, for God&rsquo;s sake, give me a word of hope&mdash;one
      word to keep me from going mad too!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mrs Minton,&rdquo; said Dr Koomadhi, &ldquo;you have asked me a great many questions.
      May I remind you that I never asked but one question of you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;One question? What do you mean?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I asked you if you thought you could marry me. What was your answer?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why do you come here to remind me of that? If you are thinking of that
      fault of mine&mdash;it was cruel, I know, but I did not mean it&mdash;if
      you are thinking of that rather than of the best way to help us, you had
      much better have stayed away.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You said you would as soon marry a baboon as marry me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I checked myself.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;When you had practically said it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, what then?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nothing; you did not marry me, and the alternative was your own choice.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The alternative?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes; you married a baboon. You know it. Is there any doubt on your mind?
      Come to this window.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He had suddenly crossed the room to a window facing the jungle. She
      staggered to his side. He threw open the shutter and pointed out.
    </p>
    <p>
      What Mrs Minton saw was a huge ape running on all fours across the cleared
      space just outside the jungle. The creature ran on for some distance, then
      stopped and turned round gibbering. Then from the jungle there came
      another ape, only in a more upright posture. With a yell he caught the
      hand of the first, and the creature stood upright. Then, hand in hand, in
      a horribly grotesque dance, they advanced together until they were within
      a hundred yards of the Residency.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You see&mdash;you see,&rdquo; laughed Dr Koomadhi. &ldquo;You may still be able to
      recognise some of his features in spite of the transformation. You have
      had your choice. A baboon is your husband, and your child&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The shriek that the woman gave before falling to the floor frightened even
      Dr Koomadhi.
    </p>
    <p>
      In a second the room door was opened. Mr Letts appeared. He rushed at Dr
      Koomadhi, and had his hands on his throat before the Doctor could raise
      Mrs Minton. He forced the negro backward into the porch, and flung him out
      almost upon the Commissioner and Mr Ross, the surgeon of the <i>Penguin</i>,
      who were in the act of entering.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;For heaven&rsquo;s sake, Letts!&rdquo; cried the Commissioner.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You infernal nigger!&rdquo; shouted Letts, as Dr Koomadhi picked himself up.
      &ldquo;You infernal nigger! if ever you show your face here again, I&rsquo;ll break
      every bone in your body!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What the blazes is the matter?&rdquo; asked. Ross.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I believe that that devil has killed Mrs Minton,&rdquo; said the Secretary. &ldquo;If
      he has, by God! I&rsquo;ll kill him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <h3>
      XV.
    </h3>
    <p class="pfirst">
      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">D</span>r Koomadhi went to
      his house in dignified silence. He put a couple of glasses of brandy into
      a bottle of champagne and gulped down the whole. Then he wrote a short
      note to the officer of the Houssas, mentioning that he would be happy to
      help him to shoot the great ape at daybreak.
    </p>
    <p>
      He sent off the letter, and before he closed his desk he thought he would
      restore the carved stones to their receptacle. He had put them into his
      pocket before starting for the Residency; but now when he felt for them in
      his pocket he failed to find them. He was overcome with the fear that he
      had lost them. It suddenly occurred to him that they had been thrown out
      of his pocket by the violence of the man who had flung him into the road.
      If so, they would be lying on the pathway, and they would be safe enough
      there until dark, when he could go and search for them.
    </p>
    <p>
      At moonrise he went out and walked down the road to the &ldquo;Residency, but
      when just at the porch he was confronted by Ross, who was leaving the
      house.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hallo!&rdquo; cried the surgeon. &ldquo;I was just about to stroll up to you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And I was determined not to miss you,&rdquo; said Koomadhi. &ldquo;How is Mrs Minton?
      It will be brain fever, I&rsquo;m afraid.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It looks very like it,&rdquo; said Ross. &ldquo;She is delirious. How did the attack
      come? That fool of a Secretary will give no explanation of his conduct to
      you. The Commissioner says he will either apologise or leave the station.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The Secretary is a fool,&rdquo; said Koomadhi. &ldquo;Great heavens! to think that
      there are still some men like that&mdash;steeped to the lips in prejudice
      against the race to which I am proud to belong! We&rsquo;ll not talk of him; but
      I&rsquo;ll certainly demand an apology. The poor woman&mdash;she is little more
      than a girl, Ross! The breaking strain was reached when she was in the act
      of telling me about her husband.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sunstroke, I suppose?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Undoubtedly. He has been behaving queerly for some time. Walk back with
      me and have something to drink.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I can only stay for an hour,&rdquo; said Ross. &ldquo;Mrs Bryson, the wife of the
      telegraphist, is nursing Mrs Minton; but it won&rsquo;t do for me to be absent
      for long.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He remained chatting with Koomadhi for about an hour, and then left for
      the Residency alone.
    </p>
    <p>
      Dr Koomadhi determined to wait until midnight, when he might be pretty
      certain that his search for the stones would not be interrupted.
    </p>
    <p>
      The door of the Residency was opened for Mr Ross by Letts.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Step this way, Ross,&rdquo; said he, in a low voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      Ross went into the Secretary&rsquo;s room. Sitting on a cane chair with a cigar
      in his mouth and a tall glass at his elbow was a man from whom came a
      strong perfume of shaving-soap. The man had plainly been recently shaved.
      His face was very smooth.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hallo, Ross, old chap!&rdquo; said this man.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My God, it&rsquo;s Minton!&rdquo; cried the surgeon.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No one else,&rdquo; said Minton. &ldquo;What is all this about my poor wife? Don&rsquo;t
      tell me that it&rsquo;s serious.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s serious enough,&rdquo; said Ross. &ldquo;But, unless a change for the worse
      comes before morning, there is no reason for alarm.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thank God!&rdquo; said Minton. &ldquo;What a fool I was to set about investigating
      that monkey language! I fancied that I had mastered a word or two, and I
      ventured into the jungle and got lost. I returned here an hour ago in a
      woful state of dilapidation. I&rsquo;m getting better every minute. For God&rsquo;s
      sake let me know how my poor wife is now!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll get your report, Ross, to save your leaving the room,&rdquo; said Letts.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Secretary took the surgeon into an empty apartment.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He returned three-quarters of an hour ago,&rdquo; he said, in a low voice. &ldquo;I
      never got such a shock as when I saw him&mdash;luckily I was at the door.
      He was practically naked; and with his hair tangled over his head, and his
      face one mass of bristles, he was to all intents and purposes a baboon.
      That nigger is at the bottom of it all. I followed him when he visited Mrs
      Minton this morning, and I even brought myself to listen outside the door
      of the breakfast-room, where they had an interview. I overheard enough to
      convince me that the ruffian had made Minton the victim of some of his
      hellish magic. I&rsquo;ve been long enough on the West Coast to know what some
      of the niggers can do in this way. I have questioned Minton adroitly, and
      he admitted to me that Koomadhi had put a certain stone carved like a
      human ear into his hand, and had induced him to place it at his own ear.
      That was the famous Sacred Ear stone that the Ashantees speak of in
      whispers.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We&rsquo;ll talk more of this to-morrow,&rdquo; said Ross. &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t believe much in
      negro magic; but&mdash;my God! what is the meaning of that?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A window was open in the room, and through it there came the sound of a
      shot, followed by appalling yells: then came another shot, and such a wild
      chorus of shrieking as far surpassed in volume the first series.
    </p>
    <h3>
      XVI.
    </h3>
    <p class="pfirst">
      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">L</span>etts ran to a
      cupboard and whipped out a revolver. He rushed outside without a word.
      Ross followed him: he felt that wherever a revolver was going he should go
      also.
    </p>
    <p>
      The two men ran in the moonlight toward Koomadhi&rsquo;s house, for the yells
      were still coming from that direction. When they got within sight of the
      house Letts cried out in amazement. By the light of the full moon the
      strangest sight that he had ever seen was before his eyes. Koomadhi&rsquo;s
      house was invisible; but where it should have been there was an enormous
      pyramid of jabbering apes. They were so thick upon the roof and the
      verandah as to conceal every portion of the building, and hundreds were on
      the pathway around the place. The noise they made was appalling.
    </p>
    <p>
      Letts and the surgeon crouched behind a cane-brake and watched that
      strange scene; but they had not been long in concealment before the
      creatures began trooping off to the jungle. Baboons, chimpanzees, and
      gorillas, more horrible than had ever been depicted, were rushing from the
      house yelling and gibbering with grotesque gestures beneath the light of
      the moon.
    </p>
    <p>
      Before the last of the monstrous procession had disappeared&mdash;while
      the shrieks of the wild parrots were still filling the air&mdash;the two
      men left their place of concealment and hurried toward the house. They had
      to struggle through an odour of monkeys that would have overpowered most
      men. A glance was sufficient to show them that the shutters of the room in
      which Koomadhi slept had been torn away. Letts sprang through the open
      window, and Boss heard his cry of horror before he followed him&mdash;before
      he saw the ghastly sight that the moonlight revealed. The body of Dr
      Koomadhi lay torn and mangled upon the floor, his empty revolver still
      warm in his hand. Around him lay the carcases of four enormous apes, with
      bullet-holes in their breasts.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ross,&rdquo; said Letts after a long pause, &ldquo;there is a stronger power still
      than the devil even on the West Coast of Africa.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Women, I have often heard, have strange notions at times,&rdquo; said Major
      Minton, leaning over the deck-chair under the awning of the <i>Penguin</i>,
      where his wife was sitting, &ldquo;but that fancy which you say you had before
      your attack beats the record. Still, I was greatly to blame. I&rsquo;ll never
      forgive myself. I had no business interesting myself in that simian
      jabber. If at any time I feel a craving in such a direction I&rsquo;ll get an
      order for the Strangers&rsquo; Gallery of the House of Commons when a debate on
      an Irish question is going on. Poor Koomadhi! Letts declared that, as he
      lay among the dead apes, it was difficult to say whether he was an ape or
      a man.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005"> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      THE GHOST OF BARMOUTH MANOR.
    </h2>
    <p class="pfirst">
      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span> wouldn&rsquo;t make a
      fuss about it if I were you,&rdquo; said Charlie Craven, pursuing that search
      from pocket to pocket which men, having no particular reputation for
      tidiness to maintain, are accustomed to institute when they have filled a
      pipe and are anxious to light it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A fuss about it?&rdquo; cried his sister Madge. &ldquo;A fuss&mdash;good gracious!
      What is there to make a fuss about in all that I have told you? A dream&mdash;I
      ask you candidly if you think that I am the sort of girl to make a fuss
      over a dream?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, I don&rsquo;t know,&rdquo; said Charlie. He had succeeded in finding in one of
      his pockets a match-box&mdash;an empty match-box.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, you should know,&rdquo; said Madge severely.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There now, you are; making a fuss over something a deal flimsier than
      your dream,&rdquo; laughed her brother. &ldquo;I wonder if that palace of your dream
      was no better supplied than this house with matches: if it wasn&rsquo;t, I
      shouldn&rsquo;t care to live in it for any length of time.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s so like a man to keep on bothering himself and every one about him
      for a match, while all the time a fire is roaring on the hearth behind
      him, and his pockets are full of bills&mdash;the usual Christmas bills,
      the least of which would light all the pipes he smokes in a day, and
      that&rsquo;s saying a good deal.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How clever you are! I never thought of the fire. Well, as I was
      remarking, I wouldn&rsquo;t bother telling my dreams to any one if I were you.
      Dreams&mdash;well, dreams are all rot, you know.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I&rsquo;m not quite so sure of that as you seem to be, O wisest of brothers.
      The wisest of people in the world&mdash;next to you, of course&mdash;have
      thought that there was something in dreams, haven&rsquo;t they?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They were wrong. My aunt! the rot that I have dreamt from time to time!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, that settles the question.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It does, so far as I am concerned. Look here, Madge; don&rsquo;t come to me
      again with the story of your dreams, hoping to find a sympathetic ear.
      Dreams, I say, are all&mdash;&mdash;Of course, you saw that particular
      house and that particular staircase in some picture, and they stuck
      somewhere at the back of your brain. It&rsquo;s a rummy thing the brain, you
      know&mdash;a jolly rum thing!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is. I am becoming more impressed every minute with the truth of that
      discovery of yours.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, if you are becoming sarcastic, I have nothing more to say. But please
      to remember that sarcasm is no argument. I tell you, my dear girl, you
      have seen a picture of that house at some period of your life&mdash;I
      don&rsquo;t say recently, mind you&mdash;and my theory is that the brain is like
      a sensitized plate: it records an impression once and for all, and stores
      it away, and you never know exactly when it means to bring it out again
      before your eyes. Oh, believe me, it plays a lot of tricks upon even the
      most commonplace people.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Among whom I suppose I must count myself? Well, I daresay you are right.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know that I am right. Dreams! Did you ever hear the story of the old
      woman who won a big prize in a lottery, the ticket being No. 26? Had she
      chosen that number on chance or in accordance with some system? she was
      asked, and she replied that she had dreamt it all out. Dreamt it all out?
      What did she mean by that? they inquired. &lsquo;Well, a week ago I dreamt that
      I won the prize, and that the ticket I took was No. 9,&rsquo; said she. &lsquo;The
      next night I dreamt exactly the same, and the ticket was No. 9. The third
      night the same thing happened, so, of course, I chose No. 26.&rsquo; &lsquo;No. 26?
      Why not No. 9 as you dreamt it?&rsquo; the people asked. &lsquo;Oh, you fools!&rsquo; said
      she; &lsquo;didn&rsquo;t I tell you that I dreamt it three times? the number was 9,
      and doesn&rsquo;t every one know that three times 9 are 26?&rsquo; Now that&rsquo;s the
      stuff that dreams are made of, as Shakespeare remarks, so don&rsquo;t you bother
      about this particular vision of yours; and if you take my advice you&rsquo;ll
      say nothing to Uncle Philip or the lot of them about it. They would only
      laugh at you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why on earth should I go about proclaiming my dream to all our
      relations?&rdquo; cried the girl. &ldquo;Dear Charlie, I&rsquo;m not suffering just yet from
      softening of the brain. Besides, I can recall many instances of disaster
      following people who bored others with the story of their dreams. There
      was the notable case of Joseph and his brethren, and later in history
      there was the case of the Duke of Clarence. You remember how swiftly
      retribution followed his story of his dream? Now, of course, my dream was
      only a little insignificant thing compared to Joseph&rsquo;s and Clarence&rsquo;s,
      still something might happen if I bored people with it&mdash;something
      proportionate&mdash;the plum-pudding might come to the table in a state of
      squash, or the custards might be smoked. Oh no, I&rsquo;ll be forewarned, and
      talk only of facts. I suppose a dream cannot, by even the most indulgent
      of people, be called a fact.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I&rsquo;m off to the stables,&rdquo; said her brother, after a little pause.
    </p>
    <p>
      Then he went off to the stables. He was an excellent fellow and the best
      of brothers, although he was more at home in the stables than when engaged
      in a discussion on a subject involving some exercise of the imagination.
      There is not much room in a stable for a play of the imagination,
      especially where the corn accounts are kept on a system.
    </p>
    <p>
      When he had left the breakfast-room on this bright Christmas morning his
      sister paused for a few moments in her morning duty of collecting a
      breakfast for the birds which were loitering about the Italian balustrade
      in front of the window, reminding her, in their own way, that they
      expected an exceptionally liberal repast on this Christmas morning: she
      paused and began to think once more upon this strange dream of hers, which
      she had been rehearsing to her brother.
    </p>
    <p>
      After all, it was not so strange a dream, she reflected. The only queer
      thing about it was that it had come to her on every Christmas Eve for five
      consecutive years&mdash;since she was seventeen&mdash;and that its details
      did not differ in the least from one year to another. Perhaps it was also
      different from the majority of dreams in its vividness, and in the fact
      that, on awaking from it, she felt as exhausted as if she had just
      returned from a long journey. Even now it required almost an effort on her
      part to walk round the old oak table sweeping the crumbs on to a plate to
      throw to the birds; and when she had discharged this duty she seated
      herself with a sigh of relief in one of the arm-chairs that stood by the
      side of the great wood fire.
    </p>
    <p>
      She closed her eyes and once again recalled her dream. She had no
      difficulty in doing so. She had fancied herself in the act of driving up
      to a fine old house, standing in the middle of a well-timbered park of oak
      and chestnut. The lawn extended across the full front of the mansion, and
      in the centre she noticed a beautiful old fountain, composed of a great
      marble basin with a splendid group of figures in the centre&mdash;Neptune
      with his dolphins and a Naiad or two. She passed into the house through a
      great hall hung with trophies of war and of the chase. In front of her was
      the enormous head of a moose, and at one side there was a great grey skull
      of some animal such as she had never seen before,&mdash;a fearful thing
      with huge tusks&mdash;quite the monster of a dream.
    </p>
    <p>
      Then she seemed to go from room to room, as if she had been a member of
      the family living in the place, but&mdash;and this she felt to be a true
      dream-touch&mdash;the moment she entered a room every one who was there
      fled from her; but apparently this did not cause her any surprise, any
      more than did the strange costume of the figures who fled at her approach&mdash;costumes
      of the sixteenth century, mingled with those of the seventeenth and
      eighteenth. Thinking of the figures hurrying from every room suggested to
      her the family portraits of three centuries in motion. After visiting
      several fine rooms she found herself walking up a broad oaken staircase of
      shallow steps, until she came to a large lobby, where the staircase
      divided to right and left. There she found a curious settee of some dark
      wood, the long centre panel of which was carved with many figures. She saw
      all this by the aid of the moonlight which flowed in through the panes of
      coloured glass in a high window, painted with many coats of arms.
    </p>
    <p>
      She remembered having rested in this seat for some time, feeling very
      lonely, and then some one had come to her, sitting by her side and taking
      her hand, saying&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have been waiting for you all these years. I am so glad that you are
      here at last.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She remembered that the sound of the voice and the touch of the hand had
      banished her loneliness, and made her feel happier than she had ever felt
      in all her life before. Even now she felt supremely happy, recalling this
      incident of her dream, though she recollected that she had not yet seen
      the face of the man who had come to her to banish her loneliness. She
      wished that her dream had been less whimsical in this one particular. She
      felt that she could have spared some of the other details that came before
      her so vividly&mdash;the skull of that strange animal that hung in the
      hall, for instance&mdash;if in their place she had been allowed to see
      what manner of man it was who had sat with her.
    </p>
    <p>
      Still, the recollection of him gave her pleasure even when the dream had
      first come to her and he had come in the dream, and this pleasure had been
      increasing year by year, until she knew that she had actually gone asleep
      on the previous night, full of joy in the hope of hearing the sound of
      that voice and feeling the touch of that hand as she had done in the past.
    </p>
    <p>
      And that was the end of her dream, unless the feeling of happiness&mdash;happiness
      mingled with a certain sadness&mdash;of which she was conscious while she
      recalled its details should be accounted part of the dream. Her pleasure
      was the same as one experiences in recalling the incidents of a visit to a
      dear friend; her sadness was the same as one experiences on thinking that
      a long time must elapse before one can see that friend again.
    </p>
    <p>
      Madge actually found herself reflecting that a year must pass before she
      could once more find herself wandering through the strange mansion of her
      dream&mdash;find herself once more seated on that carved seat in the lobby
      beneath the painted window.
    </p>
    <p>
      She kept on thinking, and wondering as she thought, over the strange
      features of this experience of hers. She knew that she was what people
      would call a commonplace, practical girl&mdash;a girl without fads or
      fancies of any sort. Since her mother&rsquo;s death, three years before, she had
      managed all the household affairs of Craven Court for her brother, who had
      inherited the property before she had left the schoolroom. Every one was
      bound to acknowledge that her management of the household had been
      admirable, though only her brother knew exactly how admirable it was.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There are no frills about Madge; she is the best woman of business in the
      county, and we have none of the bothers of other people with our
      servants,&rdquo; he had frequently said.
    </p>
    <p>
      And yet here was this embodiment of all that is practical in life,
      dreaming upon a dream upon this bright and frosty Christmas morning, and
      actually feeling sad at the thought that a whole year must elapse before
      the same vision should return to her.
    </p>
    <p>
      The chiming of the church bells startled her out of her reverie.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pshaw!&rdquo; she cried, jumping up from her chair; &ldquo;I am quite as great a
      goose as Charlie believes me to be&mdash;quite! or I should not have told
      him that that dream had come to me again. I should have had the sense to
      know that he would have the sense to know that dreams are, one and all,
      the utterest folly!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She knew that she was trying to convince herself that there was nothing
      more in this particular dream than in the many casual dreams that came to
      her as well as to other people; but before she had reached the door of the
      dining-room she knew that she had failed in her attempt. The curious
      fatigue of which she was conscious, quickly told her that this
      oft-recurring vision was not as others were.
    </p>
    <p>
      She went to church with her brother, and in the afternoon their uncle,
      Colonel Craven, and his wife duly arrived at the Court to spend their
      annual week at the family mansion, and Madge took her brother&rsquo;s advice and
      refrained from saying a word to either of them on the subject of her
      dream. Indeed, she had so much to think of and so much to do during the
      week, she had no time to give to anything so immaterial as a dream,
      however interesting it might be to herself.
    </p>
    <p>
      On the last morning of the stay of Colonel and Mrs Craven at Craven Court,
      the former received a letter which he tossed across the breakfast-table to
      Charlie.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Funny, isn&rsquo;t it?&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;We were talking about wild-duck-shooting no
      later than last night, and here&rsquo;s a letter from Jack Tremaine telling me
      that he is taking over his cousin&rsquo;s place for six months and promising me
      some good sport if I go to him for a week in January. You will see that he
      suggests that you should be of the party: he asks if you are here. See
      what he says about the ducks.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who is his cousin?&rdquo; inquired Charlie, &ldquo;and where is his place?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;His cousin is a chap named Clifford, and his place is in Dorsetshire&mdash;on
      the coast&mdash;Barmouth Manor it is called, and I know that it&rsquo;s famous
      for its duck-shooting. Tremaine will no doubt write to you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where has the cousin gone, that the place is available for Jack
      Tremaine?&rdquo; asked Charlie.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Turn over the page and you&rsquo;ll see what he says about the Cliffords,&rdquo;
       replied Colonel Craven.
    </p>
    <p>
      Charlie found on the last leaf half a dozen lines on the point in
      question. Jack Tremaine said that Mrs Clifford was not satisfied as to the
      health of her son, and was going abroad with him during the first week in
      January.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I should like to have a go at the ducks,&rdquo; said Charlie Craven, handing
      back the letter. &ldquo;I suppose there is a duck-punt or two at the place?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You may be sure of that,&rdquo; said his uncle. &ldquo;Young Clifford is a good
      sportsman, I believe, but I have never met him. I&rsquo;ll write to Tremaine
      to-day telling him that you are at home. I&rsquo;m sure he means to invite you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      All doubt on this point was removed by the arrival two days later of an
      invitation from Mr Tremaine to Charlie Craven for a fortnight&rsquo;s
      duck-shooting at Barmouth Manor, and he enclosed a letter from his wife to
      Madge expressing the hope that she would be able to accompany her brother.
    </p>
    <p>
      Madge was delighted at the prospect of the visit, for she and Mrs Tremaine
      were close friends.
    </p>
    <p>
      The frost which had set in a few days before Christmas had not gone when
      she and her brother were due at Barmouth Manor, so that there was a
      likelihood of her having some skating on the lake. Mrs Tremaine had, in
      her invitation, laid some stress upon the possibility of a week&rsquo;s skating
      on the lake which, she said, was within the Manor Park.
    </p>
    <p>
      A carriage met them at Barmouth Station, for the Manor was quite five
      miles from the picturesque little town; and it was late in the afternoon
      before they passed through the spacious entrance gates to the Manor Park.
      There was, however, quite enough light to enable Madge to see every detail
      of the place, and it was observing some of the details that caused her to
      make a rather startling exclamation of surprise.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hallo!&rdquo; said her brother, &ldquo;what has startled you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      There was a little pause before she had recovered herself sufficiently to
      be able to make an excuse that would sound plausible. She pointed to a
      group of deer looking over the barrier of their enclosure.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;One of the stags,&rdquo; she said; &ldquo;it seemed for a moment as if it were about
      to jump the rail.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What matter if it did? They are as tame as cats at this time of the
      year,&rdquo; said Charlie.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of course, I should have remembered,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;I wonder in what
      direction is the pond. Does the sunset look promising?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There may be no thaw before the end of the month,&rdquo; said he.
    </p>
    <p>
      That was the end of their conversation, and she flattered herself that he
      had no notion how excited she was as the carriage reached that part of the
      drive which was beside the lawn, and the red level rays of the sun
      streaming through the naked trees stained the marble basin of an Italian
      fountain, the central group of which was in every detail the same as the
      figures in the fountain of her dream. In another minute the front of the
      house was disclosed, and she saw that it was the house of her dream. She
      would have been greatly disappointed had it been otherwise.
    </p>
    <p>
      She entered the great hall, and could scarcely reply to the cordial
      greeting of her aunt and Mrs Tremaine, for she found herself stared at by
      the sleepy eyes that looked out from the head of a moose just as they had
      stared at her in her sleep. She turned to the wall on her right. Yes,
      there was the curious skull with the mighty tusks.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh yes, we had a delightful journey,&rdquo; she managed to say in reply to Mrs
      Tremaine&rsquo;s inquiry. &ldquo;Thank you; I should like a cup of tea immensely. Do
      you have it in the hall or in the tapestry room beyond?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What; you have been here before? I had no idea of that,&rdquo; said Mrs
      Tremaine.
    </p>
    <p>
      For more than a moment Madge was confused.
    </p>
    <p>
      Luckily for her, however, the lamps had not been lighted in the hall, and
      the sudden flush that came over her face was unobserved by her friends.
    </p>
    <p>
      She gave a laugh.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What a good shot I made!&rdquo; she cried. &ldquo;Isn&rsquo;t this just the sort of house
      to have an old-panelled dining-room and a tapestry chamber beside it? I
      think we should have tea here. What sort of prehistoric creature is that
      on the wall?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I believe it is a skull that was found when they were digging the
      foundations of one of the lodges,&rdquo; said Mrs Tremaine.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I seem to have read some description of this very place,&rdquo; said Charlie,
      standing in front of the great skull.
    </p>
    <p>
      Madge wondered if he would remember enough of her account of the house of
      her dreams to enable him to recognise the details before him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is fully described in Hall&rsquo;s History, and in every guide-book of the
      district. The animal that that skull belonged to lived some thousands of
      years before the Flood, I understand.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is the exact date b.c. carved on it?&rdquo; laughed Charlie. &ldquo;Yes, I
      daresay I came upon a paragraph or an illustration of the place. No house
      is safe from the depredations of the magazines nowadays.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Tea was served in the hall to give Madge&rsquo;s maid time to unpack; and then
      the girl was shown to her room. She ran up the broad, shallow staircase to
      the lobby; she had made up her mind to sit, if only for a moment, on the
      carved settee; but a surprise awaited her,&mdash;no carved settee was
      there. The painted window was there, but no settee was beneath it.
    </p>
    <p>
      She was so surprised that she stood for some moments gazing at the vacant
      place.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That lobby looks quite bare without the settee, Miss Craven,&rdquo; said the
      housekeeper, who was beside her. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s a fine bit of carving&mdash;all
      ebony.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Was there a settee here?&rdquo; asked Madge innocently.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was only taken away to-day to be in a better light for Mrs Tremaine to
      photograph it,&rdquo; said the housekeeper. &ldquo;Mrs Tremaine has done most of the
      rare pieces in the house. This is your room, Miss Craven. It&rsquo;s called the
      Dauphin&rsquo;s chamber, for it was here he slept fifty years ago when he was in
      Dorsetshire.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Madge entered the room, remarking that it was beautifully furnished and
      that it seemed extremely comfortable. When the door was closed she threw
      herself into a chair and had a good think.
    </p>
    <p>
      What could it all mean? she asked herself. Why should this house become so
      associated with her life? Was she going to die here? Was something going
      to happen to her? Was she to meet here the man who had upon five different
      occasions come to her side, telling her that he had been waiting for her?
    </p>
    <p>
      For ten days she remained in the house, looking forward day by day to some
      occurrence that would cause her to realise what her dream meant; but she
      returned with her brother to Craven Court in disappointment. Nothing
      particular happened all the time, and she came to the conclusion that her
      dream was as meaningless as her brother had said it was.
    </p>
    <p>
      Madge Craven and her brother were staying with the Tremaines at their own
      place during the pheasant shooting the following October, and one morning
      their hostess mentioned that her husband&rsquo;s cousin, Mrs Clifford, had
      returned to England from South America and was expected to join their
      party that day.
    </p>
    <p>
      She arrived before the shooters had come back from their day&rsquo;s sport, and
      she and Mrs Tremaine had a long chat in front of the fire before tea. Mrs
      Clifford was a handsome old lady of the <i>grande dame</i> type; and being
      a close observer and an admirable describer of all that she observed, she
      was able to entertain Mrs Tremaine with an account of the adventures of
      her son and herself in South America.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I hope Rawdon&rsquo;s health is more satisfactory now than it was,&rdquo; said Mrs
      Tremaine when her guest had declared that there was no more to be told.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I can only hope for the best,&rdquo; said Mrs Clifford, becoming grave. &ldquo;Rawdon
      is gone across the mountains to Chili, and will not be at home until the
      middle of January.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He must be pretty robust to be able to undertake such a journey,&rdquo; said
      Mrs Tremaine.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He is not wanting in strength,&rdquo; said Mrs Clifford. &ldquo;Only&mdash;poor boy!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Poor boy!&rsquo; &lsquo;Why poor boy&rsquo;?&rdquo; asked the other.
    </p>
    <p>
      There was a pause before the elder lady said&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is rather difficult to explain. By the way, did any of your party at
      the Manor House see the ghost?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Heavens! I did not know that your family was blessed with a ghost,&rdquo;
       laughed Mrs Tremaine. &ldquo;No, I can assure you, we were not so lucky. What
      sort of a ghost is it? A ghastly figure with rattling chains? Have you
      seen it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, I have seen it,&rdquo; said Mrs Clifford in a low voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How interesting! Do tell me what it is like!&rdquo; cried the other.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Like? What is it like?&rdquo; Mrs Clifford rose slowly from her chair, and
      walked to another chair. She only remained seated for a moment, however:
      with a sigh she began pacing the room slowly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I fear I have touched upon a forbidden topic,&rdquo; said Mrs Tremaine. &ldquo;I had
      no idea that you were serious.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Serious&mdash;serious,&rdquo; said Mrs Clifford. She was still pacing the room,
      and had just reached the window when she spoke. The next moment she had
      uttered a cry. Mrs Tremaine saw that she was staring out of the window,
      her hands grasping the back of a chair.
    </p>
    <p>
      She was by her side in a moment.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pray, what is the matter?&rdquo; she said.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are weak&mdash;overcome by&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;-Let me ring for
      brandy.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs Clifford clutched her suddenly by the arm.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who is that&mdash;that&mdash;on the terrace?&rdquo; she said in a fearful
      whisper.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who? Why, that is our cousin, Madge Craven,&rdquo; replied Mrs Tremaine.
    </p>
    <p>
      Madge was standing on the terrace bareheaded, tossing grain to the
      peacocks.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She was with you when you were at the Manor House,&rdquo; said Mrs Clifford.
      &ldquo;She was there, and yet you did not see the &lsquo;ghost&rsquo;?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What on earth do you mean?&rdquo; said Mrs Tremaine.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I mean this: that girl out there is the ghost that appears at the Manor
      House every Christmas Eve, and it is because my poor boy, as well as I
      myself, saw it, that his mind has become unhinged.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Heavens! You mean to say&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The poor boy has fallen, in love with a shadow&mdash;a phantom! It comes
      every Christmas Eve and walks from room to room. It comes up the stairs&mdash;I
      tell you that I have seen it&mdash;and sits on the old carved settee, and
      then suddenly vanishes into the air whence it came.... And that ghost is
      as surely that girl as I am I.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This is terrible&mdash;quite uncanny! Are you quite sure?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sure&mdash;sure!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is awful to think upon. But&mdash;but&mdash;listen to me&mdash;I have
      an idea. If Madge is the ghost, why not ask her down again to your place,
      and give Rawdon a thing of flesh and blood to transfer his affections to?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What do you say?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Madge is the best girl in the world. Every eligible man in her county,
      and quite as many ineligible, have wanted to marry her. You will find out
      how nice she is.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs Clifford sank into the chair.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh that it were possible!&rdquo; she whispered. &ldquo;He is everything to me, my
      dearest boy, and until this fancy&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;Oh, if it
      were only possible!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And at this point Madge entered the room, and was duly presented to Mrs
      Clifford.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <p>
      If Madge was at first under the impression that the manner of Mrs Clifford
      in regard to her was somewhat formal and constrained, before a week had
      passed she had good reason to change her opinion on this point. The fact
      was that Mrs Clifford had formed an attachment for her which she could
      sincerely return; and that was why the girl was delighted to accept her
      invitation to spend Christmas in Dorsetshire. It suited her brother&rsquo;s
      arrangements for her to do so, for he was anxious to join a big-game
      expedition which was starting for India early in December.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs Clifford said she was delighted to be able to have Madge all to
      herself for at least a fortnight.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My son cannot possibly be home until the middle of January,&rdquo; said she,
      &ldquo;and then we shall probably have a large party at the Manor. But meantime
      you and I shall be together.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I do not think that we shall quarrel,&rdquo; said Madge.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Alas! alas!&rdquo; said Mrs Clifford to Mrs Tremaine, after one of the many
      whispered colloquies which they had together during the week. &ldquo;Alas!
      Rawdon cannot be home for Christmas. It was I who took the greatest pains
      to arrange matters to prevent his spending another Christmas Eve at home
      until he should have completely recovered from the effects of his strange
      attachment, and yet now I would give worlds to be able to have him with us
      on Christmas Eve.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Could you not send a cable?&rdquo; suggested Mrs Tremaine.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I might send a dozen without being able to find him. Besides, it would be
      impossible for me to tell him what has occurred.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I suppose you could hardly cable him &lsquo;Come home at once. Ghost found,&rdquo;
       laughed Mrs Tremaine. &ldquo;Never mind. He should be all the better pleased
      when the Ghost of Christmas Eve becomes a creature of flesh and blood by
      the middle of January.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <p>
      It was Christmas Eve at the Manor House. Madge&rsquo;s maid had just left her
      for the night, but the girl showed no inclination to go to bed. She
      remained sitting by her fire thinking how strange it was that she should
      be on this Christmas Eve in the flesh at the house which she had visited
      in her dreams. And while she sat thinking over this, she found herself
      overcome by that strange longing which she had had just a year ago, to be
      again by the side of the man who had come to her side in her dream.
    </p>
    <p>
      She clasped her hands, saying in a whisper&mdash;&ldquo;Come to me. Come to me
      again and tell me that you have been waiting for me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She began to undress with feverish haste, when suddenly her hands dropped
      by her sides, for the terrible thought occurred to her&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What if my dream will not come to me this year because I happen to be in
      the midst of the real scene where it took place?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The thought that it might be as capricious as other dreams oppressed her.
      She now felt sorry that she had agreed to visit the place. She should have
      remained at Craven Court, where her dream had always been faithful to her.
    </p>
    <p>
      A sudden idea occurred to her: she would leave her room and sit in reality
      on the carved settee under the painted window, and then, going to bed
      immediately after, she might sink unconsciously into the kind embrace of
      her dream.
    </p>
    <p>
      She opened her door very gently and went along the silent corridor until
      she reached the head of the staircase, and saw the moonlight streaming
      through the coloured glass to the lobby beneath. She stole down, and in
      another instant she was in the seat, the moonlight streaming over her and
      throwing the coloured pattern of the glass upon her white dress. She
      closed her eyes, feeling that perhaps she might fall asleep and find
      herself in the midst of her dream.
    </p>
    <p>
      Suddenly she opened her eyes. She fancied that she heard the sound of a
      footstep in the hall below. Yes, there could be no doubt about it. Some
      one was in the hall&mdash;some one was coming up the stairs. She sprang to
      her feet, and was about to rush up to her room, when she heard a voice&mdash;the
      voice that she had heard so often in that dream of hers, saying&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, do not go now. You cannot go now that I have come to you&mdash;now
      that I have been waiting for you for five years.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She could not move from where she was standing. She saw a tall man with a
      bronzed face coming up the stairs. She somehow had never seen his face in
      her dream, but she recognised it from the photograph which his mother had
      shown her: she knew that the man was Rawdon Clifford.
    </p>
    <p>
      He stood before her on the lobby.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They thought to separate us,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;They thought that my love for you
      was a form of madness. But I tell you, as I told them, I would rather
      stand by your side for a few minutes once a-year than be for ever by the
      side of another&mdash;a more real creature. That is why I have come over
      land and sea to be here in time for your visit this Christmas Eve. I
      promised my mother to stay away; but I could not&mdash;I could not keep my
      promise, and I came to England a fortnight sooner than I expected, and
      entered the house only this moment&mdash;like a burglar. But I am
      rewarded.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I do not understand. I am Mrs Clifford&rsquo;s guest. Madge Craven is my name,&rdquo;
       said Madge.
    </p>
    <p>
      The man sprang back and raised his hands in surprise.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Great heavens! She is flesh and blood&mdash;at last&mdash;at last!&rdquo; he
      cried.
    </p>
    <p>
      He put out his hand slowly&mdash;doubtfully. Madge put out hers to it. A
      cry of delight came from him as he felt her warm hand, and he made it
      still warmer by his kisses. She could not stop him. She made no attempt to
      do so.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Tell me that I was not mad&mdash;that I am not mad now,&rdquo; he said in a
      loving whisper.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh no&mdash;only&mdash;is it not strange?&mdash;For five years I have
      this dream&mdash;this very dream&mdash;and yet I never was in this house
      until last January,&rdquo; said Madge.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You have been with me every Christmas Eve for five years, and you will
      remain here for ever,&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;Do not tell me that we have not met
      before&mdash;do not tell me that you have not loved me as I have loved you
      all these years. What did that dream of yours mean?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I think I know now&mdash;now,&rdquo; whispered the girl.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs Tremaine considers, herself the only survivor of the people who
      professed to exorcise the ghosts in whom our grandfathers were foolish
      enough to believe.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006"> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      THE BLOOD ORANGES
    </h2>
    <p class="pfirst">
      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">A</span>h, my friend,&rdquo;
       said the Marchesa, &ldquo;you Englishmen are like to our mountain which we see
      smoking over there.&rdquo; She threw herself into the attitude of the &lsquo;<i>prima
      donna assoluta</i> in an impassioned moment preceding the singing of the
      romanza, as she pointed across the blue Bay of Naples to where Vesuvius
      was sending forth a delicate hazy fume.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know anything about Englishmen,&rdquo; said Sir Percival morosely; &ldquo;but
      I know that when you are near me my heart is a volcano&mdash;my soul&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The lady&rsquo;s laugh interrupted him&mdash;one cannot make use of similes with
      a poetical flavour about them when a violet-eyed lady is leaning back her
      head in laughter, even though the action displays a beautiful throat and
      the curves of a superb neck. The Marchesa del Grippo displayed a
      marvellous throat and neck, and was fully aware of this fact. Her laugh
      rang out like a soprano dwelling with delight on a high note and producing
      it <i>tremolo</i>.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah,&rdquo; she cried, &ldquo;you are at pains to prove to me that I am right in the
      way I judge you Englishmen: to-day you are volcanic, to-morrow we find not
      the blaze and the thunder but only&mdash;<i>ecco!</i> a puff of smoke.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Once again she pointed&mdash;but this time carelessly&mdash;in the
      direction of the mountain.
    </p>
    <p>
      The man frowned.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;For heaven&rsquo;s sake do not say &lsquo;You Englishmen&rsquo; when I am by!&rdquo; he cried. &ldquo;I
      have nothing in common with Englishmen.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have never met an Englishman who did not try to impress upon me that he
      was not as other Englishmen,&rdquo; said the Marchesa. &ldquo;The last one to say so
      to me was your wicked young Lord Byron. The Guicciola presented him to me
      at Genoa. Heavens! the old Count is more like an Englishman than Lord
      Byron! He can keep his eyes fast shut when it suits him. Enough; I said
      &lsquo;You Englishmen,&rsquo; and he became red with anger. Droll! I had to ask
      forgiveness for having accused his lordship of being English. Oh, you are
      a nation of patriots.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You do not mean to keep up the acquaintance of Lord Byron, I would fain
      hope,&rdquo; said Sir Percival with another frown.
    </p>
    <p>
      Again the lady laughed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;After that do not tell me that you are not an Englishman,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;It
      is so very English to frown when the name of Lord Byron is mentioned&mdash;to
      give a young woman with a husband a solemn warning to beware of that
      wicked young noble, while all the time the one that utters the warning is
      doing his best to earn the reputation of the disreputable Byron. The
      English detest Byron; but if you want to flatter an Englishman to the
      farthest point, all you have to do is to tell him that you believe him to
      be a second Lord Byron. Never mind: I like the Lord Byron, and I like&mdash;yes,
      a little&mdash;another of his countrymen, though he is, I fear, very
      wicked.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Wicked?&mdash;wicked?&rdquo; cried Sir Percival&mdash;he was plainly flattered.
      &ldquo;What is it to be wicked?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, do not ask me to give it a definition: I might say that it was to be
      you&mdash;you yourself.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If it is wicked to love&mdash;madly&mdash;blindly&mdash;then indeed I
      admit that&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That you are <i>aut Diabolus, aut Byron?</i> I know not which of the two
      the English regard as the worse. Well, suppose I do not admit your right
      to tell me of your love: I suppose I dare not dispute your right to love,
      but I can dispute your right to tell me of it&mdash;that is, if it
      exists.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If it exists? Heavens! my beloved creature, would I have followed you
      here from England if I did not love you to distraction?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It needs such extraordinary self-sacrifice on the part of an Englishman
      to leave England for Italy! I think you were glad to make some excuse&mdash;even
      so feeble a one as that of being in love with an Italian woman&mdash;to
      make a journey to Naples. But I forgot; you were in Italy once before,
      were you not?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes; I was in some parts,&mdash;the north&mdash;Tuscany&mdash;Florence&mdash;never
      here&mdash;no, never here.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Never here? ah, yes; now I remember well. You said you had never been to
      Sorrento. I wonder did I hold out any inducement to you to come to
      Sorrento?&mdash;you must have been studying a map of our bay, for you knew
      by name every landmark, every island, when I tried to be your cicerone
      just now.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The glance that he cast at her after giving a little start had something
      of suspicion in it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Everyone knows the landmarks of the lovely Bay of Naples,&rdquo; said he; &ldquo;but
      I&mdash;ah, my beloved, did you not tell me all its beauties when we first
      met in London six months ago? Had you no idea that every word which fell
      from your lips&mdash;even the words in which you described the scenery
      around your home&mdash;should be burnt into my memory for evermore? Ah,
      sweet one, will you never listen to me? Does my devotion count for nothing
      with you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My husband,&rdquo; she whispered with a tremulous downward glance&mdash;the
      glance of love&rsquo;s surrender&mdash;he knew it well: he was a man of
      considerable experience of woman in all her phases. He knew that he had
      not been fooled by the Marchesa.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Did not you tell me that you detested him?&rdquo; he cried. &ldquo;If a husband
      treats a wife cruelly, as he has treated you, he has wilfully forfeited
      all claim to her devotion. There are some acts so atrocious that it is
      impossible to find an adequate punishment for them.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You think that even if the punishment were a crime in the eyes of the
      world it would be sanctified by heaven if it were meted out to a monster
      of cruelty?&rdquo; The Marchesa was looking at him through half-closed eyes. He
      saw that her hands were clenched tightly, and he did not fail to notice
      how tumultuously her bosom was heaving. He was exultant. He had conquered.
      That opportune word which he had thrown in regarding her husband&rsquo;s cruelty
      had overcome her last scruple.
    </p>
    <p>
      She was his.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My beloved&mdash;my beloved,&rdquo; he whispered, &ldquo;cruelty to such a woman as
      you makes sacred the mission of avenging it. You will leave him&mdash;with
      me you will never know aught save happiness.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She gave a little laugh, and then put her hand in his, not doubtfully, but
      with an expression of the amplest trustfulness.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My last scruple is gone,&rdquo; said she in the same low tone that he had
      employed. &ldquo;What you have said has made my mind easy.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You will come to me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Till one of us dies.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She spoke the words with the fire flashing from her eyes as she gazed into
      his face. The force of that gaze of hers gave him a little shock. It was
      only a momentary sensation, however; in a second he recollected that he
      was talking to an Italian, not an Englishwoman.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Till one of us dies&mdash;till one of us dies,&rdquo; he whispered, poorly
      imitating her intensity. &ldquo;Ah, I knew that it would come, my darling. Would
      I have travelled from England if I had not been certain of you&mdash;certain
      of my own love for you, I mean? And you will come with me&mdash;you will
      leave him? It is his punishment&mdash;his righteous punishment.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I shall leave him with you, I swear to you,&rdquo; cried the Marchesa.
    </p>
    <p>
      For a moment he failed to catch her exact meaning. He did not want the
      Marchese to be left with him; but of course he perceived the next instant
      that she meant to say that she would leave her husband and go with him,
      her lover; and there was no tremor in his voice as he said&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You will never repent it! Ah, what happiness will be ours, my soul! Shall
      it be tomorrow? I can hire a vessel to take us to Malta,&mdash;there we
      shall be safe.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nay, it is too sudden,&rdquo; said she. &ldquo;My husband could not fail to have his
      suspicions aroused. Nay, we shall have to await our opportunity. If he
      asks you to pay us a visit you must come. He will be going to Rome in a
      day or two, and I shall contrive to be left behind.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, that will be our chance,&rdquo; he cried. &ldquo;Fate is on our side, my dear
      one.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, Fate is on our side,&rdquo; she said in a low tone that could not possibly
      reach the ear of the tall and straight man who approached them as they
      stood at the balustrade of the Villa Galeotto overlooking the lovely Bay
      of Naples.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is such a great pleasure to me to meet you once again, Sir Percival
      Cleave,&rdquo; said the Marchese, with a smile. &ldquo;I hope that the Marchesa has
      offered you the hospitality of our humble home?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The Marchesa has been so very kind as suggest that I should visit your
      castle for an hour or two before I leave this lovely neighbourhood,&rdquo; said
      Sir Percival.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nay, surely she made you name the day,&rdquo; said the Marchese, turning to his
      wife. &ldquo;Is it possible, my dear, that you failed to be more specific?&rdquo; he
      asked with great gravity.
    </p>
    <p>
      The lady gave a shrug in response, and her husband became still more
      grave.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The hospitality which I received in England can never be forgotten by me,
      though my mission was an unpleasant one,&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;The King of Naples&mdash;but
      we will avoid politics, as people must if they mean to remain good
      friends. Enough; you will honour us by paying us a visit&mdash;but when?
      What day will suit your convenience?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am only remaining in this neighbourhood for a day or two,&rdquo; said Sir
      Percival. &ldquo;I have, alas! some important business that will take me
      northward; but&mdash;well, I have no engagement to-morrow, if that day
      would suit your Excellency.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It will suit me better than any other day,&rdquo; replied the Marchese. &ldquo;I have
      myself to go to Rome almost at once. I shall never cease to be thankful to
      Fate for having so delayed my departure as to enable me to have the
      pleasure of meeting Sir Percival Cleave. You will come in the afternoon
      and eat a simple dinner at our table. You are already acquainted with the
      road to the Castle?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh yes&mdash;that is, no; I do not know the road, but I do not suppose I
      shall have any difficulty in finding it out.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What!&rdquo; the Marchese had turned once more to his wife and had assumed the
      tone of a reproof. &ldquo;What! you did not make Sir Percival aware of the
      direction to the Castle?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sir Percival has been studying a map of the Bay,&rdquo; said she. &ldquo;Though he
      has never before been here he shows a remarkable acquaintance with the
      neighbourhood.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is not right to take so much for granted,&rdquo; said the Marchese. &ldquo;Allow
      me to repair the negligence of the Marchesa, Sir Percival.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He then pointed out to the Englishman the direction to take in order to
      reach the road leading to the cliffs a mile beyond Sorrento, where the
      Castello del Grippo stood in the centre of its olive-groves. Sir Percival
      thanked him, and said that having received such plain directions he would
      not now carry out his intention of driving to the castle; he would ride
      there instead.
    </p>
    <p>
      Before the Marchese and his wife took their departure, the latter had
      managed to whisper in the ear of Sir Percival as she returned the pressure
      of his hand&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Without fail.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Till one of us dies,&rdquo; he replied.
    </p>
    <p>
      How strange it all was! he thought that night as he stood at the door of
      the inn where he was staying at Sorrento, and listened to the singing of
      the fishermen putting out to sea. How strange it all was! The seven years
      that had passed since he had last heard the hymn of the fishermen in that
      Bay seemed no more than so many days. He had had his adventures since he
      had been so foolish as to fancy himself in love with Paolina&mdash;poor
      Paolina! A good many faces had interposed between the face of the Italian
      girl of 1815 and the face of the Italian Marchesa in 1822. But what a
      whimsical fate it was that had made him fall in love with the Marchesa del
      Grippo more deeply than he had ever permitted himself to fall in regard to
      other women! He had never known what it was to love before, though she was
      the woman whom he should have avoided, even if there were no other woman
      to love in the wide world.
    </p>
    <p>
      Ah, it was fate&mdash;the Marchesa had said so that afternoon at the Villa
      Galeotto. She had loved him from the first&mdash;he was ready to swear to
      that. He remembered now certain indications of her passion which he had
      noticed the first evening they had met, but which had escaped his memory.
      It was at Lady Blessington&rsquo;s in Kensington, and the Marchesa had expressed
      the pleasure it gave her to meet with an Englishman who spoke such
      excellent Italian. He had been very cautious at that time in replying to
      her questions as to the length of time he had been in Italy and the places
      that he had visited. It was not beyond the bounds of possibility that,
      after the lapse of seven years, any one might recognise him as the lover
      of Paolina, so it was just as well, he thought, to be careful. He had not
      mentioned a word about Sorrento, and not until the Marchesa had stood by
      his side in the garden of the Villa Galeotto had he lapsed in his feigning
      a complete ignorance of the locality. It was the force of his passion for
      that lovely woman which had overwhelmed him, causing him to forget himself
      and to refer by name to various landmarks.
    </p>
    <p>
      But what did it matter now? The woman had responded to him, and in a day
      or two would be by his side for&mdash;well, for as long as he pleased. A
      short distance away Lord Byron was affording the Italians a new reading of
      the cold-blooded Englishman; but Sir Percival Cleave would take very good
      care that he was not made such a fool of by the Marchesa as Lord Byron was
      by the Contessa Guicciola. Byron was practically a pauper, whereas he, Sir
      Percival Cleave, was rich. He could therefore (the logic was his) prevent
      himself from ever being made a fool of by any woman, Marchesa or Contessa
      though she might be.
    </p>
    <p>
      But he loved her&mdash;of that he was certain. He had asked her if he
      would have faced the discomforts of a journey from England to Italy had he
      not been in love with her; and now as he stood listening to the
      fishermen&rsquo;s hymns sung in the boats that were drifting out of the Bay, he
      asked himself the same question. Oh yes, he loved her! and her husband was
      cruel to her&mdash;she had told him so in England, and she had been
      greatly comforted by his assurance&mdash;given in answer to her inquiry&mdash;that
      the crime of being cruel to her was so great as to condone any act of hers&mdash;say,
      running away with another man.
    </p>
    <p>
      She was superstitious; she had some scruples. The priests, no doubt, were
      in the pay of her husband, and they had probably exaggerated the crime of
      a wife&rsquo;s leaving a husband,&mdash;it would be so like a greasy Italian
      priest to lay emphasis upon this one particular act; but he, an English
      gentleman to the core, and properly sensible of the blessings of a
      Protestant king and constitution, had succeeded in counteracting the
      insidious teaching of the priests. She had listened to him. She had
      readily accepted that great truth: a woman&rsquo;s retaliation to her husband&rsquo;s
      cruelty is sanctified in the eyes of heaven. That was his point: the eyes
      of heaven. It was immaterial in what light such an act of retaliation as
      he suggested to her would appear in the eyes of the people of the world.
    </p>
    <p>
      Before he slept he had brought himself to believe that he was actually the
      lady&rsquo;s honourable champion, boldly coming forward to rescue her from an
      intolerable oppressor.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Castello del Grippo was built on the summit of the headland that
      sloped away from the sea at one side, but was very precipitous on the
      other. For three hundred years the family of Del Grippo had been
      accustomed to display a light in the tower nightly for the guidance of the
      fishing-boats, for the Castle could be seen from the north as well as the
      south. For more than a mile on the shoreward side of the Castle the
      olive-trees grew mixed with lemons and oranges; and as Sir Percival rode
      along the somewhat rough avenue on his way to accept the hospitality of
      the man whose wife he had the previous day been instructing on some
      interesting points in regard to her duty, he was entranced with the
      perfumes of the fruits and flowers. The air was heavy with odours of the
      citrons, and the gold of the luscious fruit gleamed among the glossy
      leaves. Though he had never been on the avenue before, the gleam of the
      fruit and the exquisite scents brought back to him the sweet memory of
      Paolina. It was not at this side of the great garden that he had been
      accustomed to meet her, but on the other side&mdash;that nearest the
      cliff, a mile away.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was a sweet sad memory, and it was so poignant that it even caused him
      to sigh and murmur&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, la povera Paolina! la povera Paolina!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And having thereby satisfied himself that his heart was as soft as the
      heart of a little child, he urged his horse forward.
    </p>
    <p>
      He soon reached the Castle, and it seemed gloomy enough, outlined against
      the wonderful blue sky. He had seen numbers of the peasants working among
      the olives, but close to the Castle none were in sight. It was not until
      he had dismounted and pulled the handle of the old iron bell that a
      servant appeared. In a few moments the Marchese himself came out of a room
      at one side of the hall and welcomed his guest, giving instructions to
      another servant to stable the horse.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You have not met the Marchesa?&rdquo; he inquired of Sir Percival. &ldquo;She left
      the Castle half-an-hour ago, trusting to meet you. Pray enter and we shall
      have some refreshment.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But Sir Percival declined to enter in the absence of the Marchesa. He felt
      that to do so would be very gross&mdash;to say the least of it. The idea
      of sitting down with the Marchese while the lady&mdash;his lady&mdash;was
      wandering disconsolately around the grounds in search of him was very
      repugnant to him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;As you will,&rdquo; said the Marchese with a shrug when he remarked that he
      would like to go in search of the Marchesa. &ldquo;As you will. She is not
      likely to get lost. Oh yes; we shall go in search of her, and that will
      serve me as an excuse for showing you some of the spots to which interest
      attaches within our grounds.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He picked up a hat and stick and left the Castle with his visitor.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We shall first go to the grove where the historic duel was fought between
      my ancestor and the two nephews of Pope Adrian,&rdquo; said the Marchese. &ldquo;You
      have heard of that affair, no doubt.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Shall we be likely to find the Marchesa there?&rdquo; asked Sir Percival.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;As likely as not we shall meet her as we go there,&rdquo; replied the Marchese.
    </p>
    <p>
      He led the way through an avenue of ilex, and they soon came upon a
      cleared space at the foot of a terrace of rocks. The Marchese explained
      the position occupied by the combatants in the famous duel that had so
      consolidated the position of the family of Del Grippo. But all the time
      the details of the incident were being explained to him Sir Percival was
      casting his eyes around for the appearance of the lady. What did he care
      about Pope Adrian or his nephews so long as his lady&mdash;he had come to
      think of her as his lady&mdash;was roaming the grounds in search of him?
    </p>
    <p>
      Then his host brought him to where the body of his grandfather had been
      found by the side of the three men whom he had killed before receiving the
      fatal blow from behind, dealt by that poltroon, Prince Roberto, who had
      hired four of his bravos to attack the old man. At another part of the
      grounds were the ruins of the ancient summer-house, where a certain member
      of this distinguished family had strangled his wife, whom he had suspected
      of infidelity, though, as the Marchese explained, the lady had saved him
      more than once from assassination and was perfectly guiltless.
    </p>
    <p>
      An hour had been passed viewing these very interesting localities, about
      which the air of the middle ages still lingered, and still the Marchesa
      was absent.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Should we not return to the Castle? the Marchesa may be waiting for us,&rdquo;
       suggested Sir Percival.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A thousand pardons,&rdquo; cried the Marchese. &ldquo;I fear I have fatigued you. You
      are thirsty.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, yes; I am somewhat thirsty,&rdquo; laughed the visitor.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How discourteous I have been! We shall have the refreshment of an orange
      before returning. There is a famous grove a short way toward the cliff.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He strode onward, and then, suddenly turning down a narrow path made among
      the olives, Sir Percival gave a start, for he found himself by the side of
      the Marchese, at the one part of those grounds with which he was well
      acquainted. They stood among the orange-trees at the summit of the cliff
      which he had nightly climbed to meet Paolina.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Here are our choicest fruits,&rdquo; said the Marchese, plucking an orange and
      handing it to his visitor. &ldquo;Break it open and you will see how exquisite
      the fruit is.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Sir Percival broke the orange, but the moment he did so it fell from his
      fingers and he gave a cry of horror, for out of the fruit had come a red
      stream staining his hands.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Marchese laughed loud and long.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Your hands are embrued with blood,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;Oh, a stranger might fancy
      for a moment that Sir Percival Cleave was a murderer. Ah! pray pardon my
      folly. That is only the refreshing juice of the orange. And yet you
      fancied that it was blood! Come, my friend, take courage; here is another.
      Eat it; you will find it delicious. I have heard that there are in the
      world such strange monsters as are refreshed by drinking blood&mdash;we
      have ourselves vampires in this neighbourhood. But you and I, sir, we
      prefer only the heart&rsquo;s blood of a simple orange. You will eat one.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I could not touch one,&rdquo; said Sir Percival. &ldquo;Nay; to do me the favour?
      What! an Englishman and superstitious?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Sir Percival took another orange and made a pretence of eating it. His
      hands trembled so, however, they were soon dripping with the crimson
      juice.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are caught red-handed in the act,&rdquo; said the Marchese, &ldquo;red-handed&mdash;
      but the man who came here long ago was not so captured.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Another medieval story?&rdquo; said Sir Percival. &ldquo;Had your Excellency not
      better reserve it for the evening?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This story is not a medieval one; and it can only be told on the spot,&rdquo;
       said the Marchese. &ldquo;You have never been here before or you would not need
      to be told that this orange-grove was until seven years ago an ordinary
      one. It was not until blood was spilt here seven years ago that the fruit
      became crimson when bruised, and blood&mdash;your hands are dyed with it&mdash;&mdash;flowed
      from it as you have seen&mdash;it is on your lips&mdash;you have drunk of
      her blood&mdash;Paolina&rsquo;s.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;For Gods sake let us leave this place!&rdquo; said Sir Percival hoarsely. &ldquo;I
      have heard enough stories of bloodshed.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nay; this one is so piteous, you shall hear it and weep, sir&mdash;ah!
      tears of blood might be drawn from the most hard-hearted at the story of
      Paolina. She was a sweet girl. She lived with her sister, who is now the
      Marchesa&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good God!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What amazes you, sir? Is it remarkable that my wife should have had a
      sister?&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, no; of course not; I was only surprised to find those horrid marks
      still on my hands. Pray let us return to the Castle and permit me to
      remove the stains.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Poor Paolina!&mdash;she lived at the Castle with our aunt seven years
      ago. She was a flower of girlhood. I thought myself in love with her; but
      when my brother Ugo&mdash;he was the elder&mdash;confided in me that he
      loved her, I left the Castle. He loved her, and it seemed that she
      returned his affection. They were betrothed, and one could not doubt that
      their happiness was assured. But one evil day she met a man&mdash;a
      scoundrel; I regret to say that he was an Englishman&mdash;do not move,
      sir, you shall hear me out. This villain spoke to her of love. He tempted
      her. She was accustomed to meet him every evening on this very spot&mdash;we
      learned that he sailed from Sorrento and climbed the cliff. My brother
      began to suspect. He followed her here one evening, and she confessed
      everything to him. He was a passionate man, and he strangled her here&mdash;here&mdash;and
      then flung himself headlong from the cliff.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A gruesome story, Marchese. Now, shall we return?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Villain!&mdash;assassin!&mdash;look at your hands&mdash;they are wet with
      her blood&mdash;your lips&mdash;they have drunk her blood, but &lsquo;tis their
      last draught&mdash;for&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Sir Percival sprang at the man and caught him by the throat, but in an
      instant his hands relaxed. He had only strength to glance round. He saw
      the woman who had stabbed him, before he fell forward.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That one was for her&mdash;for her&mdash;my beloved sister. This one is
      for our dear brother&mdash;the man whom you wronged. This&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She stabbed him again. His blood mixed with the crimson stains on the
      earth.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Look at it&mdash;bear witness that I have kept my oath,&rdquo; cried the
      Marchesa. &ldquo;Did not I swear that his blood should be drunk by the same
      earth that drank hers?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Beloved one, you are an angel&mdash;an avenging angel!&rdquo; cried the
      Marchese, embracing his wife.
    </p>
    <p>
      The next day Sir Percival Cleave&rsquo;s horse was found dead at the foot of one
      of the cliffs; but the body of the &ldquo;unfortunate baronet&rdquo;&mdash;so he was
      termed by the newspapers (English)&mdash;was never recovered.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0007" id="link2H_4_0007"> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      THE STRANGE STORY OF NORTHAVON PRIORY.
    </h2>
    <p class="pfirst">
      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">W</span>hen Arthur Jephson
      wrote to me to join his Christmas party at Northavon Priory, I was set
      wondering where I had heard the name of this particular establishment. I
      felt certain that I had heard the name before, but I could not recollect
      for the moment whether I had come upon it in a newspaper report of a
      breach of promise of marriage or in a Blue-Book bearing upon Inland
      Fisheries: I rather inclined to the belief that it was in a Blue-Book of
      some sort. I had been devoting myself some years previously to an
      exhaustive study of this form of literature; for being very young, I had
      had a notion that a Blue-Book education was essential to any one with
      parliamentary aspirations. Yes, I had, I repeat, been very young at that
      time, and I had not found out that a Blue-Book is the <i>oubliette</i> of
      inconvenient facts.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was not until I had promised Arthur to be with him on Christmas Eve
      that I recollected where I had read something about Northavon Priory, and
      in a moment I understood how it was I had acquired the notion that the
      name had appeared in an official document. I had read a good deal about
      this Priory in a curious manuscript which I had unearthed at Sir Dennis le
      Warden&rsquo;s place in Norfolk, known as Marsh Towers. The document, which,
      with many others, I found stowed away in a wall-cupboard in the great
      library, purported to be a draft of the evidence taken before one of the
      Commissions appointed by King Henry VIII. to inquire into the abuses
      alleged to be associated with certain religious houses throughout England.
      An ancestor of Sir Dennis&rsquo;s had, it appeared, been a member of one of
      these Commissions, and he had taken a note of the evidence which he had in
      the course of his duties handed to the King.
    </p>
    <p>
      The parchments had, I learned, been preserved in an iron coffer with
      double padlocks, but the keys had been lost at some remote period, and
      then the coffer had been covered over with lumber in a room in the east
      tower overlooking the moat, until an outbreak of fire had resulted in an
      overturning of the rubbish and a discovery of the coffer. A blacksmith had
      been employed to pick the locks, which he did with a sledge-hammer; but it
      was generally admitted that his energy had been wasted when the contents
      of the box were made known. Sir Dennis cared about nothing except the
      improvement of the breed of horses through the agency of race meetings, so
      the manuscripts of his painstaking ancestor were bundled into one of the
      presses in the library, some, however, being reserved by the intelligent
      housekeeper in the still-room to make jam-pot covers&mdash;a purpose for
      which, as she explained to me at considerable length, they were extremely
      well adapted.
    </p>
    <p>
      I had no great difficulty in deciphering those that came under my hand,
      for I had had considerable experience of the tricks of early English
      writers; and as I read I became greatly interested in all the original
      &ldquo;trustie and well-beelou&rsquo;d Sir Denice le Warden&rdquo; had written. The
      frankness of the evidence which he had collected on certain points took
      away my breath, although I had been long accustomed to the directness with
      which some of the fifteenth-century people expressed themselves.
    </p>
    <p>
      Northavon Priory was among the religious houses whose practices had formed
      the subject of the inquiry, and it was the summary of Sir Denice&rsquo;s notes
      regarding the Black Masses alleged to have been celebrated within its
      walls that proved so absorbing to me. The bald account of the nature of
      these orgies would of itself have been sufficient, if substantiated, to
      bring about the dissolution of all the order in England. The Black Mass
      was a pagan revel, the details of which were unspeakable, though their
      nature was more than hinted at by the King&rsquo;s Commissioner. Anything so
      monstrously blasphemous could not be imagined by the mind of man, for with
      the pagan orgie there was mixed up the most solemn rite of the Mass. It
      was celebrated on the night of Christmas Eve, and at the hour of midnight
      the celebration culminated in an invocation to the devil, written so as to
      parody an office of the Church, and, according to the accounts of some
      witnesses, in a human sacrifice. Upon this latter point, however, Sir
      Denice admitted there was a diversity of opinion.
    </p>
    <p>
      One of the witnesses examined was a man who had entered the Priory grounds
      from the river during a fearful tempest, on one Christmas Eve, and had, he
      said, witnessed the revel through a window to which he had climbed. He
      declared that at the hour of midnight the candles had been extinguished,
      but that a moment afterwards an awful red light had floated through the
      room, followed by the shrieks of a human being at the point of
      strangulation, and then by horrible yells of laughter. Another man who was
      examined had been a wood-cutter in the service of the Priory, and he had
      upon one occasion witnessed the celebration of a Black Mass; but he
      averred that no life was sacrificed, though he admitted that in the
      strange red light, which had flashed through the room, he had seen what
      appeared to be two men struggling on the floor. In the general particulars
      of the orgie there was, however, no diversity of opinion, and had the old
      Sir Denice le Warden been anything of a comparative mythologist, he could
      scarcely fail to have been greatly interested in being brought face to
      face with so striking an example of the survival of an ancient
      superstition within the walls of a holy building.
    </p>
    <p>
      During a rainy week I amused myself among the parchments dealing with
      Northavon Priory, and although what I read impressed me greatly at the
      time, yet three years of pretty hard work in various parts of the world
      had so dulled my memory of any incident so unimportant as the deciphering
      of a mouldy document that, as I have already stated, it was not until I
      had posted my letter to Arthur Jephson agreeing to spend a day or two with
      his party, that I succeeded in recalling something of what I had read
      regarding Northavon Priory.
    </p>
    <p>
      I had taken it for granted that the Priory had been demolished when Henry
      had superintended the dissolution of the religious establishments
      throughout the country: I did not think it likely that one with such a
      record as was embodied in the notes would be allowed to remain with a
      single stone on another. A moment&rsquo;s additional reflection admitted of my
      perceiving how extremely unlikely it was that, even if Northavon Priory
      had been spared by the King, it would still be available for visitors
      during the latter years of the nineteenth century. I had seen many
      red-brick &ldquo;abbeys&rdquo; and &ldquo;priories&rdquo; in various parts of the country, not
      more than ten years old, inhabited mostly by gentlemen who had made
      fortunes in iron, or perhaps lard, which constitutes, I understand, an
      excellent foundation for a fortune. There might be, for all I knew, a
      score of Northavon Priories in England. Arthur Jephson&rsquo;s father had made
      his money by the judicious advertising of a certain oriental rug
      manufactured in the Midlands, and I thought it very likely that he had
      built a mansion for himself which he had called Northavon Priory.
    </p>
    <p>
      A letter which I received from Arthur set my mind at rest. He explained to
      me very fully that Northavon Priory was a hotel built within the walls of
      an ancient religious house.
    </p>
    <p>
      He had spent a delightful month fishing in the river during the summer,&mdash;I
      had been fishing in the Amazon at that time,&mdash;and had sojourned at
      the hotel, which he had found to be a marvel of comfort in spite of its
      picturesqueness. This was why, he said, he had thought how jolly it would
      be to entertain a party of his friends at the place during the Christmas
      week.
    </p>
    <p>
      That explanation was quite good enough for me. I had a week or two to
      myself in England before going to India, and so soon as I recalled what I
      had read regarding North-avon Priory, I felt glad that my liking for
      Jephson had induced me to accept his invitation.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was not until we were travelling together to the station nearest to the
      Priory that he mentioned to me, quite incidentally, that during the summer
      he had been fortunate enough to make the acquaintance of a young woman who
      resided in a spacious mansion within easy distance of the Priory Hotel,
      and who was, so far as he was capable of judging,&mdash;and he considered
      that in such matters his judgment was worth something,&mdash;the most
      charming girl in England.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I see,&rdquo; I remarked before his preliminary panegyric had quite come to a
      legitimate conclusion&mdash;&ldquo;I see all now: you haven&rsquo;t the courage&mdash;to
      be more exact, the impudence&mdash;to come down alone to the hotel&mdash;she
      has probably a brother who is a bit of an athlete&mdash;but you think that
      Tom Singleton and I will form a good enough excuse for an act on your part
      which parents and guardians can construe in one way only.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, perhaps&mdash;&mdash;Hang it all, man, you needn&rsquo;t attribute to me
      any motives but those of the purest hospitality,&rdquo; laughed my companion.
      &ldquo;Isn&rsquo;t the prospect of a genuine old English Christmas&mdash;the Yule log,
      and that sort of thing&mdash;good enough for you without going any
      further?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s quite good enough for me,&rdquo; I replied. &ldquo;I only regret that it is not
      good enough for you. You expect to see her every day?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Every day? Don&rsquo;t be a fool, Jim. If I see her more than four times in the
      course of the week&mdash;I think I should manage to see her four times&mdash;I
      will consider myself exceptionally lucky.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And if you see her less than four times you will reckon yourself
      uncommonly unlucky?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;O, I think I have arranged for four times all right: I&rsquo;ll have to trust
      to luck for the rest.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What! you mean to say that the business has gone as far as that?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;As what?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;As making arrangements for meetings with her?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      My friend laughed complacently.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, you see, old chap, I couldn&rsquo;t very well give you this treat without
      letting her know that I should be in the neighbourhood,&rdquo; said he.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, indeed. I don&rsquo;t see, however, what the&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Great heavens! You mean to say that you don&rsquo;t see&mdash;&mdash;Oh, you
      will have your joke.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I hope I will have one eventually; I can&rsquo;t say that I perceive much
      chance of one at present, however. You&rsquo;ll not give us much of your
      interesting society during the week of our treat, as you call it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll give you as much of it as I can spare&mdash;more than you&rsquo;ll be
      likely to relish, perhaps. A week&rsquo;s a long time, Jim.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Time travels at divers paces with divers persons,&rsquo; my friend. I suppose
      she&rsquo;s as lovely as any of the others of past years?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;As lovely! Jim, she&rsquo;s just the&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t trouble yourself over the description. I have a vivid recollection
      of the phrases you employed in regard to the others. There was Lily, and
      Gwen, and Bee, and&mdash;yes, by George! there was a fourth; her name was
      Nelly, or&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;All flashes in the pan, my friend. I didn&rsquo;t know my own mind in those old
      days; but now, thank heaven!&mdash;Oh, you&rsquo;ll agree with me when you see
      her. This is the real thing and no mistake.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He was good enough to give me a genuine lover&rsquo;s description of the young
      woman, whose name was, he said, Sylvia St Leger; but it did not differ
      materially from the descriptions which had come from him in past days, of
      certainly four other girls for whom he had, he imagined, entertained a
      devotion strong as death itself. Alas! his devotion had not survived a
      single year in any case.
    </p>
    <p>
      When we arrived at the hotel, after a drive of eight miles from the
      railway station, we found Tom Singleton waiting for us rather impatiently,
      and in a quarter of an hour we were facing an excellent dinner. We were
      the only guests at the hotel, for though it was picturesquely situated on
      the high bank of the river, and was doubtless a delightful place for a
      sojourn in summer, yet in winter it possessed few attractions to casual
      visitors.
    </p>
    <p>
      After dinner I strolled over the house, and found, to my surprise, that
      the old walls of the Priory were practically intact. The kitchen was also
      unchanged, but the great refectory was now divided into four rooms. The
      apartments upstairs had plainly been divided in the same way by brick
      partitions; but the outer walls, pierced with narrow windows, were those
      of the original Priory.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the morning I made further explorations, only outside the building, and
      came upon the ruins of the old Priory tower; and then I perceived that
      only a small portion of the original building had been utilised for the
      hotel. The landlord, who accompanied me, was certainly no antiquarian. He
      told me that he had been &ldquo;let in&rdquo; so far as the hotel was concerned. He
      had been given to understand that the receipts for the summer months were
      sufficiently great to compensate for the absence of visitors during the
      winter; but his experience of one year had not confirmed this statement,
      made by the people from whom he had bought the place, and he had come to
      the conclusion that, as he had been taken in in the transaction, it was
      his duty to try to take in some one else in the same way.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I only hope that I may succeed, sir,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;but I&rsquo;m doubtful about
      it. People are getting more suspicious every day.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You weren&rsquo;t suspicious, at any rate,&rdquo; said I.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That I weren&rsquo;t&mdash;more&rsquo;s the pity, sir,&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;But it&rsquo;ll take me
      all my time to get the place off my hands, I know. Ah, yes; it&rsquo;s hard to
      get people to take your word for anything nowadays.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      For the next two days Tom Singleton and I were left a good deal together,
      the fact being that our friend Arthur parted from us after lunch and only
      returned in time for dinner, declaring upon each occasion that he had just
      passed the pleasantest day of his life. On Christmas Eve he came to us in
      high spirits, bearing with him an invitation from a lady who had attained
      distinction through being the mother of Miss St Leger, for us to spend
      Christmas Day at her house&mdash;it had already been pointed out to us by
      Arthur: it was a fine Georgian country house, named The Grange.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve accepted for you both,&rdquo; said Arthur. &ldquo;Mrs St Leger is a most
      charming woman, and her daughter&mdash;I don&rsquo;t know if I mentioned that
      she had a daughter&mdash;well, if I omitted, I am now in a position to
      assure you that her daughter&mdash;her name is Sylvia&mdash;is possibly
      the most beautiful&mdash;&mdash;But there&rsquo;s no use trying to describe her;
      you&rsquo;ll see her for yourselves to-morrow, and judge if I&rsquo;ve exaggerated in
      the least when I say that the world does not contain a more exquisite
      creature.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, one hour with her will be quite sufficient to enable us to pronounce
      an opinion on that point,&rdquo; laughed Tom.
    </p>
    <p>
      We remained smoking in front of the log fire that blazed in the great
      hearth, until about eleven o&rsquo;clock, and then went to our rooms upstairs,
      after some horse-play in the hall.
    </p>
    <p>
      My room was a small one at the beginning of the corridor, Arthur Jephson&rsquo;s
      was alongside it, and at the very end of the corridor was Tom Singleton&rsquo;s.
      All had at one time been one apartment.
    </p>
    <p>
      Having walked a good deal during the day, I was very tired, and had
      scarcely got into bed before I fell asleep.
    </p>
    <p>
      When I awoke it was with a start and a consciousness that something was
      burning. A curious red light streamed into the room from outside. I sprang
      from my bed in a moment and ran to the window. But before I had reached it
      the room was in darkness once more, and there came a yell of laughter,
      apparently from the next room.
    </p>
    <p>
      For a moment I was paralysed. But the next instant I had recovered my
      presence of mind. I believed that Arthur and Tom had been playing some of
      their tricks upon me. They had burnt a red light outside my window, and
      were roaring with laughter as they heard me spring out of bed.
    </p>
    <p>
      That was the explanation of what I had seen and heard which first
      suggested itself to me; and I was about to return to bed when my door was
      knocked at and then opened.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What on earth have you been up to?&rdquo; came the voice of Arthur Jephson.
      &ldquo;Have you set the bed-curtains on fire? If you have, that&rsquo;s nothing to
      laugh at.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Get out of this room with your larking,&rdquo; said I. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s a very poor joke
      that of yours, Arthur. Go back to your bed.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He struck a light&mdash;he had a match-box in his hand&mdash;and went to
      my candle without a word. In a moment the room was faintly illuminated.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you mean to say that you hadn&rsquo;t a light here just now&mdash;a red
      light?&rdquo; he cried.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I had no light: a red light floated through the room, but it seemed to
      come from outside,&rdquo; said I.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And who was it laughed in that wild way?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I took it for granted that it was you and Tom who were about your usual
      larks.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Larks! No, I was about no larks, I can promise you. Good Lord! man, that
      laugh was something beyond a lark.&rdquo; He seated himself on my bed. &ldquo;Do you
      fancy it may have been some of the servants going about the stables with a
      carriage-lamp?&rdquo; he continued. &ldquo;There may have been a late arrival at the
      hotel, you know.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s not at all unlikely,&rdquo; said I. &ldquo;Yes, it may have been that, and the
      laughter may have been between the grooms.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t hear any sound of bustle through the house or outside,&rdquo; said he.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The stables are not at this angle of the building,&rdquo; said I. &ldquo;We must
      merely have seen the light and heard that laughter as the carriage passed
      our angle. Anyhow, we&rsquo;ll only catch cold if we lounge about in our pyjamas
      like this. You&rsquo;d best get back to bed and let me do the same.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t feel much inclined to sleep, but I&rsquo;ll not prevent your having
      your night&rsquo;s rest,&rdquo; said he, rising. &ldquo;I wonder is it near morning?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      I held the candle before the dial of my watch that hung above my bed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s exactly five minutes past twelve,&rdquo; said I. &ldquo;We&rsquo;ve slept barely an
      hour.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then the sooner I clear out the better it will be for both of us,&rdquo; said
      he.
    </p>
    <p>
      He went away slowly, and I heard him strike a match in his own room. He
      evidently meant to light his candle.
    </p>
    <p>
      Some hours had passed before I fell into an uneasy sleep, and once more I
      was awakened by Arthur Jephson, who stood by my bedside. The morning light
      was in the room.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;For God&rsquo;s sake, come into Tom&rsquo;s room!&rdquo; he whispered. &ldquo;He&rsquo;s dead!&mdash;Tom
      is dead!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      I tried to realise his words. Some moments had elapsed before I succeeded
      in doing so. I sprang from my bed and ran down the corridor to the room
      occupied by Tom Singleton. The landlord and a couple of servants were
      already there. They had burst in the door.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was but too true: our poor friend lay on his bed with his body bent and
      his arms twisted as though he had been struggling desperately with some
      one at his last moment. His face, too, was horribly contorted, and his
      eyes were wide open.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A doctor,&rdquo; I managed to say.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He&rsquo;s already sent for, sir,&rdquo; said the landlord.
    </p>
    <p>
      In a few moments the doctor arrived.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Cardiac attack,&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;Was he alone in the room? No, he can&rsquo;t have
      been alone.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He was quite alone,&rdquo; said Arthur. &ldquo;I knocked at the door a quarter of an
      hour ago, but getting no answer, I tried to force the lock. It was too
      strong for me; but the landlord and the man-servant who was bringing us
      our hot water burst in the door at my request.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And the window&mdash;was it fastened?&rdquo; asked the doctor.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was secure, sir,&rdquo; said the landlord.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, a sudden cardiac attack,&rdquo; said the doctor.
    </p>
    <p>
      There was, of course, an inquest, but as no evidence of foul play was
      forthcoming, the doctor&rsquo;s phrase &ldquo;cardiac attack&rdquo; satisfied the jury, and
      a verdict of &ldquo;Death from natural causes&rdquo; was returned.
    </p>
    <p>
      Before I went back to town I examined the room in which our poor friend
      had died. On the side of one of the window-shutters there were four
      curious burnt marks. They gave one the impression that the shutter had at
      one time been grasped by a man wearing a red-hot gauntlet.
    </p>
    <p>
      I started for India before the end of the year and remained there for
      eight months. Then I thought I would pay a visit to a sister of mine in
      Queensland. On my return at the end of the year I meant to stop at Cairo
      for a few weeks. On entering Shepheard&rsquo;s Hotel I found myself face to face
      with Arthur Jephson and his wife&mdash;he called her Sylvia. They had been
      married in August, but their honeymoon seemed still to be in its first
      quarter. It was after Mrs Jephson had retired, and when Arthur was sitting
      with me enjoying the cool of the night by the aid of a pretty strong cigar
      or two, that we ventured to allude to the tragic occurrence which marked
      our last time of meeting.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I wish to beg of you not to make any allusion to that awful business in
      the hearing of my wife,&rdquo; said Arthur. &ldquo;In fact I must ask you not to
      allude to that fearful room in the Priory in any way.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will be careful not to do so,&rdquo; said I. &ldquo;You have your own reasons, I
      suppose, for giving me this warning.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have the best of reasons, Jim. She too had her experience of that room,
      and it was as terrible as ours.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good heavens! I heard nothing of that. She did not sleep in that room?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thank God, she didn&rsquo;t. I arrived in time to save her.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      I need scarcely say that my interest was now fully aroused.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Tell me what happened&mdash;if you dare tell it,&rdquo; I said.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You were abroad, and so you wouldn&rsquo;t be likely to hear of the fire at The
      Grange,&rdquo; said my friend, after a pause.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I heard nothing of it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It took place only two days before last Christmas. I had been in the
      south of France, where I had spent a month or two with my mother,&mdash;she
      cannot stand a winter at home,&mdash;and I had promised Sylvia to return
      to The Grange for Christmas. When I got to Northavon I found her and her
      mother and their servants at the Priory Hotel. The fire had taken place
      the previous night, and they found the hotel very handy when they hadn&rsquo;t a
      roof of their own over their heads. Well, we dined together, and were as
      jolly as was possible under the circumstances until bedtime. I had
      actually said &lsquo;Good night&rsquo; to Sylvia before I recollected what had taken
      place the previous Christmas Eve in the same house. I rushed upstairs, and
      found Sylvia in the act of entering the room&mdash;that fatal room. When I
      implored of her to choose some other apartment, she only laughed at first,
      and assured me that she wasn&rsquo;t superstitious; but when she saw that I was
      serious&mdash;I was deadly serious, as you can believe, Jim&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I can&mdash;I can.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, she agreed to sleep in her mother&rsquo;s room, and I went away relieved.
      So soon as I returned to the fire in the dining-room I began to think of
      poor Tom Singleton. I felt curiously excited, and I knew that it would be
      useless for me to go to bed,&mdash;in fact, I made up my mind not to leave
      the dining-room for some hours, at any rate, and when the landlord came to
      turn out the lights I told him he might trust me to do that duty for him.
      He left me alone in the room about half-past eleven o&rsquo;clock. When the
      sound of his feet upon the oaken stairs died away I felt as fearful as a
      child in the dark. I lit another cigar and walked about the room for some
      time. I went to the window that opened upon the old Priory ground, and,
      seeing that the night was a fine one, I opened the door and strolled out,
      hoping that the cool air would do me good. I had not gone many yards
      across the little patch of green before I turned and looked up at the
      house&mdash;at the last window, the window of that room. A fire had been
      lighted in the room early in the evening, and its glow shone through the
      white blind. Suddenly that faint glow increased to a terrific glare,&mdash;a
      red glare, Jim,&mdash;and then there came before my eyes for a moment the
      shadow of two figures upon the blind,&mdash;one the figure of a woman, the
      other&mdash;God knows what it was. I rushed back to the room, but before I
      had reached the door I heard the horrible laughter once again. It seemed
      to come from that room and to pass on through the air into the distance
      across the river. I ran upstairs with a light, and found Sylvia and her
      mother standing together with wraps around them at the door of the room.
      &lsquo;Thank God, you are safe!&rsquo; I managed to cry. &lsquo;I feared that you had
      returned to the room.&rsquo; &lsquo;You heard it&mdash;that awful laughter?&rsquo; she
      whispered. &lsquo;You heard it, and you saw something&mdash;what was it?&rsquo; I
      gently forced her and her mother back to their room, for the servants and
      the landlord&rsquo;s family were now crowding into the corridor. They, too, had
      heard enough to alarm them.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You went to the room?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The scene of that dreadful morning was repeated. The door was locked on
      the inside. We broke it in and found a girl lying dead on the floor, her
      face contorted just as poor Singleton&rsquo;s was. She was Sylvia&rsquo;s maid, and it
      was thought that, on hearing that her mistress was not going to occupy the
      room, she had gone into it herself on account of the fire which had been
      lighted there.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And the doctor said&mdash;&mdash;?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Cardiac attack&mdash;the same as before&mdash;singular coincidence! I
      need scarcely say that we never slept again under that accursed roof. Poor
      Sylvia! She was overwhelmed at the thought of how narrow her escape had
      been.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Did you notice anything remarkable about the room&mdash;about the
      shutters of the window?&rdquo; I asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      He looked at me curiously for a moment. Then he bent forward and said&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;On the edge of the shutter there were some curious marks where the wood
      had been charred.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;As if a hand with a red-hot gauntlet had been laid upon it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There were the marks of two such hands,&rdquo; said my friend slowly.
    </p>
    <p>
      We remained for an hour in the garden; then we threw away the ends of our
      cigars and went into the hotel without another word.
    </p>
    <div style="height: 6em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>

<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 51963 ***</div>
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