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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/77896-0.txt b/77896-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..f9687ec --- /dev/null +++ b/77896-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,8580 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 77896 *** + + + + + MASQUERADES + + + + + THE LATEST LIBRARY NOVELS + + _Seven Shillings & Sixpence Net Each_ + + + _A WISE FOOL_ _Edward Charles Reed_ + +_This is the Prize-Winning Novel in the John Long (2nd) £500 Prize +Competition for the Best_ First _Novel. John Long’s previous £500 Prize +Competition for the Best_ First _Novel was won by Emmeline Morrison +with her Novel, “Good Grain,” probably one of the most popular novels +published in recent years_. + + THE WOMAN TEMPTED THE COUNTESS OF CATHCART + THE FACE IN THE NIGHT EDGAR WALLACE + THE MARQUISE RING E. W. SAVI + MASQUERADES SHANE LESLIE + THE CHALLENGE NAT GOULD + DESIRE OF THE DESERT ARTHUR APPLIN + BURNT BRIDGES TEMPLE LANE + THE HIDDEN HOUR J. B. HARRIS-BURLAND + THE ROSE OF ALGIERS CECIL H. BULLIVANT + THE VENUS GIRL LESLIE BERESFORD (“PAN”) + TIGER RIVER ARTHUR O. FRIEL + THE LAIRD WINIFRED DUKE + THE DAY OF RECKONING E. ALMAZ STOUT + THE SEA DEMONS H. M. EGBERT + THE BREAD OF DEPENDENCE EDMUND B. D’AUVERGNE + THE DANCING GIRL GASTON LEROUX + THE ARREST FREDERICK BROCK + THE INVISIBLE NET J. J. BELL + STORM HALLIWELL SUTCLIFFE + THE WORLD OUTSIDE HAROLD MACGRATH + THE CRÊPE DE CHINE WIFE AMY J. BAKER + THE MYSTERY OF WO-SING A. G. HALES + THE COMPULSORY MILLIONAIRE W. HAROLD THOMSON + BARNEY S. B. H. HURST + THREE OF A KIND EMMELINE MORRISON + JOAN PETERSON--SPORT MARGARET ARMSTRONG + THE LEGACY FROM NOWHERE PETER GLADWIN + ROOM 13 EDGAR WALLACE + CHÉRI-BIBI, MYSTERY MAN GASTON LEROUX + THE END OF A CIGARETTE EDWARD GELLIBRAND + MARGOT’S PROGRESS (3s. 6d. net) DOUGLAS GOLDRING + + JOHN LONG, LTD., Publishers, LONDON + And at all Libraries and Booksellers everywhere + + + + + MASQUERADES + + STUDIES IN THE MORBID + + BY + + SHANE LESLIE + + + AUTHOR OF + “THE OPPIDAN,” “DOOMSLAND,” ETC. + + [Illustration] + + + London + + John Long, Limited + + 12, 13 & 14 Norris Street, Haymarket + + [_All rights reserved_] + + + + + Made and + Printed in + Great Britain + Copyright, 1924, by + John Long, Limited + All rights reserved + + _Readers are requested to note that all the characters in this book + are purely fictitious, and the names are not intended to refer to any + real persons_ + + + + + “Masks, masking and unmasking of masks; all is + Masquerade.”--APOCRYPHA OF SOLOMON. + + “_Seigneur, mon Dieu, vous le Créateur, vous le maître; vous qui avez + fait la Loi et la Liberté; vous le Souverain qui laissez faire, vous + le juge qui pardonnez; vous qui êtes plein de motifs et de causes + et qui avez peut-être mis dans mon esprit le goût de l’horreur pour + convertir mon cœur comme la guérison au bout d’une lame; Seigneur, + ayez pitié, ayez pitié des fous et des folles! O Créateur! peut-il + exister des monstres aux yeux de Celui-là seul qui sait pourquoi ils + existent, comment ils se sont faits et comment ils auraient pu ne pas + se faire?_”-- + + FROM BAUDELAIRE’S FAMILY PRAYERS. + + + + + +[Illustration] + + TO THE ENTERTAINING SOUL + OF THAT SUPERFINE WRITER + FREDERICK ROLFE BARON CORVO + IN PURGATORY + + + + + CONTENTS + + + PAGE + + THE POPE’S TEMPTATION 11 + + CONNEMARA 24 + + INSPIRATION 43 + + BALTHASAR THE CRUEL 59 + + A SAVING PHANTASM 75 + + JEALOUSY 83 + + THE DRUMMER OF GORDONMUIR 96 + + THE SUPREME COMPLIMENT 110 + + A STUDY IN SMOKE 121 + + THE MISSIONARY 131 + + MIDIR AND ETAIN 169 + + KATHLEEN 177 + + JOHN SALTUS 197 + + LOADED DICE 214 + + AT THE HIGH TABLE 225 + + A SAINT 235 + + CANNES 252 + + THE NECROPHILE 264 + + THE BEAU GESTE 282 + + THE EVIL EYE 299 + + THE WEIRD GILLY 312 + + TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE + + + + +THE BIG LITERARY EVENT OF 1924 + +THE JOHN LONG £500 PRIZE NOVEL + +A WISE FOOL + +By EDWARD CHARLES REED + + +“A Wise Fool,” by Edward Charles Reed, the Prize-Winning Novel in +the John Long (2nd) £500 Prize Competition for the Best First Novel, +gained the distinction from among several hundred Novels sent in. +It is an exceptionally brilliant Novel, written on really original +lines. Revealing high literary quality, the story, which is modern in +atmosphere, is such as to make the widest appeal. It is a throbbing +tale in which love, adventure, romance and passion are skilfully +combined. There is no gainsaying the ineffable charm of the narrative +nor the lovableness of certain of its characters. In Edward Charles +Reed, the publishers and their advisers have the firm conviction they +have discovered an author destined to make an enduring reputation by +his Novels. It will be recalled that John Long’s previous £500 Prize +Competition for the Best First Novel was won by Emmeline Morrison +with her Novel, “Good Grain,” probably one of the most popular Novels +published in recent years. + + + _Ready Autumn, 1924. Crown 8vo, Cloth, 7s. 6d. net_ + JOHN LONG, LTD., Publishers, LONDON + + + + +MASQUERADES + + + + +THE POPE’S TEMPTATION + + +Under the great Dome that floated like a golden bubble upon the red +tranquillity of the sea of sunset lay the indecipherable shadow of +a crumbling City. It was a City of secular silences, and yet it was +filled with the murmur of the prayers of those who were long dead. +It was a City of many mansions and narrow streets, of slow-filling +fountains and great dumb doorways. Upon the time-eaten walls were set +windows, whose dust-shrouded panes separated the twilight without from +the twilight within. In that City was no sign of mart nor sound of +amusement. + +Under the Dome stretched the great palace. Through corridors of jacinth +and chalcedony-coloured marble stirred a quiet and unending business. +It was a business that seemed to have begun in the faraway centuries +and to move towards slow fulfilment with the ending of the world. From +time to time the noiseless shadows of men in sable-coloured dress +moved through the corridors or passed into the darkness of the rooms. +Some were slashed with sashes of scarlet as of hyssop or with purple +as of grapes, all of which had high liturgical significance, but +they made little show compared to the soldiery guarding the gates. +Behind balustrades of alabaster and upon snowy marble floors stood the +guardians of the gates. They were magnificently clothed in yellow and +black and vermilion, as though to signify very clearly that their watch +was not withdrawn in the golden morning nor in the red of noon nor yet +in the pitchy darkness of the night. + +Behind the gaudy metallurgic gates and past the long corridors of the +colour of jacinth and chalcedony, fenced in an inner chamber by men, +whose swords turned every way, an old man rested in a chair of cedar +wood. The lineaments of his face and the folds of his garments were as +white as fretted ivory. A white cap circled his silver hair. His eyes +were like two wicks burning in a lamp of snowstone. His feet were shod +with shoes whiter than wool. Upon each shoe was woven a crosslet of +tinsel thread. At a little distance it gave the appearance of the print +of a nail of gold. The old man sat resting. + +Arranged upon shelves of camphor wood and behind crystal panes were +a few very precious presents from contemporary but mundane rulers. +The table, upon which the old man rested his arm, was a souvenir from +the Emperor of the Sun in recognition of his recovery from water on +the knee by the timely application of a miraculous medal. It was +exquisitely inlaid with the solar radiations that Celestial Royalty +affect on their notepaper. The old man was sometimes seized with a +thought of irony. He himself was the only child of a sunburnt peasant. +Nevertheless, since he had accepted the Pontifical Maximate, his Arms +were the Keys of Heaven and of Hell, and his seal was the Seal of the +Holy Fisherman. + +Other very marvellous gifts there were. Upon the pallid marbles +stretched carpets dyed azure with the blood of shell-fish found only in +the Solomon Archipelago. They had been brought by the Queen of Sheba, +a most devout soul, then living as a comfortable exile in Paris. In +the corner stood a life-size lion of gilded bronze with eyes of red +carbuncle sent from the King of the Sahara, who also was a god after +his manner. His love of studied effect was well known to explorers, and +was often mentioned in the Press. In an opposite corner was another +table of pea-green marble all blurred and blotched in a pattern of +streaks, the gift of the Lord of the Everlasting Snows in default of +his ancient allegiance. From the old man’s girdle of white camel-hair +hung a rosary of tawny beads which his devoted liegeman of the Isles +in the North had robbed from the strange Hyperboreans, who are of such +near kindred to the seals that they may be dispensed to take them in +marriage when there is a shortage of their own stock. The floor was of +worn pavement of onyx stone presented to the predecessors of the old +man upon the Throne of the Fisherman by an Oriental Sovereign so long +ago that his name had been forgotten among his own people. And his +people in turn had been forgotten by the historians, which showed that +they had deserved well of the gods. + +The old man was glancing through some parchment papers, which his +scribes had written in clear script but in a character without +character. His scribes all wrote alike, and they wrote in a language +that was dead. As the old man finished reading each parchment, of +his spontaneous clemency he affixed his minuscule initials and the +year of his Pontificate. The parchments showed that his duties were +manifold, that he had the souls both of kings and of children in his +keeping, that he was the anointed Reader of Scripture to the Nations, +that the Calendar of the Saints was in his keeping and jurisdiction. +One parchment was the Ban of the greater excommunication of the +Great Mogul, who had audaciously removed the feet of the pontifical +ambassador when he omitted to remove his episcopal sandals. A lesser +excommunication there was directed unto the King of the Wends, who had +married three wives albeit in his sleep, and his court chaplain had +considerately forwarded a certificate that his Master was suffering +from sleeping sickness. Over and above the scroll and screed of +all these precious documents was inscribed in Stephens’ indelible +blue-black ink the supreme style and bearing of the old man, to wit +“THE SERVANT OF THE SERVANTS OF GOD.” + +As the night drew apace, the old man felt very tired, and his hands +seemed weighed down as though with invisible chains. He had indeed +spent a very tiring day. Before dawn had broken in streams of white +fire upon the Dome, he had been roused from his slumbers to say his +prayers. Chamberlains clad in dark green velvet with gold chains +enlinking the pontifical cipher had led him to a velvet stool to +meditate awhile on the four last things, which shall come to man and +woman and priest. The ritual forbade him to eat until he had offered +sacrifice upon the High Altar where none but he was allowed. He had +been brought under the Dome on a palanquin of gilded lattice-work and +carried by carriers in the gestatorial uniform into the Basilica of the +Holy Fisherman. And at the High Altar facing the people he had sung the +Liturgy, moving now to one side and then to the other behind the six +golden candle-sticks. Like a huge-headed moth with heavy scaled wings +he had seemed in the white blaze. And all the while the Holy College +had stood and moved and prayed around him in scarlet, and the crying +of the singers had never ceased. When he sat back upon the Throne that +is above all earthly thrones he had felt faint for food. His secret +Chamberlains had upheld him while his private flabellifers had fanned +him with the great festal fans of ostrich plume. It had been the Feast +day of Him whose emerald enamelled his waxen finger and whose Keys he +carried in his consecrated girdle. The emerald had once served as an +optic glass to the Fantastic World Emperor, who had been indiscreet +enough to use the Servants of God to illuminate his gardens at night. + +The hours had passed slowly for the old man watching his venerable +acolytes and eminent assistants through the clouds of incense smoke. +From time to time his closing eyes had lighted on the great Image of +the Divine Fisherman, which was enthroned opposite to him. Time had +made the Image as black as bitumen except for the feet, which the pious +lips of pilgrims had burnished till they shone like molten bronze. And +each time he had thought of the stupendous stewardship for which he +must one day give account. He remembered too the quiet days of study in +his hermitage before he was burdened with the nets of the Fisherman. +Peace and happiness he had forfeited since the dread night when the +three score and ten Princes of the Holy Blood had chosen him by secret +balloting in a golden chalice to be Lord over them. Since that night +men had come from the ends of the world to thrust their burdens upon +him, though his own burden seemed sufficient. Tears had anointed his +waxen cheeks and fallen like transparent drops upon his richly chased +chasuble, upon the stellar stole and upon the jewelled maniple which +hung from his wrist like some dead humming-bird. + +But the multitude perceived not that he wept, for his eyes were +turned away from them toward the great Image, which was clothed in +the likeness of the vesture of God. Upon the head of the great Image +the Acolytes had set a treble crown signifying the Sovereignty of the +Gate that is Above and of the Gate that is Below and of the Gates of +Twilight, which lead neither to Heaven nor to Hell. In the hands of +the Image were clutched the Great Keys and, though the philosophers of +the world made light thereof and though the rulers of the world acted +as though it were otherwise, there was no doubt to the folk but that +they symboled the Keys of Heaven and of Hell. From the shoulders to the +sandals of the Image hung a cope of frosted gold, and it was fastened +with a lock of living sapphire. Dire and doomful was the face upon the +Image of the Fisherman, and the Image filled the shadow of one pillar +of the Great Basilica. Now each pillar of the Basilica was about the +thickness of a mortal man’s house. + +When the Liturgy was finished, there arose a Deacon with archacolytes +at his side in scarlet vestments, and bowed to the old man, and +straightway the silver trumpets sounded through the Dome as it were +the sound of a single reed of an organ or as the note of a sea-wave +in the hollow of a sea-shell. And all the Princes of the Holy Blood +arose and processed slowly before the old man as he was carried from +the Basilica over the heads of the people. When he was lifted above +the heads of the people he raised his hand higher to bless them. His +fingers fluttered like the wing of a tired dove moving upon the face of +many waters. And all the people moaned like the thunder of the tide, “O +Priest and O King, live for ever!” + +When they had brought him within the Palace, they disrobed him of his +heavy vesture and gave him a piece of broiled fish to eat, and to +quench his thirst a slice of pomegranate seethed in old wine. It was +the hour when he should receive the pilgrims, who came from all over +the World-that-is to beg his favour in the World-to-come, or to ask the +eleemosynary aid or the autoscript of the old man; others for dispense +to make forbidden espousals within the circle of blood and others to +be annulled of theirs for ever. To each and to all he spoke softly but +surely, saying, “This may I give to you, and I give it to you without +price,” or “Of this it is not permitted to give you, and I give it to +you not at all.” After the pilgrims had passed upon their way, the +old man gave audience to his own ambassadors in the presence-chamber. +They wore thin chains of gold and Symbols set with amethyst or emerald +according to their degree in the Sacred Precedence. As each went his +way, the soldiers of the guard raised and let fall their spears. + +Lastly there had come to the door a Lord of the Most Holy, Indeviable +and Undeniable Inquisition. He was clad in white samite and hooded, so +that the guard looked not on his face. Him the old man bade be seated +and do swiftly whatsoever he was come to do. And the Lord Inquisitor +bowed himself to the ground and kissed the old man’s feet. Then he +arose and heard the old man’s confession such as he was bound to +confess daily, saying to him: “Let my Lord reveal whatever evil he +hath done or caused other to do, and every evil word he hath spoken or +caused other to speak and every evil thought that hath crossed the mind +of my Lord’s Holiness even unto the shadow of the shadow.” + +And the old man searched into his own mind and reported gravely, “O +my Lord, thy Lord searcheth and findeth no evil done or deemed this +day save the great weariness thy Lord felt in the continual presence +of the Servants of God.” The Lord Inquisitor looked grave as in his +duty bound and answered, “This even were a sin, O my Lord, for when +the eyes of the Fisherman grow weary then are the nets broken.” And +he bade him say the Seven Penitential Psalms and to pray for the soul +of the Lord Inquisitor. And when he had received the Absolution of +the Lord Inquisitor, the old man smiled for the first time that day. +Then the Lord Inquisitor had knelt to receive the old man’s blessing +and the great green emerald moved symbolwise upon the air. Delicately +and discreetly as a dancing master, who had corrected the steps of an +innocent child, the Lord Inquisitor passed into the corridor. His head +was shrouded once more and bowed as though he had conned the pages of +some very secret and sacred book. As he passed, the soldiers saluted +him but fearfully, knowing the office which was his. It was his to +unlock and lock the soul of him who kept the Keys of Heaven and Hell. + +The old man was awearied and his Chamberlain brought him a little broth +of bread and wine, saying to him as of set ceremony: “Gall He had to +eat and vinegar to drink.” When he had eaten, they led him into a small +ungarnished room to sleep. And the day was the thousandth day of his +pontificate, and the night was the thousandth and first. + +With the dawn of dark unto the dark of dawn the movement of men to and +fro ceased under the Dome. The old man slept and forgot his visitors of +the day. Yet there stood a visitor at the outer gates. For less than +a moment of that which is called Time a Shadow darkened the Gateway. +Through the corridors which were of marble, the colour of jacinth and +chalcedony, passed the Shadow. And within the small ungarnished room +it sank into shape. No legate announced this visitant, no Chamberlain +ushered it past the doors, and no soldier of the many, who stood +guarding the gates moved his spear-head in salute. The old man neither +stirred nor spoke in his slumber. But on the horizons of sleep he +beheld a vast panorama as of a desert stretching around and beyond him. +Sands that glittered like yellow silk in the garish sunlight, rocks and +caves there were, sands stretching endlessly. In the dead distance a +dot of jet moved and grew larger and larger until it seemed to be like +an eagle flying across the mirage of the air. When it was quite close +it was grown to the stature of a man. And a Voice proceeded, saying to +the old man who watched aghast: “Art thou not lonely in thy weariness +and weary in thy loneliness?”--employing a remarkable zeugma of speech. + +The old man answered: “Nay, for He Whose servants I serve is +continually present with me.” + +And the other answered: “There is none with thee, for in the wilderness +every soul is one and alone, and here there is neither God nor Man--for +even thyself art above all mankind and but a little lower than the +gods.” + +“I know not who or whence thou art,” cried the old man, “but thou +speakest false, for I am not as God and I see the footprints of a man +in the sands before me.” + +And the other, laughing horribly, said: “The footprints that thou seest +were left by One That was not Man.” + +Then the old man grimly remembered his office and answered with the +tongue that is indefectible from truth: “Nay, but most truly He also +was Man, and let whosoever denieth be Anathema!” + +The other, finding him not unwary, spoke again: “I know thee who thou +art, thou holy one. Would’st thou not be set amongst thine own people +again and see the place of thine own home?” To the old man’s anguish +rose a vision of his father’s house and his mother’s hens feeding on +the tiny midden under the little vineyard where he played as a child. +With a parched tongue the old man would have made stress to answer him, +but the plains swayed suddenly in his sight and he perceived the sun +turn to blood and himself compassed by a cloud darker than darkness and +felt himself carried through the thin air, unable to stir or speak, +until he stood planted above the world upon a gilded pinnacle of the +Great Basilica. Below his feet in the distances crowds of people +vibrated as though the carcass of the earth had rotted and had become a +moving mass of maggots. + +And the Voice whispered to him: “I have set thee, O thou holy one, upon +the pinnacle of the Temporal Power that thou mightest be a sign in the +sight of all men and strengthen their faith. Cast thyself down from +hence and the Angels of Him, Whom thou servest, shall watch over thee +and keep thy foot lest it be dashed against a stone.” + +The old man answered: “With desire have I desired to go down unto the +multitudes, that I might become a servant where they have made me a +Prince, but it is not given unto me to fulfil my own will in this +generation.” + +It seemed then as though seven vials of darkness had been loosed from +the sky and that a cloud of iron hemmed the temples of his brain, +and that he was being lifted whither he knew not. When his eyes were +opened, he perceived that he was upon the top of an exceedingly high +mountain and that a light shone at his feet, which was not the light of +the sun nor of the moon nor yet of the stars. He beheld and lo! it was +a great glamour from the jewelled crowns and diamond sceptres of the +Kings of this world. They were all gathered at the foot of the mountain +and their armies were ranged behind them across the plains as far as +the eye could reach. And in the estuaries of the far-away seas the +masts of their ships and galleons trembled like a forest of reeds. And +again the Voice spoke to him, saying: “All the Kingdoms and Dominions +and Principalities that you behold, these all will I give unto thee +with all that they contain and possess if thou wilt genuflect to me but +once.” + +And the old man, knowing out of memory what his answer should be, +murmured: “Get thou behind me, for it is written that thou shalt not +tempt the Lord thy God nor even the Servant of the Servants of the Lord +thy God.” Then the Voice that had spoken to him out of the shadow fled +away like a shrill wind moaning to itself in the wilderness. Beyond the +plains of the earth and estuaries of the sea it passed into a wail of +despair. And the wail died away. + +In the dead of the night the old man cried out aloud, and the +Chamberlains thrust their gold chains upon their necks and hurried to +his side, and the guards lit their torches and crashed their spears to +the salute. And the old man questioned his Chamberlains, saying: “Who +hath come in, and who hath come out, and who hath questioned me when +I slept?” They answered: “No one hath questioned the Holiness of our +Lord, for no one hath entered in.” And the captain of the guards swore +that not so much as a shadow had passed between the spear-points of +his men. In the morning the old man sent for the Lord Inquisitor and +revealed to him all that had happened in the night. With the answers to +the dire Voice which had proceeded from the shadow the Lord Inquisitor +was well satisfied. And he asked him how he had replied to the Voice +tempting him to see again the place of his father’s house and the +little cottage and the vineyard and the tiny midden and his mother’s +hens, and the old man trembled, saying he had not known how to give +answer, for his tongue had become parched to his mouth. + +And the Lord Inquisitor, who was an apt theologian, said: “It was well +that the Voice that spoke from the shadow passed to deal thee other +temptation.” + +“With desire that is greater than desire have I desired to return unto +my own home,” said the old man, “but he that tempted me did not press +me above my strength, carrying me away to the top of the Basilica when +I could not give answer.” And the Lord Inquisitor answered: “He that +tempted my Lord dared not continue lest he should remember his own +home, for he too hath been separated from the place of his desire and +of his beginning and of his love. And how shall he tempt others of +temptation that he himself is worse than tempted of? For others may +yield to temptation, but the Tempter cannot yield unto his, which is as +a terrible desire possessing him. He can only be tortured, not tempted, +for the home which he hath lost is eternal. The home which the Holiness +of my Lord hath deigned to desire but hath consented not to revisit is +but an earthly one.” + +“Frankly, then,” said the Pope, “the Devil is home-sick.” + +“Damned home-sick,” said the Grand Inquisitor. + + + + +CONNEMARA + + +I have been highly recommended in the scholastic world, though that is +not what I have set out to say. I left the London Board School with a +caseful of certificates, and later I gained the highest honours at the +Training College before entering my mission as a teacher. There was +only one phrase in my final dossier which might be read in a derogatory +sense. It was to the effect that my extreme common sense supplanted all +trace of imagination. Heaven knows that no such deficiency can be laid +to my credit now. I am even supposed to have imbibed a little madness. +But to return! + +After several years passed in the normal teaching curriculum I began +to experience a desire for change, to which the steadiest and least +neurotic are liable. But I did not feel that I was indulging in +anything fantastic when I applied for the post of governess abroad. +The Agency replied that no suitable place was on their books, but that +if I cared to consider Ireland among exotics, they could offer me +occupation with an old Irish family on the Connemara borders. Though +entirely (I am not sure whether to say blissfully) ignorant of Ireland, +I felt that any change would save my mind from becoming rutted in the +monotonous. The terms were generous and the work promised to be light. +I was expected to accompany three children in their play-hours. There +was no specific mention of lessons. I forwarded my formal acceptance +with a selection of diplomas. A week passed before I received an +answer in Early Victorian copperplate with all the flourishes of our +ancestral script. It was written by some local schoolmaster presumably +in the hedge, if not the liquor-shop, and was intended to convey the +instructions of the fine old Irish family aforesaid: + + + “GREEK KALENDS, May, 1888, + + “Gortinealy Schoolhouse. + + “REVERED MADAM, + + “I am instructed by my laudable and proficient patron, Mr. Sinnach, + hereditary proprietor of Gortinealy and _fundator optimus_ of the + above seminary, to write you word that your letter has been by me + examined and found syllabically correct. We have made trial of + your enclosed diplomacies and pending special consideration by Mr. + Halloran, our esteemed Curate, with whose sententious monograph + on the Irish Round Towers the London School Board is doubtless + acquainted, and by Mr. McGrath, the gombeen man down the road, we + duly pronounce them creditable to yourself and printer. These ensigns + of learning we duly return with our patron’s command to present + yourself at a near date (next fairday preferred) at Gortinealy + terminus. + + “I remain your obedient and certificated _frère_, + + TIMOTHEUS O’HUSSEY. + + “_Postscriptum ad demonstrandum._--I may divulge that I have had Mr. + Sinnach’s children under mensal and manual instruction since last + lambing. They are already acquaint with Copying, Mathematics and + Dithyrambics.--T. O’H.” + +I must say that I felt a little puzzled by this effusion and quite +failed to perceive the pedantic jealousy of the local sage jutting +between the lines. I went to our Carnegie library and read all I could +discover about Irish Round Towers, including one of Moore’s Melodies +which I learnt by heart. Mr. Halloran’s treatise was unfortunately +unknown. I suspected that the Postscript was a variation of the poor +old joke which includes Education under the three R’s, Reading, +’Riting, and ’Rithmetic. Mathematics no doubt corresponded with the +latter. Copying was writing, but Dithyrambics was Greek to me. I hunted +in a dictionary and found it really was Greek, in fact “an ancient +Greek metre peculiar to Dionysian strains.” Even so it conveyed nothing +to my mind. I afterwards discovered that it must have been meaningless +to the writer no less, whose chief object had been to overawe a rival +with his own knowledge. + +Meantime I dispatched a telegram of acceptance, and shipped myself to +a southern port of Ireland. I shall always remember arriving in the +early dawn. It was a hot July, and a gossamer of greyish pink trailed +from the inland mountains into the pearly bay. Behind the yellow tidal +rocks the bright green branches of trees pierced the mist. It was like +a picture at the Kensington Art School. As soon as it became day, it +began to drizzle, and whether the sun was shining or not, it continued +to drizzle at intervals all day. I realised that I had changed climates +at least. I am prepared to admit that the Irish climate is as tropical +as its admirers claim, but I add that it always remains at the rainy +season! + +On landing in the rain I discovered to my surprise that no inhabitant +carried an umbrella. My sunshade (for it was July) was the only human +contrivance besides the slates on the house-tops for baffling the +elements. I passed down the unsheltered quays to a weather-beaten, +groggy-looking building labelled TEMPERANCE HOTEL. A passing drayman +kindly picked up my luggage, which would otherwise have been abandoned. +At the hotel door I asked the host how much I should pay the driver. +“Nothing at all!” he answered; “but come in and eat for the Glory of +God, for you must be famished.” After breakfast I asked if I could be +driven to the railway station, and again what fare I was expected to +provide. “The old man will give ye a lift,” I was told, “he’s bound +that way.” And as I stared in reply, my host continued: “’Tis a lone +widdy woman he takes ye for, and he thinks it would be unlucky to take +money off ye.” I thought of London busmen! + +I was indignantly asserting my real state in life, but he explained +that a fresh young woman travelling in black clothes could only be +taken for a widow woman, and maybe seeking a mate! Again I expostulated +as to my intentions, for he seemed interested in my welfare, and we +chatted until my train was due and indeed long after, for he was sure +that no train would ever be so inconvenient as to leave for Gortinealy +at the right hour. By the time I was driven to the station I had learnt +several lessons not often propounded in London Board Schools, including +that of Irish Hospitality. I spent another hour at the station talking +with the driver. I could not help asking him why we had not seen a +single umbrella that day. Did nobody possess one? “Ye lie!” he answered +kindly; “every son’s mother and mother’s daughter of them does trot out +an umbrella on fairdays.” + +“Why fairdays?” I asked. + +“To keep the flour and the tea dry, of course,” was the reply. And I +queried no more. + +Then I boarded the train and after endless tours and detours, during +which I vaguely dreamed I had crossed the Alps and the Steppes, +I reached Gortinealy towards midnight. It was pitch dark and the +atmosphere was filled with melting clouds. It was not till I saw it in +the morning that I realised that it was not a place at all, at least +not to London eyes, for it consisted of a sprawled line of cabins, +some with thatch and some under slate, surrounded by driving mists and +stationary swamps as far as the eye cared to reach. It was loose space +rather than fixed locality. + +A kind of deputation awaited me in the station. There was the Curate, +and I felt that his bulging silk hat must be lined with the famous +manuscript on the Round Towers. There were two grooms in faded hunting +coats and top-boots, and a weird personage, whom I immediately +recognised by the quill pens over each ear as my certificated _frère_, +Timotheus O’Hussey. Their attentions overwhelmed me. The Curate patted +my back, the grooms confiscated my luggage, and Timotheus burbled a +little Latin. I heard him saying: “_Salve Domina!_” How I love the +Irish, and yet I would rather teach conic sections to elfs in Hell than +return as a governess to their country! They immediately offered me +refreshment in their very refreshing way. When they discovered that I +had found food at the port of entry they were immensely surprised, it +not being a fairday. Still, they insisted on my eating home-made bread +in the signalling box and gulping some tea as black as coaldust. “Is +it far to the house?” I asked. + +“Not far in daylight but a good step after midnight,” was the +mystifying reply--“maybe getting on for ten miles.” And my heart sank, +for I had been provided with the certain piece of mathematic knowledge +that seven English miles went to five Irish. I climbed with set mouth +into the high-braced trap. The Curate who had been sent to meet me made +a charming little speech of welcome into the arms of the family, who, +I was painfully aware, were still distant by fourteen miles. Then he +stepped into the night. The two grooms threw my luggage into the rear +and held it down as though it were a live thing. Timotheus sat at my +side in front handling the reins as fantastically, I guessed, as the +pen. And so we started to rock and crash through the night. + +I immediately began to feel terribly silent and lonely. Thank heavens +one of the axles creaked. It seemed like my last connection with the +civilised world of streets and wheels. A trace of starlight struggled +through the dripping cloudbanks, throwing a little silver gauze upon +the country-side until I could discern a stretch of waste and wood on +either side. One remote scrub was pointed out with a whip flick as the +grandest corner in the world for finding a fox. There were no fences, +but the road was lined by huge boulders, which so far from being there +for macadamising purposes I learnt were lapidary trifles brushed out of +the roadway itself. I began to wish I had taken a course of geology, +which might have been more illuminating to me than geography at the +moment. I was dead tired, but I pricked my ears when I heard Timotheus +enlarging on the pleasures and magnificences of the Big House, to say +nothing of the royal descents of his laudable patron, and his three +children whom he alluded to as “bright-eyed Homerians.” With inspiring +gravity he gave me to understand that he had recently introduced them +to the Greek Syntax. I gathered as well that Mr. Sinnach was a mighty +hunter and spent his time driving and tearing the foxes out of the +woods and the mountains and the ditches. Timotheus assured me that he +did not so much enjoy the fox-hunting as he hated the foxes “with the +illustrious hate of a Lucifer crossed in love.” + +For two hours we jogged and jolted through a stretch of that primitive +void called Irish landscape before the carriage lights suddenly haled a +whitewashed portico out of the gulf of night. “Welcome to Gortinealy,” +I heard a soft voice say a minute later. It was Mr. Sinnach, the +Master, as they called him. I shall never forget the first time I saw +him standing with his red hunting coat in the lamplight. He had been +waiting to receive me in all his war paint. He was a real gentleman, +though I used often to shudder hearing him swear. As he led me +courteously into his stronghold I looked round for my luggage. One of +the grooms was throwing it to the other in the window. I looked back +into the night. Between me and civilisation stretched a Sahara of Wet. +Warm, however, was the oak-lined hall within, adorned with innumerable +guns, skins and antlers. At the top of a rickety old stair they lit +a silver candlestick for me and motioned me down a long passage. At +the end was my room, which possessed a key that would have unlocked +the Tower of London. I felt as tired as though I had been through +examinations. + + * * * * * + +I was still in my travelling dress when I awoke the next morning and +looked out of the window into a courtyard. Beyond the wall lay the +end of the world. I changed and hurried downstairs, but there was no +sign of human life. A servant appeared and familiarly informed me that +my charges had celebrated my arrival by taking to the mountains on +ponies, and that the Master himself always gave the clock a good start +on mornings there was no hunt. Between his long hours in bed and his +longer hours in the hunting field or among his horses and hounds, I +used to see him very little during my stay at Gortinealy, for all his +leisure time was divided between stables and kennel. + +But the children, two boys and a girl, proved more delightful company +than a whole Board School of London Cockneys. They knew more queer +things about Natural History than a double course in Biology could have +taught them. They must have been running wild for years, and certainly +they were not guilty of the least education. They may have passed very +learned hours studying Dithyrambics with Timotheus, but I had to begin +by teaching them to spell English. I don’t think the London County +Council inspector would have approved of them entirely. They seemed to +have been taught to boycott correct English. But I grew to love them +more than I can say, which is always the way in Ireland. There is very +little lost there between loving and hating. Nothing is tepid except +the soft rain, and the soft tepid rain--it raineth every day. + +As soon as the children discovered that I could not ride or fish or +shoot, they took a kind of pity for me and consented to appear on +certain hours to hear what I had to say for myself. Apparently I +interested them, for they consented to appear fairly often. In the +evening I read them books of Natural History, which proved my sole +means of winning their attention. Punishments were always out of the +question, and they took no notice of my praise. I suppose I taught +them something. But they could always be trusted and did not appear to +get into trouble like most other children. They could shift amazingly +well for themselves. The mornings were at the hazard of lessons, but +every afternoon we went on the bogs or mountains. I gradually forgot +the feel of the pavement and lost my street legs. I learnt the art of +bog-trotting instead. But my real adventures were played in the minds +of the children themselves. They had been brought up without playmates +and had grown almost uncanny in their relations with animals and birds. +The elder boy seemed to be able to charm them by his eyes. As for the +girl, I used to call her Pocahontas, for she was more Indian of the +woods than girl of the schoolroom. Their minds were quite uncramped +by education, and the whispers of nature were audible to them. Their +father took very little interest in their welfare. If he wandered out +for a walk he always took one of his grooms or walked a couple of his +horrible hounds--but never a child. + +I could not understand his intense feeling for his smelly hounds, +with their horrible yelping and slobbing mouths. One morning coming +along the passage, I discovered that he actually kept one in his +bedroom at night. He used to make me think that he was a lost soul for +ever in search of his lost time. I never saw so much time lost as in +that household. Mr. Sinnach had no real occupation unless you count +fox-hunting, and between the hunts he showed no sense of rest. To +me he was as gentle and harmless as a child. I sometimes thought his +life was the life of a man who was followed, except there was nothing +that would dare follow him in those woods and hill-sides, over which +he was sovereign and squire. He never made the least inquiry as to the +progress of his children’s lessons. Their sport alone interested him. +I believe that the boys had never been punished for anything except +for not riding straight or for spoiling a puppy. He must have been one +of the world’s authorities on horses. Personally I had no interest +in that direction except for a home for old bus-horses to which I +used to subscribe. I once made this deserving charity the subject of +conversation at dinner, but he only sniffed very fiercely and said +“Dogsmeat! dogsmeat!” I am afraid I could guess what he meant, and it +horrified me. + +He became a different character when the fox-hunting began. His step +grew smarter and his hoarse voice could be heard roaring in the small +hours before sunrise as he shouted to the grooms and hounds out of +his window. The hunt used to arrive from all quarters and all the +early morning there was pandemonium getting them started for the +distant meet. How often I was awoken by their stamping horses! How +often I listened to the yelping hounds as the huntsmen flicked them +into seething order! At night the Master used to return wearied out +in body but a raging lion in his heart. I could always tell whether +success had attended him by the sound of his voice. After a blank day +he would curse man and hound, but if Reynard was dead he would ride +up to the house cheering like a schoolboy. His hatred for the fox +was almost inhuman. He used to brandish some blood-stained relic of +the unfortunate animal through the house. Sometimes he used its fresh +pad to stir the wine for his friends. I always stayed upstairs when +they were drinking orgies over their success. At first I was excited +enough by what our Board School Inspector would have called “giving +vent to the passions of Neolithic Man,” but it became monotonous in the +hunting season. I lived, worked and felt well, but I rather lost the +sensation of time. Time stood rather still at Gortinealy and typically +indeed there was only one motionless hand hanging on the face of the +old clock on the stairs. The only use for clockwork in that strange +old house was for timing the length of their runs after the wretched +foxes. The number of minutes in each run was carefully scribbled in +some loose sheets of paper that were generally left between the leaves +of the Family Bible. I found them there one afternoon and spent an +hour pasting them neatly into a copybook. But the Master was wild, +when he returned that night, and for the first and only time he used +bad language to me personally. He questioned me very carefully. Why +had I been opening the Family Bible? Had I read anything besides the +records of family sport? Had I read the private family entries? and so +forth, until my curiosity was thoroughly aroused. He seemed scarcely +to believe my denial. When I tried to find the Bible the next day it +had disappeared. It was not for two weeks that I found it by chance +lying at the back of a shelf of books. I opened it at the flyleaf. +There were columns of births, marriages, and deaths. The death column +was curiously divided into two sections and puzzled me. In some years +there had been as great a mortality as fifty written in numbers, but +I could not believe the clan was so considerable to include so many +deaths. The other column was clear enough, a long list of ordinary +entries. But two struck me with an odd thrill because I could not grasp +their meaning: + + “Edward Sinnach--1848--killed by them. + John Edward Sinnach--1871--killed and eaten.” + +This was all I had time to read before the Master came in and began +looking furtively at the shelf behind which I had replaced the Bible. +I spent the whole night lying awake and trying to think sense or read +purpose into those words. I went to sleep with a mild conviction that +my employer was the degenerate descendant of a remarkable missionary +family, one of whom had been killed by the heathen in the forties and +another a generation later had not only been killed but eaten, as the +familiar rhyme puts it; + + “By a cassowary + On the plains of Timbuctoo + Prayer and Hymnbook too.” + +For nights I wept silently for those two uncanonised martyrs. I used +to picture their travels and their adventures, their sermons and +their catechisms, and in more terrible moments the details of their +deaths. But in what countries were they killed? It could only have +been in the Cannibal Islands. And naturally my mind, which always +seeks facts perpetually, returned to the one awful question: “Was +Edward eaten as well as John?” It so preyed upon my mind that I used +to wake with the grim query on my lips. It was a month before I gained +additional information. I had asked the elder boy if he had ever seen +his grandfather John. He replied that he had died when he was quite a +baby and his father would never allow his name to be mentioned. I asked +why? It was because he had died a disgraceful death. In a bed upstairs +instead of in the hunting field or fighting or travelling abroad, like +every other true member of the family. Of course this revelation put an +end to my romance about a young and earnest missionary in the wilds of +Africa and I could only conclude that Family Bibles, like so much else +in Ireland, were used as vehicles for rather gruesome practical jokes. + +Winter was fully and icily fledged, and snow made a welcome variation +to rain. The winds swept the last leaves off the trees and ripped +open the loaded clouds till they dropped in hail and flake out of the +firmament. But between frosts the hunting continued, for the Master +seemed unable to sleep if he had failed to have a run in the day. I +think he was only happy after he had seen a fox torn to shreds on the +fangs of his hounds. One stormy evening he returned in a terrible +humour. Though they had enjoyed a wonderful run the fox had escaped, +and the Master alone of the hunt had returned furiously dissatisfied, +railing and roaring. I heard him snarling up and down the long passage +all that evening. When I chanced to pass him he lowered his head, it +seemed to me shamefacedly. The boys crept away from him and came to +hear me read stories in my own room. They were afraid of him, though +in his way he was fond of them. The first time they had been in at +the death of the fox he had gone wild with praise and had dabbled +their faces with gore. He used to say that they had not been properly +baptised till that moment, which made them his true children. I don’t +believe he would have recognised them as legitimate if they had not +been hard riders before they were out of their teens. + +On the following day there was a meet at the other end of the county, +and the Master was out and riding long before I came down to breakfast. +I remember hearing him shout to his hounds while I was still in bed, +and their deep belling note in reply. I lay in a drowsy stupor, for +sunrise was still two hours to eastward. Once again the house was full +of stamping boots and clicketing spurs. Once again the old staircase +creaked and rattled to the heavy sound of feet and I heard horses +pawing the courtyard below. Then the whole party rode away, and I fell +back into profound sleep. It was the last time that I ever slept in +that terrible house at peace. + +When I came down in the morning the children were waiting for me, as +chivalrous and charming as ever. They condescended to listen to all I +had to say in defence of the awkward rules of spelling which govern +the English language. They were curious children. I could not call +them wise or foolish, backward or advanced. They had had no education +and yet they were grown up. They were little savages outwardly and yet +angels to me. My heart always reaches to them with a sudden ache. That +day I gave them the last lesson I was ever to give them. + +All the morning the mist mildewed the window pane, slowly flushing the +roof and choking the gutters and creating tiny waterfalls and leakages +in every direction. I used to think that we were in that part of the +universe where the rain itself is brewed. The sound of water dripping +or running filled every corner of the old house. It was one of those +days which cause sympathy with Noah. The whole afternoon I spent +blinking over a book before a fire in the hall, while the children +sat round me in their charming, chattering way. It had been too wet +for them to hunt that day and they were soon yawning. They made no +objection when I seized a chance to send them to bed early. There was +nobody in the house except the old cook, for the whole household had +departed the previous night, including the old gardener, with spade and +terrier, to be in time at the meet. Darker and darker grew the evening +while the turf fire flickered brighter and brighter until it collapsed +into a tiny avalanche of white ash. It was late when I finally lost +the thread of my reading and was roused by suddenly hearing a long, +distinct howl outside. + +I had passed so many months in the country listening to the same series +of noise, the wind, the leaves, the birds of night or day and the +rain, that I had become keenly sensitive or suspicious of the advent +of a new sound. This was a wail such as I had never heard before. I +listened again and caught the same curious shrieking. It was not, as +I thought at first, a dog’s howling. It contained too wild a note. I +could not guess what animal could have uttered it, but I sat assuring +myself that wolves had been extinct for two hundred years in Ireland. +I crept to the door, when the sound came again, and started down the +long passage of the ground floor. I had not gone half-way when I heard +a sound that thrilled the blood in my brain. It was not one howl but +many, a horrible chorus that rose and rang, which neither the wind +nor the rain could drown. As the sound sank my courage sank with it. I +began to shake like a reed and a gust of wind might have overthrown me. +But I felt that I had to look out into the night to locate the source +of the sound or I should never have slept. I entered the kitchen. The +old cook had retired to bed and I was alone with only a wooden door +between me and the outer court. I had the strength to struggle to the +window and look into the night. It was not too dark for me to see that +the place was alive with wild animals, a dozen, twenty, thirty lithe, +slender creatures running round in a quivering, coiling crowd. When +one halted all halted. When one raised his thin snout into the air and +howled, every living animal howled in echo. All the Diplomas attesting +my character for common sense could not prevent me dropping into a dead +faint. + +It must have been an hour later that I was brought to my senses by a +deluge of cold water. A sound of low voices hummed round me, and I +heard an Irish voice say: “She must have taken it to heart, but there’s +no harm done.” I was led slowly into the passage and to my own room, +where I found to my surprise that the children were in an agony of +grief. I strove to comfort them as well as I could. I pleaded, and told +them stories, but it was all in vain. I had a vague feeling that they +wept for me and because I had swooned in the kitchen. I had forgotten +for the moment all that preceded the swoon. When I assured them that +all was all right, they cried; “But no, Dad is dead, dead; fell from +his horse and was found in the wood.” Then my memory began to start +from its subconscious lair and I gradually remembered everything.... +After putting them to bed I crawled into mine and remained there for +that awful night. I could close my eyes but not my ears, and from time +to time I heard the howling recommence outside. And within the house +I heard the agitated steps of the servants and the men of the hunt, +who had returned, bringing the Master’s body. They heard the howling +as well as I did, for they stopped dead each time the wild sound +recommenced. I knew then that I was not mad alone but that it was a +house of the mad. Gradually the howling died down to a wail and passed +away into the thin dark of the night. But I could hear men moving all +night in the house, and when I came downstairs in the morning, lights +were still burning in every room. Hunting men, men of the house and +neighbours lay huddled in the arm-chairs just as they had ridden in +from the previous day. With blazing fires and copious liquor they had +kept grief or fear at bay during the night. I dared only then to look +into the courtyard. It was empty! + +My nerves had suffered such a strain that I wished to return to England +immediately, in spite of my affection for the children. But their grief +for their father was pathetic and I decided to remain for a few days +trying to soothe them one moment and to fit them into black cotton +clothes the next. The remaining days I spent at Gortinealy brought me +however a climax of unexplained mystery and horror. The body was being +waked and I continually overheard the conversation of the servants and +neighbours, who were camped in the house and making the fullest use of +the cellars. I gathered that I was far from being the only one to have +seen the uncanny visitors of the day. But the amazing thing was that +they seemed to have expected those wild howling animals as naturally +as they expected the undertaker at the approach of death. All had seen +or heard what I had heard or seen and yet nobody was going mad except +myself. I heard one voice saying casually enough: “Aren’t they saying +there’s no foxes in the other end of the county this fortnight? Every +cover drawn blank and the old women saying all the foxes are gone to +Gortinealy to see the old man dead!” + +Every night for nearly a week they waked the Master’s corpse, sitting +and smoking in relays and telling tales of his great charity to his +hounds and kindred spirits and of his prowess in the field from evening +till dawn. I avoided what seemed to me a painful form of heathen orgies +except one night when I was asked to look upon the poor Master’s face +once more before it was lowered into the grave for ever. I could not +refuse, and old Timotheus offered to take me into the big room where it +was laid out in the sickly candlelight. + +We went down the creaking stairs and I peeped into half-darkness. +The room gave me the feeling of being full of people or things. The +candles had mostly guttered out but, when my eyes caught their focus, I +thought at first that I saw mourners kneeling round the coffin, tiny, +sharp-faced hob-goblins but no! they sprang up like noiseless and +beautiful cats and leaped over the furniture and out of the open window +into the courtyard. But they were not cats! I could make no mistake +what they were, for too often I had seen their mangled pieces brought +home after a day’s hunting. They were slender live foxes! wriggling +through the furniture like maggots! God have mercy! + +Timotheus had dropped to his knees and was reciting prayers at fever +heat. Not until the last vestige of fur had slipped from the room did I +dare take even a first step forward. Timotheus rose and went before me, +but I was not ready for the next shock. I saw him lean over the visage +of the dead and stay riveted. I did not look myself, thank God! but I +heard the words he gasped. It was only one sentence, the last words I +heard in that terrible house, but they will be the last words I shall +have the happiness and relief to forget if ever I lose my memory. For +all that Timotheus let past his lips was: “Holy of Holy! but they have +the face ate off him!” + + + + +INSPIRATION + + +It was a long time before it dawned on Marmaduke McSmith that he must +be an artist and a great one possibly. Unfortunately his profession +was that of an undertaker’s clerk, which did not allow him all the +leisure or any of the atmosphere necessary to greater kinds of writing. +This was specially so during the bronchitis season. A writer: since +his artistry almost necessarily took the form of pen and ink, for +scrivener he was bred. Doubtless had he been educated to ply the brush +on front doors or upon bath tubs his instinct would have turned toward +portraiture. But the pen had been his technical medium and year after +year he had written mortuary letters and filed the missives of mourners +and the orders of the orphan. There was a faint suggestion of widows’ +houses about his ledger, and the tears of the fatherless had diluted +his ink. + +All day he sat behind a curtain in the office of the old-established +firm of Gammon and Hardwash. In the front window were two cremation +urns, and like a relic of the past hung a large hatchment scrolled with +an extinct coat of arms. Good taste combined with good business to +keep all sight of coffins to the inner parlour. Not a hint was heard, +not a funeral note. As befitted a member of the British Undertakers’ +Association, Marmaduke McSmith was deeply absorbed by the detail and +technical knowledge of the burial craft. The _Undertakers’ Journal_ at +his side seldom added a new detail or afforded a new suggestion to his +mind. He read little else except the obituary notices in every morning +paper. In this form he sipped his daily portion of the world’s news. +His life was that of a booking clerk to Hades. But his proficiency +delighted the customers, and his mastery of minutiæ edified Gammon and +Hardwash. Envious clerks whispered that it was only a matter of half +a century before he actually became a partner; coequal with Gammon, +consubstantial with Hardwash! + +He had the true undertaker’s outlook. He often amused himself by +measuring people with his eye in the street for their coffins or +guessing straight off the style and class of funeral they could afford. +He perceived the living world in the terms and catalogue of death. Oak +and elm meant to him no stately foliaged trees but polished caskets +underground. He had a marvellous mind for “ruffles and sheets,” for +breastplates and handles, for cars and cortège. Happy it might be +said was the corpse which received the funeral classified as “Class V +Adults,” a form of mortuary pomp he had devised to the last detail. In +the firm’s catalogue it was simply described as “Gammon and Hardwash’s +Jubilee model,” for some of the leading ideas in the disposition of the +cortège had been taken from an attentive study of the second Jubilee +procession of Queen Victoria. It was a masterpiece of taste and economy +and was referred to feelingly in the trade as “Mourner’s Pride.” +It was a marvel that so young and inexperienced a man as Marmaduke +McSmith should have devised the nonpareil of the undertaking world. He +was assuredly intended for high place. He might be President of the +Undertakers’ Association yet. But all this was only the sepulchral +gossip of the parlours, rumours caught on the chilly little winds that +blow down the alleys of one Necropolis or another. + +In his way Marmaduke was developing into an artist. Whatever department +he touched he adorned. He was given the delicate supervision of the +Embalming. He promptly made himself adept in the theory and practice of +human conserves. He was generally chosen to nick the wrists and groins +of the dead before inserting the blood-pumping tube. His gestures were +those of the cunning surgeon rather than the job butcher. He never +lost dignity. He never allowed the embalming fluids to be spoken of as +pickles! Then he was given the firm’s correspondence. All day he sat +perusing the letters and orders that flowed as regularly as death into +the letter-box of the firm, corpse measurements, sentimentalities, +absurd requests for shells of sandalwood and silk and plush linings, +dogs’ coffins, catafalques for favourite cats; all of which he read +methodically and answered discreetly, practically and soothingly, and +great was the business of Gammon and Hardwash. He wished that clients +would write more sensibly and often imagined the brief and businesslike +letters he would have written in their place. He possessed a neat pen, +but it was a long time before it dawned upon him that it might be the +pen of a great artist and that he must write about the living and not +the dead. + +Had he lived in ancient Egypt when that country was possessed and ruled +by one gigantic undertakers’ trust, when embalmment was the national +art, and literature found its outlet on the lids of coffins, he might +have stayed in the business and realised himself as an artist among +the dead. But as he scribbled his first creative phrases on the backs +of requiem and obituary cards and sketched his poetical drama in +empty corners of his ledger he felt the overwhelming call to follow +his Inspiration and cut adrift from this sepulchral business in which +he felt he was being slowly buried. But it required pluck as well as +decision to swim from his secreted moorings into the literary tide. He +knew that he would be without cable or anchor and his eyes had often +peered through the curtains on that haggard crowd of clerks and hacks +and journalists making their way by day and by night towards Fleet +Street and the great printing and publishing houses. He knew how much +genius and inspiration had been gulfed in that stagnant Niagara. He +knew those waters were oily with the midnight oil and that their eddies +were lingering signs of the struggling writers who had sunk beneath +the surface. Still the artist in him bade him go out and seek his +Inspiration there. He felt confident of his ability to wear the Palm, +but a little diffident of his enjoyment of the pains and penalties +which crown the palmward path. + +Anyhow he had saved enough to afford a three months’ lifebelt, while +he took the risk. All Art is a risk. Perhaps the Artist represents the +form that gambling takes among the immortal gods, who set the pieces +of human life on the earth’s green baize. Perhaps it amuses them to +lay odds on the Oddities of Life? Perhaps the gods have Favourites as +much as the betting public? It is a gamble whether the divine fire +can find itself. It was a risk whether in those three months he could +catch anchorage, security or even success and literary position. But he +shuddered when he looked at the scurrying whirlpool of souls perhaps +once as divinely inspired as he, caught now a hundred times more +miserably in the shabby nets of underpaid slavery. There was a side to +his nature which appreciated the dignity and seclusion of Gammon and +Hardwash. On rainy days and in the bronchial season this was specially +the case. The more unpleasant the weather, the snugger he kept himself +in the little curtained parlour where he wrote and worked. Better be a +dormouse hibernating warmly and well fed in his nest than a starving +and unnoticed lion. + +He never took the plunge until he was inspired by Queenie Elkington to +resign without asking pension or character from Gammon and Hardwash. +They used to meet after work was over outside the Tube and sit together +in eating-house corners and he used to read her his poetical drama. She +listened wonderingly. She was full of admiration for his punctuation +even. There was music in his commas and he could convey ecstasy with a +semicolon. She was the kind of audience a writer loves, fair in every +way. + +It was Queenie who persuaded him that he must suffer for his Art. +Was starvation necessary? he asked her. She told him that any soul +worth its mettle would welcome the pain of its enclosing body. Her +words gave him vision and a direct metaphor from life. He felt that +to cling to his present stability and petty comfort was stagnation +and worse--embalmment! Just as grooms develop horse sense and equine +features, so he was in danger of becoming a walking corpse. Undertaking +is a mummifying profession. Sometimes he felt as though he were bound +by invisible shrouds. And all the while Queenie was hinting liberty, +offering to share her dressmaking wage with him and incidentally her +starvation. He knew that her hours were twice his and her wage a half +of his salary. Between his salary and her slavery a gulf indeed seemed +to stretch. Slavery that was primitive, terrible, logical, and perhaps +the only setting civilisation still had to offer the bulk of women. +She was tempting him to abandon his steady stagnation and clutch the +flying success to which she felt inspired to inspire him. And if he +missed, she would slave for him. He hardly knew sometimes whether she +was tempting or testing him. In the end he felt merely tired. Better be +a starving poet, he felt, than a tired undertaker. + +The Artist’s head was lowered over his empty teacup and he murmured: +“Will the London sparrows bring me bread or the ravens boil me tea?” +A quick sheen danced through her eyes and into his, telling him how +wonderfully he spoke words and prophesying the lightning that would be +evoked by his writing in the future. The Artist could see his genius +flashing under her eyelids and his epigrams unborn curling to her +lips. Talking to her seemed to cause poetry to swim into his brain and +he took the plunge. The old-established firm of Gammon and Hardwash +regretted the departure of the most sepulchral and unlively of their +assistants. + +As she had swayed him, so she buoyed him. Once he had made an Artist’s +despairing gesture towards life and suffered himself to be carried +along upon the tide, she attended to the rest. She toiled to make +life in the single room of a tenement practicable. He wrote all day +and rested wearily at night while she finished her over-work, not on +the delicious teas of fifty years ago but on the black-stewed juice +reboiled from the night before. He generally had enough to eat, and +the first poems and stories, that she placed for him with editors, +served to stave off starvation. But starvation is not easily sated, and +besides the Artist owed it to Humanity to devote his time to a great +poetical drama. Like many of those whose lives are inspired with the +enrichment of Humanity as a whole, humanity is forgotten at home. His +Drama grew upon him and he no longer looked with pity into Queenie’s +white face. Love even dwindled aside if not away. He looked to her +greedily for food and inspiration. He used the light in her eyes like +an invisible fire to ferment the images in his brain. As she grew +whiter and thinner, his verbalisation increased and his pen glowed with +the current of poetic drama he was laying upon sheet after sheet. Had +he worked faster, perhaps she would not have had to live so long on +half-rations. But the Artist took a slow, luxurious pleasure in his +work, and she would not have had him hurried for worlds. + +By the time his Poetic Drama was complete their affairs were rather +desperate. She took it out to market. It was one thing to find editors +who did not mind throwing guineas like solitary bones to poets, but to +find a manager willing to produce the most stupendous Drama of modern +times was the quest of a lifetime, and her repeated suggestion that it +was a lineal and lyrical successor to the works of Shakespeare fell on +what might be called Baconian ears. One manager she was able to draw +into discussion at least as to its merits, though he was amused at the +idea of placing Drama before the public that was not only serious and +poetic but beautifully written. He had produced the wildly successful +Revue, “Moneytime is Honeytime,” to say nothing of the winsome farce +called “Blue-eye’s Eighth Husband.” He was a nice, oil-scrubbed +gentleman with permanently waved black wire round his head. He was +always kind to ladies on the ground that kindness should be reciprocal. +On hearing her mention of Shakespeare he made a personal allusion to +Romeo and Juliet which was lost on her. But he promised to read the +Drama and make a decision on the morrow. + +Next day when she returned, he asked her to come to supper forthwith as +an instalment of payment. In a frenzied moment she concluded that he +intended to produce the Drama. As she ate his fresh food that evening, +her wits gathered themselves out of weary hope and arranged themselves +pleasantly on the hall steps of achievement. He made no remarks about +the Drama, on which she could have passed an examination, having +typed and overtyped and undertyped every line many times. He asked +her how often she ate such a supper and whether she took champagne at +breakfast, and finally if the dramatist was her husband. To all of +which questions the answer was necessarily in the negative. Though +he appeared satisfied, he proceeded to detail some of the possible +expenditure needed to produce Poetic Drama on the English stage. It +was a question of the expenditure to be lavished on a funeral. Great +Drama was dead and Mr. McSmith’s Drama was great, he reasoned. He only +wished he had the money to embalm such a Drama and keep it on the stage +regardless of the public. The omen in his words unnerved her for a +moment. A dead hand seemed to be stretched out of the undertaking past +to crush the flower of the poetic present. Tears welled in her eyes and +she looked hopelessly at the Manager, who promptly judged that the +appropriate moment had come to make acceptance of the Drama. He began +discussing rehearsals and alluding to royalties, to all the details, +the cabbages and kings of the Theatre, the chances of a king in a box +at an opening night or of cabbages being thrown at the actors on the +last. Nevertheless Mr. McSmith’s Drama was accepted. Thinking only of +the Dramatist, she made a practical reflection as to the price to be +paid him. “The price of what?” asked the Manager. “The price you would +be willing to pay for the acting the drama?” He observed her coolly and +observed: “What price would you pay us for producing it?” Then it was +all trickery and deception! Was that cold face one of mockery or----? +She rose to go. + +But he still fingered the manuscript and motioned her to stay. It was +several minutes before she quite caught his drift. It struck her with a +dim sickness at the back of her brain. Then he did expect such payment +as she could make. The situation planted itself round her with ruthless +logicality. Art needed a triangle for its woof to be woven. There was +the Artist, there was his Inspiration and finally the medium by which +his Art reached the world, whether it was publisher or picture-dealer +or producer. Without each other they fell into nothingness. Queenie +realised that it was not enough to have been the Inspiration. She +must find the producer and unite all three as it were in her own +person. Dramatic art could not live until the breath of production had +been breathed into its verbal coils. Very simply and without tears +she decided she must pay the producer, and returned, leaving the +manuscript of the Drama at the theatre. She felt no resentment when she +surrendered herself. + +Late that night she told the man whom she had loved, and, what was +greater, whom she had inspired, that his Drama had been accepted on its +merits. Then followed days when they both battened on expectancy and +drank the thin, vibrating wine of hope. Rehearsals drew near. Contracts +appeared in black and white. Rehearsals were successful; and the +first night blazed like a comet out of space, the night that affords +a greater consummation to the Artist than to the lover. For the first +night to the Dramatist is twofold. To him the acts of creation and +of birth are simultaneous. Solemnly outwardly, and sinkingly within, +Marmaduke McSmith sat through the hours listening to his own words +trembling and tossing on the lips of the hired interpreters, while +his songs were mercifully tempered by the slow thrill of the choric +accompaniment. By his side sat the woman whose whole being had served +to bring him to this accomplishment. Marmoreal was her countenance, +but her eyes shone with the steady light of sapphires, the unalterable +triumph of Art over chaos and night. His eyes glistened one moment like +diamonds as panic swept through them and twitched the optic nerve, but +the next moment they grew dulled and lulled with the auto-intoxication +of pride. Queenie and Marmaduke watched and watched till all was sung +or said and he suddenly caught a sweeter sound than even his own +words--the repeated cheering of success. All was over! The critics were +rushing to their inkpots, the first-nighters were moving towards supper +and the Artist was receiving friends in his box, blown and bloated +suddenly with the ovation of fame. The golden effluvia of compliments +and applause bathed his hot brow. He struggled down to the stage puffed +and bewildered; speechless save for the few words he was made to +mumble through the blinding calcium. + +It was Fate that thrust him into the Manager’s room, where he had left +his overcoat, and suffered him to receive one flashlight of Queenie +Elkington. The Manager’s evil kiss was upon her marble cheek. Marmaduke +blustered between them and dragged her home. He looked at the wretched +woman trembling half in pride for him and half in shame for herself. +Then he asked: “When did he start doing that?” The inspiration faded +out of her eyes. “It wasn’t the first time, was it?” She answered him +simply, “No, not the first time. He kissed me the day I brought him +your manuscript.” The Artist searched furiously in her cloudless eyes +and found nothing in the way of regret. + +The next weeks were carried breathlessly upon the Drama’s triumphant +wings. Press reviews descended like a mist of coloured laudation. +Resonant interviews swamped the thin stream of prickling criticism. The +Artist really had no need to worry about his Inspiration. For the time +fame was poured to him from silver flagons, and wealth handed up on a +gold plate. Vanity of vanities! but all authorship becomes vanity. When +the most beautiful member of the chorus knelt and kissed his hand he +felt strangely moved. It was because his hand had written the Drama. +Men thought it an honour and women thought it lucky to touch that hand, +those inspired fingers. He was very pleased with the action of the +chorus girl, and the following day he noted that she was fairly fair, +and the week following that she was pretty pretty, so to speak. And the +more he liked her, the angrier he felt with Queenie for letting the +Manager embrace her on that night of nights. It was rather bitter, but +bitterness when it stays and curdles in the mind often brings about a +decision. Perhaps it was a stroke of luck after all, for it dawned on +his mind that he had a perfect excuse for leaving Queenie when he felt +so inclined, and he told her so. He spoke to her as a father might +speak to an erring daughter. She had served him well and he would +always think kindly of her, but now that he was famous he could not +afford to have his name connected with a woman who was susceptible to +anything as vulgar as a theatrical manager. He was an Artist and he +owed a duty to his Inspiration. He turned her out. His drama touched a +hundredth performance that same night. + +She had no redress and she passed silently and whitely into the black +roaring night, into the whirlpool above which she had sustained him in +his months of obscurity. For the last time the light glittered in her +eyes, though it met no response from his iris, which was blurred with a +little red patch as he went his way, floating buoyantly, basking in a +limelit sea, watching his own portentous shadow bulge in the theatric +moonlight. He thoroughly enjoyed being the successful dramatic writer +of the day. He was very agile at bearing the Palm. Actors and Managers +came buzzing and puffing round him, pleading and imploring him to write +another play. It was weeks before he consented even to return to work. +It was without misgiving eventually that he dipped pen into the silver +inkstand presented by the staff after the five hundredth performance; +the pen by the way tipped with a real ruby, the grateful tribute of +the Chorus. For inspiration there was the new beloved practising steps +in a Poiret gown on his expensive Persian carpet. Yet it was not all +as inspiring as might have been expected. The Artist wrote phrases at +intervals and the week’s work filled many sheets, but too often he +found himself chewing the ruby knot at the end of his pen. Then he +would call the chorus girl to his knee and peer into her eyes, which +were lit with artificial radiance. They lacked the stellar light which +used to beckon him from Queenie’s orbs. He looked in them and always +saw the fiery fume of his own pleasure. There was nothing mysterious +or new, nothing that he did not know before. He never saw the shapes +he used to see of dreams personifying in his partner’s eyes. But on +the material side he was much better off. He drank Tokay instead of +tea, and ate fresh caviare instead of stale seed cake. And he twirled +his pen and his hair and the chorus girl in turns. And nothing very +wonderful happened on paper. He was still twirling all three a year +later when his first drama had been given a rest on the stage and +managers were asking anxiously and then angrily why he had not filled +his contract to write another. He had thought he was safe in giving +himself a year to write and he had written reams, but he did not dare +show them to the managers. Compared to the first it was merely corked +wine. + +He felt that he needed a rest and the inevitable and harassing month +on the Riviera followed. The chorus girl died of influenza in an hotel +after losing six months’ royalties for him in the local Casino. When he +returned to London he found he was in debt and that his furniture was +being sold out of his flat. He sat down to twirl pen and thumbs again, +but only succeeded in breaking the encrusted ruby off his penholder +with exasperation. Eventually he mislaid it. It was found next morning +and safely placed in a pawnbroker’s safe by a careful charwoman. The +silver inkpot had become caked with the ink which flowed in but not +out. Hours he passed staring blankly into blank paper and trying to +crush the half-formed answers to the eternal query why could he not +write another Poetic Drama as beautiful and as wonderful as the first. +But the fire was gone and he could not catch the wistful pleasantry +which the critics were fond of divining in his lyrics. It would not +come to the surface of his mind as it had, when he lived humbly and +cheaply, lacking all that he now enjoyed in such abundance. As though +abundance can ever be enjoyed, as cats drowning in cream have never +failed to observe. He lacked nothing now except perhaps the one thing +necessary! + +At last he arose darkly and miserably in the night. There was nothing +left to be done but to wander forth in search of his lost Inspiration. +He felt leaden-footed and soiled in the soul. If his mind still moved +it was like a hobbledehoy and no longer a Pegasus. He started in mad +search for what he had lost. He swam into the first dance hall and +listened to the jazz-rhythms with their slow and broken cross-ripples. +He watched the undulating shoulders of the dancers as they circled +and cross circled. But neither rhythm nor song did they lend him. +Then he passed into a drinking cabaret and began sipping the yellow +and pink-coloured mixtures called cocktails which are to true wine as +mosaics are to real sculpture. But again he found no release. In vain +he drank unintoxicating intoxicants, quenchers that proved unquenching, +potations that were impotent, and the chill, stupefying drench which +neither cheers nor inebriates and is called wormwood. + +The Artist was at the end of all artificial expedients, and it was +very late when he came to close truths with himself, and walked +deliberately toward the mean street where he believed Queenie was +living. He had left her with enough to live on and paid the rent on +their old lodging for a year in advance. He crept into the ghastly +tenement building. He knocked and knocked vainly. There was no answer. +He leaned miserably against the door and it swung open. He slipped into +the foul passage and stood before the single room in which his first +Drama, his masterpiece, had been written. It was tightly closed, but +the lock snapped under his thrust. He felt resentful against the room +and against the woman whom he had left there, and resentful against +himself, for an Artist only hates himself when he realises that his +Art has deserted him. A stale odour and a dead draught met him as he +entered. He called and there was no answer. He knew his way round +the room in the dark and he groped in the corner for the gas jet. He +turned it on, but it made no lucent response to a lighted match. The +gas meter was empty and then he noticed that he had turned the gas off +instead of on. He twisted it back and forward. By the light of a second +match he looked round the room and his eyes fell on the bed where his +Inspiration lay cold and self-slain before her time. + +In a moment all his ambition and hope seemed to be turned off as +completely as the gas. He was where he was before he met Queenie +Elkington. He turned and shuffled back to his flat. He knew now that +the virtue had gone out of him, and why. The Artist in him shrivelled +into the undertaker’s clerk. He sat down before the ink-crusted silver +inkstand and began writing on a blank sheet slowly in scrivener’s +copperplate. He wrote to order the most beautiful coffin procurable. +It must be made of scented wood and lined with silk, and the fittings +must be of solid silver. In it he explained that he intended to bury +all that was precious to him, his guardian angel in the past, what +might have been his ambition in the future, and the Inspiration which +had forsaken him in the present. And this pathetic letter he sealed and +addressed to the old-established firm of Gammon and Hardwash. + + + + +BALTHASAR THE CRUEL + + +Don Balthasar was called the Cruel for a number of very satisfying and +respectable reasons. As a child he had flayed a live monkey, which +had been brought to amuse him in an ebony cage. And he had been fond +of biting off the heads of singing birds or slipping hot needles into +their eyes according as he wished to make them sing or not. Arrived at +the age of discretion, he showed his seriousness of purpose by taking +a breakneck journey across Spain without sleep and almost forfeiting +his meals in order to be in time for the execution of his illegitimate +brother. His hands had so often failed of killing him that he was +seized with the idea of making his eyes at least fratricidal. But Don +Balthasar was always morbid. + +On the other hand he showed some remarkable traits. His restless energy +was an example to the lethargic princelets by whom his boundaries were +neighboured. In the infliction of pain or the pursuit of domestic +vengeance he would endure what only the bravest and strongest +would dare. He had a fine sense of the rules of chivalry and his +discrimination in matters of taste was never challenged. When he said a +ruby was a ruby, it was not disputed even in the Orient; and for sign +of his passionate hobby toward precious stones he wore a large ruby +in his iron helm about as large as a cuckoo’s egg dyed in carmine. +He personally supervised the cutting and trimming of the velvet +vestments used in his private chapel. His chapel was decorated with an +excruciating picture of Saint Bartholomew the Apostle being deprived +somewhat reluctantly of his apostolic skin. And Don Balthasar’s clothes +kept busy several Moorish haberdashers during the greater part of the +year. + +He had peculiar notions as to property, particularly towards what had +ceased to be his property or had ever been dignified by his ownership. +For instance, he aped the royal Castilian etiquette, which allowed no +lesser man to bestride a horse that had once been ridden by a King of +Spain or to marry even a forgotten and abandoned lady love who had +once enjoyed the royal embrace. Don Balthasar, once at the end of a +long siege discovering in his net a damsel, whom he had seduced in +boyhood, comfortably married to a burgess of the fallen town, insisted +on strangling him with his own hands that he might realise how high an +honour the unfortunate burgess had presumed to pay himself. The burgess +who had been found in possession of the Don’s discarded romance died +in the market-place with his broken eyeballs staring into the quaint +features of Don Balthasar called the Cruel, who considerately provided +him with a funeral furnished neither above nor below his rank. What +time he could spare from the adornment of his person or the adjustment +of etiquette he devoted to the beleaguerment of Castles upon which he +or his ancestors had the shadow or phantom of a claim. + +At the moment of writing he was engaged in laying close siege to the +Castle of his arch-enemy Don Ximenes. His tactical array resembled +rather a game of chess than one of those conflicts of sanguinary +hordes into which the beautiful mediæval science of war developed. Don +Ximenes was not in his lair, for Don Balthasar had been conveniently +apprised of his secret absence on a neighbouring campaign to which +Don Balthasar had not been invited. He could not lose the opportunity +to bring two thousand men against Don Ximenes’s Castle, which was in +those days of supreme fortification adequately held by the Seneschal +and twelve men. When walls were impenetrable and ramparts unassailable +except by the slow poising and escalading of ladders, they were +sufficient to ward and defy a host. The Castle of Don Ximenes was as +solidly built and magnificently engineered as any Castle in Spain, +which was saying a great deal. It was originally a Moorish stronghold. +The great dungeon-keep covered one side of the quadrangle. It was +crenellated and thinly slashed with murderous arrowholes. The other +three sides were flanked at each corner by turrets massively gathered +to each other by a fortified passage running round the whole rampart. +The dry moat was cut out of the quick rock. Across the moat rose a +bridge like the hump of a donkey’s back and protected by a barbican. +The angles and embrasures commanded and cross-commanded every approach. +While the Seneschal watched from the top of the keep, two men held each +turret, three remained in the barbican and three took turns to sleep. +The Seneschal had no more than enough men and provender to hold the +Castle for Don Ximenes, and it was weary work peeping over the ramparts +at every move made by the redoubtable Don Balthasar. + +Don Balthasar with his masses of fresh troops attacked or feigned +attack at all hours, even at night when his camp fires blazed red with +feasting and revelry. Each time an alarm was given by lighting a torch +at the menaced turret, the Seneschal would collect the sleepers and +hurry them as a reserve to the ramparts to meet each successive attack. +Every third or fifth day there was a general attack and a number of +surprise attempts to hook scaling ladders to some unwatched portion of +the wall. With poles and sledge-hammers the Seneschal and his faithful +few dislocated or smashed the feelers of the prying ladders as fast +as they appeared above the walls. But day was as weary as night, and +only the obstinate loyalty of the Seneschal made the hours pass without +question or murmuring among his men. His determination was unflexed. +Everything he could possibly value was at stake: the impregnable +old keep in which he had been reared as a child, his loyalty to his +lord, and incidentally his own wife and daughter who, unknown to the +besiegers, were helping to consume his slender store behind the walls. +It was a strong satisfaction to him to know that ten feet of masonry +lay between their charms and Balthasar called the Cruel. + +The Castle possessed all the strength and subtlety of construction and +design that Moorish and Gothic architects could give after handling and +remodelling each other’s work. Don Balthasar found it quite impossible +to take it by assault and sat down in permanent circumsession. Within, +there was enough to tide them over until Don Ximenes’s return, provided +he returned with the New Year. But occasionally the Seneschal caught +sight of a lean look. While the camp echoed with revelry and the air +was thick with the steam of feasting, none of the besieged ever ate to +satisfy or drank into the delicious preludes of intoxication. And there +was a constant lack of sleep, which is a great subduer of grumbling +and tedium. But no suspicion of the garrison’s loyalty ever glided +through the mind of the Seneschal. He would not allow the possible +fall of the Castle to dwell in his mind. He only looked forward to the +day of triumph when the portcullis would be drawn and the Don Ximenes +enter into his keep as inviolate as upon the day he had left it. If the +Castle fell--well, there was nothing worse that Don Balthasar surnamed +the Cruel could do to him. + +Nevertheless murmuring had arisen and sometimes was hardly hushed +before the sore-tried Seneschal stumbled into hearing. Though the +besiegers were making no progress, time was; and time was on the side +of Don Balthasar. To the garrison it became acutely clear that their +days were shortened. There was enough provender for a month or for +three months of semi-starvation. Two grim days already appeared on +the horizon: the day when the Seneschal would announce half-rations +and the day when, drowsy with hunger, they would be surprised and one +turret would be taken and occupied with fresh troops, who would pour +like a Moorish poison through the passages and into the stony veins +of the Castle until every corner was captured. The Seneschal would +undoubtedly fight to the end. When they had filled their tiny tasks +they would perish like pawns. The life of foot soldiers was not sweet +in Old Castile, but it was thought by their lords to be much sweetened +by a death in their private service and defence. They could but accept +their approaching fate with the devotion of feudal hirelots. It was +already a matter of weeks or even days, and meantime Don Balthasar’s +banners flaunted the landscape. He was only waiting for the first sign +of weakness to show itself, if not in the fortifications, at least in +the less enduring minds of men. + +The weak spot in the garrison manifested itself one evening as the +tired Seneschal was dragging himself to his place of rest. The best +prospect before him was a name among those who had served their lords +to the death. The garrison had less rosy expectation in the memories +of Spanish chivalry. They would be forgotten.... Two men-at-arms stood +in the Seneschal’s roadway. They had spent the day guarding one of the +turrets and they had come to tell him simply that they were going to +mutiny. Knowing how essential they were to the defence, they had no +fear of instant execution. The Seneschal might as well surrender the +Castle forthwith as dispense with their services. The Seneschal bowed +his grey face. Tired as he was, he still struggled for time and thought +and breath. He told them that, if they wished to mutiny, the Castle +could no longer be held and he would send them over the ramparts to +announce the surrender to Don Balthasar the following morning. He only +asked them to keep their share of the watch that night. The morrow +could care for the morrow. His only present endeavour was to hold the +Castle for that night. The mutineers appeared to refuse his courteous +offer, for they stood shaking their heads in an awkward way. Then they +spoke. + +They were not mutinying with any desire to save their skins. Least of +all did they wish to join Balthasar or put him in possession of the +Castle. They were loyal men and true to their lord. The Seneschal +gave them an ironical glower. They were ready to fight to the end, +they continued to observe. They only asked for a little consolation in +the last days of their lives. They insisted that they were loyal and +true to the great law which bound men of valour to their lords. And +they would yet obey the Seneschal in all matters except perhaps where +a stronger than military custom constrained their souls. This was all +pointless speech, and the Seneschal made a sign to express that he +thought so. However, they mentioned their readiness to fight to the +end on condition that their last hours were sweetened with love. Their +tranquil smile hardly seemed to clash against the Seneschal’s baffled +misunderstanding. He, poor man, was feebly perplexed. If they had asked +for a larger ration of bread or wine he would gladly have reduced that +of his own family to satisfy them. But they might as well have asked +him for the excitements of the chase or the luxuries of the Moorish +bath within the Castle’s narrow world. For a moment they seemed to him +mad; rendered mad by the rigours of the siege. His next hope was that +they would fight the better for being insane. But what a moment to +think of love! And he answered them with a kind laugh: + +“Would that I could satisfy your wishes, my dear children, but you must +not ask for a well of wine in the desert or for loaves to rain from +heaven. Love will come to you some day among the beautiful girls of the +town when Don Ximenes has returned to his own. Come, return to your +noble duty, and some of the best wine will be served you on the morrow. +Oh, my children.” + +“But we do not need your red wine,” replied the mutineers. “If we are +to die, we prefer we should drink something better than red wine.” + +“My children, I would not hesitate if by opening my purse or my veins I +could furnish you with a wine worthy of your valour during this siege. +If I could encourage you to hold out against Don Balthasar, there is +nothing that I would not promise you. And my word is true as you have +always known.” + +“We do not ask for promises or words. We would prefer to accept what +you have to offer on the spot.” + +“But I have nothing, my children, except what you know is in the store. +If these are our last days (which may the Most Serene Virgin otherwise +dispose!) at least you shall feed and drink well.” + +But the mutineers still looked at him with their dull stare. “Well, in +the Holy Virgin’s name,” shouted the Seneschal, “what do you want?” + +“We want love, and if you will allow us a little share of love we will +hold the Castle with you till the last of us is killed. It will not be +well for any of us to fall alive into the hands of Don Balthasar.” + +“Yes, make love,” murmured the tired Seneschal, “make love and be +happy.” And he turned slowly away. “But where will you find love in +this prison of stone?” + +“We thought it convenient as well as pleasant to offer our courteous +love to your family.” + +The poor Seneschal’s face turned ashen; “You mean my daughter as the +price of remaining at your duty?” And his determination to hold the +Castle at all costs received a fiercer blow than any that had been +dealt by the enemy. But still his staggering mind was essaying how to +hold on and on. The mutineers came to his rescue when words failed him. + +“We are willing that you choose upon which one of us you will bestow +your daughter.” + +“And will you return to your duties if I bestow her on the morrow?” he +asked. The Seneschal’s word was good and they saluted him with their +swords. + +“You shall have her,” groaned the unhappy man, as he laid his hand upon +the younger and fresher of the two, “but if the God of Castile and the +Most Serene Virgin suffer me to bring this Castle through the siege I +will not spare you.” + +The mutineers laughed; “Be not troubled. Our days shall end long before +Don Ximenes returns. Don Balthasar will see to that.” The younger one +added: “When may I make the acquaintance of the beautiful daughter you +have promised me?” + +“On the morrow,” hissed the Seneschal; “have I not said it? I cannot +disturb her this night.” The mutineer returned to his turret. His +companion remained bulking in the narrow stone passage. + +“And I, my master, must my last days be passed without love or solace +because my companion in arms has borne less years of fighting and has +less scars to show in his boy’s face?” + +“Come,” murmured the exhausted Seneschal, “That is no reason for +leaving the ramparts. You are a fine battle-pocked warrior and you +could not spend your last days more happily than by facing the army of +Don Balthasar.” + +The grisled warrior seemed to hesitate over what was most likely to +felicitate his last days on earth. Then he spoke quite abruptly: “Give +me your wife and I will fight better.” It was like saying “check” +to a chess player playing with members of his own family instead of +wooden pieces. The Seneschal bowed his head in utter despair and the +other slowly turned his back. His nod was as good as his word under the +circumstances. At that moment a torch flared from the central keep, and +the Seneschal rushed to the scene of attack hurrying his reserves on +the way. A frontal attack was being made in full force and he rushed +from turret to turret shouting hoarse commands and disengaging the +cruel little hooks and feelers, that were pushed over the walls, with +his own hands. Never had the garrison fought so magnificently. The +intrepid coolness and energy of the two mutineers was beyond praise or +emulation. They fought with their hands, their feet and their toes, +hacking, pushing, kicking, and biting, now in one corner and now in +another. With their bare hands they uprooted ladder after ladder and +with swift leverage hurled clusters of men headlong into the hard dry +moat. The Seneschal caught sight of the pair at moments and his loyal, +long-tried heart was at rest. + +The attack died down with severe loss to Don Balthasar. The garrison +had reason to feel pleased as they snatched portions of rest during +the night. The Seneschal reposed in the bosom of his family. He was +weary unto death, but he felt unable to sleep. At the back of his mind +throbbed the safety of the Castle. It was his main preoccupation, and +it still gripped him in spite of the new bitterness, which underlay +his thought like a festering toothache. “No, it was monstrous, unheard +of in the annals of war and chivalry, that he should sacrifice his +daughter and his wife!” He moaned in agony. Beside him lay his wife, +the long brown hair across her face. He sat up in his leathern armour +as stiffly as though another attack had been signalled. Slowly he +recollected that he had given her away with his word.... At that moment +his daughter sighed in her sleep, and he cried aloud once more. Did +loyalty to his lord demand that he leave nothing undone even to his +own undoing? Must he give wife and daughter like provender into the +jaws of those who were defending his lord’s castle? It was unutterable, +unspeakable, unbelievable. Who would help him in his biting loneliness, +when he could not even think of a road out or even of words in which to +pray? Unthinkingly he muttered aloud “Most Serene Virgin! A thousand +candles and a pilgrimage to St. James of Compostella.” Then silence +fell, and the weary Seneschal felt an unanswered prayer eddying in his +empty heart. To whom could he turn in his distress? His dear lord was +far away. He would never see him again. Again he cried to the Virgin, +and again silence followed his cry. He shivered with fear and fury. He +swayed miserably to and fro on his knees. If he slept not, he would +scarce be able to fight on the morrow. A thousand curses that his last +days on earth should be embittered beyond the endurance of the loyal +and the deserts of the faithful. At one time he began to despair. +Perhaps it would be better to hurl himself off the ramparts and let +his dead body announce the end of the siege to Don Balthasar the next +morning. No, that would leave wife and daughter to the mutineers. He +pulled himself to the top of the mighty keep. There were the flickering +lights of Don Balthasar’s camp. Would the Serene and Holy Virgin make +no answer, give no sign to one so fiercely tried? He had dedicated his +daughter a hundred times to the Immaculate Serenity. Well, what was the +use, if she could do nothing to save her child? He began to expostulate +with the Blessed Virgin and reasonably. Could she do nothing with +all the armies of Heaven recognising her as their Commandress? He +scolded her with the childlike faith of the mediæval warrior, who saw +the Virgin like the Tournament Queen learning over heavenly barriers +and deeply interested and concerned in all the affairs of heart and +chivalry on earth. “Take or abandon her,” the Seneschal shouted into +the night, “you know best, most sweet and serene Lady, whether she +shall be yours or for Don Balthasar. If you will not save her I will +give her to him called ‘The Cruel!’” He lifted his waving hands to +Heaven as a man carried down a whirlpool. Not a star fell. No vision +appeared. + +His mind was now set and he returned to the armoury, pulled a vellum +leaf out of a Breviary and began writing a letter to Don Balthasar. +Anything rather than throw his daughter to the lout on the ramparts. +The Don was a Cavalier and a great gentleman of Spain. He began +scratching the titles of Don Balthasar in the fullness of all the +laudatory etiquette of the time. Then he explained that two of his +soldiers had mutinied, which placed the Castle in Don Balthasar’s hands +whenever it should seem agreeable to him. He begged Don Balthasar +to understand that he was not surrendering the Castle of his lord +foolishly or fearfully. The mutineers with Moorish impudence had +demanded his wife and daughter as the price of keeping their place on +the ramparts. He ventured to place the matter before the august eyes +of Don Balthasar himself, who, as the paragon of chivalry and loyalty +and such matters in Spain, could advise his troubled servant whether +loyalty to his family or to his lord came first, and whether he was +bound to persevere at the price of offering his wife and daughter to +these foul mutineers. He appealed to Don Balthasar for a ruling. He +would bow to his decision. + +He carefully sealed the letter with his lord’s seal, and went on +the ramparts. He lit and waved a torch with slow movements in sign +of parley or surrender. He was quickly noticed, and Don Balthasar’s +secretary approached with an escort. The Seneschal threw the letter +over the ramparts and staggered back to rest. A whisper passed through +the Castle. + +In the morning the garrison were not surprised to see an unarmed +company approaching the barbican waving the personal standard of Don +Balthasar. The Seneschal himself descended from his watchpoint on the +keep and leaning through the crenellations picked a letter from the top +of a spearpoint. He read it slowly and its purport burst like the first +glimpse of harbour on the eyes of the shipwrecked, for Don Balthasar +commended his loyalty and fidelity, and was grieved to hear that two +of his soldiers had mutineered and shown a lesser sense of loyalty +to their lord. He considered that the terms they had offered their +Seneschal were arrogant and outrageous, and foul beyond the foulness +of the pit. He wished the Seneschal to mind not their threats, but to +let them both desert to his camp. He gave his word that their desertion +would not afflict the Seneschal in a military sense. Let him send them +under safe conduct forthwith. + +The mutineers were waiting in their turret when the Seneschal reached +them. They had watched the coming of the embassage eagerly, and doubted +not that the Seneschal had made a desperate bid for terms to save +the Castle now he knew he could hold it no longer. Ineffectually for +certain. With his prize in his jaws Don Balthasar was not the one to +let it drop for a kiss given to his greedy cheeks. They awaited the +Seneschal as the player who has called Checkmate and knows that any +further struggle is useless. The Seneschal showed neither levity nor +seriousness in his face. He spoke gently and firmly as though he was +discussing some minute part of their routine. “My children, you have +against all your loyalty to your lord offered to mutiny and go over to +Don Balthasar unless I give you my wife and daughter. I have decided to +surrender the Castle rather than allow such a misery to be inflicted +upon me, and I bid you accompany Don Balthasar’s men and tell that +great and terrible lord that I can no longer defend the Castle and will +accept his commands. Go!” + +The mutineers looked up with angry surprise. They felt they were +being cheated out of their rights, out of their agreement, out of +their pleasure. They had expected the immediate fulfilment of their +demand. At any rate the siege was over. They could only rejoice that +their weariness was at an end, though they would have preferred a +few more weeks’ fighting, lightened as they had hoped by the wicked +debauchery they had devised at their unfortunate Seneschal’s expense. +For one baffled moment they hesitated. But the Seneschal had left +them no choice, and they turned to accept the freedom they had not +desired. They walked on to the ramparts amid their scowling comrades +and lowered themselves with a rope that the Seneschal grimly held +for them. With a malevolent grin they slid down into their new +allegiance. At least they would be fed well that night, when they +brought Don Balthasar good news. They marched away stretching their +cramped legs between the riders who had come to meet them. Within an +hour they stood before Don Balthasar called the Cruel. He did not +waste his time with them. He mentioned his detestation of all kinds +of disloyalty, especially to an absent lord. He showed no surprise +or gratitude on hearing that the Castle was now within his reach. To +their terror-struck excitement they learnt that the terrible one had +been informed of the predicament in which they had placed the loyal +Seneschal. He briefly informed them that he was unwilling to profit by +so base an action even if it did place the Castle in his power. The +mutineers stared at him with dull amaze. + +The Seneschal was more agreeably surprised an hour later when he saw a +scaffold being erected in front of the barbican, and his two defaulters +being bound and deliberately executed. A roar of laughter and derision +rose from the Castle walls. It was almost worth the surrender to enjoy +so majestic a jest on the part of Don Balthasar. With parched throats +and weary lungs the garrison shouted _Vivas_ to Don Balthasar’s name. +As for the Seneschal, he could only utter delirious thanks to the +Virgin, who had delivered him so mightily from domestic shame and +agony. She had strange and devious ways, the _Serenissima_, for coming +to the rescue of her clients. This was really her most brilliant +master-stroke! + +The Seneschal laughed his first laugh during the siege, and he was +still smiling when the riders of Don Balthasar again approached +the barbican waving the signal of parley. It must be for the final +surrender of the Castle, thought the Seneschal. Sadly he picked the +letter of summons from the tip of the spearpoint handed to him. + +He broke the heavy seal and coloured cord fastening the vellum. It +brought him the greeting of his enemy, who further made plain his +great regret that contrary to the laws of war he had killed two +of the garrison after they had left the Seneschal under his safe +conduct. But he had done what he thought was due to himself and to the +honour of all Christian princes. Treachery among men-at-arms could +not be too speedily or sternly punished. But lest he had taken any +unfair advantage of the heroic garrison he was sending two suitable +men-at-arms to take the place of the mutineers! By their fidelity to +himself they were sworn to fight exactly as the Seneschal disposed +and directed them. There was no doubt! Two stalwarts were waiting for +admittance at the barbican and their escort was already riding away. +And the letter was signed in the big, gawky lettering of Don Balthasar +himself who was called the Cruel! + + + + +A SAVING PHANTASM + + +When they parted they parted good friends. Gregory Cappleston was more +than a gentleman. He was very affluent; and he refused to let Matilda +Bryant suffer financially by his marriage. He was bound to marry to +keep up the grand old name of Cappleston. Aunts, aged and dowager, +expected him to marry if he was to expect anything from them. He was +a rough-and-ready fellow, Gregory Cappleston. At the University he +was called “Cobblestones.” He wanted to be kind, but he did not cause +particularly smooth-going to those who came his way. He found it hard +to leave the woman who had lived with him since Oxford days, but it +was harder to find a wife and tie himself to her for the rest of his +days. Matilda felt this turn in her life hardest, but she suppressed +the sighs of her soul even when she read Gregory’s engagement in that +column of marriages and engagements of the _Morning Post_ which may far +more truly be called one of agony. + +Still, she ought to have been preparing for the wrench for years. +Presumably she had known other men before, and should have experienced +the circumstantial shock of a thoughtless man’s thought-out departure. +Cappleston never imagined her pained for a moment. He was not +insensitive, however, to her genuine grief when he cheerfully announced +the settlement he had made on her. Nobody can live on a woman’s love +for many years without responding to some of the myriad ripples of her +inmost thought. True, that with tragedy they become confused and break +off, and on the sand of hardship they are stayed and disappear. But +in the spectroscope of Matilda’s mind a real love for the man, with +whom she had contracted herself quarterly for the last three years, +shone white. If the colours of her aura could have been analysed, there +would have been found no red tinge of malice therein, no green line of +jealousy, no purple splosh of hate. The white soul is rare even among +good and virtuous women. + +She loved Gregory sufficiently not to wish him to sacrifice his life to +her. She was incapable of a scene. She loved him enough to love herself +for her own self-suppression. She felt as though she were giving her +soul an opiate with a steel needle. It was so like him to make over +a lump sum to her without noticing the lump in her throat. He kissed +her for the last time, and she wished him happiness in marriage as few +mothers have wished their own beloved sons. As she walked out, he felt +sorry, but not sorry in another way, that he would see her no more. +That was in the letter and the spirit of their agreement. She had +played the game, he reflected. And he was certain that he had, too. He +was a Cappleston! + +The marriage was a great success. How could it be otherwise? The +pandemonium of an advertised social event, the honeymoon reflected +in the _Daily Mirror_, the town house purchased from the dissolving +partnership of the Plantagenet-Goldenburgs, their first country house +party discreetly portrayed in the _Sketch_, the shower of pleasant, +meaningless snippets which Press Agencies supplied from the _Powder +Puff_, the _Flapper_ and other recognised organs of fashion are still +within the memory of Society. Gregory began nibbling at a political +career with a good conscience. He had had his past like most men, but +unlike most men he had shown a post-amorous generosity which satisfied +him almost to feelings of virtue. + +Domestic beatitude was his proper reward, and he passed into paternal +tranquillity watching the race of Cappleston projected into yet another +generation, and his children growing up like little dissected parts of +his own youth. He watched them playing about the house and reflected +on that wonderful measure of repayment he had been able to make to +his wife. So many women had no children. He had been generous in his +paternity. Generosity was his strong feature. That was why he felt +women had always liked him, to use a mild expression. There had been +Matilda, for instance--but he dismissed her from his mind. + + * * * * * + +He was quite disturbed when her name was announced by the butler. It +was seven years since they had parted. It was unexpected and it was +undesirable, this visit. He tore a preparatory blank cheque out of his +book before she came in. He was always prepared to meet women with that +astonishing generosity of his. “Mrs. Bryant,” said the footman. She +showed no make-up to cover the difference of seven years. It was not a +professional--hardly a predatory--visit, he reflected. Shabby clothes +and daylight were not heart-overwhelming. He gave her a chair. + +“I am glad to see you looking so well, Matilda,” he began +chivalrously, “but you should have written to me through my lawyers if +you wanted to see me.” + +“I am not in need of anything that comes through lawyers, Gregory,” she +answered. “I only wanted to see you again for the last time, you know.” +Gregory was puzzled. + +“But I am not leaving the country,” he said. “Why should you want to +say good-bye to me?” “But I am,” she shot, and with a pause, “for +another country, and I am taking the shortest and cheapest path +possible. I am done with the half-world in which I live. You know that +for me middle age must be what old age is to other folk. It is death, +and I believe in taking death by the forelock. But I wanted to see you +once again and to say that you were the best thing I found in this +world, and I would always have lived with you even had you lost all +your money. I rather hoped the chance would come to show you that. But +it never did, and then you married and were happy, and your happiness +made me happy in a sort of way. Good-bye.” + +“You’re not going to kill yourself?” asked the astonished Cappleston. +She nodded vacantly. Cappleston was immensely touched. She had +confirmed the high opinion he had of himself. And she had come without +an ulterior object just to say good-bye. It was amazing. He felt that +something was required of him. He was inartistic and could not rise to +the dramatic. But as a patron of several Church livings he admonished +her gently as to the heinousness of self-destruction and how unpleasant +coroners’ verdicts were liable to be for surviving friends. He was one +of those men who live in dread of painful impressions in public. + +She was not to be dissuaded of her purpose, but she agreed to see him +before she committed the supreme act of bodily renunciation. He offered +to increase her little income, but she smiled pathetically and passed +out of his presence. She was content to have looked once again into +his eyes. Her love had not failed. It was no mere memory. She would +certainly keep the promise he had obtained from her. + +Cappleston was left to reflect on his proffered generosity. He had +never known a woman refuse money before. But it was a woman’s way to +want what she wanted to the exclusion of all else for the moment. For +the moment she wanted to see him. He felt suitably pleased. He was glad +he was not a woman to be swayed by whims and fancies, to be utterly +dependent on men’s good will and charity. He felt glad to be a man and +to feel virtuous. He realised how much more generous he was than other +men, and threw himself back in his chair with the easy content of a man +who has always enjoyed life without making his conscience suffer. Then +a whole year passed. + + * * * * * + +Gregory Cappleston, M.P., was sleeping alone in his dressing-room when +he woke with a jerk and saw a figure standing at the foot of his bed. +He looked and could not doubt, for he believed in his senses and in +very little else in life. It was Matilda, and he was intensely annoyed +that she should have been so ill-advised, not to say criminal, to +penetrate into the sleeping-room. It was indiscreet, outrageous and +very dangerous, and he hissed all this and more at her. He made more +than the protest of the British householder and the patron of Church +livings. He ordered her to leave the house instantly, and as quietly +as she came--without waking his wife in the adjoining room. He was +too sleepy to imagine how she could have entered without ringing or +waking the servants. He faced her look of piercing sadness with an +angry stare, but it never wilted. Then it faded away, and Cappleston +rather angrily discovered he was alone. He felt as though he had been +the victim of some clever conjuring trick. He switched on the electric +light, and at that moment the voice of Big Ben rang through the London +hemisphere--one! two! three! He confirmed the clock of Empire by his +own watch, and perceived that he was not dreaming. + +He rose and searched the room. It was locked, and nothing had been +displaced. He suddenly developed a creepy and almost guilty feeling +for no reason. It was not in consonance with the mind of a virtuous +householder and a benefactor to his species. Then it struck him full. +Perhaps he had seen a ghost! Perhaps, however, it was only a bad dream. +Perhaps it was a sign. Perhaps he ought to do something. What about +Matilda? He fumbled for her address on the card he had kept in his +pocket-case. It was a flat in Maida Vale, quite impossible for him to +reach at this hour of the night. Nor respectable either, but he could +send his valet to inquire early in the morning. He rang his night bell. +His valet appeared, and hoped he was not ill. Cappleston gave him the +card and told him to go to the address and find out what was happening +to the lady whose name it bore. + +Further, Cappleston ordered him to refuse to take _no_ as an answer. +He must find out how the lady in the second flat was, and return as +soon as possible. If he had any trouble he could send a policeman in +a cab to fetch himself.... An hour passed, and a second hour before +a policeman rang at the door. Cappleston let him in. The policeman +explained that a strange man had been found trying to force entrance +in a flat at Maida Vale and excused himself by giving Mr. Cappleston’s +name. He had been taken in charge, and the police would like to have +evidence of his identity or sanity. + +Cappleston, with a weary “It is all right,” swung himself out of his +dressing-gown and dressed. He accompanied the policeman without a word +to Maida Vale. He found his valet between the caretaker and a policeman +on the second floor. He had never been there before, but he told the +caretaker enough to show that he had a right to entry, in fact that +he paid the rent of the flat in all probability. Besides, he had very +bad news for the occupant and he demanded entrance. He was prepared +to stand the financial damage of any breakages, also the remuneration +necessary to their trouble. The police exchanged highly intelligent +glances, and the caretaker said he was not the one to stand in the way +of the law. Some panes of frosted glass were cut out of the door with +a chisel, and the door opened from outside. The occupant, it appeared, +had given strict orders that nobody was to disturb her till ten the +next morning. + +Cappleston entered and opened door after door. The farthest room of +the suite was a bedroom. He switched on the light. Matilda was lying +on the floor breathing heavily, while an empty bottle remained in +her outstretched hand. Cappleston ordered a doctor to be brought, +and a policeman saluted ... a precious half-hour passed before any +revival was possible. But the doctor gradually brought her out of +unconsciousness. When she caught sight of Cappleston’s worried face, +she cried aloud: “Forgive me, forgive me. I did not keep my promise.” + +“But I rather think you did,” he answered, “for that is how I happen +to be here. You came into my room at three this morning, and it is now +half-past five. How can you explain it?” She could not explain it. +Women can explain anything, but they do not always need to. Strange +powers are always at their aid. She confessed that she had taken a +strong overdose; and the sympathetic police withdrew at this moment +with several bank-notes of Cappleston to be shared, or to be used +for the repainting of Scotland Yard, or whatever use gratuities to +policemen are put to. “But,” she continued, “I remembered when it was +too late my promise to you. I had passed over the border, and my last +feeling was a bitter regret that for the first time I had broken my +word to you, the very first time in my life. Will you ever forgive me?” + +“You need no forgiveness,” said Cappleston, holding her hand while the +doctor felt the pulse in the other, “for you came into my room and +stood looking at me from the foot of my bed. I could guess then what +had happened. I never knew you to fail me in any way. You always played +the game, and your word was always better than any gentleman’s. Thank +God, we were in the nick of time, for the doctor says you would have +been dead by ten o’clock. Matilda, I have seen your ghost while you +were yet alive. Or was it your soul? It was the whitest thing I have +ever laid eyes upon!” + + + + +JEALOUSY + + +Jealousy is the worst and most terrible in the sinful category. +Jealousy may not be the unforgivable sin, but it is certainly the +unforgiving one. Jealousy is not to be defined or analysed. There is a +method in madness and a refinement in Love, but Jealousy knows neither +how to plan nor how to relent. It is a torrential surge of misgiving +and misdirection that bides no hour and keeps no banks. It is the +strongest emotion known to man, for it has no gradations, no preludes, +and no convalescence. It leaps fully armed and full-grown upon the +jealous brain, and gives no peace to the jealous nor if possible to the +jealoused. In man or woman it conspires and consummates the acts of +madness and crime, which are sometimes but only pardoned to those who +act under stress of emotional love. + +Jealousy is the perversion of Love. It is unto Love what the Apples of +Sodom are to the fragrant orange-blossom. It is even what Atheism is +to Faith, and Turpitude is to Sanctity; and perhaps great lovers must +tread along the gulf of Jealousy just as the great contemplatives never +realise the divine ecstasy until after they have sighted the appalling +abyss which may be described as Time without God, otherwise Hell, for +Heaven is God without Time. + +Jealousy is more cruel than Love, though Love, in all conscience, is +cruel enough. Love more often destroys the lover than the beloved, +but Jealousy seeks only the destruction of the jealoused. Jealousy +is the diseased elephantiasis of sentiment, Love smitten to leprosy! +Vision the divine and rosy Eros suddenly turned into a leper white as +snow! Vision the once resilient and rainbowed wings caked and cracked +like the flukes of a rotten fungus! Vision the delicate little limbs +puffed and pustuled, and the divine brow puckered and blistered, the +mother-of-pearl ears chipped and chapped, the mouth opened like an old +wound instead of a fresh budding rose! Vision the eye rotting wickedly +into its cavity--and even so you have not sufficiently symbolised +Jealousy, the bane of mankind, and apparently of godkind as well, since +it is written that they include some who are jealous! + +John Goldenough was jealous, yet he was highly respectable. He was the +active and reliable head of the firm of Goldenough Brothers, the famous +plumbers, whose plumbing had accompanied the flag and made the remotest +and most tropical countries sanitatious to their conquerors. + +The Goldenough plumbing had won medals at every exhibition since the +Great Exhibition of 1851, when a diploma signed by the Prince Consort +had been awarded to the head of the firm. Miniature products of the +firm adorned the famous Doll’s House, minutely constructed by the +experts and artists of the British Empire, and delighted Royalty, +young and old, by their realistic efficiency. It was the boast of John +Goldenough’s father that the sun never set on Goldenough plumbing. Be +that as it may, John Goldenough was a very jealous man. + +Commercially he was jealous. It was not only domestically that he +cherished this cancer. Otherwise he was unimaginative. With an assured +competence of means he devoted himself to the comfort of himself and +his family. He was not yet forty, and he was the head of Goldenough +Brothers. Pitt was Prime Minister at twenty-five. John Goldenough was +the flower of British bourgeoisie, and he might be said to incarnate +the Nonconformist Conscience. There was nothing against him at Bank or +Chapel, unless in the arcana of his heart he possibly kept something +against himself. He was a jealous man, that was all. But human society +understood and appreciated his jealousy, for, if it constrained him to +narrow ideas, it led to impeccable business honesty. He was jealous to +a farthing in the accounts of his firm or of himself. + +But he was also jealous of family affections, though this the world +considered rather creditable, touching almost. He could not allow +himself to be supplanted in the home circle for a moment even by +another member of the same family. In fact there was a dark page to +his record which only his subconscious memory reflected from the +darkened mirror of the past. As the first-born he had been adored by +his mother until his nerves became restive if they were not basking in +the sunlight of her maternal hyperpossession. He felt ill if she was +not worrying or fussing herself over him. He expected and required not +only her attention but her continued and foolish infatuation. When her +second son was born he became furiously jealous. + +During these long ante-natal months she had shown herself less and less +absorbed in him, and he had become conscious of some impending rival. +Uneasily he sensed that her adoration was being drained elsewhere, and +the moment his baby brother arrived, he knew that he must take second +place. Jealousy ran like secret poison into his every tissue and vein, +though he was too young to know or understand what and why he felt. +Possibly he was no more responsible for his jealousy than for having +the measles. Anyhow, he bided his opportunity perhaps unconsciously, +but sullen and pertinacious. He watched his baby brother being soothed +and swaddled, pampered and christened. It was a little more he felt +than he could stand. Months passed, and the new baby occupied more and +more of the nursery space and more and more of his mother’s affection. +After six months the baby was introduced into the night nursery as +well. A nurse slept between the two brothers while a nightlight floated +in a basin of water in the middle of the room. One night John found +himself wandering round the room in a state of horror. Nightmare was +upon him. He felt he was being cramped and suffocated by the new baby. +Fear mingled with jealousy and self-preservation shot the speckled +spectrum of his hatred. In a violent effort to be rid of the besetting +menace he picked the nightlight out of its watery cage, and threw it +upon the barely moving heap of down. A light flame flickered into the +air, but John had skipped back into bed before the baby cried, and +the nurse awoke too late to put out the flames. In vain was the alarm +given. By the time the household had quenched the fire, baby was singed +and suffocated to death, partly by the smoke and partly by the efforts +made to extinguish the last spark. Through the house rang one piercing +cry--the cry of Rachel mourning, the cry that from the beginning to +the end of the world can never be appeased, the inconsolable cry of a +mother wailing for her child. + +John was only six at the time of the tragedy, but from that moment his +restlessness disappeared. He was no longer troubled by nightmare, and +continued on his former course like a normal and well-behaved little +boy. Of necessity his mother renewed and redoubled the old affection +for her only son. Years began to pass, untroubled and undimmed for +either. The pathetic and beautiful mother idealised and idolised her +son. He repaid her with an adoration that was partly a reflected +adoration of himself. There was no rival. He had no brother, and she +had no lover, and each thought the other perfect. She never dared marry +one of the very many suitable suitors who appeared on the scene after +her husband’s death. John’s jealousy was always enough to scare her. He +always slept beside her, and she would not face or contemplate the days +and nights when she must relegate him to the attic. She liked to be +near him in case he stirred or cried in the dark. She was not content +with being his night nurse. She became his governess and would let no +one teach him except herself. They became more intimately involved in +each other’s lives than they had been before his birth. They had been +the same body. Now they were the same soul and mind, and he was the +dominant. It seemed forgotten that there had ever been a baby brother. + +It was true even in her case that the mother can never forget the child +she has borne, but she saw both the boys in the survivor. Without the +least suspicion of the distant crime she innocently loved the slayer +and the slain with one passionate and abiding love. The plasticity of +boyhood wiped all trace from his memory. He was not conscious of his +one awful act of infantile incendiarism. But in the lower levels of +his nature it still lay memorified like one of those buried fossils by +which the gentle earth remembers her past monsters. And close to the +hushed record under the running surface stream of daily life lay the +dismal dragon of Jealousy, but no fossil. It was always there, though +it was given no inducement or provocation to break forth. It had lain +there waiting while Master John became a schoolboy, and a successful +one. He had gained too many prizes and enjoyed too many successes to +feel the least dislike or envy or disgust of others at school. He +took a successful course at the University, and after coming of age +he took over his deceased father’s business. He was a born plumber, +a Master-plumber, and in fact he proved the Empire’s Super-plumber. +Tubs, piping, lavabos, taps, sinks and shower-baths were his sphere. He +applied not merely intelligence but genius to the problems of Imperial +Sanitation. He received an Indian decoration and a testimonial from an +Australian Premier. He prolonged the lives of the Royal Family more +than all the prayers in the Prayer Book on their behalf. + +Respectability demanded only one thing further. He must marry. His +mother had long dreaded the day when she would be supplanted herself. +She had kept herself free for him. It was more than she could expect +that he should keep himself eternally free for her. As she had been +nurse, governess and playmate, sister and mother to him, she would +doubtless, had they lived in a Ptolemaic civilisation, been ready to +sacrifice herself yet further. But happily the Nonconformist Conscience +takes a rather sturdy stand. So when John Goldenough married the +daughter of the chief clerk in his own firm, his mother was glad +enough to be allowed to remain as their housekeeper. + +John Goldenough’s wife was more than pretty. The daughter of an +employee who had risen with the years in the Goldenough employ, without +pretence of blood or breeding, she appreciated the social honour which +had been paid her, and was loyally prepared to merge her personality +and prospects in the Lord of Sanitation, who had fallen in love as +much with her love for him as with her pretty little face. Unwittingly +he had transferred to her the whole accumulated sleeping powers of +jealousy, with which as a child he had surrounded his mother. As little +witting, she mistook the jealous symptoms for an excess of love for +herself. His mother slowly sank into a second place that was lower than +servile. She never murmured when he took her rings and gave them to his +sweetheart. It was no theft, for he slipped them from her fingers while +she sat sadly watching and mutely wondering. She realised that he was +sloughing the old love for the new, and she felt the prick of sacrifice +when she saw the stones glitter on the wife’s fingers the following +night. She knew that she had been replaced utterly and for ever. Then +it was that she began to mourn that she had never dared have other +children because she had been terrified by her son’s queer jealousies. +But she had had the pleasure of spoiling him. It was spoiled goods +in a way that she was passing on to another, if that could be any +satisfaction to her. + +John Goldenough’s love for his wife passed by the path of passion into +jealousy, his underlying and besetting mood. Jealousy is as delicious a +sauce as can flick the palate of a woman, who is in love with the man +who exercises jealousy on her behalf. But when her love has been worn +to boredom and only a stump of convention marks the spot where once +grew the fairy tree of their romance, jealousy thrives like poison-ivy +round the dead wood. During the first ten years of their marriage John +Goldenough had forbidden his wife to bear him children, partly out of a +sense of economy and partly, though this he never admitted, because he +wished to keep his wife’s love concentrated upon himself. + +Himself an only son, he intended to have an only son towards the end +of his married life, and thought it perfectly appropriate and proper +to keep his issue within this drastic limitation. He liked to feel +her sentimental as well as her material dependence upon him. This +dependence he thought could be prolonged while she was childless. That +she should entertain an admirer had hardly crossed his imagination. As +it was, he could not bear other men to sit beside her at table, and +the politest and most constrained givers of compliments to his wife +were thrown into terrified exit. In the end neither his friends nor +hers cared to call, esteeming themselves fortunate if he showed himself +merely nervous and not in some way objectionable. He had been jealous +at different times of her mother-in-law and even of her maidservant. +She was compelled to shed them both. If his love had become jealousy, +hers had become fear. + +Despairing of finding some anchor for the desire she still had to +love something, she let a child live and quicken under her heart. It +was some time before she let her husband know what was coming. When +he realised it, all his queerness came to the surface. Though he +hung around her still like a hawk around a chicken coop, he showed no +gentler shade of feeling toward her. His eyes seemed to pass through +her and to strike into the oblique future. However interesting she +might have become, he was no longer interested in her personally. His +mind and soul were concentrated on the coming child, of whom he quickly +became jealous to the exclusion even of the poor all-including mother. +The sense of paternal possession proved stronger than any marital +pride. As father of the coming child he demanded some sympathy and +praise, and finally took to his bed in expectation of visits, gifts, +and finally congratulations. + +John Goldenough’s thoughts carried him afar. The occasion was solemn +enough in all conscience. It was possible that a future head of +Goldenough Brothers was shortly approaching the earth. If the child +were male, what a vista opened before the heir and successor of +himself! In political circles a Plumbing Peerage had already been +mooted, and if Plumbing, like Beer, Shipyards and tintacks, was to +produce a Peerage, who could be more suitable than John Goldenough? +To the man in the street the plumbing age was synchronous with the +rise and fame of the great firm. And each time that John Goldenough’s +name was mentioned, the pulse of every plumber in the Empire beat +higher. It was an heir to his future Peerage that he imagined. He +could not sufficiently impress upon his wife the care, the thought, +and the isolation which must surround her in a prospect of such +importance. Dull and listless, she awaited the days of dreariness; +the weeks of weariness, which prelude motherhood. He had caused her +to occupy a room at the end of the passage, in which he himself lay +camped, intercepting her presents and friends, and taking up more of +the doctor’s time than the patient herself. He felt a new importance, +and demanded the same reverence in the home that he received in the +plumbing world. He resented every attention she received, all of which +in some oblique process of thought he wished to be applied to himself. +The child was his, and he felt an uncontrollable sense of possession +welling under his sense of pompous pride. He grudged every moment +that the child remained part of its mother. He longed for the speedy +dissolution of their company, when he could take the child into his +arms and show the world that it was his and his only. + +The moment came unexpectedly, for neither the doctor nor nurse was +under the roof when John Goldenough was awakened from sleep by the +premature groans of his wife. He roused himself and hurried into the +room in which she was confined. He stumbled twice and switched on the +light with delay. To his horror he saw that he was late. The child had +been born! He rushed to the bell to ring the alarm and to bring medical +aid. Then he hesitated, rushed to the bedside and lifted the baby into +the awaiting cot and blanket. It was a boy, and a fierce burst of pride +and satisfaction outweighed any anxiety rising in his mind for the +mother, who lay quietly breathing in the exhaustion of accomplished +pain. It was a boy! That was the great thing. Goldenough Brothers would +be perpetuated through the ages! + +Vistas of cosmic thought swept through his brain during those seconds. +He looked back unto the foundation of Goldenough Brothers if not as far +as the beginning of the world, and he looked ahead and saw the firm +majestically installed around the world. Where the name of Goldenough +was not known was simply not civilisation; that was all. If he had +had imagination, his mind might have visualised the firm in Biblical +guise contracting for the water-pipes of Babel. But his social and +personal pride was sufficient to inspire him to mutter, “John, second +Lord Goldenough,” as he lifted and laid down the infant. He covered him +with the blanket and returned to the bell. With his finger upon the +knob again he hesitated. He heard an arresting groan from his wife. +It was the first notice he had taken of her. Once more his thought +flashed ahead murkily, and he foresaw her recovery, her maternal +triumph, her possession of his boy, perhaps as intimate and absorbing +as his mother’s devotion to himself. And he shuddered with jealousy. +It was his boy and he wanted no mother’s tender care to soften the +strong abiding bond between father and son. He glanced at the child’s +cot. In the far past of buried deeds and dead thoughts he recalled a +child’s cot similar to this one. It gave him a dreamy sensation of some +previous existence, some underground occurrences, but very far back. He +could not recollect the circumstance, but the sight of the baby in the +cot filled him with a vivid and fierce desire to be rid of something. +Flaming jealousy demanded blood. His eye fell full on his wife, and +a passion of murderous envy coloured the very retina of his eye. He +could not bear to think that the success, the joy and the satisfaction +of the boy’s birth would redound to her. He would have liked to kill +her, and to throw the nightlight upon the sheets if he could be certain +that they would have risen in solid, enveloping, destroying flame. +His finger still hovered on the unpressed bell. The alarm had not been +given, and it crossed the cunning of his frantic mind that, if he +waited a while, perhaps she would die of her own exhaustion. She had +not recovered consciousness. Perhaps she never would. + +He stood feeling the bell knob. She gave another deep groan, and moved +as though in helpless signal for aid. He guessed that she was slowly +expiring of hæmorrhage. The baby was quiet, and he needed only to +stand there waiting and watching till the right moment came to sound +the bell. He would be found there striving to save her by her bedside, +the perfect type of the mourning, maladroit husband. It was a question +of timing the doctor’s arrival in order that it might appear that +everything had been done, but that the Hand of God had been lifted +against good Brother Goldenough, so prosperous and happy in all other +affairs of life. In his mind he was already dictating the notices which +would appear in the local Press in edifying eulogy of his dead wife and +in considerate sympathy for himself. His finger trembled on the bell. +Still he waited. A rattle of breath had begun to sound in her uncovered +throat. Her broken body began to heave like a rudderless ship. Then she +fell quiet and seemed to sink like a corpse under the debris of the +bed. With a calm finger John Goldenough deliberately rang the electric +bell. + +The house was roused, but it was half an hour before the doctor arrived +in a terrible state of anxiety. He had confidently prophesied the +birth for the following week. Meantime hysterical maids had chafed his +wife’s hands and poured brandy into her icy mouth. The doctor felt her +pulse and turned aside to the baby, which he lifted and examined with +continued anxiety. John Goldenough had retired, leaving the medical +profession to clear his work. + +Returning to his room he waited for the first bulletin. Nurses arrived +and the doctor’s colleagues were summoned. Apparently she was making a +fight of it yet. An hour passed. + +The doctor, with a ghastly face, presented himself at John Goldenough’s +door. “I am sorry to have to bring such bad news.” + +John Goldenough looked up with assumed despair. “My poor wife, my poor +wife!” he said, and buried his face with much fantastic sobbing in his +hands. + +The doctor laid his hand on his shoulder and said: “Your wife, I am +happy to say, will live, though she has had a narrow escape.” + +John Goldenough stood upright. “What is your bad news, then?” he asked +feebly. + +“The boy is dead. He must have been born an hour before my arrival. His +umbilical cord was never fastened, and he bled to death. If I could +have arrived only half an hour sooner!” And he passed out. + + + + +THE DRUMMER OF GORDONMUIR + + +Two years before the war broke out, I became trustee to Allan Gordon, +of Gordonmuir, in the county of Argyle and kingdom of Scotland. He +was not more than a fledged schoolboy when he inherited his uncle’s +property and the nominal chieftainship of the clan. My connection was +distant, but I was persuaded by his aunt to supervise his affairs. A +week later, I found myself sitting in the “Flying Scotchman” with an +old lawyer for colleague, who confided to me that he did not expect the +estate to bear our travelling expenses. + +Late that night, after a ten miles’ drive from the station in the +drenching embrace of a Scotch mist, we reached Gordonmuir. I was +chilled to the heart when I first viewed the mixture of Indian bungalow +and mediæval dungeon that made up Allan’s mansion. In the centre was +a stone keep, ivy-clad, crumbling, and crenellated. On either wing +in the inclosure, where they used to herd the stolen cattle, was a +modern shooting box attached with the minimum of architectural art. My +companion shivered in the gaunt doorway like one of his old parchments +crackling in a draught. But Allan ran out, as cheery and cock-a-hoop as +the chieftain’s feather in his bonnet. He seemed the one representative +of joy and life within that grisly precinct. + +We passed the whole of the next day discussing wills and mortgages +in the dead jargon of Scots law. My colleague wished to pay off the +mortgages and the annuity due to Allan’s aunt, but there was equally +the question of Allan’s allowance at the university to be considered, +and I plumped for as much as the rickety estate would allow. I felt +that college life comes but once, and not to everybody, and that three +hundred pounds was necessary to uphold the dignity of a young laird +thrown among Jews and Saxons. + +The lawyer insisted on cutting it down to fifty, to preserve what he +called a “feenancial aspeect.” But Allan was satisfied; and so was I, +when I found that his gratitude took the form of free trout-fishing +for life. Trustees are not generally rewarded; in fact, as my gloomy +colleague reiterated, they are oftener liable to terms of imprisonment +for inadvertently touching trust money with other than the legal end of +the poker. So I left the rest of the business to his care and started +out to test Allan’s trout--in my opinion the most valuable stock he +possessed. + +The old lawyer remained perfectly content wheezing snuff to blow away +the damp that rose out of the old parchments, while Allan and I were +whipping the neighbouring lakes with iron-bodied flies twisting at the +end of silver gut. After a week’s work, the lawyer left us to ourselves +for good. + +“There are grand sheepskins in your chest,” he told Allan, on +departing, “and specimens of Scotch law in all its manifold +application. And there’s much of interest concerning your family, much +of good report and some of ill--and one tale among the papers that I +reserve for your ears alone, though your gillie, Murdoch, whom I have +been questioning, can serve you the popular version.” + +When the lawyer had gone, I never cared to ask Allan what this might +be; and reticence is to be encouraged in youth. It was not for two +years that I was to learn. + +Meantime, I had taken vacations regularly at Gordonmuir. Every autumn +I travelled north with a skein of trout lines and feather flies in my +lap. It is the one perfect occupation in a train. It plies the heart +with reminiscence and expectation by turns. It soothes away more hours +of motion than reading or talking, and it leaves the mind active and +the fingers nimble at the end of the journey. Often have I thought of +patenting it as a railway amusement, but then the true and complete +anglers whom it would occupy are diminished to few in the land. + +I used to arrive at Gordonmuir with my cap and pockets bristling +with silk flies and lengths of gut every autumn. And Gordonmuir in +autumn!--when the skies have settled into their summer sheen and the +red heath is running to dull purple; when the long, billowy hills lie +reflected on the waters that float above their foundations in the +Hebridean sea, hills that change their marine flora a few yards above +the rocky tide belt for all the sweeter weeds of earth--sea pinks for +mountain heather and the long yellow tide ribbons for the crisp bracken +and harts-tongue ferns. Hills of transformation and wonder! At their +feet the heavy, opaque water of the sea lounges over rocks studded +with green limpets and suckstones, while in their hollows, under the +clouds above, the bubbling springs run into fresh streams and lakes. +But the best contrast of all is furnished by the coarse, lubberly +fish that basks under the shadow of the rocks, fit only for the seine +net and the spear of the poacher; a fish without a soul. But a good +Providence replaces him in the higher, dew-fed waters with the merry +brook trout--as gamy a jester, in his motley of red spot and yellow, as +ever tumbled at one end of a fifty-foot line. + +It was this perennial sport that drove away the gloom and discomfort +attached to Allan’s residence. He kept no servant but Murdoch, who +was better at twisting flies than making beds, and could stalk game +more easily that he could cook it. The house itself remained dreary +even when flooded by the five thousand acres of sunshine included in +the property. It looked what it was--the half-dismantled mansion of a +line of fighters and spendthrifts. Even at night, Allan’s red family +claret and silver-sconce lights--sole heirlooms besides a lock of the +Pretender’s hair--were as insufficient to clear the gauntness of the +atmosphere as the burning sunset and white starlight to drive the +evening mists from the hills. + +But our days were largely spent in the open air, and evening found +us too tired to care whether our shelter was uncanny or not. Matters +ghostly were drowned in the steam of smoking cakes and trout baked +so fresh that their red spots showed like red wax under the melting +butter. And now that the old days have passed away and that the iron +has swept over our home life, it is good to look back and enjoy their +memory. + +By the summer of last year, Allan had completed his second year at +Oxford, and I was enjoying my third successive holiday for his and +his estate’s benefit. We had fished together through a sun-smitten +June, and filled a rush basket daily with peacock-coloured troutlings. +About the middle of July, a strange thing broke the lazy monotony of +life--the first, and I hope the last, of its kind to come to me. + +We had finished our supper one night, and I was sitting alone at the +open casement of the dining-room, watching the wonderful twilight night +that doubles summertime for those who live in northern latitude. It was +so light that the birds were stirring and calling on the moors around. +So full was the air of the elusive, haunting sounds of the Highlands +that I found myself listening to a steady drumming beyond the chestnuts +in the avenue without remembering exactly how or when it started. It +was a distinct tap-tap-tap, followed by a sequence of rub-a-dubbing, +and then a full drum symphony; a simple old tune, but, coming in the +white night, it sounded eerie beyond words. + +For the moment I could only imagine it was some kind of monstrous +woodpecker, and I went upstairs to ask Allan if there were such a +species. He laughed loud at my ornithology, and in a burst of rank +college wit mixed a long name out of the Latin for owl and my own +patronymic for the new midnight bird, discovered by a south Briton +travelling in high latitude. + +But his mirth quieted when I insisted that it sounded like a drum. He +seemed startled, and jerked down the creaky stairway. A minute later he +rang for Murdoch, and I heard him talking in a calm undertone, which I +confess did not prepare me for the quaking tones of his gillie’s reply. +It did not sound like the brawny mountaineer I had known for weeks +without suspecting a chink in his heart. But there could be no doubt, +judging from his voice, that Murdoch was exceedingly afraid. And fear +in the unsubtle is not as the fear of the educated--it is something +far more primitive. A college man can temper his fears with scepticism, +but an honest, superstitious gillie is without help. Murdoch was as +changed as the hills in winter. He trembled, and the sweat ran off his +face. + +“Oh, Master Allan, Master Allan, I know well that drumming! It can only +be the Drummer of Gordonmuir that I was telling to you.” + +“Holy God!” said Allan. “Not so soon again! Who can he come for now? +I’m not nearly old enough.” + +“Heaven will need to watch over you day and night, my poor Master +Allan,” moaned Murdoch. + +This sounded strange to me. I had never heard Allan invoke his Creator +before, for he had streaks of Scotch righteousness remaining in his +otherwise untheological nature. He turned around as I descended the +stairs. + +“Come in here and listen!” he said. + +The drumming had ceased. + +“I don’t hear a sound of it. Perhaps it was imagination,” I said, +listening carefully. + +“No, I mean listen to the story,” he answered quickly. “But first tell +me honestly what you made of it.” + +“Well, Allan,” I could only reply, “I’ve already told you that since +there is no species of woodpecker that drills into Scotch timber +at midnight with a sound you can hear a mile off, it struck me as +remarkably like a drum.” + +Allan stood at the open window for a moment before shoving the casement +down with a jerk. + +“That’s what it is exactly, and probably my aunt is dead now.” And he +left me in the room with this enigma, in order to comfort Murdoch, who +was on his knees outside, muttering what sounded uncommonly like spells +against witchcraft. + +He sent Murdoch to bed, and then poured out some brandy. + +“I suppose you have some inkling of what that drum means,” he said, +handing me a glass. “I’d better tell you the story now, at least what +our friend, the lawyer, put together from letters in the muniment-room. +You know, of course, that we have a fetch, like all well-regulated +families in the Highlands. The whole county believes in the Drummer +of Gordonmuir, who plays the unholy part of death-watch to our little +establishment. The lawyer found a paper that described the movements of +the clan when we turned out for Prince Charlie in 1745. Apparently they +shared in his first successes, for they sent back an English drummer +prisoner. Two of them were left to guard him, and, because he wouldn’t +play some rebel air, they lowered him down the wellhead up to his shins +in water. But, barbarous as they were in those times, I don’t think +they intended his death. + +“After the Battle of Culloden, there was some alarm of the English +coming, and they scattered to the hills, forgetting their prisoner, I +suppose; at least they left him to his friends, if they believed they +were coming. But the English never came, and the poor drummer was left +drumming vainly in that wellhead to attract attention. It must have +been a weary death. + +“Weeks afterward, the clansmen crept home, and my ancestor had to +invent excuses and alibis to save his property from confiscation. They +found the prisoner lying in the well with his sheepskin drummed right +through and the drumsticks chewed in his teeth. It was an ugly thing to +find under the place where our rearing and living and dying were due to +go on till doomsday. If ever a spirit had the leisure, and, I am sorry +to say, just cause to possess itself of a family mansion, it was surely +that drummer. + +“At first there was talk about building on a fresh site, but lack of +funds drove them to the alternative of burying the drummer, with an +iron stake to pin his body to the bottom of the sea in a place where +two tides meet. I suppose they got the recipe from some old witch who +had escaped the faggots in the previous century. They burned the drum +on a fire of dead men’s bones, and filled up the wellhead with all +manner of heathenish rites. + +“But it was not the least good. The drummer rose out of the sea, and +he has drummed every Gordon of Gordonmuir, male or female, cradled or +crutched, into the kirkyard when their day came. He drums up yonder +whenever one of our family is going to die. He generally gives us a +week or a month’s warning, as he feels inclined. Murdoch will tell +you how he drummed my poor uncle frantic before he died, four years +ago. That’s why he is scared for me. Personally, I feel too hale to be +anxious, and, besides, I have come to the comfortable conclusion that +my aunt is dying and her annuity with her.” And he tried to laugh. + +Neither of us could strip or sleep that night, sitting bolt upright +over our brandy till the morning. We listened and listened, and whether +it was only the wild echo of my imagination or that Allan’s aunt was +very hard of dying, I am persuaded that we heard the drumming come and +go, go and come, the whole night. + +It was several days before we warmed to the fishing again, and even +then Murdoch’s gloom turned us into mutes. Allan cheered up, however, +became hilarious even, when a judicious inquiry as to his aunt’s health +brought a favourable reply. My last traces of uneasiness were dissolved +a day later in the death struggles of a tremendous six-pound trout with +a back of Tyrian purple and a hooked under jaw like Punch. + +In such wise we fished away our last days together on earth, and I +would not change their manner even if I had them back again. + +The gradual approach of autumn made the passage of July more beautiful +than ever. The stone pines stood waiting for winter in their burnished +green, while the chestnuts below flushed to crimson as if with +modesty at the coming nudity of their boughs. Under them all, the +wood bracken sobered to yellow and then to burnt madder, until it +became indistinguishable from the earth tint. Farther below, the +summer-coloured sea heaved through masses of orange weed the sunlight +seemed to have charmed out of her submerged gardens. And with the dying +splendour of summer passed away the last days of peace. + +August brought war. + +It makes a short story to tell what occurred in the weeks following. +Allan left Gordonmuir immediately to rejoin his university’s training +corps, of which he was a member. His family name and county standing +procured him a probationary commission in a Scotch regiment already +serving in France. He left for the war, with Murdoch as his soldier +servant, and I saw him no more. He did not reach the actual front +until after the retreat of the British army from Mons, but he was in +time to share in the astounding battle of Ypres, and, alas! to perish +in its final stages. The brief War Office telegram announcing his +death, with Lord Kitchener’s regrets, was sent to his trustees. + +Allan was the last of the Gordons of Gordonmuir. As his sole relative, +his aunt, declined to live there in his stead, the house has been +abandoned, and it may be said that the curse of the Gordons has come +home to roost in its decaying timbers for ever. + +Yet that is not all. + +Six weeks later, I found myself a few miles behind the battle front +where Allan had been killed. I had volunteered my services as an +interpreter, and was posted to the unwarlike business of searching the +German prisoners for documents and diaries, which I translated for +the intelligence of the general staff as well as my limited German +permitted. + +One day I was crossing the street in the little French town where we +were quartered when some of our wounded were brought in. One of them +called out to me by name in a piteous tone, but I did not recognise who +lay under the red linen bandages till the voice went on: + +“Eh, man, do ye not remember that famous trout we were catching +together?” + +It was Murdoch. He had been hit in the head, and was raving, but he +knew me and continued to call for me and Allan, while they lifted him +into the temporary hospital. I visited him regularly, and when he was +better, he was able to tell me the circumstances of Allan’s death: + +“It was terrible, just terrible, from the start to the finish. We were +marched one way and another and posted at last about the city they call +‘Wipers.’ Master Allan was given a ditch to hold, which is no proper +covering for a Highland gentleman. To the right was a wood lined by +an English regiment, and on the other side of us was the colonel and +the rest of our men. The shells never stopped falling out of the air +like invisible rocks that blew to dust before you could mark them. +Soon the Germans began to come across the fields as packed as a shoal +of fish, and squalling like the gulls that follow the fish in the +bay--stout-looking men with spikes on their heads like the first show +of a stag’s antler. + +“We all fired away, making easy shooting. Master Allan took my rifle, +and I sat loading for him until it was too hot to touch. When all +the men next to us were killed, we picked up their rifles and stood +together committing manslaughter without thought of judge or jury. But +the Germans never ceased coming, and the men in our ditch grew fewer +and fewer with the shell fire. Every now and again there came a burst +among us like a quarry blast, save that it was limbs and pieces of men +that fell out of the air afterward instead of bits of rock. And blood +enough there was running out of that ditch to taint the Solway Firth. + +“At last, after the wounded were taken to the rear, there was only +Master Allan and myself left. A little farther on, we could see the +colonel and a single private loading his rifle for him. The colonel +sent him for reinforcements, but he never came back. Then the colonel +signalled to me to join him. I crawled down the ditch to his side, and +he told me to take word to his commander that his bit of the line was +worn away, and to ask should he rely on angels or fresh troops to hold +it. + +“I left them there, Master Allan and the colonel, firing their +shoulderful of rifles in unison, so as to give the Germans the +impression that they were still in good force. I started crawling and +running in turns till I came across an outpost, who took me to the +general’s head-quarters--just a table behind a blackened hayrick, but +it was good protection. + +“The general gave a grim laugh when I delivered the message, and told +me that he had just sent the last cooks and camp followers up to the +line with rifles. + +“‘And tell your colonel,’ he added, with a look that might have been +either despair or mockery, ‘that he had better rely on angels for lack +of more material reinforcement, but you can also add that we do not +expect the Germans to come on again. They seem to have had enough of it +for to-day.’ + +“I set out to make my way back, and had crossed half-way over the +sticky fields when I heard a sound that set my heart beating harder +than the German cannonading could make it. You would hardly believe it, +but I heard the rolling of a drum up in the clouds. At first I couldn’t +distinguish it above the booming of the guns and the crackling of the +rifle fire. But there came a lull, and the drum began rapping out like +the crying of the moor fowl between the discharges of a thunderstorm, +and it brought the tears to my eyes and the fear of God to my heart, +for I know the Summoner of Gordonmuir by now, and, oh, to think that +he should have crossed the seas to play the last of the Gordons of +Gordonmuir home! It was a grand and wonderful sound to hear the noise +of battle dying away to our right and the artillery bursting out on our +left, and all the while, above German and Scotch and English, our bonny +Drummer playing the devil’s own march out of God’s sky! + +“But before I found the ditch again, I lost my way and the darkness +came over me. I was hit by a bullet in the leg, and the loss of blood +took the heart and the feeling out of me, and I just lay down within +sound of the Drummer and waited to die. In the morning, they picked me +up unconscious, but not too badly hurt, for I was back in the line a +fortnight later. + +“But Master Allan and his colonel, they found them lying where I had +left them, in the midst of a pile of empty rifles. The Germans never +dared come up to the pair of them, though they could have marched +straight forward and none to hinder them. Maybe they were afeared and +maybe their bones were too heavy, and maybe the Drummer of Gordonmuir +had drummed holy terror into their souls. I am thinking that the +Germans must be an unholy people and displeasing to Almighty God, that +He should allow the heathen spirits and kelpies out of the woods to +come all the way from Scotland to discourage them!” + +Poor Murdoch! He was hard hit this time, and he began to rave again. +It was the same story he told again and again until the night he died, +holding my hand and calling out to Allan. I have no doubt that he is +acting gillie to him somewhere in the next world, beyond space and the +other side of time. He would not have wished to live after his chief. + + * * * * * + +A month later, a postscript to this story reached me as strangely +as such things can occur. I was sitting up one night in my billet, +translating a batch of German papers and sorting what useful +intelligence I could glean from the epistolary rigmarole, when a +written date stabbed me like a knife. + +It was the date of the day on which Allan had been killed, and it +headed what purported to be a private soldier’s account of the fighting +from the side of the attack. I read it through very carefully and then +made a translation, not for the use of the general staff, but for the +trustees of Gordonmuir. The last page ran as follows: + + + _Before Ypres, October 31, 1914._ + + In spite of the fierce attacks which we delivered during the day, + the English line was not perceptibly thinned in any direction where + we could push our final thrust. At one point of attack we could + distinctly hear the drums of the enemy playing all the time to the + rear, which showed that they had available men in that direction. + This, together with a slackening of fire, gave us to understand that + it was a ruse. We shifted our attack accordingly down the line, but + up to this moment we have not yet broken through. + + + + +THE SUPREME COMPLIMENT + + +She was very beautiful, far and away the most beautiful feminine +divinity of our generation. It was a puzzle how the Manufacturer of +Gods and Goddesses achieved her manufacture with the human elements at +His disposal, for even the most exquisite skeleton of whittled ivory +as a background and the finest modelling of the refined and rosy clay +of girlhood, all tightly and attractively enclosed in the thinnest +and most transparent chicken-skin, could not account for the charm of +Melissa Delme. Minute were the saphenous veins underlying her satined +skin. Her eyes were glaucous as those of the grey-eyed Athena. Her hair +was as barley-sugar finely spun. Her lips tied a tiny tulip. Her feet +were quicksilver. No reference to her stage success is needed. From the +moment that she first appeared at the Hounslow Hippodrome to the series +of rapturous farewells for ever associating her name with Worthing +Pier, her professional path was a rose alley and her private life a +continual and seraphic serenade. + +Perhaps that was why it was so dull. It was all Up without Down. Her +whole life worked like a little piece of divine clockwork. Delicate as +was her art, her success was machinelike. It was too perfect to admit +of any criticism or even of much discussion. It is true there was some +division in the Clubs as to whether she sang better than she acted or +whether she played the violin better than either. At White’s a vote +was actually taken and her power of song exalted above her expression +in music. The Travellers’, on the other hand, decided that she danced +even better than she sang. At the Bachelors’, however, these matters +remained too painful for discussion. + +So her life remained unutterably dull. Every man who met her fell in +love punctually at the third minute, and remained doing and saying +and presumably thinking the same things at scheduled intervals. The +London male seemed to be furbished and furnished from the same gigantic +slot-machine. She had only to drop a pennyworth of smile and press +with her hand, for the same wearisome sequel to follow, the same inane +amatory collapse, the same letters, the same flowers to match the cut +and dry compliments, the same proposals. For a fortnight she once fled +to America in wild hope of variety and adventure, but returned sadly +after enduring the same accents and the same accidents from New York to +Chicago, and back. + +Melissa Delme remained on the stage for two years of crowded life +and crowded audiences. But the greater the crowds that flocked to +see and hear her, the more lonely she became. She was too bright a +constellation to become companionable. Had she been less a paragon she +might have found a paramour. But she remained as intact and virtuous as +a marble statue in the midst of a shopful of brittle and vulgar Chelsea +china. She was really a little too beautiful and it had made her +capricious and careless. Some women try to resemble posters, but it was +the posters that tried to look like Melissa Delme. She had long ceased +to care whether she was admired or not. She only cared whether she +admired herself. All other admiration was commonplace, but the flashing +compliments of her mirror were Narcissan and acceptable. Externally she +became exquisitely unique. Within she remained unabatingly bored. She +never expected to fall in love. The God, Who made her, had exhausted +Himself, and in finishing His masterpiece forgot or withheld one thing, +the capability of receiving or feeling love. So she remained the +divine masterpiece and mistress of no man. Then the time came when she +was understood to be considering proposals and they multiplied, but +without disclosing more originality than so many tenders from British +tradesmen. The first note of variety occurred in the letter of a +Cabinet Minister in Holland. She read it and took it as a joke, but in +the end she married him and took a Dutch treat. Tell it not in White’s +and whisper it not at the Bachelors’ Club! It appeared that he held a +very responsible position in his own country as Minister of Cheeses. So +she settled down in the romantic Hague and gave birth to a succession +of little Dutch dolls. There is no foundation to the rumour that she +was the only woman to cause jealousy to the Queen of Holland. She was +never anything but virtuous, beautiful and bored. In the end her beauty +bored herself. She was too beautiful; that was all. There was no flaw +in her morals or in her looks. She was only discovered to be not quite +human, which was not surprising as she had been created a Goddess. + +But it is historical to relate that supreme efforts were made during +her sparkling career on the stage to deviate her virtue and to keep +her for England. + +When all ordinary compliments had failed, the more ingenious of +her admirers set themselves on the path of invention. One of them +sent her a beautiful leather toilet bag with every article made in +chocolate--chocolate hair-brushes, chocolate flasks and bottles, +chocolate scissors and manicure with enough silver-paper to give +the illusion of reality. She played with it for half an hour before +she sent it to the Children’s Hospital. I mention this comparative +success, for the idea was originally mine and was carried out by my +dear friend Ernest Beaugent, who spent the best years of his life +and genius courting Melissa Delme. His hot rival during those years +was his brother Peter, who on hearing of the success of my chocolate +immediately and recklessly capped the gift the next day by sending +her a whole portmanteau stuffed with sweets. That was possibly +why confectionery figured so considerably in his later bankruptcy +proceedings. Then Melissa took to skating, and all her admirers +ransacked the dealers for skates--iron skates, steel skates, American +skates, Swiss skates, Norwegian skates. However, Peter triumphed for a +winter by having a pair of skates made of gold with steel blades. Gold +skates could not be trumped, and it was not till the spring that Ernest +found occasion to cap the compliment. + +It was over camellias. In those days flowers were often unprocurable +in England. There was no flower express from the Riviera. The flower +industry in the Channel Isles had not been developed. To ask for a +bunch of camellias in January was like asking for plovers’ eggs at +Christmas. Yet that was exactly what Melissa asked of Ernest one +Monday morning, presumably to be quit of his attentions for the week. +She was going to the Opera on the Wednesday and said she would much +like to carry a bouquet of camellias. Instead of offering her the +moon on a silver salver or a slice of the sun, would he be practical +enough to procure so simple a nosegay? Ernest went out thinking. That +night he crossed to Paris. Melissa must have thought no more of him, +for he afterwards learnt that she had ordered herself a large spray of +artificial blossoms. He crossed to Paris because he did not believe +that the camellias were really impossible to obtain. He happened to +be a railway director by trade, and one of an inventive turn of mind. +Though born a gentleman and bred a graduate, he had surprised Victorian +society by becoming a competent engine-driver. He had qualified in all +the tests, and every Saturday instead of a ride in the Park or joining +a shooting-party he used to drive an Express to some watering-place +on the South Coast. He was on the Company’s reserve list of drivers +in case of invasion or railway strike. And in emergency he was always +liable to be summoned. Several times he had driven Royalty without +mention of his name being made in the Court Circular. It remains, by +the way, for a Labour Government to insert among the names of guests or +preachers who have the honour of boring their Majesties the names of +the honest engineers and stokers who have the honour of driving them. + +Ernest’s Directorship enabled him to keep back the next train due to +leave for Calais, which being duly caught he sat back and let thoughts +run through his brain valves with an open throttle. He reached Paris +the next morning and called on his French colleagues, who were +Directors of the lines to the Riviera. Haltingly but obstinately he +explained how important it was that he should have certain flowers in +London by the evening of the following day. It was believed that there +was one horticulturist in the South of France who kept a camellia farm. + +He had long held the repute of a mad Englishman among his French +colleagues and his predilection for driving engines appeared only +a vagary of sport. It was more conceivable to them that he should +want a special train to fetch camellias from the Riviera, but even +so whether it was, as he said, for a wedding or, as they suspected, +_pour complimenter une dame_, it seemed an inconceivable luxury. They +suggested telegraphing and arranging for the next train from the +Riviera to bring a few blossoms on his behalf. He assented wildly and +waited a day and a night in Paris. He was fond of describing how the +Riviera Express reached Paris on the early morning of Wednesday leaving +him one half-hour to transfer the expected bouquet of camellias to the +first train leaving for London. What was his amazement when he found +the officials of the train struggling under three huge baskets full! + +There was just time to convey them from the _Paris, Lyon Méditerranée_ +station to the train at the _Gare du Nord_. That evening he reached +her apartment and sent a fresh bouquet to her while she was dressing. +The answer was an invitation to her box that night. He had moved her +at last! The compliment had shot home and it only remained for him to +crown his deed by scattering the remainder of the flowers outside her +doors as a surprise. He emptied three basketfuls. There were a hundred +bunches at least in each and to his delight they carpeted the whole of +the tiny space between her dressing-room and her sitting-room. Bunch by +bunch he flowered the floor and went his way. The result could only be +imagined. When Melissa Delme swept out of her room in an opera cloak +of the colour of green agate with a silver lining she felt her feet +treading on something soft. It was a minute before she realised that +the carpet had changed its touch and texture during the time she had +taken to change herself into evening clothes. Later in the evening she +allowed Ernest to know that he had added a full minute’s delight to her +simpler emotions. It was undiluted triumph! + +News of Ernest’s _coup_ percolated the Clubs and led to more and more +serious attempts to win the unwinnable. His contemporaries racked +their brains and their bank accounts in the endeavour to surprise and +please her, but she was difficult to surprise and impossible to please. +For her generation she remained more than a little unattainable. She +was the great unattained. In fantasy I can visualise her now. She had +green-pupilled eyes like emeralds washed under spring water, and hair +that was neither gold nor bronze. Her step was long famous on the +boards. It was said by critics to be precisely composed of a Fairy’s +falter, an Angel’s tread and a Dryad’s trip. The divinities entrusted +with her composition had very deceptively fitted layers of Aphrodite +and Adonis in the mould without vitiating the exquisiteness of her sex. +Her boyishness made her girlishness even more feminine. Her femininity +framed her boyishness to perfection. While she reigned on the stage, +her dazzling purity, based on boredom and the unfortunate omission of +one vital element in her celestial make-up, made the acting profession +even more respectable than it really is. Clergymen’s daughters applied +for places in the Chorus; an Archdeacon’s wife wrote a play called +“Archidiaconal Functions,” which three Bishops incidentally denounced +by Pastoral without having read, and several Dowagers wrote to Mr. +Edwardes of the Gaiety Theatre giving permission for their unmarried +daughters to play leading parts. + +And all the while Ernest was devising new ways of surprising her, and +his brother was trying to cap and supplant him. Ernest’s love became +Platonic perforce. He took the habit of inquiring her holiday movements +and taking the engine-driver’s place on the metals. It pleased him +fiercely to think that her life unwittingly was in his hands; that he +was even directing her path and her speed; that while she lay back in +cushioned companionship he kept lone watch spying out her lightning +track, as though it had been granted to him to carry her through space. +The first time he had hopped off the cab at the end of the journey and +revealed himself under his oily rags she was more than surprised. For +the second time in his life he had pleased her. No admirer hitherto had +adopted such an unexpected disguise of approach. The second time he +appeared to her as an engine-driver she took no notice. In the end he +was content to drive the trains in which she was travelling out of pure +and unrewarded intellectual love. + +Peter had no profession or accomplishments, so he could only waste ways +and means to keep step with his brother’s courtship of Melissa. He +once crossed the Continent to watch her change trains at York. She was +staying in a country house, to which he had failed of an invitation, +but he travelled two days and a night to be in time to meet her on the +platform and to carry her wraps to the next. Then he waited bareheaded +while her train drew out. + +Soon after this romantic excursion Peter’s affairs passed from bad to +worse financially, and finally a family conclave met to decide whether +to cut his losses or cut him adrift. Peter was the only light-hearted +person at this domestic trial and investigation. Though Melissa was +never mentioned, it was found that his debts had been largely incurred +in planning and conducting surprises, parties and compliments on +her behalf. His family were grave but generous. Ernest, as head of +the family, took a lenient view towards one whom he considered an +ineffectual rival; the game was in his hands. He suggested that his +brother should leave the country and promise his family not to return +provided they guaranteed him a tolerable income out of their own +inheritances. Peter’s future was thus settled. After the meeting Peter +approached his brother and rather limply muttered that he was sorry +to have caused all this trouble, but that if his brother would lend +him sixty pounds down that day he would gladly sail to Australia and +forgo the annuity his relations so kindly proposed for him. He promised +they would never hear of him again unless he struck gold or won the +Melbourne Cup. Ernest looked into his brother’s sheepy eyes and felt +moved both to pity and economy. It was surely better to present him +with sixty pounds then and there than to give him a banker’s order for +an annual hundred. He drove him to the Bank and gave him the sum in +crisp new notes, said good-bye handsomely and returned to his Club. He +had reason to feel virtuous, generous and comfortable. + +An hour later he was about to sit down to a good dinner when a +messenger arrived from the Terminus station-master with an emergency +summons to drive a Special to the South Coast that evening. He looked +at his watch. He had twenty minutes to get to Victoria and look over +his engine. It always did him good mentally and physically to drive a +fast train to the sea, especially a small one made up of Saloon and +Guard’s Van. He could imagine making a speed record with no stops. +He was at Victoria in ten minutes. His overalls were ready and his +favourite fireman was already wiping the clutches with an oil rag. It +was a new powerful engine, the finest on the line, and he spent every +minute before the start fingering and touching levers and parts. Steam +had brought the boiler to the point of exasperation. At the sound of +the whistle he loosed the engine with a sniff and a plunge across the +Thames. It was exhilarating to gather speed and he had no thought +of the occupants of the Saloon--semi-royalties or South American +millionaires, no doubt. He gave them a rippling run over the steel +threads through Surrey and Kent. The engine throbbed and danced to +all the emotions that are procurable to steam and grease and steel, +and Ernest made the dash of his life--one indeed that he was never to +forget, though it was years before he dared tell, even in the secret +recesses of his Club. + +As he neared Folkestone he felt proud of his own driving. He had not +lost a minute out of the fastest expected time. He was moving the +engine across the points as slickly as a dancer moves his partner in +and out of corners on a dancing floor. He slowed the train down to an +exact standstill like a musician bringing to final poise and close some +great piece upon the organ. He felt the great instrument of hissing +pipes and pounding pistons and escaping winds sink under his powerful +handling to a solemn standstill. But when all was over and the fireman +was creeping round the front of the engine with the oiler, Ernest felt +a certain curiosity to see what particular Pasha or Serene Highness or +Great Mogul or plain New Yorker could have afforded the cost of such +a trip. Slipping off the panting mass of metal he passed round the +station into the waiting-room, through which the passengers were bound +to pass. With a greater throb at heart than the engine had given in +its fastest moments, Ernest reeled. He had recognised that the Serene +Highness in this case was Melissa Delme. He could only pull the greasy +cap off his head and stand to foolish attention. Whether she deigned +to recognise him or not he never knew, for he devoted his eyesight +to exchanging a long and meaning look with the Pasha. The Pasha was +brother Peter! Ernest said he just stood and choked, as though he had +swallowed a lump of train grease. When the couple had both disappeared +in the direction of the Boulogne boat he began to feel that there was +something magnificent in his brother’s performance. Ernest crawled home +on a goods train and on arrival at Victoria inquired what the cost of +the Special had been. He was told that it had cost just sixty pounds! + + + + +A STUDY IN SMOKE + + +All that winter of the war men laboured at furious speed to furnish +the guns which the British Government had forgotten to make before the +war. Guns were needed imperatively for the navy, and even more for the +hapless army bogged in Flanders mud. So the factories and foundries of +Woolhurst worked at full pressure. The factories screamed and glittered +through day and night, and the foundries drew a muffled roar as an +occasional red mist burst out of their chimneys and a gun or part of a +gun was cast. It was slow but furious work--furious in the detail of +fire and molten metal, slow in the aggregate of fitting and testing +each mighty gun. Furious work for the sweltering workers, stokers, and +moulders, but slow, infinitely slow, to the waiting officials, and +slowest still for the officers and men waiting for gun equipment by +land or sea. + +To beget a gun on official paper is a different thing from its long +generation and growth in the foundries. An order can order but not +quicken a gun’s delivery. The most imperious official cannot make the +molten metal more malleable to man’s dire need. + +Thousands of workers wrought like cogs in a machine, surrendering +their thought and strength to the metal. The pay was good and the toil +overwhelming. There was no time or strength left to think of anything +except the immediate toil. They were fascinated and caught like moths +upon the outskirts of that chaotic bonfire for which they were binding +iron faggots and filling steel squibs. Cranes, lorries, and trucks +picked up their output and disappeared. There was no time to ask a +question. The harder and fiercer they worked, the sooner the war would +be over. Only madmen and Socialists asked why. The argument stood that +the higher and brighter the bonfire was piled, the sooner it would be +burnt out to a finish. No one in the Woolhurst factories queried the +uselessness and meaninglessness of all their labour except Ben, the +local Labour leader. Whatever he was known as to the officials, he was +Ben to his fellows, and always had been, in strike and out of strike +time. He worked with the rest but he did not think with them. The +bitter humours, which a little reading and much agitating had left in +his brain, were not dissipated in the burning fires of the foundry. He +grew bitter as he grew wearier. He felt careless whether he gave his +full power to the work of destroying the workmen of another country. It +was only the war of one ant-hill against another. Patriotism had not +caught him in the board-school, and less during his apprenticeship to +work. His education was what he had given himself out of the _Labour +Press_ and from second-hand copies of Marx and Carlyle. As he grew +careless, he grew clumsier and earned the curses of the foreman, as +far as curses availed against the hot blasts. He hated his work and +all around him.... He hated the great gun which they were casting in +molten form. He could see the white-hot metal pouring like milk out of +the furnace. The sight did not exhilarate him in the way it seemed to +inspire the others. His muscles relaxed and his eyes went languidly out +of focus. The seething mass of blazing liquid drew his languor into +itself. The foreman was still cursing. It needed only a touch to upset +his balance. Without a splash or a ripple he passed into the fiery mass +... an accident! + +There are times when a ship cannot be stopped for a paltry individual +who has fallen overboard, and the foundry could not be held up for one +man’s remains. A big gun is worth many human lives. Besides, he had +disappeared. Cremation was complete and total. + +By the time the glowing liquor had passed into the moulds and entered +into the long process of cooling, the human moth was charred to the +nothingness of carbon, and every bone and particle was digested by the +steel. His tomb not only enclosed but absorbed him. He had become part +and ingredient of his own sepulchre.... And there could be no inquest, +for there was no relic for a coroner’s inspection. Long before the gun +was adjusted with all its minute and meticulous parts, long before +it was tested and sent to a naval dockyard, the unfortunate man it +contained was forgotten, and had become as nameless and anonymous as +the gun itself. Nameless was the six-inch gun that was sent to sea, and +nameless let the cruiser remain on which it was hoisted. + + * * * * * + +For weary weeks _H.M.S. ----_ patrolled the northern mists, with a +brighter interval in the Mediterranean. Undeviating drill and perpetual +practice brought crews and armament to a stage of perfection bordering +on staleness. The chaplain came into the captain’s room with a puzzled +look. + +“Sick?” queried the skipper. + +“No,” said the chaplain, “I have been talking to the men.” + +“Not done talking to them yet?” laughed the other, who took a +good-natured but perfectly sceptical view about chaplains and their +functions. + +“Well, I should say,” suggested the chaplain, “that they have been +talking to me lately.” + +“What about?” + +“About spirits!” + +The captain shifted his foot and spun round: “I thought it was your +business to talk to them about spirits, and what you didn’t know about +the spiritual simply wasn’t spirits”--and he laughed outright. + +“This is not my kind of spirit.” + +“The men will want to be teaching me my job next!” exclaimed the +captain. + +“These are not the spirits of the Prayer Book so much as ...” + +“What?” + +“The spirits that are called ghosts.” + +“Well, are there no ghosts in the Bible?” + +“Yes, but not quite the same kind that the men have come to believe is +on board this ship.” + +Anything affecting the nerves of the men became a preoccupation of the +skipper, and he grew grave. + +“Go on.” + +“Well, sir, it is very like a hallucination, but I thought you had +better know what the men are thinking about, in case it is interfering +with their work. They do not like handling one of the starboard +six-inch guns.” + +“What do you mean? It is brand-new and tested to the ounce.” + +“The men think there is a spirit in that gun and that he appears every +time they fire the gun.” + +“Cannot they blow him out?” + +“No, for it is in the smoke after firing that they discern the figure +of a man, and they think that he will end by sinking the ship....” + +There was a longish silence, for the captain was far too good a sailor +not to know the part superstition plays in a sailor’s life. Devoid +of religion himself, he was calculating the result of such a fear +on the gun’s crew. For months the Grand Fleet had been chafing at +anchor, with intervals spent bursting through the fogs or charging +the mists. Mysterious performances known as P. Z. exercises, devised +by admirals, carried out by captains, and rectified in practice by +humble individuals in chart-rooms, occupied most of their seagoing. +The exact strategists were learning that accuracy and certainty were +more difficult to obtain on the water than on paper. The reckonings of +ships varied, and the value of given fire against given armament did +not always respond to theory. Even blindfold chess gave more certain +results. This was blindfold boxing against an enemy who was as often +below as above the waters. Months of phantom-chasing took its effect +on men’s minds. Crews became used to being called to action preceding +no action. Destroyers reported enemies that melted into mist, and +imaginary submarines caused panic in the Firth and the Flow. The +invisible enemy preyed more substantially on their minds than would +have been the case had action materialised. The strain told, and the +sarcastic elements seemed to mimic the thunder of guns whose smoke only +curled into the mocking clouds. + +The practice day following the conversation of chaplain and captain on +_H.M.S. ----_ was fine and clear. The Dreadnoughts were slowly making +line to the practice-ground, preceded by the cruisers in formation, +while the destroyers ran in and out like bicycles twisting amongst +huge motor-buses. The captain of _H.M.S. ----_ took his position on +the bridge, and asked the chaplain to stand on the far end to note the +firing, while he remained at the other. + +“Watch the firing of the forecastle-guns, and especially of the +starboard six-inch. I shall be glad to have your detailed report.” + +At a signal from the flag-ship the fire-control of the cruisers was +tested. They fired in turn at a slow-moving target. The turn came for +_H.M.S. ----_. The port forecastle-gun emitted a cloud of smoke, a +great rolling blanket of white vapour. Captain and chaplain pierced it +with their glasses, and it had rolled away before the splash of the +shell showed where the aim had fallen short. The cruiser swung slowly +round, and the brand-new 9·2 fired for the tenth time in its existence. +Captain and chaplain watched the smoke without raising their glasses. +It slowly melted in the bright breeze, disintegrating and discolouring +of itself. It was quite thin before a man’s figure could be discerned +struggling in the dissolving smoke. It seemed obvious, matter-of-fact, +and chemical, except that it was a figure of smoke. The figure was +only comprehensible for a moment or two, for the wind elongated his +writhings; and his limbs, as though on the rack, were torn apart with +delirious speed. But the impression of human agony remained with every +human being who watched the torment of the smoke. Only the officer +controlling the fire watched the target and noted how near the shell +fell this time. By the time the next shot was fired, not a wisp of the +ghostly smoke remained.... And the fear of doom remained in every +heart on board that night except with the captain and the chaplain. The +chaplain had decided clearly that it was either a fantasy or a divine +omen. In the latter case it was for the good, and in the first case it +did not matter. As for the captain, he was both puzzled and unafraid. + +The chaplain had noted the firing and its results very carefully as +directed, and he handed his notes to the captain, who read them in his +cabin. They were accurate and corresponded to the official account in +the log. + +“You make no mention of the smoke,” suggested the captain. + +“No.” + +“Well, I saw a very distinct outline of a man in the smoke, and I +expected you would have recorded it.” + +“No,” replied the other. “I particularly left the spook to you. It +would have been no evidence for me to have seen and reported it, for I +am officially supposed to believe in spirits.” + +“Well,” said the captain, “I who do not believe in them have seen this.” + +“Blessed rather are those who have not seen and yet have believed,” +said the chaplain. + +“That is hardly my case,” replied the captain, “for I have most +distinctly seen and yet have not believed.” + +Both turned then as sensible men to consider the effect of the +hallucination, or whatever it was, on the crew of the gun, and +incidentally on the whole ship. The men had come to regard it as a bad +omen. To them it was worse than carrying round a corpse. They thought +the gun was haunted and that, however deadly its firing to the enemy, +it would in the end prove more fatal to the ship. They believed they +were on a doomed vessel. It was no use changing the crew of the gun, as +the whole ship seemed involved. + +“Provided I can drop a hit on the enemy with that gun in action, I do +not so much mind if the ship sinks under me,” was the captain’s final +deliberation.... + +The long wait of months was broken for some by the instantaneous +decision of mine or explosion, for others by change of latitude and +ship; for some, indeed, it was never broken; but for a few it was +crossed by the magic signal, “action!” On a joyous day for _H.M.S. +----_ issue was joined in the North Sea with a German raider supported +in the dim distance by enemy light forces. The captain gathered all the +threads of his life and training into his hand, and stood glued to the +bridge. The chaplain went down to steady the men, who in the glad glow +of coming action forgot all their troubles of body or mind. The moving +smoke on the horizon was the sign of retreating enemy, and cruisers +with torpedoes were dashing to cut them off. Every heart on board beat +in steady throb of unison with the ship’s engines. Precious minutes +passed, and the smokes on the horizon were no nearer. The largest +smoke was separating from the others. Half an hour passed and a hull +was outlined. It corresponded to the raider, one of those sweet prizes +which had been dashing in and out of middies’ dreams for months. As +the raider drew off from her escort, chancing a northern mist, _H.M.S. +----_ followed into the gathering vapour. Fire was being exchanged +between the others, but he reserved the raider to his own. Careless +whether she was dropping mines, he pushed into her direct wake. In ten +minutes he would open fire. And he did. + +The fore-guns flashed in turn and eager glasses picked up the splash +of the first shell falling short. The captain groaned, but his groan +was choked with relief as he watched the next shell drop with a red +flash on the raider’s bridge. He telephoned his congratulations to the +gun’s crew, who received them in British silence. The red glare of fire +was rising from the raider under the British fire. She was blazing +steadily, and the captain no longer kept check of his guns. They were +being fired in irregular but enthusiastic salvoes. The German flag was +visible, white against the yellow smoke, so good were the captain’s +glasses. Another glance and the flag was gone. He immediately gave the +signal to cease firing. A destroyer ran in and fired a torpedo, whereat +the raider turned quietly over.... + +Leaving the rescuing to the destroyers, the captain of _H.M.S. ----_ +cheerfully inquired if there had been any casualties. The chaplain +joined him on the bridge with a list. + +“I am afraid there have been a few.” + +“I never knew we were hit.” + +“No, we were not hit by the enemy, but unfortunately a six-inch gun +starboard exploded after firing one shot, the second shot of the +action, and the whole crew were killed or wounded.” + +The captain buried his face in his hands, forgetful that this was the +end of the perfecting day of his career, when years of preparation were +tested in action. Action and victory had come and also unlooked-for +disaster. + +He could return home and report a brilliant and decisive action, but +the nature of his casualties necessitated an inquiry. A great deal +of evidence was taken as to the explosion of the six-inch breech, +and as little as possible was allowed to reach the public. It was +proved that the gun had been made with every possible care, being +tested and regulated in every way. The metal itself was subjected to +a close examination, and found to be of the best. The only flaw was +traced to a slight superfluity of carbon, which remained inexplicable +amid the alloy, and no blame was attached to the maker, or to the +crew or captain who had had charge of her in action. This carbon had +undoubtedly brought about a weak point in the gun, and under pressure +she had exploded, though in practice she had been successfully fired. +It was an explanatory but unsatisfying report.... + +A month later--“Carbon is a material cause at least,” remarked the +captain to the chaplain, “and carbon could have come from a man.” + +“That is a possible solution, if you think it likely that some man fell +accidentally into the gun when it was cast,” replied the chaplain. + +“I know it,” said the captain, “for it was my suspicion, and a private +and careful inquiry has placed me in possession of the fact that this +gun came from a foundry where a man had been actually lost in the +molten metal.” + +Both sat in stony silence, and then the captain rose to go. + +“Whatever I saw and you saw and the ship’s crew saw, the cause was +material and a man.” + +“Yes, and as you have had reason to observe, a man is a spirit,” said +the chaplain, returning to his duties.... + + + + +THE MISSIONARY + + +The life web of Theodosia McSolomon was short but vividly painted and +could only be picked and plaited together from different angles of +the globe. To begin with, she was brought up strictly, straitly, and +even sanctimoniously by her father and mother, who were Presbyterian +Minister and Ministress in a secluded corner of the County Armagh in +Ireland. It was called Gortaherrin. She grew up to honour her father +and mother, though she could hardly have wished the long days promised +in the land for such servitude. She could hardly have desired long +life in their lifetime, for she served them more as a slavey than as a +daughter. Her brother Theophilus helped her with the harder work in the +kitchen until he went to college, whereupon she sank into the position +of servant except on Sundays, when she occupied the front pew at the +Meeting House. It remained a sign to her of salvation, social as well +as celestial. + +She grew into graceful girlhood, tall, and healthy as the wild rush +under the sweetening sky; waxen-white, not the white of sickness, but +the white of the hawthorn’s limelight bloom on the hedgerows in spring. +Her nature stayed deliciously unspoilt, for she had never known a kind +word or a kind action, nor expected either. She lived on buttermilk +and eggs, and turf-baked soda-bread. She seemed content with her fate, +but for no particular reason except that fate was not discontented +with her. She had the essentials of life without a single extra. +Face-powder, love-letters, corsets were of the Devil! She was not +unhappy, for she had never known what it was to be happy. And healthier +she grew and fairer and more wiry in all her curving limbs, but her +hair was not wire. It was best described as spun primrose petals; spun +into a thin silken weft. It was of a texture that made the daffodil +look coarse and the yellow-wagtail seem painted. The closest clue in +nature was the glint of the full harvest moon on the yellow shooks of +the bogland corn when ripe and reaped. It was as thin and nearly as +transparent as a thread of baby’s spit, each hair of her. And she wore +it in the shape of a little tight unwieldy bun like a tennis ball that +has collected cobwebs. + +Her garments were ghastly. One annual skirt. Mother’s old hats trimmed +with ribbon. Father’s cast combinations patched and reefed with +thick darning thread. A scarecrow’s purgatory in sum! The good girl +sincerely did not wish to be any expense to her dear parents. She was +given no opportunity to be so. Mother would have liked to have been +affectionate, but affection had been mangled out of her. She asked +nothing of a life in which she perceived nothing. All was in the life +to come. Without meaning it, she weighed like wet washing on Theodosia. +Father was always as erect as an arrow and as indeflectible as the +Grace in which he was imbued and abounding. He stood in Grace up to +the ear-lobes. His high hat was smooth with Grace and his boots were +greased therewith. His only trouble in life was how to give unto others +out of his over-abundance of Grace. Mother had Grace, sufficient for +salvation, though father had had his doubts of her once, returning +from their honeymoon. Theodosia ought to have had Grace, for everything +humanly possible had been done to instil the divine condiment into her +soul. However, she had always been a very unresponsive child. Even at +her baptism she had not cried, to the amazement and disappointment of +the old Irish woman who held her and believed that departing demons +should cause screams in the normal way. Apparently they had preferred +to stay. And later Theodosia’s honey-coloured hair had given further +anxiety to the old woman who had tended her with some goats and hens in +childhood. It was not quite the same colour as the scutched flax which +yellow hair should resemble. It was stranger still. Her mother must +have been overlooked by the fairies before Theodosia was born. Farmers’ +maids would never let her see the churn or a new-born calf for fear of +blinking the milk or overlooking their cattle. They thought her hair +unlucky. It was not a decent human colour. + +In the vacation her brother brought home a fellow-student from Trinity, +Josiah McWherry. He was a lithe and likely lad. All day Josiah and +Theophilus studied for the Ministry, and in the evening they conversed +with the Minister’s family. The Minister was of great use to the boys +on any point of philology or philosophy. He had swept gold medals into +the full of his student’s cap. On Sunday nights he would only talk +Doctrine, and he was still fervent against Unitarians, with whom there +had been great controversy in his youth. He used to talk about the +great Doctor Hanna--“Roaring Hanna.” And he always ended upon a great +orthodox note: “As the Father is God, so is the Son God, and the Holy +Ghost is God.” He was a Trinitarian to the backbone, and would have +stood stiffer than a stake in the flames. However, there was nothing +except Unitarians and Papists for him to feel stiff about in his young +day. Home Rule and women’s bicycling came later. Spiders scuttled and +beam-lice somersaulted when he spoke on either of those subjects. One +was the destruction of the Union with England, and the other of the +marriage-union. He would not give Home Rule to Papists or to women. It +was by the firelight, listening to Dr. McSolomon, that Josiah first saw +the glint of silvery golden-grey in Theodosia’s hair. When she leaned +over the blazing turf, the red light played through the long plaits. +They were allowed to be let down in the evening, and the effect by fire +was like mulled claret poured over melting butter--not that Josiah knew +the joys of claret at any temperature. But he looked long and often at +the primrose hair and contrasted it with the flower face, which was +always as white as snow--white as the fuller’s earth, thought Josiah +scripturally. But he kept his thoughts to his presbytical self, and not +till he returned to Trinity did he indite a series of sensible letters +concerning sights in Dublin, which Theodosia was allowed to read after +perusal by each parent in turn. Naught suspecting or imagining, she +wrote a nice answer full of Gortaherrin news, and a pleasant, callow +correspondence was opened between the Manse and that famous seat of +learning in Dublin. Correspondence was encouraged, as it gave city news +to the old birds. Josiah returned for the next vacation, and ventured +to propose to Theodosia. She accepted him from a mixture of ingrained +modesty and obedience. Her parents were not informed owing to her +total innocence, and took no suspicion until an incautious love-letter +sent to her (care of a romantic local post-mistress) and sewed into +Theodosia’s pillow was found by Theodosia’s mother and handed to +Theodosia’s father, who was unable to speak for several days. He always +acted slowly and deliberately. Hasty wrath or unweighed reprobation +was neither in his policy nor of his temperament. Theodosia was not +lectured or beaten or accused of any specific crime, but she was +locked into her bedroom for a fortnight and nourished upon the bread +of affliction and the water of tears. The letter received no allusion +at home, but she never received another. Josiah McWherry wrote four +Sundays in succession and received no answer. Puzzled, he stopped +writing. She obviously did not enjoy reading in ink what she had +allowed him to whisper over the firelight or when she was washing the +delph. He was a faint lover. + +She took her medicine well, though she imagined she had touched the +outskirts of romance. A gentle thrill had attuned her, though Josiah +had only proposed a nice arrangement for her, a sort of transfer +in domestic service for the future, and she had wrongfully kept it +from her parents. Love was a term of mixed meaning to her. Love was +something peculiar to God, and mortals who indulged in love got +into trouble. God so loved the world that He had damned most of +their neighbours, the Roman Catholics for sure, and the more-worldly +Episcopalians, who went to the Horse Show and Monte Carlo to spend +their rents. Theodosia came out of her room chastened. The rod of John +Calvin had been thrust under her milky skin. It was a priceless skin, +for which many a woman of the world would have flayed her own in +exchange. It was as clear and clean as wind-flowers reflected in the +moonlight water. + +She had not seen her father during the fortnight. He was waiting for +her in his study. With one terrible frown he absolved and abolished +the past. Then he revealed the future. Correspondence of any kind +was forbidden. She must promise never to write to Josiah again, and +she promised, giving her simple word, that was as adamantine as that +of Medes and Persians. She had undoubtedly written more than one +love-letter herself, or Josiah would not have been beguiled into his +evil communications. Dr. McSolomon regarded her as a lapsed child until +she had atoned. Grace might still be applied mercifully. Grace had +been noticed to reside to a fuller degree than usual in a neighbouring +minister, Mr. Caleb McRoarty, a sober, steady and godly-minded widower +living in those circumstances which never receive the meed of pity and +attention accorded to the state of widowhood. When has a merry widower +been bespoken? Mr. McRoarty might be expected to call any day and press +his suit, which Theodosia was reminded needed no pressing. She would +have a chance to become mistress of her delph and her mangle, and to +preside over a Manse of her own. + +This was the second time Theodosia felt her life stirred to the core. +It gave her intense repulsion and she shrank like a flower into its +half-opened bud. When Mr. McRoarty called, she wished for the first +time that she had never been born, but she showed no tremor, no +protest, no scene. She had a deep feeling that her life must turn +far otherwise, and, when her parents left her in the kitchen with +Mr. McRoarty she heard him with present smiling and absent mind. He +was well-meaning and inclined to be absorbent. The first touch of +absorption was pain to Theodosia, but in the circumstances Mr. McRoarty +believed his caress had been not only permissible but acceptable. He +embraced her over and over. It was his way of clinching a bargain. He +had already given her father a cow. It was an exchange in kind, and +Theodosia seemed willingly his. Sentiment might be thrown into the +bargain. But his clutching arms tore down the curtain, and she suddenly +glimpsed life in a Manse with this black-coated but fangless gorilla. +He was not cruel or vicious to look at, not very amorous even, unless +it was of her hair, which he fastened into a plait and rubbed over +his mouth. Theodosia started like a sensitive human violin. She could +not bear to be scraped by those large hands, though they thumbed the +Gospel; or kissed by those thin lips, though anointed with the dew of a +thousand sermons. She shivered and writhed until he stopped. She stood +in a stupor without saying a word till he went out and bade good night +to her complacent parents. + +Then the break came. Hurrying into the kitchen she washed until she had +washed her face clean and clean, and brushed until she had brushed his +stickiness out of her hair. What was she to do? She felt like wax that +could not rid itself of his impression. She blew out the candle and +still saw him gibbering round her in the dark with the horrible agility +of old men who momentarily believe themselves young. His flaccid kisses +still sounded in her ear-drums. She lit the light again and determined +to write to Josiah, who was living with his father in Belfast. Yet she +had promised, and to break a promise was to go to Hell. Then the elfin +element in her made a nudge. Why not send Josiah an empty envelope? It +was a sign to be interpreted and it was not exactly writing a letter. +She addressed an envelope and wrote nothing within. But would he +understand that it meant an empty heart, blank despair and appeal for +help? But the fairy part of her worked like a charm. She snipped off a +primrose tress of her hair, placed it inside the envelope and ran with +it in the night to the post office. She couldn’t have written less. She +couldn’t have sent more. And she had not broken her Christian word! + +Josiah had the courage or curiosity of youth to understand, for he +came over from his father’s Manse three days later. She was lucky +enough to see him in the road before he took the turn into the Manse. +She ran to meet him and to tell him all. When they came to the Manse +door, her father was waiting. He did not seem to mind Josiah’s +arrival, and let him stay to supper, questioning him kindly about his +examinations. Josiah found himself alone with the old man and plucked +courage to mention his case. “Theodosia and I had kind words together +last vacation and I hope you did not mind the letters I could not help +writing to her. I know she showed them to you.” + +Dr. McSolomon smiled a deep and saturnine smile. He so seldom smiled +that the motion produced a little stiffness in his face for the rest +of the evening. When it was time for Josiah to leave, he informed him +quietly that Mr. Caleb McRoarty had made successful application for +Theodosia’s hand and that he intended marrying them himself the next +month. As a matter of fact Dr. McSolomon had only intended to inform +Caleb of this the next morning. That evening Josiah informed Theodosia. +This was the third shock she had felt in her life, pleasurable or +otherwise. Pleasurable had been the coming of Josiah to Gortaherrin, +far from pleasurable the wooing of Caleb; but the bare announcement of +her marriage with Caleb, though the greatest shock of all, gave her +neither pleasure nor pain. It conveyed the emancipation of disaster. + +Everything was combining to the decisive moment, even Caleb who had +shot his bolt too soon. She had felt his horrid hook, like the minnow +grazed by the rusty pin of a schoolboy’s coarse fishing line. If it +were not for the memory of that foul embrace she would have remained +and swallowed the fate her parents designed for her; unconsentingly +no doubt; ruefully resentful perhaps, and cowed unto humiliation, and +certainly embittered to all time. In thirty years she thought she would +probably resemble her mother, a bootmat in disposition, and rather like +an old boot in shape. Her hair would become like her mother’s, snowy +white. While there was colour in her hair, it seemed there was hope. + +Hope for what? Josiah had already started walking down the drive. She +slipped from the kitchen door across the fields and awaited him in +the high road. When she acted, she always acted without thinking, out +of a lonely and gallant instinct. She was of the blood of the martyrs +of the Covenant, and then the fairy in her bade her not lose the man +she had once summoned out of the void by casting with a lock of hair. +She went and she met him hasting away with that lock clutched in his +hand. When she glimpsed it she knew that fate was blazing her path. +He had hardly risen to the moment, but it was her fate, not his, that +possessed the moment. Perhaps he had no fate, only a soul and that a +cut and dried and preserved specimen. Perhaps she had no soul, only a +tremendous fate. She simply told him that she was coming with him to +the station, and at the station she told him she would come with him +to Belfast, where he was living with his father, and in Belfast she +intended to tell him she would marry him. He began nervously counting +the money in his pocket as soon as she broached Belfast. There was just +enough to bring them both there. He trembled counting it to the station +master. She noticed his emotion and pressed his other hand. She could +feel her lock of hair rustling between his damp fingers, and she knew +it was well. They sat and talked for two wonderful hours to each other +in the ill-lit third-class compartment, and even in the dirty oil-light +her hair assumed supernatural glow. Their plan was unsophisticated. +They would join hands before his father and swear themselves man and +wife according to the marriage law of Scotland. They did so on arrival +and remained the night under the roof of the surprised Josiah Senior, +Theodosia sleeping with the still more surprised Mrs. Josiah Senior, +while father and son discussed the next move in the kitchen. They +decided that Dr. McSolomon must be faced with a clean breast, the +fullest apology must be offered and humble entreaty made to suffer +their marriage to remain. They both agreed that Theodosia, knowing her +father so well, was the proper person to carry this out. + +Next morning, Theodosia was singularly and poignantly recalled from +the realm of romance to acute realism, when she left the bedroom of +Mrs. Josiah Senior for the breakfast table and heard her bold rescuer +suggest that she should return and explain matters to her father. +She sat shyly and silently, wondering and watching. Then she shook +her tangled head and Mr. Josiah Senior said that he would take the +journey to prepare the way for her, and he was as good as his word. +He returned late in the evening and reported that terms were possible +though the wrath of Dr. McSolomon was terrible. He learnt from the +mother that he had deliberately cursed his daughter, and a frightened +farm-girl had expressed the fears of the household by saying that his +curses had killed the house spiders in their webs! On learning that +some form of service, some rag of respectability, had been clutched +by the sinful pair in the presence of a Minister of the Gospel, he +had remained silent for an hour and had then declared that since the +neighbours, assisted by the romantic postmistress and the Episcopalian +station master, had already put the gossip over ten parishes that his +daughter had run away with another Minister’s son, Josiah had better +marry her outright and keep her for ever. He made no conditions except +that Josiah should go abroad with her or, if he continued to work for +the Ministry, go on the mission field. He forbade utterly Josiah or +Theodosia setting foot within Gortaherrin Manse until the hour of their +death or his, but he held out the appetising suggestion that he would +come and unite them finally under their new roof in Belfast. + +That delicate and indelible scene actually occurred. Josiah had had +the presence of mind to leave the house by the back entrance when +he sighted the rectangular Minister of Gortaherrin standing at the +doorstep. There could be no description of the hard white mask in +his face save that every angle was an acute angle. The gesture with +which he had smoothed his grey silky beard was an indication that +he considered scandal had been averted by narrow margins, though +his brother Minister showed him the large, unseductive bed in which +Theodosia and Mrs. Josiah Senior had passed and continued to pass night +time. Next to scandal, Dr. McSolomon hated most the sense of being +thwarted, and Theodosia had thwarted him bitterly. She had raised a +power before which domestic tyranny had failed and the walls enclosing +the Manse had fallen like the walls of Jericho. Bitterly he thought of +Rahab and the scarlet thread which that ingenious lady had shown from +her window, and he cursed Rahab and Theodosia in the same breath. He +declined to see or bless his daughter, but, to save allusions in the +local paper and his good name from the postmistress, he was willing +to be present with his wife at a public ceremony and the sooner the +better. Josiah agreed to take Theodosia into the foreign mission field, +and the rite took place in accordance with the Presbyterian Church of +Ireland. Josiah took Theodosia to be his lawful wedded, lawful bedded +wife, and slept with a gentle primrose cloud about his head. Neither +before nor after the ceremony did Theodosia’s father speak to her +except for one terrible moment when for the first time they were alone +in the waiting-room of the railway station, and Theodosia, greatly +moved, threw herself on her knees to ask a father’s blessing, if not +his forgiveness. But Dr. McSolomon never unbent, though at least he +spoke two words: “Shoo, Whore!” + +He was of the iron calibre of the Covenanter, indeflectible of Grace +and inexorable of judgment. When his eye offended him he plucked it +out, and when his daughter offended him he vomited her overseas. It was +very doubtful to him now whether she would save her soul, but at least +he had saved appearances. He was of the relentless stock that breeds +martyrs and of the blood that crieth against Nineveh. But home scandal +is worst. + + * * * * * + +The Reverend Josiah McWherry and Mrs. Theodosia McWherry had passed +four years on the Mission in China. They had had a stiff and rather a +dull time, as it were sowing tame oats. They had struggled and scraped +and saved to make ends meet, for there had been born to them three +children, and Theodosia was expecting to complete her book by adding +a synoptic fourth to Masters Matthew, Luke and Mark McWherry. Josiah +saved souls and halfpennies with equal avidity. If the extreme opposite +of spendthrift is a theological virtue, it was his. The expenses of +mission life were formidable though a Society in Chicago advanced a +bounty of fifty pounds on every child born in the mission field. So +economical were the evangelising pair that they actually saved a little +on the bounty won for each child. Theodosia understood that they were +putting aside the money needed to revisit Ireland and never grudged +the pinch in dress or food. Besides, she thrived on the rice, and her +skin was still unspoilt by the sun and her hair remained the colour +of pale primrose. Suave Orientals observed her beauty with a polite +wonder. Though they were quite untouched by the Reverend Josiah’s +God, they secretly observed and admired Josiah’s goddess. Josiah +became mechanical, with his mind set and focused on the double task +of saving Chinks in his tin chapel and tin in his chink-box. Chink, +chink! The lot of a missionary is not a particularly happy one. His +fellow whites succeed in living down any notion he may instil into the +East of the moral perfections of home Christendom. He himself ceases +to believe in Europeans, and the Orientals seldom begin to believe in +him. It is the working of the old paradox, that Christianity began +as an Oriental religion, a sublime teaching of the Desert, and, when +brought back to the East in Western trousers and upon elastic-sided +boots, becomes unrecognisable there as religion at all. The puzzled +Orientals observed domesticated missionaries preaching from a pulpit of +middle-class mind and second-class comfort One Who abandoned Mother and +declined wife. The McWherrys were as unsuccessful as might have been +expected in the task of presenting a suburban Calvin to the children +of Confucius, and were intensely relieved by a call to minister to a +semi-European community in Hong-Kong. It sounded pleasantly provincial +after the frontier misery of the Mission, and they accepted the call. +They took the first steamer down the coast out of the little Chinese +port; Matthew, Luke and Mark with them. There was the additional reason +that Hong-Kong was provided with white doctors, and Theodosia stood +in need of one in about two months’ time. They agreed that the call +must be providential. They were two days at sea and never out of sight +of the coast, when Theodosia was prematurely seized with pangs and +premonitions. Her condition grew more serious and it became obvious +that she would arrive at Hong-Kong with an addition to their party, for +whom no ticket had been provided, and, as Josiah calculated with panic, +no bounty could be claimed. For the high seas are extra-diocesan and a +child born at sea cannot be described truthfully or even theologically +as born on the mission field. Theodosia lay calmly in her berth showing +no traces of panic nor pain. But Josiah’s panic was considerable. It +was financial. Though he sat sympathetically holding her hand, he was +harassing his wretched mind with the agonising chances of losing fifty +pounds, if she were quickly and successfully delivered at sea. It was +not only unlucky, he felt, but it was unchristian to let an innocent +family be deprived of their right to so great a sum. It was even +intolerable. But any minute it might be so. + +The day grew into night, and a long harassing darkness began for both. +Morning came and nothing serious had happened. Theodosia only thought +of the child. Josiah only thought of the bounty. He looked out upon the +smooth sea and beheld a land which was never quite out of sight. The +ship’s doctor was of opinion that her child would not be born that day +but would certainly appear before they reached the landing stage of +Hong-Kong. It set Josiah thinking and finally he went on the bridge and +suggested to the captain that it would please the powerful Missionary +Societies if he took his ship into the nearest port for the event. Land +doctors had naturally more experience than sea doctors of such cases. +Of course he had heard of such things as “Water Babies” and he laughed +nervously. He was terribly anxious for the sake of his wife. The +captain only remarked that he knew no port within three days’ journey +except Hong-Kong. + +At noon Josiah was feeling as desperate as a Minister of Providence +feels it is right to feel, and again he mounted the bridge. This time +he demanded to be put ashore in the long-boat with his wife. He had +consulted her and she had vaguely consented, believing they were not +far from their destination. “My wife is anxious to be put ashore before +her baby is born. I insist on our being placed in the long-boat.” The +captain only remarked that in such circumstances a sea doctor was +better than no doctor at all. It might look very calm, though it did +happen to be the season of the year for typhoons. However, he consented +and ordered the ship’s stoppage. He was aware of the propriety of not +offending the Missionary Societies. They provided a great deal of +traffic on the coast. His action could be interpreted as an attempt to +save human life and he would allow a crew of three to row the lady with +her husband ashore. The three children, Matthew, Mark and Luke, were +left with the stewardess. + +Theodosia was carried out of the bowels of the comfortable ship and +lowered down the companion ladder into a bed prepared in the stern of +the long-boat. The shore did not look more than an hour’s row away. +With broad grins the two seamen began rowing toward land, while a third +steered, and Josiah continued his indefatigable attentions in the +stern. As the boat drew away from the ship, the light of the sinking +sun flickered and rested a moment on an untidy tress of primrose hair. +It was the last detail visible to a few curious and pitying passengers +who stood watching from the main deck--a gleam of primrose hair +disappearing rapidly into the Yellow Sea. + + * * * * * + +As a matter of fact Theodosia suffered less mental agony on this crazy +trip with Josiah than during their elopement to Belfast. Then her mind +had been on the rack. Now it was only her body that suffered as the +slow pain got hold of her and she lay back under an open sky festooned +with the gathering indigo of virulent storm. Shore was considerably +farther than the atmosphere had let them imagine, and, though it +remained clearly visible, they did not seem to have drawn closer during +the first hour. Another hour passed and once or twice a tremor shot +through Theodosia’s body while she uttered not the ghost of a groan. +Each time he felt her quiver, Josiah felt fifty pounds being wrenched +out of his pocket. The very tide under the churning boat seemed to be +drifting away with his well-earned bounty. Her very hair seemed like +a bunch of melting yellow sovereigns to his feverishly anxious sight. +From time to time he urged the rowers with imprecations, mild but loud. +Land drew decidedly nearer and the outlines of the harbour he had +visioned were taking shape in his eyes. Even if the baby were born on +the landing stage, the bounty might yet be won. Josiah unfortunately +had no sporting sense or he might have been as thrilled as the native +seamen by the gamble he was making. It was a woman’s life against fifty +pounds! Theodosia rapidly passed beyond all emotion save pain. + +“Ahoy! Boat Ahoy!” descended upon them through a megaphone. They +held their rowing and then their breath. Above them towered a great +liner through the yellow misting, immense, massive and majestic. It +was slowly bearing down upon them. Transfixed with dread, Theodosia +watched with the helpless feeling growing upon her that the mighty +ship would cut the child within her into halves. For herself she had +no thought, and Josiah had no thought for her either as he stood up +and shouted “Ahoy! Ahoy! Ahoy!” The liner deliberately stopped and a +companion ladder was lowered. For the second time that day Theodosia +found her child-bed the cynosure of a sympathetic passengers’ deck. By +this time she was feeling weird as in a dream. Some strange destiny +was approaching her in that mighty ship of the high seas. She found +herself hoisted through the air, taken into a comfortable stateroom +and treated for starvation and shipwreck by three stewardesses. The +rowers and Josiah were similarly treated in the saloon, and discovered +to be thirsty rather than hungry. A real thrill was supplied to the +lazy and luxurious passengers when it was announced at dinner that the +rescued lady had been delivered of a child! As a rule European ladies +do not choose the China seas as the best place for an accouchement or +an open boat in typhoon weather as the most propitious surroundings. +It seemed rather remarkable and caused talk amongst the crew, who were +the first to learn the underlying cause from their rescued mates. The +grim truth began to circulate through the ship, from crew to officers, +from stewardesses to lady passengers, from pursers to gentlemen in the +smoking-room. The indignation was spontaneous and summary. Josiah +received morally freezing shoulder blades wherever he turned. + +Meantime Theodosia lay in a comfortable bed, for the first time in +her life. She was placed in one of the state-rooms of the royal +suite, which a Persian Prince courteously placed at her disposal. Her +experiences were widening. She had experienced child-birth before, +but she had never drunk champagne. It had the dizzier effect. Then +they brought her fruit and titbits daily. Ladies in beautiful clothes +came to watch and wash the baby. A purse was subscribed to provide +him with a loving cup. The baby cried and crowed without realising +the fluke that had dropped him into a bed of clover, whereas he might +have easily been tossing like a broken eggshell in the China seas. The +captain of the ship and the Persian Prince applied for the position of +godparent, and were present at the baptism, performed by the ship’s +chaplain with distilled water. The whole ship was interested. The only +person unnoticed on the occasion was Josiah. Theodosia was particularly +pleased that the Prince had accepted the position of godfather. What +would Gortaherrin have thought? + +Oddly enough the captain was an atheist and the Prince was no less than +the living head of one of the great Mohammedan sects, who venerated him +as a remote descendant of the Prophet, and believed him incapable of +sin and ready of miracle. His bath-water was collected very carefully +every morning by worshippers and dispatched in sealed cans for the +degustation of the faithful--throughout Pan Islam. Some was sipped in +the Afghan hills and some was swallowed in the Sahara. In India it +was administered as a powerful spiritual tonic at the moment of death. +The lower classes used it to cure diseases. But its main virtue was +internal, and the faithful had acquired almost a taste for the scented +Parisian soaps in which the Prince was pleased to cleanse his body. The +salaciousness of his instinct was perhaps offset by the saponaceousness +of his hide. + +He was by chance one of the first to welcome Theodosia when she was +brought on deck. She was stretched under an awning, while ladies took +turn to hold silk parasols between her and the breeze. She lay with +her white skin shining like a river-run salmon, fresh and fruitful, +unflecked and unflushed--while her primrose hair moved delicately in +the warm air. It was a colour that the Prince had never seen before in +his long experience of light-skinned women, European or Eurasian. And +he studied it as he would have studied the water of a diamond or the +wine in a ruby. Theodosia was quite unconscious of his admiration. Two +things stood clear in her soul. Her baby lived, and her love for Josiah +was dead, dead as that money bounty. But the present hour felt like +Paradise. + +Unconsciously and then consciously her mind had shed Josiah. She had +overheard the unceasing indignation of the passengers who came to +pet the baby. Women looked at her as though she had suffered some +great martyrdom for her sex or for her religion, or as though she had +been rescued from the arena. Men bowed with tender smiles or stood +eyeing her as though she were some fair form of fish pulled out of +the sea. Josiah used to creep about her with an expression that might +have called for pity, had there been anyone to pity. But of all on +shipboard none pitied and none pardoned. Theodosia only asked him what +there was to pardon. She was perfectly cheerful and politely hoped +Josiah was not as sick as he looked. + +There was always some new friend to talk to her and she never felt +ashamed, for her old clothes had been put aside for ever. The first +class passengers collected a trousseau for her. For the first time in +her life she had sampled the soft delight of wearing the finest French +underwear, fringed with gossamer lace and spliced with tyrianthine +ribbons. Her body was massaged every day by rhythmic fingers, and her +legs were encased in silk stockings of so fragile and transparent +a web that the colour of her veins was apparent. She was laid upon +cushions and given winsome wines that made her gay or sleepy and +deliciously aware at intervals of a new world and new impulses. She +knew continual pleasure and happiness for the first time in her life. +She was surprised to find herself flooded by such tender and luxurious +emotions. Life had always been rugged and hard, with a hardness against +which she had never kicked. It was only once in her life that she +had desired with desire, and that desire had been fulfilled. She had +wilfully compelled Josiah to come to her and take her away to Belfast. +She could never desire again as she had desired then. She acquiesced +now in whatever life brought her of weal or woe. She had not shrunk +from pain and death, when it seemed to be her portion. When fate +flowered, she did not decline the lovely pleasure. She had endured the +Chinese mission without a murmur; filth, discomfort, poverty, lonely +childbearing and her queer dread of the Orientals. She always had a +quiet fear they would get her some day. She had read of Boxers. Now her +life had taken a wonderful twist, thanks to Josiah’s idiocy and greed. +She learnt that she would be deposited by the liner in Japan in a few +days. + +The Prince was particularly active in his attentions and curious as to +her future. He hung about in a wonderful dressing gown, an heirloom +in his family, contrasting with the London trousers and boots below. +Josiah showed no emotion except anxiety as to who would pay for the +return trip. That was rather unexpectedly settled by the Prince, +who, after some entrancing conversations with Theodosia and a very +heart-to-heart talk with Josiah, proposed to pay Josiah’s journey back +and to give Theodosia a much needed holiday, at his expense also, in +Honolulu and California, whither the ship was bound. Josiah said he was +the only gentleman on board. He was certainly the only one to speak to +Josiah. + +Theodosia’s glowing health and acquiescence of mind enabled her to +recover quickly from the creasing of childbirth. She took her children +naturally. They had come as a consequence of her immense and primitive +desire to escape from Caleb McRoarty. China was another consequence and +she had accepted the rough and tumble of her lot. Even when Josiah had +thrown her into an open boat she had not uttered one repining word. +She had not desired comfort or even life. She had always felt she +was paying a penalty. And now it all turned to this, the admiration +and adoration of a whole ship. It was a far cry from Belfast, and +Gortaherrin had shrunk into a point upon the other side of the globe. +Josiah had dwindled into something incredibly small. All feeling +for her father had died in the waiting-room at the railway station +in Belfast, when he cursed her for her harlotry, and now it had died +for Josiah for whom she had given up her father. She felt as much for +Josiah as for the skinned body of one of the kids she used to see +hanging at the Irish crossroads. As for her mother, she was only the +ridiculous rag-accompaniment to her father. Theodosia was primitive +and could grasp only one thing at a time. Once Josiah had been the +one and absolute idea, and now he had shivered to nothingness. He had +come to her on the wings of her great desire, the desire of the bird +to escape from the cage. He had been the wings of her desire and she +did not mind seeing them crumpled now. At least they had carried her +to the empyrean. She watched his ghostlike face hanging round her +cabin. He really looked like a goat’s ghost if there were such things, +ridiculous, inane and unwanted. + +A new idea had come into her life. She was enjoying it! The great +physical wrench she had endured combined with the beautiful clothes, +in which she was dressed, to give her the glorious emotion of the +chrysalis when it has been bred to butterfly. She was lying on the +deck at delicious ease. Her feet were encased in white, gold-brocaded +shoes, and her body lapped in a rose dress faintly frothed, as it were, +by a shawl of lighter pink falling from her shoulders. Flesh-coloured +were her silk stockings and like a web of rosy silk was her flesh. The +two plaits of her primrose hair attracted so much attention that she +left them hanging. They were rather like the pollened antennæ of some +florivorous insect; their soft sheen like the pellucid cinnamon of +the rain-washed sunset of spring. She had rather despised her natural +coloured hair compared to the bright hennas and auburns and chalybeates +of the ladies aboard. It never occurred to her that hers was the only +undyed foliage and her face the only unrouged petal in the first-class +dining saloon. But it had been obvious to every man with taste on the +ship, and the Prince was a man of exquisite taste as well as of highly +religious sensibilities. + +One day he approached her not for the first time truly, but for the +first time they discussed religion. The idea of accompanying him on a +holiday had charmed and absorbed the innocence of her mind. She had +felt no remorse in sending Josiah back from Nagasaki, nor had Josiah +felt any qualm when the Prince, with the generosity that a great +Christian nobleman might not have shown, had paid him the forfeited +bounty out of his own pocket in consideration of the plucky attempt +Theodosia had made to save it. Fifty pounds was nothing to him. He +had given eight thousand the previous month for a French race-horse. +The only prick of conscience she felt was her desertion of the +new mission-post even for a month. The children could remain with +Josiah, except the baby, and His Serene Highness played with Baby too +charmingly. How surprised she was to learn that he was the head of a +great religion. She found herself growing sad at the thought of his +perdition. But it was satisfactory and a little wonderful to be arguing +with the head of a real Mohammedan sect. It would be a good chance +to find out how Moslems really felt towards Presbyterian principles. +Perhaps?--and her heart leaped--she might be able to convert this +prepossessing Prince. How wonderful! He was a sort of Senior Moderator +in his own community, and must have untold influence. + + * * * * * + +They were together. “If you are a Mohammedan,” she asked him, “are you +not a teetotaller?” “No, I always drink wine.” “But the example must +be wrong for your followers?” she queried. “They never drink wine, but +they do not mind me doing so. They believe that by saying a few words +I can always change wine into water betwixt the cup and the lip. They +are very faithful.” Theodosia shivered. She felt like having tea with +Antichrist. But he was so sweet playing with Baby. She dared ask him if +he had many wives. No white man had ever dared ask him such a question, +much less a white woman; and he had known a gamut of one and a gallery +of the other. He trembled with rage, and then with amusement. He had +never met a white woman like this before, and a missionary’s wife as +well. He had always shared the official contempt for missionaries +and the official indifference to their wives. He had the Oriental’s +disgust for the wives of professed holy men. In fact, a Maharajah’s +hundredth concubine seemed less displeasing to him and to God than the +missionary’s lady with her black jet brooch, and Jumble Bazaar written +all over her clothes. “Yes,” he told Theodosia, “I have many wives at +home, and they are all good friends.” Theodosia looked at this heathen +with great pity. “Would you never give up the poor dear ladies and +let them become Christian?” “I do want to give them up and to marry +one nice Christian instead,” the Prince stated with a delicious +smile. Theodosia woke to possibilities. “They need a Queen among them +to instruct and help them,” he added, “a white golden-haired Queen.” +He was watching how she would take it. She clapped her hands. “How +splendid! They could all become Christian. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if +you married a white lady. How I should like to be her!” + +The Prince hardly knew whether he was talking to a schoolgirl full +of the “Arabian Nights,” or to a very mysterious and self-concealed +courtesan. But he knew that he was fascinated and not merely drawn +fleshward. It was moonlight, and the Pacific Ocean was full of +filtering sounds and suppressed purples. From time to time a great +phosphorescent sheet shot across the ship’s track like the sea’s +luminary echo or defiance of the moon. Butterfly by day and moth by +night, Theodosia felt freed of her shell, and the name of her shell was +Josiah. + +The Prince was beginning to see his way. At Honolulu he suggested that +Theodosia should return with him to Persia instead of continuing to +California. Theodosia was quite willing and began to visualise a new +future. Though the Prince had hinted that she might become the white +Queen he had alluded to, it was clearly impossible as she herself was +married, and then he was possibly married in some queer way to all +those dark ladies. An extra one might not make a difference for him, +but it would puzzle the Belfast Presbytery. In the end he proposed, +with his unfailing tact, that she should enter his harem as English +governess to his wives. She could share their limited life and, if +she liked, she could consecrate herself to their conversion. All +Theodosia’s scruples were overcome at a puff, and she began to feel +as radiant in conscience as in body and mind. She no longer felt she +was acting treacherously to Christ and Kirk. Under her conscience, +however, a subconscience warned her and a subconsciousness tempted her +to unknown delight, and, when she succumbed again and again, the very +warning became an overwhelming delight or expectation of delight. All +this occurred in the undebating and unchallenged recesses of her soul, +where modern ideals and primitive instincts keep company. + +As long as she talked a little religion every day with the Prince, +Theodosia felt that all was justified. Josiah only made two converts +a year in China. She might really devote six months to a convert so +important as the Prince. It was true that he would only talk religion +when she refused to hear him on any other subject. He preferred to tell +her of Parisian theatres, and his race-horses and the splendours of +his royal palace. He found himself unaccountably checked every time he +tried to touch sex, though she allowed his ebony hands to move on her +canary-coloured hair. Though she was deeply versed in her Scriptures +and had an eye for his soul, he had a number of arrows in his Moslem +quiver which surprised her. And this it was that surprised him most. +The only thing she ever asked him for was his soul. White women with +whom he went even as short a trip as London to Paris generally asked +for pearls. But to go to Honolulu and back and be asked to become a +Presbyterian was a rich experience. And he desired her exceedingly. +With hushed desire he desired. + +Woman though she was, she mistook his desire for her body for +nervousness on behalf of his own soul. Religion often confuses a woman +with her own halo. She asked him delightfully what could hold him back +from Christianity, or why she might not smooth away any particular +difficulty. He smiled his catlike smile and asked: “You say that Allah +childed by Miriam the Virgin?” Theodosia nodded. “And the Child was +God?” Another nod. “Then the Only God became many Gods?” “Only two!” +she threw in a little hastily, for he sharply rapped: “And the Holy +Ghost, of whom you were speaking yesterday?” “Yes, the Holy Ghost also +is God,” she admitted, “but no others.” “Allah is become three Gods +then,” he said, and spoke no more. Sometimes she would have persuaded +him that the Son also was God and the Holy Ghost, God, but he stroked +her and soothed her enthusiasm with Oriental calm. “I would find it far +easier to believe that Miriam the Virgin is God,” he said one evening. +“Gracious!” quoth the daughter of the Manse, “do not become a Roman +Catholic, whatever you do.” He laughed. “You have so many different +Churches among the Christians, and so many Gods, that I cannot discern +which is right.” Yet he always seemed to be laying his difficulties +at her feet, when he lowered his head on her shoulder. She showed no +repulsion, which was to him astonishing. Never had he met white woman +the like. “Women are to me religion,” he continued. “The great prophets +have made it a choice between women and religion. I have found that +they are the same.” She did not quite understand his meaning, but she +quickly composed the only meaning attachable to his words in their +circumstances. He must be fond of her and, because he was fond of her, +he must want to become a Christian, she assumed. She looked round into +the high-bred dusky face on her shoulder and without moving her lips +touched his with her mouth. She intended it as a friendly little act of +gratitude, as though she were stroking the nice old tame tiger behind +bars in the Dublin Zoo. At most he might have purred. The effect on +the Prince was, however, different. He tossed his lighted cigar into +the sea like a tiny redheaded rocket. Then he caught her mouth between +his lips and drew it slowly into his, while his arms crept round her +body, and his ring-jewelled claws spread themselves on her chest like +a panther holding its surprised prey. She saw his face slowly rise +from hers, and in the dark his feline teeth flashed with tiny but +exquisitely set diamonds. She kept quite cool, though dimly realising +how romantic a Governess she would be expected to be. + + * * * * * + +In Persia Theodosia came into her fairy own. Geographically she knew +not where she was, within hundreds of miles. She had been brought +inland by native bearers, had been carried in litters, with her +baby, and finally thrown amongst the ladies of the harem. There +she had been clothed in Eastern dress and looked to herself like a +perpetual Christmas card. She was strangely remote from any idea of a +Presbyterian missionary. Her feet, cased in rich-smelling morocco, were +no longer the elastic-sided feet of those who bring good tidings upon +the mountain-tops. The dusty, rusty dresses of the Jumble Sale were +no more. The thread-worn skirts were replaced with something more in +accordance with the surrounding Jungle. Her mother’s black jet brooch +had been destroyed or lost by the Prince, who gave her pearls instead. +She wore them for his pleasure, half stripping herself at night in +order to keep cool--pearls in long strings, falling festoons, white +waves of pearls. He liked to watch her concealing her modesty behind +their dangling sheen, and she would lie back like a flower which has +weathered long vernal frosts and is bursting bud more brightly for the +delay. In that tropical Asian summer she bloomed like a flower of the +Irish spring. And her hair was in perpetual flower, summer or winter, +with its strange and indescribable coloration, milk of dandelion, +cream of marigold or quintessence of honey. It gave the Prince a queer +religious exaltation. + +Theodosia did not fail to fall in love with her lover. It had all come +with such a rush. Not until she was ensconced in his harem did she +realise that he intended her to occupy the position of a favourite +wife, and that even among the dark ladies she was favourite, and that +his holy favour was upon her. In the Palace and the Palace gardens she +was accounted something divine. Servants fell prostrate before her. +Days of wonderful ease and luxury followed. Weird sights and colours +came to her through slitted shutters. Theodosia was clothed in Oriental +dress by silent slaves every morning, though when she dined with her +Prince a vitiation of taste insisted on Parisian gowns. He was really +a dazzling creature, not handsome but forceful and intoxicating in his +converse and behaviour. Gorgeous was his dress, taken clean out of +the “Arabian Nights,” though at moments he wore beautifully tailored +London suits, which Theodosia used to mistake for the first signs of +Christian disposition. She had given up the attempt to convert him. +He always listened with agreeable politeness and then countered with +something too unexpected or upsetting for words. Indulgently he would +hear what were to him the utterly preposterous doctrines of Irish +Presbyterianism, and then quietly inquire how any Prophet, however +well spoken of in Belfast, could be the bodily son of Allah. Or he +would quote cleverly from the Scriptures and the Koran until she was so +muddled that she knew not which he was drawing argument from. And when +challenged on a doctrine she would coyly refer to John Knox or John +Calvin, and once she referred to her father’s great hero, Dr. Hanna of +Belfast, and the Prince asked if Hanna was a lady preacher, and laughed +her to scorn. + +When she had had her little say, he would read her ecstatic words from +the Song of Solomon and give her coffee filled with a sharp-sweet +little flavouring, and then she would forget everything except his +marvellous love-making. To the subtleties and ecstasies of love she had +always remained a stranger. She had known nothing more intoxicating +than her own desire, and that she had achieved. Josiah had always +treated her with Presbyterian primness, wooing her with perfectly +wooden propriety. Her ecstasy of Josiah’s embrace lay in release from +home. When home dwindled into hemi-spheral distances, the ecstasy of +Josiah ceased. He was a dull lover, in other words a perfect husband, +and he retained a certain prosaic modesty of courtship by his total +absence of any poetry of motive or motion. On occasions of connubial +felicity he never did more than read her a chapter from the Epistles of +St. Paul. The difference between St. Paul and Solomon was considerable. + +The Prince remembered the word of the Prophet, whose blood ran in his +tropical veins, and how Mohammed had said to every faithful, “Woman is +thy field, plough her after thy will.” And he made love to Theodosia, +to all her emotion and to all her soul, and with his body did worship +and with his soul did adore her until she would swoon in his arms, and +only awake from swoon to become sufficiently and sweetly conscious +that she was swooning again. Often an Asiatic moon looked through the +forests and gardens and lighted on her beautiful primrose hair as it +lay in wet wythes across the hot mouth of His High Serenity and Holy +Highness, who was graciously pleased for the moment to forget his +race-horses in France and his chorus girls in England, and even the +Exalted Star of India, which he had received during his last visit to +Calcutta. For her part, Theodosia awoke to all that he roused in her. +Whithersoever he called, she followed him even in a dream. Surely he +had never known white woman like her, for she was the first to respond +to his love and not to his pearls. And she satisfied his soul as well +as his body. He found something strange and almost uncanny in her +hidden beauty and unconscious charm. She came to exercise a magical +effect on him, and when he remembered how she had come to him out +of the seas, like Aphrodite through the foam, she became poetry and +passion, a veritable goddess in his eye. Her sway and power became +tantamount in the seraglio and, had she cared, supreme through the +Palace and through the dominions of the Prince. + +It was so strange, in his eyes, that she never asked him a favour +and even gave him back the jewels with which he delighted to heap her +sinuous body. Through unguents and the fingers of her attendants she +had acquired a grace and dexterity for which her health and simplicity +of life had prepared the way. When she lay sleeping she lay like a +white snake that had just sloughed its scales, firm and warm and +rippling. The Prince was appreciative of the gifts of Allah and felt +frequently grateful that he was of the kindred of the Prophet. + +It was true that he was often criticised in the Orient for his +excessive love of things European, of English clothes, white women +and French luxuries, but it was never dreamed or hinted that he could +betray the faith of Islam. Astuteness as well as piety combined to keep +him steady on that point. With the European Governments he was on the +best of terms. His subtle religious influence was always thrown on the +side of the English Raj, and a letter from his pen was always accorded +special attention whenever he deigned to point out some unnoticed +excellence of English rule or to convey some sentiment of the East to +her understanding rulers. Though excluded from certain clubs, he stood +socially very high in Europe. + +Nevertheless there were movements abroad in Asia, and the ways of the +Prince were not well seen by the Nationalists and devotees of Asiatic +Bolshevism, and he was freely criticised and even cursed among many who +should have been his followers. He had the misfortune to be equally +distasteful to students with European culture, who applied a knowledge +of the Higher Mathematics and chemistry to bomb manufacture in the +East, and to the fanatics, who hated him for the horrible rumour that +he had introduced a white missionary woman into his household. + +But no rumour reached Theodosia, who was lulled to ease and at moments +lifted to ecstasy, until she forgot her father and her father’s Kirk. +The strictness that had been bred into her with a ramrod lapsed. She +gave herself up to her lover until she could hardly bear to pass a day +or a night without him. The sound of revolution and uprising never +reached her. She never read apprehension on his strained features or +realised that he loved her every hour as though it might be their +last. She loved him each time as though it were the first. It was her +perennial spirit. They were great and wonderful lovers, that was all. + + * * * * * + +The end was bound to come and it came. A day broke with ominous quiet +over the Palace. The Prince had departed that morning on business +of state for many days. He was travelling on his way to India. His +secretary had just telegraphed the number of guns that the station +master and the British Government were expected to provide, also +the height and trappings necessary for the elephants privileged to +carry his baggage and the holy bath water.... An hour or two passed +of perfect calm.... Then a low wail arose outside the Palace and a +frightened woman crept into the women’s quarters, spreading word that +the holy one, the beloved of the Prophet, had been assassinated at the +railway station. A moan swept through the harem like a subconscious sob +of Suttee, as though every woman that had ever lain in his arms was +turning her face to the wall to die. Slaves threw themselves on the +ground and tore out their hair, mourning their dead lord with pitiful +and heart-lacerating sounds. From outside the Palace rolled the rumble +of confusion and disaster. Cries and occasional shots pierced the still +of the afternoon air. + +Theodosia, much astonied, felt neither grief nor fear. She had loved +him as she could never love a husband or one of her own race. He was a +vivid unreality, a weird monster, who came to her in dream, half Cupid +and half Caliban, but he had appealed to the fairy part of her nature, +and he had raped her soul till she felt there was none left. Therefore +she sat without regrets and without remorse carelessly waiting what +might come. As the shouts outside grew fiercer, women were thrown into +hysterics of fear and grief. + +Nobody knew now what might come. Theodosia was the only one who might +have been expected to feel some tremor, to show some fear, for within +her moved the child of the Prince. She kept her mind unstricken within +herself that the child might not be frightened in the womb or released +before the hour. Something stronger than herself upheld her. An +immortal mood lifted her above the accidents of Oriental revolution. +She was not overmatched by circumstances nor overthrown by approaching +fate. She did not trouble to imagine the future in which she lived or +died. She sat there vacant-minded with full body and high heart in that +Palace of mourning and terrified despair. More than ever before in her +life she knew that she was not of those around her. The mysterious +sense of power and isolation drew her apart, which had once drawn her +apart from her family in Ireland. During another hour fell expectancy +hung over all. At last came knocks, cries and repeated inquiry. The +guards had left their post so that the fanatics were able to enter +without a word. The revolutionary students had settled the fate of the +Prince at the railway station. It remained for the strict reactionaries +to carry out a visitation of the harem. + +The infidel wife of the favoured child of the Prophet had long been a +ribald rumour upon the lips of their enemies. They had smarted too long +under the taunts of other Moslem sects. Armed men, reeking with dust +and fury, intruded. The harem was laid desecrate. The women crouched +upon the floor of the inner chamber awaiting the sword. Theodosia +retired to the room which privilege had accorded her and sat bolt +upright. It had struck her that they would not dare to kill her while +she carried child, the sacred child of the head of their own religion. +But was it likely that they could know of her condition? She was only +thinking how to save her child. Fate seemed always condemning her to +child-bearing in perilous places. She stripped her pregnant body and +threw over herself the beautiful opera cloak that her lover had given +her. Then she waited. She could hear the harem being interrogated and +repeating the formulas of Antichrist: “There is one God and Mohammed +is his Prophet!” Each woman repeated the words with abject and craven +eagerness. Theodosia was listening and wondering whether their +repetition on her own lips would save her child or not. A certain pride +sat in the place of her soul. + +The search for the infidel woman followed. The inner apartments were +ravaged, but the fanatics were surprised to see a white woman advancing +coolly towards them, clad in a dark electric blue and green cloak +fringed with ostrich fluff round her neck. There was a wild cry: +“There is one God and Mohammed is his Prophet!” She stood smilingly +shaking her head. Her nonchalance roused their fury and a man advanced +threateningly. She saw the glint of steel in his hand and her feet +froze to the marble steps. She was surrounded by assassins on every +side, and she was not unaware of the danger. She opened her cloak and +lifting it upon both arms, said simply, “Respect the child of the +highly favoured son of the Prophet.” They drew back, crying, “It is +true! She bears the child of the Prophet. Let her acknowledge Islam +and live!” She stood there watching them idly and carelessly as in a +dream. “Acknowledge there is one God and Mohammed is his Prophet!” they +screamed, with swords and daggers lifted within striking distances. + +“There is one God,” she replied, and a silence as of death weighed +upon the Palace and upon her words. “The Father is God, and the Son is +God, and the Holy Ghost is God!” A groan passed through the fanatics +on hearing this Christian blasphemy within the very dwelling of the +head of their faith. Was it possible that this white infidel had been +tolerated within, as rumour said, in order to corrupt the Moslem wives +of the holy one and to defile the very hearth of their religion with +Christianity? Now they knew the worst. They threw themselves upon her, +and holding her wrists and ankles, carried her within and out of sight +of the other women.... There was a pause and no sound was heard in +that Palace until the cry of a newly-delivered child. A crowd of men +and women had gathered outside. To them was shortly carried a dusky +new-born boy. All knelt in adoration, for it was a Prince of the blood +and kindred of the Prophet, and the hereditary head of the faith. +Perfect and unscratched and unbruised was the child, as always are +children born Cæsareanwise. + +But even in that last hour of agony Theodosia found joy to look upon +the child that was born into the world, before it was taken away from +her for ever, and strength to cry aloud to her torturers, “The Father +is God and the Son is God!” She could say no further, for a strong +hand took her throat and she felt a ropelike strangulation shorten +and finally quench her consciousness. Fiercely the blood seethed in +her temples and the breath battered the tissue of her lungs. Swiftly, +swiftly the fairy blood danced out of her heart and poured in torrents +upon the floor. Slowly, slowly she died, not unworthily of a daughter +of John Calvin, and was at eternal rest. + +In the days of the Roman persecutions she would have not failed to +become a spouse of Christ. She could have stood in the arena as calmly +as she stood in the seraglio, and let her body be meshed by the net of +the _retiarius_ as smilingly as she had lifted the folds of her opera +cloak. When the women crept back frightened in the morning they found +her body where her slayers had left it. Round her twisted neck was +tightly tied a long plait of her primrose-coloured hair. It lay like +a spilth of wild honey upon a broken bough of a white ash-tree in the +first break of dawn, after a stormy night in some far away country of +the West. + + + + +MIDIR AND ETAIN + + +Once upon a time the Kingdom of Meath was as rocky and stone-bound as +the fields of Connaught to-day. Etain the girl fairy lived with Midir +the King of the Elf-mounds of Ireland. She was the most beautiful of +her kind, for the folk of Ireland judged beauty ever afterward by Etain +the beautiful, but she was unstable and fitful. She had a mind and a +half-memory, as well as a full memory. It was out of her half-memory +that Midir heard her speak in her sleep of other lovers beside himself. +With brooding on her strangeness he became a stranger to her in his own +mind. With that he left her and went riding upon his coal-black horse. +A snow-white hound ran for shadow by its side, for no fairy horse can +throw a shape upon the ground. + +It was a second wife he brought home. She was also of the fey, and her +jealousy was more terrible than the jealousy of women born. She dealt +secretly with her Druids to ply Etain with spells. They made Etain as +a butterfly that eateth flowers. Etain fluttered vainly into Midir’s +sight, but his eyes were cast elsewhere and the Druids’ wind blew Etain +like a silken leaf across moor. Seven years she was carried hither and +thither by the king-winds of Ireland until she lighted in the palace of +Midir’s dear foster-son by the Boyne water. He knew her for woman under +fey and built her a little house with windows instead of doors, and +fed her with bog myrtle and rowanberries. At evening she would assume +her ancient beauty. For the Druid spell was by the Sun and by the +Moon and lost power in the twilight, which is neither of sunshine nor +moonlight. Midir’s Druids knew she was come by Boyne water and hastened +till they found her bower hanging like a swallow’s room to the palace +walls. Etain was drying her wings in the light. With a magic blast they +tossed her again upon the elements, and for seven years she floated +like a little satin cloud hither and thither. + +A lesser wind dropped her into the court where the people of Ulster +sucked sweet hydromel from methers. Etain fell into the cup beside the +King’s wife. It was a woman’s cup and white with milk, so that she +swallowed Etain for a white curd. In earthly shape was Etain reborn and +then was she called Etain, for her fairy name was not revealed then or +thereafter by dream or Druid. With Ulster’s princely daughters she was +reared till the noon of maidenhead. One day they bathed together in the +blue speckled sea. A strange horseman rode by upon a coal-black horse, +and a seagull sailed for silvery shadow under its hoofs. All but Etain +slipped into the waves, but she stood, caught in her half-mind. The +stranger said, so that she heard: + +“She was so delicate that a Queen quaffed her unwitting. Her place is +not with earth children. For her sake Meath shall be smoother than sea +and the Elf-mounds of Ireland laid in ruin. The men of Ireland shall +measure beauty by her name for ever.” + +He said, and slipped behind air and was unseen. Hither and thither the +princely maidens of Ulster waded for wonder and for fear of his words. +But Etain stood trembling like a winged thing in a draught of fire. + +Eochy was King of Ireland and lived in the demesne of Meath. For the +man of Meath is the ruler of the men of Ireland. But the rocks of Meath +gave no place to his horses, and the rushes no milk to his cows. He +was wont to ride round Ireland visiting every King and Kingling of his +allegiance. His loneliness for one was not healed by the company of the +many. He stayed unwedded, not finding mate among the royal women of +Ireland. Harpers he had sent upon horses and wizards upon air to find +one willing and worthy to queen Ireland. Lastly he rode out with only +a favourite harper alone with him. Toward evening they found Etain. A +purple mantle stitched with silver hung across her shoulder. With a +silver comb she drew her hair into plaits. Her cheeks were red as the +sun upon the West, and her arms were whiter than the snow falling at +dawn. Her teeth were pearls dashed in the foam of the sea. Her eyebrows +were darker than the wing of the bright beetle. + +The King asked her name. “I am Etain of the Elf-mounds,” she said; for +by dreaming she had happed upon the place she came from. He asked if +she were betrothed, and she told him that the Kings and noblemen of the +Faery came wooing her by all the wells and waterways of Ireland. To +forsake all the women of the world the King promised, if she would but +come with him to Meath. But for love of the World-under-wave she would +not queen Ireland. + +Eochy returned to his home. By day he lay him down, and by night he +rode and swam. Love of Etain let him not enjoy the life and valour of +the world. Druid and harper could not quell the pangs of his pain nor +the sorrow of his sickness. A leech came, who could tell the disease in +the house from the smoke curling on the roof-top. “No need to lament,” +quoth he, approaching the palace, “this man is undone by one of the two +peerless plagues which afflict the men of Ireland. It is envy or it +is love.” He saw the King and said: “It is not envy. It is beyond the +dream of Druid and the healing of harpers. The herb of the physician +cannot attain thereto.” The King rose and said: “My disease hath run +deeper than my covering of skin. My love is a kingdom of strength and I +am held therein. I am wrestling with a spectre. I am tossed to Heaven +and I am thrown into the sea. I am enamoured of an echo.” + +“Better seek the rock that gave you the echo,” said the leech, and +the King set riding again with his harper. When they approached the +dwelling of Etain, the King sent his harper to play in her hearing +while he waited the distance of the sound away. Etain saw the King +passing and took no notice, for she saw the darkness of his horse’s +shadow upon the rocks. But of his sweetest the royal harper harped. +When he played of the wonders and wooings of Meath, Etain listened +and the Boyne river passed from her memory, and the Kingdom of the +Elf-mounds from her half-memory. She rose to reward the harper. Nothing +would he take but to tell her his story. He told her of Eochy, High +King of Ireland, wasting away for her sake, until she took pity and +told him to send the King to tryst at dawn that he might live and not +die of her. + +At dawn of dawn one drew near to her, and courted her with tales of +the beauty and bravery of Meath. She soothed his love and went her way +in the twilight. In the true dawn came the King, and when he found +her gone he wished to lie down and die. His harper found Etain and +persuaded her to tryst with the King at the dawn of the morrow. Once +again it was the wraith that came to Etain in the twilight of dawn, +but with the likeness and the voice of Eochy. The wraith told her that +the women of Meath had lost all beauty in the night. Etain said: “It +is with Eochy and not with you that I trysted at dawn lest he should +come to his death.” The wraith replied: “It were better that you should +court me than the sick King, for I was your lover in the aforetime.” + +Ever was Etain remembering, and the wraith spoke to her by the fairy +name that lay in her half-memory, and said: “I am Midir and by the +sorcery of Druids we were driven apart. Again have I found thee as +ever of enduring beauty and faithless mind. When I prattled to thee of +the Methians thou thoughtest I was their King. King am I only of those +who pass under wave and beyond world.” Then was Etain divided between +her love for Faery and her anger at the trick which Midir had played +against her, and she made pretence that she would marry the man who +had Meath for his own. Answered Midir: “Can I not give thee all the +may-meadows and well-waters of Ireland for bride gift?” Answered Etain: +“Even so would I not exchange the Methian royalty for thy lineage, +which is none that men know.” “True said,” replied Midir, “for there is +no lineage where there is neither birth nor death.” Fiercely he pressed +her to return with him to the Elf-mounds, saying: “Thou shalt live for +ever with the primrose-haired. Thou shalt be Queen of the tribes who +pass all-seeing and unseen through the hills of Ireland. Pleasant are +the plains of Ireland, but there is a Plain which is beyond pleasure. +Delicious to the minds of men is the sweet hydromel that the women +of Ireland brew in vats, but the drink of my country enchanteth every +sense together.” + +Etain would have laid away her pretence then and gone with Midir, but +Eochy drew near with his harper, and the earthly harper drowned the +dream of Faery. For a year and a moon and a night Etain lived with +Eochy in the Kingdom of Meath, and theirs were all the boundaries of +all Ireland. Whoever is Lord of Meath kingeth every bound of Ireland. +“The Setting is with the Jewel,” as the Brehons have said. Their +allotted time passed and they chanced to sit in the hall of banquet. +The inner gates were closed. The armed men were withdrawn from the +ramparts, for it was against the chivalry of Ireland to make attack +after nightfall. The porter stood alone in the court. A warrior was +seen passing within the gates. The porter knew not his face nor his +accoutrements and still-stood with fright. His knees kissed and his +heels fled from each other. Eochy heard the clinking of his knees and +cried aloud to the porter: “Who knocks?” + +“Midir of the Elf-mounds,” was the reply, “and I am come to play +against the royal harpers for a fee.” + +The King of Ireland consented, both for his love of harmony and for +his love of the hazard. Now the best harpers in Ireland are they who +have learnt their tunes from the herdsmen who listen at the holes of +the Elf-mounds, and Midir made sure that no harper of Eochy would +play other than echoes of his own music. Very cunningly he played the +music of challenge, and sang of the youth and beauty of the world that +is ever young, until the old wine in the casks stored under the roof +became fresh wine of the grape and poured down the walls. When he had +finished, the very warriors and poets of Eochy cried: “Victory indeed!” + +Then the King called his favourite harper, who had been stolen out of +his cradle by a water-wench, and had heard better music under wave than +ever upon earth. Long he played and all listened, Midir most of all. It +was no music of Elf-land or echo of the elfin tune, but the music of +the cities which have been drowned in the Western sea. The night winds +carried the music into the trees outside the royal rath of the King +and, though it was winter, they burst into bloom. When he had ended, +all present cried: “Victory over victory!” Midir asked the fee he +should pay to the royal harper of Ireland. “Clear the plains of Meath +smooth of stone!” said the harper, who knew whence Midir came. Midir +went as he came. + +At dawn the royal steward went out and found the fields as smooth as +the face of the clouds, and a great host with fairy oxen carrying away +every stone except the magic stones of the Druids, and sinking them +into the bogs and waterholes of Ireland. + +But Midir was unsatisfied and came to the King the next night, passing +porter and portals into the room of banquet. The King asked his need, +and he said: “A game of royal chess.” The board was set of gold and +silver squares, and the King slew half of Midir’s chessmen. Midir +pretended anger, and bade the King choose whatever stake he would. +“Rid the fields of Meath of every rush,” said the King. At dawn the +royal steward went out and reported that a multitude of small folk were +hewing down the last rushes as men destroy a forest. + +The next night Eochy came again and asked another game. The King gladly +consented to show his skill. Midir played with the wisdom of his own +people, and he left no piece but his own standing upon the board, and +the King’s kingpiece. The King inquired his stake. “To hold Etain the +beautiful in my arms for a moment of time,” said Midir. The King was +troubled and bade him return after the month. + +At the end of the month Eochy filled his halls with chosen warriors and +trim swordsmen, and sent men riding to and fro upon the ramparts. Midir +passed through them all. “A debt is due to me,” he said. “I have not +considered yet,” said the King. “Etain the beautiful thou hast promised +me.” “But only for a moment of time,” said Eochy. Fear came upon Etain, +for the year of her forgetfulness was passing from her. To the King +she clung, saying: “Until thou resign me I will not go from thee.” “I +will not resign thee,” said Eochy, “but he may take thee in his arms +for a moment of time as thou art, and in the midst of my warriors, and +while my horsemen gallop the battlements.” “Well said,” quoth Midir, +“for a moment of love time is longer than all time.” To Etain then he +whispered her fairy name. + +She withdrew not from his arms, but passed away with him as she had +come, through the lattice of the roof. Eochy the King rose and cried +aloud as a sheep shouteth to an eagle bearing away her lamb. When the +warriors in the court heard the cry of the King, they leaped against +each other with their swords in their hands and shame in their eyes. +And the riding men spurred to and fro upon the ramparts. Yet no one was +seen to pass, and though the King of Ireland rode into the night with +his harper and his Druid he never came by Etain the beautiful. But the +fields of Royal Meath to this day are smooth of stone and rid of rush. + + + + +KATHLEEN + + +I cannot prove that animals have souls, but I would go so far as to say +that the apparatus of a soul is there. Instinct is obviously not soul, +and, moreover, is based on hereditary earth-fears and earth desires. +With death, instinct dies like any other quality--like the power of +smell or the colour of the fur. Reasons given to prove that animals +have no souls are that they cannot laugh or they cannot pray, or they +do not leave behind those wisps or waifs of floating personality which +we call ghosts. Only beings with souls to lose or save have the faculty +of impregnating place and time with those unsolved emanations, which we +attribute to some great emotional violence or grief or crime, when we +say that such and such a house is haunted. But then, if the material of +a house can be haunted--that is, possessed by spirits, good or evil, +of the past--why should it not be possible for an animal to become +possessed and, being sentient and animate, to reproduce such effects as +that same spirit would have on a human body? + +But of themselves animals have no souls. Otherwise, one might sadly +imagine what a multitude of ghosts would haunt the human race. Would +not the old coach roads be infested with phantom horses once worn +slowly to death in order to keep the system of mails and stages, before +the era of railways, up to time? Would not numberless donkeys haunt the +sea sands? And all the cats and dogs left to starve in deserted houses +should provide the spectral shapes of their anguish and despair, all +manner of feline phantoms and canine come-backs. But, however inhumanly +an animal dies, it is just because it is not human that it leaves no +avenging or haunting emanation on time’s spectroscope. + +But an animal is susceptible of lodging a soul or spirit escaped from +some other source. Holy Writ and Mediæval Sorcery combine to reassure +us on that point. The driving of the evil spirits out of their human +host into the Gadarene swine was the greatest experiment in Psychical +Research since the seance of Endor, when the witch raised Samuel from +the dead with the deliberate dare-devilry of a Kensington Pythoness. +The Gadarene swine showed that the bodies of animals could be properly +possessed by spirits, and of course the necromantic Middle Ages +broidered every single Gospel fact to the full, and recorded every kind +of fantastic variant such as familiar spirits occupying owls and men’s +souls entering into wolves; all the horrible legend of lycanthropy, to +give it its right name. The accepted fact that spirits could so easily +make themselves at home in an animal’s body led the theologians to +the theological deduction that an animal could not possibly have had +a soul. It was empty, in fact. A human body, of course, is not easily +occupied by spirits unless the person has been foolish enough to get +out of his body and lose the way back. However, that is another story. + +To return to Psychical Research and the animal world, nothing is +better attested than the perception of the unseen to which the +primitive instinct of a dog is liable. Our eyes are often too scaled +or civilised to see what is happening in our own drawing-rooms. Dogs +sometimes follow with their eyes some passing apparition which is held +from their owner’s sight. And they rise and shiver in that numbing +ice-breath, which is so common a concomitant of that which comes from +the unseen. I have known of caged birds dying, well, it was said of a +cold draught, but really of sheer terror.... + +Of leaving ghosts themselves animals have no specific record though +they frequently figure in ghost stories. But the survivals and +superannuations of human personality do return under animal form. +There was the case of a Scotch recluse, who had a morbid little way +about him, and was always upsetting his prosaic family by threatening +to return to them in the body of one of his many pet sporting dogs. +He was so insistent on this subject that the moment he died his +family had all his dogs destroyed, but he came back all the same and +rather unpleasantly, for visitors used to complain of the whining +and scratching of a dog at their door during the night. Horses have +certainly been known to make their distress known to their owners by +telepathic means, whether they have thrown a foal untimely or stumbled +into wire in the dark. + +An old school friend of mine, Edward (and the family name I leave out) +was convinced that a woman’s spirit dwelt in his favourite mare, but +the circumstances he would never allow to be studied scientifically +or published in any way. As he has long left the country, and as I +think that I alone saw the story from start to finish (and can now +evolve some theory) I will tell it as well as I can, always making the +reservation that it is an unpleasant story in the extreme. However, +with the necessary changes in names and places it can do no harm to +present it to the morbid. + +We were all at school together, Edward, Lord Petersfield (that was +not his name) and myself, and Eton will make a very good disguise for +the name of the Public School. Edward and Petersfield were prominent +in athletics from the first, though Petersfield was always ahead. He +was a bullnecked fellow with a face and nose of the type the Americans +feelingly describe as “plug-ugly.” He had no brain, and being a peer’s +son would never have been expected to use it if he had one, but he had +tremendous grit and determination to collect all that he wanted in the +shape of silver cups and coloured caps--in glorification of his bodily +prowess. On the whole they prove delusive trophies to English youth, +choking off higher ambitions and satisfying young men with a physical +fitness which cannot last. Petersfield was really supreme of this type, +brave, unscrupulous, thick-skinned and self-centred. He was the finest +kick at football in the school or any school. I can still see the ball +darting more than bouncing from his toe like a billiard ball from the +cue, or describing long parabolas across the playing field like one +of those drawings which illustrate the curve and velocity of cannon +balls. And his pride and self-conceit! Well, it was our fault, for we +worshipped as much as we disliked him. I think we feared him as well. +He had such a relentless way of hurling others out of his path. He +insisted on being first choice always. He had to be captain. He had to +be winner. He had to be the record maker. Being second was poisonous to +him. He could not stand being honourably beaten. He was a fine winner +but a bad loser. + +It was the same in later life. He was a fine billiard player, but, +being once defeated in a passing game at the club, he put down his +cue and never played again. Defeat, however honourable, was the only +thing that appeared to hurt him. To the racket and bruises of an +athletic career he was impervious. Besides, he gave as good as he +took. His curiously ugly face was attributed to a streak of foreign +blood. Certainly he had a full-blooded Oriental grandmother. Boys of +foreign descent more often showed a taste at school for pretty clothes +and expensive sweets. It was odd in those days to see one, captain of +an English school Eleven charging and barging, and swearing like any +muscular Christian. Of course there was plenty of English blood on his +father’s side, and it was only while he was a small youth that he was +chaffed about the colour of his Asiatic relations with that considerate +tact which the English schoolboy has made his own. He soon could look +after himself, and played cricket as well as football for the school. +The mixture of blood made him strong as a mongrel and his endless +conceit made him courageous. He was steeled, not unnerved, by the +presence of a large crowd, and could be depended upon to make runs on a +bad pitch. But he was always disliked. + +Between Petersfield and Edward there had been a feud as fags when they +first came to school, and it had always rankled. As soon as Petersfield +found his level he had tried to bully Edward, and I remember the day +when Edward decided to stand him no longer. He found himself cornered +in another boy’s room, and seeing Petersfield descending upon him he +snatched a knife from the table, and thrust it with a boy’s frenzy +into his enemy. There was a lot of blood and a serious row. Luckily +Petersfield was tough and no artery was severed. The parents of both +boys were summoned by the Headmaster, and it was wisely decided to +hush everything up. For the rest of their school life they were often +athletic rivals, but they managed to keep out of each other’s way. +They both reached the Eleven eventually, and whatever ill-humour +remained was discharged on the football field. Petersfield left all his +contemporaries behind, and was regarded as the best kick the school had +ever produced, which set his selfishness and self-conceit running into +a settled mould. + +The privileges and good things of the English aristocratic life were +abundantly his. The combination of wealth from abroad, title from home, +and athletic prowess at school opened every club and country house to +Petersfield. He went wherever he wished, and nine mothers out of ten +encouraged their daughters to follow and flatter him without thinking +whether he was likely to make an ideal husband, or perhaps because +English mothers seem to believe that the ideal husband is the third +stage of the idolised schoolboy who has become an idle bachelor. + +Petersfield and Edward used to meet again in after life during the +hunting season. In face of the solemn realities connected with the +pursuit of foxes they could well afford to forget their disagreements +at school. Edward used to hunt regularly, for in those days hunting was +not out of the reach and pocket of those English country families for +whom the sport had been divinely designed. The time had not yet come +for the sport to become the monied luxury of townsmen rather than the +occupation of squires, when men of wealth would command the hunts their +fortunes supported, and when their lack of horsemanship and speed in +the field would be met by a supply of well-aniseeded foxes and even +three-padded Reynards, amputated for the benefit of sporting stalwarts +who had paid to be in at the death. The King of Sports would have to +be brought within range of the Kings of Commerce and Stock-broking. In +the greater days of fox-hunting, Petersfield and Edward both rode in +the first flight. Hunting was a serious matter in Leicestershire then, +and it was a joy to behold how the hard-riding squires and gentlemen +jockeys kept the after-Christmas crowd at a polite distance by forcing +a tempestuous pace over the oxers and leaving the colliding Cockneys +to drift into the distance. On such occasions there arose a closer +understanding between Edward and Petersfield. They were both well +mounted, and had no quarrel in the open. Indeed, by this time they must +have forgotten the old rivalry at school. But it had left an impression +on my mind, and, remembering how Petersfield had been able to snatch +prize after prize in front of Edward’s nose, I would have been well +satisfied to see him forfeit one of the more substantial gains in life +to my friend. + +There came a splendid season with record runs interspersed through the +finest of hunting weather. The Leicestershire colonies settled down to +their Elysian fields with no cloud on the horizon except the prospect +of having to find a new Master for one of the best-known packs. +Fortunately neither Petersfield nor Edward had any ambition that way, +otherwise I would have been really grieved had Petersfield snatched +the Mastership to himself. For any such public and honourable post I +considered that Edward had far higher qualifications. His temper was +more even, and he often thought of others besides himself. + +When the time came for the renewal of their rivalry I noticed with +interest and relief that it was over a woman that they were stirred, +first vaguely and hesitatingly, and at last very relentlessly. +Nevertheless the fair sex lead to far less unpleasantness in England +than what are called sporting disputes. An Englishman who is kept out +of some great sporting position or done out of his place in a team of +eleven will harbour vendetta all his life. But for a jilting fiancée or +a forsaking wife he will find a kind of bored consolation elsewhere. +The arrows of love are fortunately blunted by the northern climate. + +England is a man’s country not a woman’s. Affairs of honour, if they +arise, rise in the realm of sport, not of gallantry. Cheating at cards, +accusations of foul play, even labelling a man a dangerous shot, will +set men fiercely apart, and will blind accuser and accused to the +consequences. But as a rule men do not fight duels over women or lose +their heads merely because they have lost their hearts. There are +always as many mermaids in the sea as ever emerged from its waves. It +was unfortunate and unnecessary, therefore, that Petersfield and Edward +should have discovered that the one and only girl for them resided in +the same person. Trouble stared them in the face the moment Kathleen +FitzClare arrived to stay at the same hunting lodge where they were +guests. But her charms are no part of my story or at least any detailed +description of them. Their effect certainly is. They seemed to affect +Petersfield and Edward both with the same deadly fascination, for +they both began to court her in the intervals of pursuing the fox. +I was thrown constantly with all three, and found myself something +of a neutral pacemaker for Edward, with an inclination to ride off +Petersfield if I could. But the game was so obviously one where the +third man cannot interfere. The contest was as keen as could be +expected among men whose first thoughts lay with hunting all the time. +The game went to Petersfield. + +Though I think on a desert island or on a social level Kathleen would +have chosen Edward for the amiabilities which the other never had, +Petersfield could urge a number of qualities in his cause, which +counted high in the England of those days. A prospective Peerage still +argued nobility and probably gentle blood. His wealth was based on land +reinforced by a fortune abroad. He was unpopular, but his position was +strong, and he could stroll into Parliament or a first-rate club, or +most country houses, with very little preliminaries. + +He was still pushing for prizes and generally picking them up whether +he had to make an exertion or not. Perhaps he won them too easily, for +he never had to give that concentration of purpose and pain by which +alone the greatest trophies are won. He had distanced us all at school +without taking the trouble to train himself, and in later life it was +the same. Of him it was said that he could have played cricket for +England and won the Grand National. He had the calibre for both but not +the self-denial. He took his sport for his personal pride and pleasure +and not for its own reward. It was his pleasure to keep his strong body +magnificently fit, but he had no use for asceticism or reducing his +weight or the toils of first class cricket and steeplechasing. And his +pride was sufficiently served by the ease with which he could hold his +own among the amateurs of his time. Nor was he the sort to love a woman +with the bloodless devotion of a Harry Esmond. When he saw an easy +and pleasurable chance to make love he took it. Edward became deeply +in love with Kathleen, but Petersfield forced the pace and in the end +he took her away. The day came when Edward realised that it was all +up. We were coming up the stairs when we caught sight of Petersfield +and Kathleen on the higher landing together. He was leaning backward +and she seemed almost to be dragged forward by the eddy of his lips. +I swore softly, but Edward turned a little pale and said nothing. +Petersfield looked rather like one of those Satyrs that are so often +depicted on classical altars. Well it made me hot and Edward cold, poor +fellow! I do not suppose Petersfield was ever particularly passionate, +but as she turned round I could see the glint of his teeth as he drew +his mouth across her shoulders.... Their engagement was announced soon +after.... At the wedding a curious incident happened. Edward crept into +the church at the last moment, and, as luck would have it, ran into +the bride. Without a word but with a face like marble she broke her +wedding bouquet and handed one half to Edward. Nobody but myself saw +the incident. + +Edward seemed quite crushed for a long time after she married +Petersfield, but his early training had prepared him for being +knocked out from the same quarter. He never mentioned it to me then +or afterwards. As for Kathleen--for all that the world knew, it was +a happy marriage. Her relatives were wildly pleased and marriages +are made to please relatives. She kept her end up and always showed +herself well groomed and proud when she appeared in public, and perky +and pleasant in the private houses she visited. Her behaviour showed +the normal attitude with which women equally conceal the most fantastic +tragedies or some secret happiness. You never can know by their conduct +whether women have cancer or a lover. The same intangible veil conceals +the most terrible secrets within. A man will make a hullabulloo over +either, and tell all his friends in the Club sooner or later. Men are +fools. Women will talk about everything that concerns the secrets of +others, but their own they keep more often than people know. Kathleen +kept hers and no one was a penny the wiser. But the marriage did not +last. Neither women nor horses ever lasted Petersfield long. He was +always passing restlessly on his way to try another. But there was no +scandal or divorce in Kathleen’s case. In fact nobody thought anything +was amiss until she was found dead one morning, and the Coroner stated +at somewhat embarrassing length his reasons for supposing that she had +taken an overdose of sleeping draught accidentally! + +She had been out hunting the day before, and Edward told me that he had +had a long talk with her. They had always remained close friends and +met more and more gladly. This occasion had been Edward’s last memory +of her, and they had met at the covertside and ridden into a corner +field together. She had talked to Edward with more than her usual gay +manner, with a real tenderness in fact, as though she were going for +a far journey and they were not likely to meet again that season and +for longer. She had shewn herself more interested in Edward than in +the hounds, and had insisted on his wheeling his horse round and round +behind the covert. He could not remember that she had told him anything +important, certainly nothing to illuminate the dark tragedy of the +morning after, but her manner had impressed him deeply. She seemed to +be prescient of a coming disaster and unwilling for him to leave her +side. She had kept him there, he could not tell whether it was ten +minutes or an hour, but the hunt had meantime disappeared. Then with a +handshake and allowing him to kiss her hand she had ridden home leaving +him an imperishable souvenir. Of course he never saw her again, but, +what was so curious, he could not recall a word that she had said. +He was fortunately able to keep the incident from the Coroner whose +interpretation would almost certainly have been wrong. + +Edward felt her death terribly and took a good deal of the widower’s +pose and portion upon himself. Petersfield continued hunting that +season as though nothing had happened, but Edward grew moody and +disappeared. He was always imaginative, and imaginative people, instead +of being bored, brood and brood, and so a year passed. Petersfield +married again without much ado, but Edward did not think it was any +slight to Kathleen’s memory. Rather he came to think that, now her +husband had remarried, she was more than ever his own, and the feud +between the two men collapsed into its own ashes. + + * * * * * + +After a break of two seasons Edward was hunting again. Petersfield +was now Master of the pack, but nothing could ever induce the least +collision between the two. Edward’s ambitions and desires had been +steadily blunted through life. He had taken an honourable second so +often. There seemed nothing left for him but to enjoy good health and +a place in the ranks of sport. When they met in the field, he and +Petersfield exchanged cheery greeting. It was a good season and they +had plenty of hunting matters to discuss. They were having rattling +runs and the Hunt made lively reading in the rather monotonous +chronicle of foxhunting which spoils a daily column of _The Times_ for +the ordinary reader. Edward distinguished himself riding a young mare +which his father had bred, a nice black satin-coated creature that made +up for her slender shoulders by the cat-like cleverness with which she +took double fences and complicated obstacles. She became a familiar +beauty spot in the Hunt, and more than one generous offer was made +for her, but Edward enjoyed her mixture of cunning and staying power +which generally brought him to the front and sometimes gave him a hard +run to himself and the huntsmen. With all that money could buy him in +horseflesh, Petersfield could never appear on a mount like Edward’s. +One day, returning from the day’s sport, Edward told me with a quiet +bitterness that the bad blood was beginning to mount once again between +himself and Petersfield. I asked what in Heaven’s name it could be for? +“Over the mare of course. Petersfield cannot bear being passed when the +pace really begins to tell and I pass him every time. He has offered me +a record price for her.” + +“You refused him, I hope,” I said. “I don’t see why he should have +everything in life.” + +Edward nodded in a queer sort of way as though it was no good. I was +with him the next day when Petersfield swaggered up and congratulated +Edward on his riding during the week. “You won’t let me double my offer +of yesterday?” he laughed. Edward sat still. Petersfield continued: +“You know. What’s the name of the mare that you ride?” Edward looked +him fair in the face and said “Kathleen!” + +It was the first and only time I saw Petersfield taken aback. He rode +back to his hounds without saying another word. Then Edward told me why +he had called her by the name of the dead woman he had loved. It was +only a whim brought on by an accident. + +“The first time I rode her to hounds,” he began, “she stopped dead in +the corner of a field and would not move away. She whinnied and pawed +the ground not out of fear but as though to attract my attention. It +was no use trying to push, much less to punish such a willing goer, +so I dismounted and tried to find out what was worrying her. I got +off and looked round. Then I recognised the spot. It was the corner +where I had said good-bye to Kathleen three years previously. It all +came back to me then, and most curiously I immediately remembered for +the first time what Kathleen had been speaking to me on that strange +and ever-regretted afternoon. It was about old friends being best and +how pleasant it was to come back to them in after years, and would I +always allow her to feel like that toward me. That was about all. And +the scene dug up the old impressions in my memory so fresh that I lay +my head across the mare and fairly shook with grief. I thought she +understood almost, and when I mounted her again she trotted off and we +joined the hunt. She galloped like mad and I forgot her shying in the +first field after the exhilaration of that run. She just showed her +heels to the whole field. Though we often passed that field again, she +never stopped or repeated her action. But what had happened linked her +up in my mind with Kathleen and that is why I called her by the same +name.” So said Edward. + +I saw a good deal of him that season and admired the perfect +partnership established between him and his mare. It was more like +telepathy than horsemanship. He told me that the mare could read his +thoughts before he passed them to her mouth or to his heels. She never +tired in the field and he was only afraid she would some day strain +herself. He had entered into the relations that an Arab bears to his +horse. They became inseparable companions. Not only in the field, but +in the stable; and out of the hunting season, Edward made the mare +the pet of his life. She moved, galloped and jumped under him with +something of the spirit-like obedience that a medium gives to a strong +control. I don’t think it was out of simple sentiment or in mockery of +the might-have-been that he called her Kathleen. I had to realise that +he really believed that Kathleen, the dead Kathleen, had found a way of +coming back to him out of the next world. I thought he might have saved +himself his emotions when he uttered her name in reply to Petersfield, +who, unless he was more thick-skinned than we thought, must have seen +how deep the old sorrow lay. Anyhow, Edward had taken the idea into his +cranium and as it gave him great consolation it must be regarded as a +good idea. It seemed fantastic enough that Kathleen, having presumably +regretted her marriage in the next world as well as in this, should +have found this rather round-about way of redeeming her frustrated love +for poor Edward. He, just like a man, was convinced that she had loved +him even when she chose the other man. He was convinced that he had not +lost her after all and suffered none of that imaginative agony in which +lovers think of the dear unattainable dead as annihilated in space or +crying a ghostly grief in the icy void. Edward was spared all that, and +a good gallop on the mare ridded him of loneliness and depression of +any kind. In the end he would never let anyone but himself ride her, +and after every ride he rubbed her down, and fed and watered her. She +appreciated his care and carried him and kept him in the first flight +all the season. They were a real ornament to the Hunt. + +The bad times came to the old gentry and the squires. New taxes +and old mortgages hit them harder and harder and numbers fell out +of the County ranks, selling their Halls and Manors to financial +looters and legalised plunderers. The character of hunting began to +alter. Extraordinary people came a-hunting, packs changed hands and +the money-interest could always be felt, even in the necessity that +arose for artificially slowing the speed of the foxes. Huntsmen were +required to show kills rather than sport. The bad times hit Edward’s +father rather heavily and he had been unlucky in trying to recoup his +lost income in the Argentine. The family in consequence suffered not +merely decay but swift and total disaster. Unsuspected debts rose to +the surface and everything saleable had to be sold. Books followed +furniture, and finally went the horses. Edward’s father had a certain +call on the mare he had reared, and Kathleen had to be sold with the +rest. If it had not been for his father’s distress, I think Edward +would have preferred to shoot her there and then. But there was no way +of getting her out of the storm that was engulfing the fortunes of +the house, and she was expected to make the sale a success. She would +attract buyers who might likely buy the other horses. + +Edward avoided Tattersalls the day of the sale. I went to watch the +bidding. The mare was well known in the world of horse-buyers and there +was a keen tussle between different hunts to purchase her. A dealer +bought her for four hundred guineas, a very fine price. Edward went +abroad after the sale to live in the Colonies, where bankrupt men may +live free and ride a horse. I saw him no more. + +I spent that winter hunting, varied with excursions to races, +steeplechasing for choice. Amateur riding is always more amusing if not +such an exact science as professional work. Towards spring I attended +some point to point racing in the Midlands. There was a small crowd +at either end, and I took up a position in the middle of the course +beside the most formidable fence. Several of my friends were riding and +Petersfield was a strong favourite. Petersfield had never chequered +my life, but I confess I would rather have seen him second than have +won a good sum on his win. With my glasses I recognised him at the +start. I watched the starter and the anxious drop of his flag and the +solid burst of horses and riders opening like a fan and thinning out +as each obstacle brought one of them down. The race became a string +with Petersfield leading. He was riding beautifully and his mount was +tossing away the sods like a runaway ploughing machine. They splashed +through a water obstacle. The race seemed to me Petersfield’s, as I +watched him shoot past and over the fence at which I was standing. He +threw his mount like a cricket ball at the next fence, when suddenly +the horse doubled itself up and stopped dead. Petersfield slipped over +its head, landed on his feet and made a desperate effort to remount. +The horse’s front legs danced in the air. Petersfield jerked down the +sinewy snakehead and bundling the reins into his hand was scrambling +back into the saddle. He had lost the lead but it was exciting to see +if he could still win. There was a chance. No, there wasn’t! He was +ready again, but the survivors were two fences away. Not till then did +he seat himself squarely and face the jump, but not a step would his +horse take. So far from pricking his mount to the frenzy of the wind, +his spurs seemed only to transfix it to stone. The race was being won +at the other end. It was won! And Petersfield threw himself angrily out +of the saddle. It must have been maddening to him. + +He seemed rather puzzled by what had happened. He walked round to the +horse’s head with an ugly look. If he wanted to punish the animal he +had the brute to himself for they were half hidden behind the fence.... +I turned towards the finish and had started walking away when I heard +a quick, half-human squeal. I turned round again and realised to my +horror that it was not the horse but Petersfield who was squealing and +for an obvious reason. The animal had its mouth more than full with +Petersfield’s bull neck. He was down on the grass and she was holding +him there. I ran as hard as I could, hurling my stick at the horse’s +sides. But I could not dislodge the animal until I had snatched and +dragged the reins. With a sickening thrill I saw the heavy mouth move +across his neck and the big row of foaming teeth.... Good Heavens! He +had been shaken like a rat before I had rescued him. Not till then did +I recognise Edward’s famous mare. Her eyes were red-hot, and her ears +were laid back like a hare’s crouching in her form. It was the mare +called Kathleen all right! + +I never let Edward know and indeed I never met him again. Why should +I? Men return from the undiscovered ends of the world and from foreign +countries but not from the Colonies. The Colonies are the Empire’s +blotting paper. They absorb all the superfluous ink and the mistakes +and the blots. Financial undoing is the most considerable of social +mistakes, and Edward was glad to be absorbed by the dreary dazzle of +Australia. I never saw him again. Whether the news of Petersfield’s +death ever reached him I do not know. I have no doubt he would have +laid a different interpretation to the scene at the fence than I did, +had he seen or known. I managed to account for it to my own mind. I +don’t think anything so absurd as that Kathleen, the dead woman, came +back to avenge an unlucky marriage, or to be near to Edward.... It +was all a matter of the power of thought. Thought when harnessed to +emotion is a soluble output which can penetrate and influence material +or living bodies, not necessarily human. In concentrated form the +emanations of the past often strike us as ghosts and we generally +feel them more often than we see them. If such an emanation hits a +receiving or containing agent, there is no limit to the tricks it can +play, duping the brain, catching the eye, even causing audibility. +In this case I think Kathleen had decided to kill herself, and all +her personality went out to Edward the day before, when she made +that queer and lingering farewell. Edward did not catch the tragedy +or meaning of it, but the emotion intended for him had saturated the +spot I believe. He was more receptive a year later when he came riding +to the same place, but even so the fierce thought and unconscious +exhalation of Kathleen’s dead agony pervading that corner of earth +where they had parted found its receiver in the sensitive mare he was +riding. Something of her no doubt survived bodily annihilation, and +that shred of unliving, earth-bound personality as it were impregnated +the primitive instinct of the mare, so that she came to answer Edward’s +craving for Kathleen’s return to him in any guise or in any shape. The +negative and positive poles were established between man and mare and +no wonder he felt the horrible material reaction of having to sell +her.... But I don’t for a moment think it was Kathleen. I only suppose +that the mare somehow became mixed up with Edward’s own feelings and +sensation, which would account for the unpleasantness of that scene +that I witnessed by the fence.... It was really only the memory of +those teeth that gave me such a queer turn. + + + + +JOHN SALTUS + + +I remember meeting John Saltus for the first time as vividly as any +coloured patch in my life. It was in the middle of Clubland and a day +that I was feeling unusually sore after being blackballed for the +Bachelors’. I was vaguely trying to decide whether to join the Y.M.C.A. +or to chance the ballot of the Athenæum under a _nom de plume_. For I +had to have some place in London in which to lunch. My real name I had +disgraced irretrievably, unintentionally enough, but foolishly beyond +belief. I need not recall that celebrated baccarat case in which I had +been mixed. It was quite enough to keep me out of any London Club. I +had been a fool, and folly, alas, does not connote innocence. + +It simply made me a pariah in Mayfair. I had played at a table where +a Duchess with thirty thousand a year had been very rightly fleeced. +I enjoyed watching her being cheated by my best friend. There was a +sudden scene and I was held as an accomplice. Nothing could be proved, +but nothing was ever disproved. I went sniffing about Belgravia like an +hyena with his teeth drawn. In the suburbs of course I became rather +a lion, and tradesmen’s wives, and even my own wife’s tradesmen, +welcomed me to their Sunday socials. The hand that was believed to +have cheated at the tables of the great was greeted with considerable +sympathy by the great provision dealers, who, I may say, by less +dramatic methods extract even larger sums from the same tables. But +every class admires some vice from which it is circumstantially free. +Possessors of great wealth secretly admire burglars--an admiration +which sometimes breaks out in mild kleptomania. Atheists cause a secret +fascination to the wives of clergy. Sinners bow to the innocent. The +innocent kneel to sinners. It is based on the love of opposites. Many a +perfect draughtsman has cherished the ambition to write one drivelling +lyric. Browning said he liked “to know the butcher paints,” which the +Exhibition at the Royal Academy shows is often the case. Anyhow, as one +who had once cheated by accident at cards, I became the object of much +vicious veneration in Golders Green. + +In Mayfair I was used to being cut as often as a pack of cards. Tom +Smithson was the only friend who stuck to me and showed his belief in +me by proposing me every year for the Bachelors’. And this, I remember +so well, was my fourth blackballing and here was Smithson coming down +St. James’s Street accompanied by a man to me unknown. Smithson was +the queerest fellow. He always claimed to be the rightful Duke of +Northumberland. He said the Percies had chivied him out. + +Smithson turned sheepish the moment he caught sight of me, a natural +consequence, I supposed, of the social denigration I had received under +his auspices that morning. I only felt that he owed me the necessary +lunch to cover his humiliation and mine. It was the least he could +do. But after making an obvious effort to disembarrass himself of his +companion he showed signs of wishing to avoid me. I could not believe +I was such a pariah that he would not even introduce a friend. I felt +stirred to force an introduction for myself, and the casual crowd +assisted the manœuvre, for we were thrown into touch by an eddy of +passers. Even so, he chose to forget our names! He only placed a hand +on each of our shoulders and murmured: “I am going to leave you two +excellent fellows together without telling you who you are. You are +both well known in your way and you should have rather an amusing lunch +trying to find out who the other is. I have an engagement myself. I am +so sorry.” And he slipped into White’s with the nervous superiority of +an archangel leaving two imperfect beings outside the Paradisal fence. +I was left alone with the stranger. + +“Lunch is a good idea, as ideas go,” I ventured to say, “but unluckily +I have no Club as yet.” A tinge of disappointment crossed his iron-grey +face as he echoed, “Nor have I!” I felt frank and did not mind telling +a stranger, who did not even know my name, that I had been badly +blackballed at the Bachelors’ that morning. At the word blackball he +turned livid white. + +“I have never been blackballed, I suppose because nobody has ever +dared to propose me for a London Club,” he stated with a mechanical +smile. I then perceived the good looks under the sullen pitch of his +countenance. I proposed that we should evacuate the blind rut into +which Smithson had thrown us by quickly disclosing our names and +lunching in the first restaurant. I revealed my humble autonym, for +which he feigned immediate recognition, and, while I was wondering +which of the minors or minims his might represent in English art or +letters, he bespake his nomenclature: “I am John Saltus; you know +Saltus?” + +Hope of lunch compelled me to utter some such pretended surprise as: +“Oh, Saltus? Not John Saltus? Why, of course. I am so glad to meet +you. So curious, isn’t it, after all these years?” But my over-ready +recognition seemed to pain rather than please. I had been as polite as +I could be under extempore circumstances, and yet he seemed annoyed. +Did he also prefer to keep his name under a bushel? Surely he couldn’t +be a pariah as well as myself? “I should like to have honoured myself +by giving you lunch at the Athenæum,” I said, trying to be more than +courteous. + +“At the home of literary discoveries and lost wits?” he murmured with a +ghastly smile. I felt quite annoyed, for the Athenæum was to me one of +the fixed points in the English world, like _Punch_ or Lord’s Cricket +Ground or our sanitary system, and I could not brook the scornful. + +“In that case will you partake with me at my favourite Aerated Bread +Shop?” I continued to say. He bowed, and we walked towards the City. +My favourite shop was empty, except for a mother giving her schoolboy +sons a farewell holiday meal. The quick lunchers and cheap eaters had +gone. It was late in the afternoon. I was lunching with a cynic, a not +unpleasing form of appetiser. + +With his bitter sauce he irrigated the homely pudding of life until I +half enjoyed his quaint misanthropy. It was so unusual in an Aerated +Bread Shop. The lady at the next table seemed equally interested and +strained her ears to overhear what he had to say. The schoolboys gulped +as though about to be left stranded on some cakeless shore or some +iceless Sahara. They were in the middle of a second strawberry ice when +their mother caught the eye of John Saltus. There was a flash of real +recognition, and I watched her rise to her feet, flint-faced, and order +the boys to follow her out of the shop. In vain they protested, with +streaming lips. “Your father would not like you to eat here; no, not +for a moment,” and with her eyes, half afraid and half horrified, fixed +on Saltus she withdrew her brood. They left their ice unfinished. She +made one jerk with her parasol, as though she had just found a decayed +rat in the soup, and was gone. + +I am neither curious nor critical. The past cannot interest me and the +future, being only the unborn past, is even dull to me. As for the +present, the evil of the day is sufficient to the day. Confidences +bore me and I never encourage _le récit d’une vie_. But this time I +felt that a little explanation was in season. I was used to being +blackballed at the clubs, but, when it comes to women stamping out of +Aerated Bread Shops rather than allow their children to eat in the same +room, I confess I felt a little annoyed. + +I was wondering which of the seven unforgivable sins against Society +Saltus could have committed. Had he sinned like me basely at baccarat? +Or had he forged a Lord Chamberlain’s ticket to the Royal Enclosure +at Ascot or gone uninvited to the Gillies’ Ball at Balmoral? Had the +police arrested him embracing his wife with over fervour amid the +moonlit shadows of Hyde Park? Or, even more iniquitous, had he affixed +the pennant of the Royal Yacht Squadron to a houseboat on the Upper +Thames? I could not imagine. + +Well, I never asked, and we walked together that afternoon as though +some subtle bond lay between us. We were fellow-pariahs and clung to +each other. There are some to whom the joys of ostracism make their +appeal and who even enjoy being seen with the notorious. But it was a +kind of self-protection that held us together.... That winter I often +lunched with Saltus and enjoyed his company. I came to appreciate +the fine-grained cynicism of his talk, and I guessed that he liked +me because I was neither curious nor critical. Such friendships can +last. All the same, I could not help observing that his notoriety was +greater than mine, for I often saw men turn aside from us, or at least +Saltus imagined they did, and his brow puckered like a frill and his +long shapely hand tightened upon mine. It was not one of the radiant or +rhapsodical friendships of my life, but I felt spellbound at times and +all the more attracted to his company. I felt I knew him well enough +to propose a jaunt in Paris. I knew he went abroad for his summers, +instead of pursuing those very uninteresting fauna at home, the deer, +salmon and grouse. I felt that Paris was a safe proposal, the great +caravanserai of the uninvited and unwanted and unmentionable of all +nations. To my surprise he bit his lip and said: “Paris? Not Paris. I +can never return there.” With an apologetical farewell he left me the +next moment. + +Next day I received an invitation to follow him to his chalet in +Switzerland. I never knew he had one, but the address conveyed +meaning to the railway agent, and a week later I had taken my ticket. +Switzerland seemed an odd place for an Englishman seeking social +concealment. However, I am not curious and my mind was occupied by the +decision I had to make between the firms of Cook or Lunn. Lunn seemed +localised in Switzerland and the name bespoke avalanches of London +Alpinists, but Cook was a world-fact, one of the Catholicities from +which there is no escape. I was in suspense between Cook the Guelf and +Lunn the Ghibelline, between Capulet Cook and Montagu Lunn. It was +about as considerable a decision as my mind can attain to. + +Eventually I purchased a ticket at Cook’s and drifted into a herded +party labelled Lunn, at whose expense I obtained a free transit between +two Paris stations. Saltus had written to me previously from Germany. +I wondered whether he minded my coming by Paris.... At any rate, the +next day I looked out of the carriage and took my first glimpse of the +Alps. I found them magnificently disappointing. However, I had not been +curious to see them, so I had no right to be critical. + +The Alps at last, bleak and cloudless. I could but feebly compare them +in my mind to God’s family pewter and silver stacked in useless and +aggravated confusion along the horizon. Brightly polished and metallic +they glistened in the sun, silver-plated with the crystallised snow and +hall-marked with ancient volcanic scars. I felt no doubt as to their +Maker. But my mood led me to view them relatively and from distances in +which they grew smaller. My imagination resolved them to the contours +of the Mountains in the Moon, which hung aloft that night like a steel +mirror parodying the Alps of earth. In that cosmic illumination which +we call moonlight I imagined the Alps as seen from Saturn or from the +sun, reducing them to mental and relative dust. What interested me +most, watching those mountains, was their human associations and the +dim thought that in crevasses hidden throughout those heights as remote +from man’s eye as the sepulchre of Moses lay the frost-eaten skeletons +of dead mountaineers, all the lonely legion who had gone up on the +hills and never returned. The great peaks seemed memorable, glamorous +and tragic. Without history until men travelled and travailed on them, +without dramatic power till men perished in their fastnesses and +fissures, dumb and inane the great hills encumbered the earth. + +Switzerland is Switzerland, and three things in Switzerland do not +stop. Firstly, the wonderfully made clocks; secondly, the ever-tinkling +cattle bells, and, thirdly, the Tourists, who at certain and fortunate +periods take flight. I arrived in the lull between summer-climbing +and winter-sports while the voice of the tourist was low in the land. +Saltus met me at the station in the valley and conducted me to the +funicular railway leading to his chalet. We began to move slowly up the +heights. It was like tobogganing uphill in a kind of collapsed tramcar. +We passed through a mist of bell-music. Upon the cattle of a hundred +hills the little bells jangled and tinkled. If the bells were intended +to trace a lost cow I should imagine the expedient to be as practical +as tying a blue ribbon round every sheep on the English Downs. But I +dwell on a particular sound which, for me, is always associated with +Saltus. + +At the top of the funicular we dismounted and began walking through +a forest of fir trees, which lost all charm for me when I read a +notice to say that it was reserved for hotel visitors! and in the +wild thickets Saltus pointed out one of those melancholy timberbuilt +depots for consumptives. Farther we met a fellow-countryman, who +turned and, looking at Saltus with staring hectic eyes, seemed to +fly horrorstruck, as far as I could judge. We were now passing on +footpaths through the forest proper, and in half an hour we reached +his chalet. It was a dark and dismal den though furnished with modern +comforts. A heavy overhanging drip-board shaded the dark-stained timber +stories from sun or snow. Piles of books filled the low-ceilinged room +amid much mountaineering gear and instruments that I connected with +astrology--star charts and astrolabes, crystal balls and the like. + +This was a new side to Saltus’s character, and I decided that it +accounted for the dread which his neighbour had shown when we passed +in the forest, as well as for the awed demeanour of the two Swiss +servants, who worked in the chalet by day and withdrew to some Alpine +kraal by night. I found a clue to Saltus, at least to the extent of his +misanthropy. His chalet held no Visitors’ Book, and there appeared to +be no visitor’s room. + +I presumed I was the first visitor to reach his abode, for a camp +bed and blankets were pitched for me in a corner of the dining-room. +I stayed a month with him without making any attempt to lift the +personal mystery. I discovered that he was wealthy, and a rich man +without friends is a curious phenomenon. He was also an epicure, for +the food and cooking were excellent. But there was no variety. Certain +vegetables and meats appeared but others never appeared in the round. +Yet Saltus surveyed the menu book every morning with an eagle eye. +However, I settled down to this solitary form of companionship. Lunn +had forgotten me and to Cook I must have been as one that had gone +down into the pit, though never had I dwelt at a higher elevation in my +life. Of his necromancy Saltus was very open and showed me many things +in old books, but I came to regard it as a hobby rather than a practice +on his part. I could not feel that his clever cynical mind would waste +or loose itself entirely on such barren investigations. His servants +thought he had attained some proficiency in the darker arts, for I +noticed that whenever he entered the room they crossed their thumbs in +his direction. I knew what this meant. They feared him for the evil +eye. Did the lady in the Aerated Bread Shop also fear the evil eye? I +wondered to myself. It was no business of mine whether the ban upon him +was social or supernatural. I would not ask and I could not blame. He +could make me his revelation when he wished. + +But it was a slight surprise to find that this velvet-dressed lounger +and affecter of the occult was a first-class mountaineer. I learnt +by observation that he was so keen that he never lost a chance to +go out on a search party. There were plenty of accidents in his +locality. In face of the chalet rose the colossal cloudpick known as +the Spindelhorn, and the ranges of the Schwindelhorn stretched at our +back. More than once I saw him go out at a night call with the guides +when some party had been reported lost. He seemed to have a passion +for danger and not for fame. Unrecorded were these heroic climbs, +except what he cared to tell me after he had rested. He told me one +day with visual effect how he had been forced to make a glissade down +a splitting snow-field. For a moment he had been suspended by the rope +over a crevasse, but he laughed as though life held far more terrible +situations. It was a ridiculising yet a haunted laugh. But it was a new +rôle for this misanthrope to adopt, that of a human St. Bernard, for he +never took out his gear except to find the lost. I never knew what to +make of it. His expeditions on the hills always left him in a strangely +exalted condition, and for a day the cynicism would fall from his real +nature like a bright barren husk. I even imagined him sentimental +within. The snows and storms of the Alps had no terrors for him; if +anything they were a refreshment to his silent, sullen soul. + +He never left the chalet except to walk in the woods, and always +avoided seeing anybody except myself and the servants. Yet he had no +appearance of having shrunk into himself or of collapsing into ignoble +obscurity. He kept himself in the most magnificent strength and fettle, +and his agility in drawing himself over the rocks on the very mild +climbs we took together was little less than caprine. And all the while +his mystery seemed farther away than ever from solution. This was no +broken man, whose co-operation on a jaunt was half the battle. Why +did he behave as though his presence polluted the very whiteness of +Switzerland? Yet he used to stand for hours watching the Spindelhorn +as though he were sifting the snows in his inmost soul. I looked +carelessly into his eyes sometimes. They were the cold green colour +of the glaciers. They made me shiver and desire to ask questions less +than ever. They reminded me of the eyes of a man who had died long ago. +The chalet was comfortable enough to a bachelor, but it suffered from +what I can only describe as a great spiritual emptiness. Neither good +nor evil spirits could find lodging there. It was a sort of vacuum. +When I saw all his necromantic gear, I had a feeling that, as he had +found himself cut by the living, it was only natural that he should +wish to scrape up acquaintance with the dead. One day he told me that +he had never imagined once in his life that any survival of the human +personality was possible. I supposed his secret was that, though +endowed with fine faculties, mental and bodily, he had somehow become +dispossessed of his soul, if ever he had one! I felt as though I was +really the only human person walking about in that house. His body and +his mind were unconnected by the third quantity of soul, which makes a +person. He was a unique figure, a striking character in his way, almost +a personage; but he was not a real person. He was only a psychical +mannequin, after all! However, I was comfortable and I lived on with my +automaton friend as with a muscular phantom. I was fond of coining such +phrases, but none of them exactly caught John Saltus. + +I felt that my patronising pity was inadequate to the power that +lay behind his detachment of purpose and life. He was something +more than an Alpine Diogenes in his tub. He had something of the +martyrised nobility of Prometheus chained to the rocks. But why +he lived on those heights, so lonely and so unsatisfied, a woman +visitor would have gone mad in a week trying to find out. He was not +consumptive. His mountaineering was occasional. His tastes lay with +civilisation, and eventually I realised that his astrology was all +a blind. The inspiration or fascination or redemption which he drew +from the everlasting hills eluded me. What possible sin or secret +demanded that he should live in his wooden eyrie, issuing forth on +rare and dangerous expeditions? What did he expect the snows of the +Schwindelhorn to wipe away from his past? + +I used to feel that he was a ghostless body, that he was ever watching +those heights for the return of his soul. They were not unpopulated, +those uncanny crevasses and glaciers. Human beings had been lured and +trapped into their embrace. I could conceive ghosts among those emerald +cracks in the sides of the lacquered mountain. There, as in a vision, +the dead climbers eternally negotiate the trackless passes, while the +noiseless flick of their shadowy axes moves upon the face of the ice, +and phantom pulls phantom along the endless rope. + + * * * * * + +One day the end came with such an unexpected explanation. We were +watching the fronting heights, the trillion tonnage of micaed granite, +that rises in sheeted cliffs and light-green landing stages, where +alpine men actually live, and the higher barren ledges and ragged +belts of hirsute fir-trees growing on the gigantic rock jowls and only +waiting for a drift of snowlike soap and the razorlike effect of an +avalanche to give the illusion of a grandiose operation in Titanic +shaving. And over all rose the snowy peaks, worn fine by the workings +of sun and rain, or tangled and wounded by the primeval chaos. + +Leaving him, I had turned back to the chalet when I suddenly heard him +cry to himself: “Onions and veal, onions and veal, there is no peace!” +Ridiculous words they sounded, but from Saltus they came with all the +force and enunciation of Greek tragedy. And he sighed the words again +and again: “No peace, no peace!” While his green eyes still ranged +the panorama of the Alps. I knew not what to think. Had he sent his +soul out into the waste and had it returned empty to him again? He +rejoined me at lunch and showed himself almost human--not that he was +not always courteous and hospitable and (when he wished) the fount of +good conversation. Whatever his tragedy was, he had seemingly merged it +into nature. Whatever had been the primitive shades and sensitiveness +of his character, he had reduced himself to the slow patience of the +unemotional. He was the triumph of undecontrollable control. In a month +of close company those were the only revealing words he had let slip. +And they were the most anguished I had ever heard drop from a human +creature in my life. Otherwise I could not recollect once seeing him +hurried or angry or grieved. I could not conceive him passing in or out +of love. Swearing or praying, those two easily reversible processes +of approach to the Creator, were not for him. Fortunately I still +remained, on the whole, neither curious nor critical. + +When he joined me, he told me he had seen an avalanche on the sides +of the Schwindelhorn. Emotion in his face took the form of chalky +solemnity. “I never watch an avalanche without wishing I were under +it”; and again he said with unusual feeling, “I believe I could bring +myself to pray to be buried under those moving snows if my prayer could +be heard.” I said I hoped that the avalanche had brought no accident +in its train, and that if he liked I would go down the funicular to +the Club that evening to find out if it were so. He nodded grateful +agreement. “Yes, do find out. If there has been trouble, I should like +to be out on the Alps to-morrow.” + +I crawled down by the funicular that evening and found my way to the +English Club. The avalanche had caused some stirring among guides and +visitors. At least one party was known to have been making in the +direction taken by the avalanche. Alpenstocks were clashing and heavy +boots beating upon the boarding. Anglo-Saxon superiority upon the +mountains was being demonstrated. Casual English voices could be heard +with their peculiarly unhumorous drawl. I made bold to inquire if this +activity had been caused by rumour of accident. A quiet man looked up +and nodded. Then he said: “You come from Saltus, don’t you? I have +noticed you with him several times.” I assented. “You live with him?” +I nodded. “You eat with him?” I nodded. “Then I bet you haven’t smelt +an onion for a twelvemonth,” and he laughed coarsely. “I am afraid I +don’t understand you, sir,” I said. “Then wait till this search party +gets clear. I dare say they will send for Saltus, if they don’t strike +the party which was due to return last night.” And I waited, curious +perhaps for the first time in my life. The word “onion” rang like an +echo of fatality in my ears. + +An hour later we were alone in the club-room, and the other began his +yarn. Mercifully it was quickly told. “So you eat with John Saltus day +after day and your flesh never creeps?” I sat, nodding and nodding, in +a waking trance, but I could not fall asleep. Like the Ancient Mariner, +the other told me his ghastly tale as follows: + +“I knew John Saltus in Paris when we were both students. We lived in +the same rooms for a time. But for a year we always fed at a crowded +little restaurant in the Latin Quarter. It was very cheap and very +good. The restaurant was kept by an old artist, fallen on evil days, +and his handsome wife. We all admired and feebly affected Madame. +Saltus had a friend who went further and made love to her. They used +to eat together. One day I saw the old man serving them both with a +livid face. It really seemed a little hard that they should eat his own +food under his nose and make him wait on them both. Two days later I +arrived late for the evening meal. To my surprise only Saltus and his +friend were sitting there. I joined them, and Saltus explained: ‘The +old man has been feeling ill. He refused us admission, but we insisted +and tried to put it right. Anyhow, he has closed his windows and let in +no one but us. Madame has not appeared yet. She must be doing penance +in the kitchen. However, you have missed nothing. The cooking has been +execrable. We have had horrible horsemeat with onions. Can’t you catch +the smell? You had better go on to another restaurant. They are too +much upset here. Our friend has disorganised the establishment by his +love-making. The wonder is that he has been served at all. And now +Monsieur has not returned from the kitchen. We had better pay the bill +and go. I will go in and spare him the trouble of looking upon his +rival again.’ All these words and sentences have remained indelible +upon my mind,” continued my informant. + +“When Saltus came back from the kitchen he was a changed man. He could +not speak, but motioned us all to follow him. Madame lay dead on the +table, her breasts terribly mangled and her whole body dissected. Her +husband had fled and was picked out of the Seine the next day. The +stove was burning hard and a saucepan of onions was frizzling to a +stinking cinder. No need to discuss or analyse the menu. Saltus has +been that way ever since. He thinks he has committed some unforgivable +sin or incurred some uncleansable degradation in the sight of men.” + +I ran out into the moonlit night. It was late, and I walked about, +unable to sleep, and watched the sunrise redden the snowy veins of +the Schwindelhorn like a pink unguent applied by Dawn to heal the +black bruise of night. I can never forget the first delicate pink that +sprayed or rather perfumed the mountain until the sun brought a ruddier +rush of light over the mountain-head, and Day succeeded with all her +diamond whiteness. And the stark beauty of the Spindelhorn and the +Spittlehorn rose up behind me with a whiteness as of fuller’s earth. +Then I could understand Saltus longing for the untarnished hills. It +was not curious that he should have drawn himself into the heights that +his flesh might be cleansed by the snow and his bones one day made one +with the unpolluted Alps. But I never returned to his chalet. + + + + +LOADED DICE + + +I was recently passing a few days at Monte Carlo, tempted more by +the weather than the spirit of gambling. I was mooning about in the +sunshine, if I may so describe a very pleasant though unproductive +manner of spending the time. The hot-house plants and tropical trees +which grow out-of-doors in the Riviera are alone worth the pleasure of +the trip. The principality of Monaco needs no foreign loans to run its +government, for the tax paid by the Casino is sufficient to balance its +expenses. The flowers benefit by the local affluence, for their beds +are as carefully made as though they were occupying a royal suite, and +they themselves receive as much toilet as ladies of fashion. Palms, +prickly-pear cactus, and all kinds of thick, watery-fleshed plants +thrive in the dry terraces between the mountains and the Mediterranean +Sea. The top-heavy, gouty, black-fibred palm-trees give a ludicrous +impression of old elephants’ legs suffering, if such a medical horror +is possible, from the disease called elephantiasis! The fruit of the +prickly-pear looks like lumps of coloured putty temporarily stuck upon +the gawky leathery leaves. Another amusing plant with stiff spiked +leaves a yard long looks, when it begins to wither, like strips of +zebra hide cut into ribbons. Sun and dew work hand in hand all winter +to make the vegetation as delightful to passing visitors to Monte +Carlo as it must be consoling to constant losers! + +Whether one hazards a stake or not, it is always interesting to sit +outside the Casino and watch the different types who frequent that +most levelling of institutions. Fortune is the most democratic of +divinities, and often tosses into the lap of the humble what she +has filched from the purse-proud. Great or small, adventurer or +artistocrat, sharp or flat, she has a levelling effect on them all +in time. They are all at the mercy of her infinite and ironical +whimsicality. + +Monte Carlo has this in common with certain other places in the world, +like Charing Cross Station, the Piazza of St. Peter’s, and Niagara +Falls, that the world, with or without his wife, passes there sooner +or later. If you wait, you will soon run into an acquaintance, and +already you have a curious feeling that half the people you have ever +known have passed that way. For once I sat waiting an hour without +recognising a face. It was like a long run of the _rouge_ at the table. +The _noir_ seemed more and more certain to come. The next to pass +must be a friend. So it was, for I recognised the worn, old-fashioned +features before me. But where had I met them previously? The name came +back to me with an effort. I remembered now. It was an old friend of my +father’s, and we had met in Hyde Park twenty years before, when I was a +boy at Eton. I never forgot the gold sovereign he gave me to take back +to school. I remembered, too, my father having pointed him out to me as +the greatest gambler of his generation. I vaguely knew that his whole +fortune had disappeared at the tables. + +I was feeling lonely, so I followed him into the gambling-rooms and +claimed acquaintance, which he was polite enough not to refuse. He +was not gambling himself, so he had time to take me round the tables +and explain to me in theory one or two unfailing systems for breaking +the bank. In practice I afterwards found out, and even suspected at +the moment, they had as often bankrupted the would-be ruptors of the +bank, but he only remembered the one or two brilliant moments in his +career when he had cleared out a table and left it closed for the +day. I found it more interesting listening to this old-time player +than watching the motley crowd who clutched the gold-spangled skirts +of Fortune as she slipped by, in silences only broken by the mocking +formulas of the croupiers and the whirring of the fatal ball. At the +tables were sitting girls who had better been playing draughts in +their schoolrooms, and hawk-eyed beldames who seemed ready to stake +the price of their coffins on the winning number. Only when they won +did a muscle relax in their tired faces. The presiding croupiers were +a perpetual lesson in the art of concealing emotions. But as they were +never allowed to join in a stake, they shovelled the money like so +many beans. What perfect flunkeys they would have made for the Sphinx! +“_Messieurs, faites vos jeux_,” sang the croupiers, and a minute later +came the warning signal, “_rien ne va plus!_” followed in a few long +seconds by the announcement of the winning number, red or black, odd +or even, and the swift scraping in of the lost stakes. And so it would +be all afternoon and into the night and the next day again and the +day after ... crack! a sudden shot broke through the great room and +everybody who was not watching a stake rushed into a corner, where some +unknown plunger had just taken the last plunge into eternity by blowing +out his brains. The attendants collected from every corner and formed +a hedge round the dead man. Quickly and soundlessly they began moving +him out by a side-door, while gamblers picking up their stakes ran to +dip a finger in his blood for luck. In five minutes he had disappeared +as though he had fallen off a liner into a boiling sea. Monte Carlo +cannot afford to have scandals on the premises any more than any +well-established and well-connected institution, and is generally +more successful than others in concealing them. Blood is soon mopped +up, especially if the passers believe that it is a charmed fluid. The +roulette ball was soon spinning round again, and the only trace of the +tragedy was the struggle of a dozen gamblers to sit where the suicide +had been sitting all the afternoon. It is a superstition that the dead +gambler’s spirit does not leave the rooms immediately with death, but +remains to avenge his ill luck on the bank; and against the unknown +forces of the underworld even the bank cannot win. + +I had had enough of it, and we strolled out on the terrace, my +companion becoming amused to talk to such a novice in gambling matters +as I then was. From the altitude of twenty years’ experience he began +to give me his views on Luck, which some call Providence and some +the Deuce. “Gambling,” he said, “is worth while to me whether I win +or lose. When I win I cannot spend my money more pleasurably than by +playing it again till I lose in the end. The bank must win. Let it!” + +We sat down and looked across the Mediterranean as the sun slowly sank. +The horizontal rays crossed eighty miles of sea, and for a moment the +ghostly glimmer of Corsica appeared like a mirage and then disappeared +under the claret-coloured flood. My companion talked on: “For me it has +always been better to have played and lost than never to have played at +all. That is even the reason I never married. I felt I had a perfect +right to lose all I had, provided I had no dependents. I had very few +friends either, and I have managed never to borrow, and I have played +for twenty years. I have nothing on my conscience or, for the matter of +that, on my bank-account now. I have had my great days and known the +ecstasy of sudden wealth as no gold-digger has ever felt it--thousands +made in one evening. I have taken zero twice running with a doubled +stake. You have no idea what transcendent bliss that brings a gambler’s +brain. I have done best when I trusted to the inspiration of the +moment. There is luck, and there is bad luck, but that is really as far +as I have ever been able to get. And luck often comes to those who feel +the fascination of the table least. I have seen a man casually back the +winning number and stroll off before it was declared. People are always +forgetting their stakes, curiously enough, and there are always harpies +who watch on the chance of claiming them. The croupier cannot refuse +a claim. I do not think I ever forgot a stake. I can remember all the +winning numbers on my great days still.” + +I asked him what the pleasures of memory meant to him, and he confessed +that they were considerable. I asked him if he believed in any gambling +superstition, whether he thought sitting round a gambling-table ever +produced any result one could compare with spiritualism; for instance, +the result of touching a dead gambler’s blood, which we had witnessed +an hour or two before. + +“No,” he said, “but I have come to the conclusion that it often makes +a difference to the luck at a table who is sitting at it. Some people +cause others to win. That is how it works out.” I asked him if in all +his experience he could think of an instance when a psychic influence +had been at work. He sat back thinking. Then he said quietly: “I do +not answer your question. I cannot say yes or no, so I say nothing.” +“Then you must have met something that was inexplicable,” I pressed. +“Perhaps,” he answered; “but I have never told anybody.” I knew my +only chance of hearing it was to say nothing or lead the conversation +elsewhere, so I just waited. He got up and began walking again. When +we came in front of the pigeon-shooting green, which juts like a tiny +grass-green arena into the sea, he stopped and pointed to a corner of +the fence. A pigeon popped out of a trap, took flight, and fell to an +invisible gun. Another flew out, but fell the wrong side of the fence +into the open sea, where fishermen were waiting to retrieve it from +boats. Each marksman was allowed two shots to bring the pigeon down. +It seemed deadly monotonous. Then my friend spoke: “That is where the +first incident happened.” I knew now I had only to keep silent to hear +what he had to say. “I used to shoot pigeons a good deal in company +with a friend of mine. When we lost at the tables we often made good by +winning the prize for shooting. I sometimes won, but my friend never. +Whatever he gambled at he lost, roulette, _chemin-de-fer_, baccarat, +and dice. He fell into the hands of the sharpers, a gang who induced +him for a long time to believe that he was winning. Then they played +him with loaded dice and he lost a fortune. One evening I was with him +and the dice fell six times the same against him and every time for +double or quits. He challenged the dice and they agreed to saw the +ivory cubes asunder. A third party was called in and in breathless +silence the dice were broken up. My friend picked up each piece with +a face whiter than ivory himself, but there was no suspicion of a +fraud to be found. If they had been playing with loaded dice they had +substituted others. Sleight of hand can work wonders. I have no doubt +my friend’s challenge had been perfectly justified, but he was up +against the deliberate wickedness of this world. For a moment he turned +over the fragments of the dice. The scoundrel who had been playing +with him smiled and murmured: ‘_C’est drôle, pas un grain de plomb_’ +(‘That’s funny, not a grain of lead’). My friend put down his bank-book +and went out. That evening he killed himself. + +“After I had seen to his burying I felt miserable and went for a long +trip. When I returned I instinctively made my way to Monte Carlo. +I could not change my thoughts or get my friend out of my mind, +so I decided to return to the scenes of our long companionship. I +immediately found that my luck had improved at the tables. Then a very +strange thing happened. I sent for my guns and entered for the _grand +prix_ at pigeon-shooting. I found myself in winning fettle. You always +know at the tables or on the green if you are in a successful mood. +On the first day I killed fourteen pigeons out of fifteen. The second +day saw me in the running for the championship. If you miss five birds +you have to withdraw from the shooting, and soon only four guns were +left. In the end two of us were left. We had each shot twenty-four out +of twenty-six. Then the other missed and I only had to kill one bird +to win. Seconds are long on such occasions and my eye was caught by +a little sailing-boat out to sea. I could not get my eye off it and +out flew the pigeon, not like an easy owl but like a flighting snipe. +Ping! I missed my first shot and he swerved. Then I fired to the other +side. Ping! I thought, in fact I was sure, I had missed, but no, I had +just done the trick. As he flew over the fence he suddenly shot low +as though something rose in his path, struck the top of the fence, +and fell stone-dead on the right side of the line. I was heartily +congratulated by everyone on my prowess. I can tell you it was one of +the good moments of my life and as the retriever brought back my last +bird I strolled to the man in charge to see where I had hit my lucky +bird. The dog man was handling the pigeon all over. I asked him if I +hit the head or the body. He began plucking the feathers. When the bird +was bare he looked up with a perplexed grin and said: ‘_C’est drôle, +pas un grain de plomb!_’ As soon as I heard the fatal words I walked +away feeling sick. I did not shoot a pigeon again for many a long day, +not until I was absolutely in want of money. And for months I tried to +get those words out of my head. + +“Years passed, but I never would let my mind dwell too long on the +reason why that last pigeon could have shied and knocked its brains on +the fence for my special benefit. It was possible that my last shot +passed close overhead and drove it downward with the shock it caused +in the air. I have heard of duck being killed by the sheer force of a +gun’s explosion without being struck by the pellets. So I attributed +my good fortune to a combination of natural reasons and my own skill. +And the years passed. I went on gambling and gambling, and I must say +I had begun to forget my companion of other days. But one evening at +Monte Carlo sitting at a table I caught sight of a face opposite which +instantly telegraphed my friend back to me. It was the scoundrel who +had cheated him at dice of all his money and indirectly of his life. +He was obviously down on his luck, shabbily dressed and playing small +stakes with furtive apprehension. I know that look so well. A man often +has it the first time he throws a stake. He generally has it when he +throws his last. I could see that he had not recognised me, but to my +horror, when I had a run of luck, he took special notice and came up +to address me. He began talking about a system of his own in which he +suggested that I should take a share. However, my own was working very +well that day and I played on till I had won five thousand francs. + +“When I came back to my hotel I was surprised to be told that a +friend of mine was waiting in my room for me, and even more so to +find that this ugly customer had followed me out of the Casino and +somehow discovered where I was staying, for while I strolled home he +had skipped ahead and imposed on the concierge with some trumped-up +tale. Anyhow, he had been admitted and was there, staking his life and +liberty on the chance of making me disgorge a little of my winnings. +As he had a revolver pointing at me from the moment I entered my room, +I would have been inclined to buy him off as cheaply as I could. But I +remembered, what he did not, that I had a blood feud with him of many +years’ standing. My revolver was in my outside pocket and we fired +about simultaneously. I missed him, shattering the window behind, but +he hit me in the shoulder. His pellet ran under my shoulder-blade like +a knife. We stood facing each other and aiming. I was trying to fire, +but something held me like a vice, and I could not. Every second I +expected he would shoot me through the head. I could see his fingers +twitching round the stock of his gun. But as I covered him I noticed a +horrible look come into his features, and, if I was held, he was held +doubly. Though I had missed him clean, a look of fear shot through his +eyes, not the fear of a coward or a fool, or even the fear of one man +of another, but the veritable fear of the evil for the Evil One when he +cheats them at the end. He was staring over my shoulder into the empty +bedroom behind me with glazed eyes and a tremor running through his +body. He never said a word but fell back dead! + +“Just then the concierge and the police threw open the door and I found +myself arrested. I declined to tell my story except in the presence +of a British consul, and was taken first to a doctor, who found my +wound slight, and then to the guard-house, where I was detained for +the night, but I must confess I never slept with a lighter conscience. +In the morning there was an inquiry before the authorities and I saw +from the first that I had matters in my own hand. It was shown that +I had left the Casino a winner and my assailant a heavy loser, that +he had made his way on a false excuse into my room and that I had +been found wounded. There was every suspicion that he had provoked +the quarrel. I was only anxious that the affair should be taken down +in black and white for my future good name, and I was quite ready to +be accused and saddled with an act of justifiable manslaughter. The +magistrates after consultation with the police said that they would +be delighted to release me, but that they would be much obliged if for +the purposes of their report I would tell them exactly how I had killed +the deceased. I pointed to my revolver lying on the commissary’s desk. +‘No, _monsieur_,’ I was politely told, and they all shook their heads +mysteriously. ‘No, _monsieur_, you may have fired, but you must have +killed him in some other way.’ I looked bewildered. Then the commissary +went on in a quiet voice to say that they had found no bullet-hole, and +he ended: ‘_C’est drôle, pas un grain de plomb!_’ But, whether from +loss of blood or excitement, I had fainted.” + + + + +AT THE HIGH TABLE + + +The port was passing at the High Table of St. Zacchaeus’ College in +the University of Cambridge, port not as diners at Claridge’s or the +Ritz know port, but grand old College port that deceased Bursars, +untroubled by wife or work, had spent time and taste laying down in +the College cellars in the fifties and sixties. Nobody knew how much +of the best survived there, but regularly at the great College Feasts +of St. Zacchaeus, such as his _Nativitas_ or the anniversary of the +Translation of his Relic from the local Cathedral to the mediæval +College founded in his name, as well as on the day marked curiously in +the Calendar of the late or pseudo-Lincoln Use, “_Sanctus Zacchaeus +inter sycamoris_,” the best and most wonderful of ports appeared at +the High Table. Each of the older Dons sipped the cloistered nectar as +though it was his last glass, and guests made gentle inquiry of its +abundancy or likelihood of appearance at the Feasts of the following +year. There was no certainty, but it was rumoured that a Junior Bursar +had boasted--in his cups--that enough remained to flood the front court +of the College unto one and three-quarter inches deep. But he was not a +mathematician! + +The port was passing and three times the hospitable Master of St. +Zacchaeus’ had filled his glass and mine. Since the War the College +Feasts had been kept very quietly, and the younger Fellows elected +since that sanguine deluge were already rising and asking the +Master’s leave to return to their studies. They were an entirely new +type compared to the mottle-faced old Dons; less human and far more +efficient. The Master contemplated their departure good-humouredly. +“They are a far harder working lot than we ever were,” he mentioned, +“though they do rather resemble hair-dressers’ assistants. Praiseworthy +young men and very concentrated in their ways. That young gentleman who +has refused port, was, I believe, once a Canadian cowboy, but after a +distinguished service in the Army took advantage of the call to ‘Hands +across the Sea’ to study Law with us, and so successfully that we made +him a Fellow. Though he keeps his hands off the port he is no milkmaid. +In fact, I believe he came to one of his colleagues, who had been kind +and lent him books, and offered to arrange the disappearance of any +person to whom he had most objection in the University.” + +The Master was in talking mood and several of us collected round him. +“Strange times are upon us, gentlemen, but no doubt we seemed just as +strange to the generation that went before us. I have lived to see a +race of Undergraduates who do not go to Chapel, and of Dons who have +invested their Fellowships in wives or motor-cars. I really feel that +the Don who cranks his own car has forded the Rubicon.” And he laughed +pleasantly at his own little joke. We laughed hugely. + +We sat back against the old red-leathered chairs on the dais under the +solemn dust-laden pictures of the holy or unholy founders (according as +politics or religion might move the mind of the spectator) and watched +the last flicker of the sunset stir through the coloured oriel-window +and reflect itself in the great West window of the Chapel. For modern +glass it was very beautiful. The Chapel was of course mediæval, but +the old stained glass, together with the Relic of Saint Zacchaeus, had +been barbarously destroyed by the infamous iconoclast Dowsing in the +seventeenth century. But it was piously held that the big sycamore +growing in the Fellows’ Garden had sprung from the ashes of the saint +and it was solemnly watered and secretly cherished as a rival to +Milton’s mulberry and Newton’s apple tree in neighbouring colleges. +With the era of Gothic revivals and restorations the glass had been +replaced in the mullioned windows. The West window was certainly very +magnificent, but the choice of subjects had always puzzled me as an +Undergraduate. They seemed such an incongruous selection, but there +they were in their full Munich blazonry! Like most Undergraduates it +had not been for me to inquire or question. But as the dying light +threw them into rainbow splendour, I ventured to ask the Master whether +the subjects had been chosen by the Donor or by the College. I always +understood the window had been given by some old retired Fellow long +deceased. For answer the Master merely passed the port again and asked +me whether I had a sufficiently low opinion of Royal Commissioners, +who had come to harrow his last years upon earth. I replied that +when Commissioners began to inquire into the finances and statutes +of Colleges like St. Zacchaeus I regarded them as somewhat above the +common run of burglars, but infinitely lower, morally and socially, +than the Familiars of the Inquisition. With which reply he seemed far +from displeased. + +About ten minutes later he gave me a signal proof of his pleasure, +for he took up my previous question concerning the West window and +said: “Yes, they are very curious and unexpected subjects to find in a +College Chapel. It can only be said of them that they are scriptural. +But their display there is not meaningless,” and he began unweaving one +of those curious stories which lie in the experience or recollection +of the wisest and most venerable of us. Beneath the outer crust of +stratified anecdote and ordinary gossip there lies some story in almost +every man’s life, which he is generally as reluctant to dispense as a +cellarer his best port. It is often a ghost story, and most men are +unwilling to confess that the inexplicable has ever crossed their +plain path of life. Or, like much in Heaven and earth, a streak of the +so-called indelicate gives it a taste that is not always agreeable. But +in Life and in Literature, in books sacred or profane, in dealing with +God or with mankind, these matters must be accepted as an essential +part of the Divine dispensation or of human nature. It is not necessary +to make them seem the sole circumstance or interest of our minds, but +it is difficult to go far in Life or Literature without realising and +if possible understanding them. Sex is the quintessence of the Body +just as ghosts are distillations of the spirit. + +Wise is the man who without seeking either is prepared to meet them +spadewise, that is to say knowing how to recognise and describe a spade +as a spade. And the old Master from whom I had never heard a word +touching either the weird or the sexual side of life began quite simply +to talk about both. + +“In the old days, before the last Royal Commission interfered with the +working of University life, I must admit that a great deal required +reform, though reform is one of the words I dislike most in the +language. For instance, this was a College of unmarried men entirely; +and at the time of the Dissolution, for how else can I describe an era +when our Fellows were, not entirely owing to their own fault, very +dissolute, I am sorry to say that this College provided not a Boathouse +on the River or a Cricket Pavilion nearer home, but frankly a brothel +in Barnwell--for the elder members of course.” + +The last light of evening sank into the unrecognisable panes of the +Chapel window and the porters were lighting the gas jets in the Court. +The Master’s words seemed a bitter commentary on the history of this +home of peace and learning and spiritual refreshment. It seemed +incredible that it could have been so, but in the eighteenth and early +nineteenth centuries all things were possible in an English University. +I waited a little expectantly for him to continue. “Men came up from +the great public schools and settled down upon the bounty of the past. +There was little competition among them either here or in the outside +world. They lived lives of leisure in College like their relations +in family livings and squires’ pews, and both their minds and bodies +went to seed. Occasionally there was a great flash of scholarship in +the void, like Porson--a rare flash in the Academic pan. For the most +part they turned queer or stagnant or ridiculous. There was nothing +to occupy them. Some sank under the college wines like a rich-flowing +river of Lethe. Statutes hedged them and custom prescribed them a rut, +which was stupid as well as narrow. But before they became decayed +curios they were men like us all, and when they came up and settled +down to celibacy without idealism, and study without enthusiasm, and +manhood without athletics, well, what could you expect without a +certain amount of moral wreckage? The College, which always enjoyed a +noble income, allowed them to overstep certain Statutes both human and +divine, and handsomely too. Young and vigorous men, cut off from life +by rule, were, so to speak, initiated into the mysteries of life by +their colleagues. Frankly our Fellows often lived in sin. + +“It was all very irregular. Of course, it was not common or general, +but no doubt Barnwell had its convenience in saving us from scandal +within the College. Whether it was regarded as a luxury or a necessity, +the College afforded it. Again I say that those days were far from +being our days. Englishmen were freer of speech and action then. I +appreciate the great change that has now come for the better. It is +right that Dons should be allowed to marry.” + +Darkness had fallen upon the beautiful pile of pinnacles and towers +outside, and the silver candlesticks on the High Table threw but a +feeble and ironical little light into the court so lately deluged +with successive hours of sunlight, stark, golden or rubicund in turn. +But the hours of sun and sundial had passed, and we were sitting into +the hours that are illumined by electric bulbs and counted upon the +mechanical faces of clocks. The Master was trying to bring himself back +into a forgotten era. His speech flowed precisely. His choice of words +did not fail. He was reckoned an accomplished after-dinner speaker, and +there were few College Halls whose rafters and gilded lanterns had not +rung at some time to laughter and applause evoked by his rich store of +the academical anecdote. + +He continued: “When the Dons were compelled to be celibate, matters +were strangely arranged, as I say. In those days there came to this +College one of the finest spirits that have ever been cased in a human +body. He was a Greek in body and mind, and he knew his Greek as few of +his generation. He came here conquering and to conquer. Mentally and +athletically he was capable of anything. But we did not encourage him. +If he wished to read for the University prizes, well and good. Nobody +prevented him. And if he wished to row in the University boat, well +and good. As a matter of fact he did neither. Whatever he touched, we +saw him take up with tremendous enthusiasm. And then unfortunately, +when it seemed likely that he would remain as a Fellow with us and pass +permanently into our Society, he was taken by one of us to this house +in Barnwell--not that it was anything unnatural or strange in those +days, nor do I suppose that it would be unnatural at any time, but it +would be thought nowadays stranger than fiction. + +“I believe it was his best friend who took him and introduced and +initiated him to those mysteries of creation with which the Creator +invested the human race. There he made a liaison with a woman who +matched him, not in learning, but certainly in intelligence, and +surpassed him in physical powers. When he returned to College he was +far from quiescent, and related his adventure rapturously to his +friends, concluding with the mediæval snatch, ‘_Mihi est propositum in +taberna mori_.’ He said this several times as though he meant it. He +was one of those men who carry out what they take up with all their +might. He threw himself into his liaison with the energy of one sex and +the intensity of the other. And our College life sped upon its way. + +“One night at a very late hour the College porter was roused by the +bell at the outside gates, and admitted a member of the College whom +he was too sleepy himself to identify. But he was sure that it was +the only time the bell was rung after twelve during that night. Under +subsequent question no member of the College confessed returning late +that night. The College has never been one to retire or rise early, and +that night at two o’clock I crossed the Court, and I met the man I have +been speaking of. He was walking quietly towards his rooms. His fine +brow and athletic tread stamped the encounter in my mind. I was not +mistaken, and I never doubted that it was he, and I was afterwards able +to swear that I had seen him at that hour. It was about the same hour +that the porter opened the front gate. + +“The next morning we were informed that our bright companion was lying +dead in Barnwell, and that the Borough Police were taking possession +of his body. Armed with our special privileges and statutes, several +of us, including the dead man’s friend, made our way into that suburb +which has never ceased to hold sad associations for me. We identified +him lying there with a rapt and, I thought, slightly mocking expression +on his face. There was a terrible beauty written upon it, and his +friend was deeply affected, for he knelt down and began praying aloud, +at least we imagined they were prayers he uttered, though from time to +time we overheard like a cruel antiphon the words ‘_Mihi est propositum +in taberna mori_.’ Suddenly we realised how the dead man’s idle wish +had come true and smitten him to dust. + +“There was no time for weeping and, as we learnt that, after all, the +police had not yet been apprised, we decided to cut scandal down in +its roots and to transfer the body in a trusty cab to the College. I +will never forget our solemn progression through the half-awakening +streets of Cambridge with the corpse sitting between us bolt upright, +or our arrival at the front gate, which as a rule was only swung open +for the Master or the Sovereign--but which was opened full to admit +the cab driven by a discreet cabman. As soon as we had laid the body +in his rooms we availed ourselves of one of our mediæval privileges +to hold the inquest within our own walls. But the police heard +rumours, or perhaps the five pounds we gave the discreet cabman led +to indiscretions on his part in a public-house, for the scandalised +Borough endeavoured to lay sacrilegious hands upon the rights of the +College, and demanded the body. Evidence was given that the deceased +had returned to the College late the previous night, and presumably +had died within academic walls. This, of course, was the curious part +of the story. The porter was certain that he had heard the bell at +two because it coincided with the striking of the bell in Great St. +Mary’s Church, and also that he had admitted a tall gentleman whose +name he had omitted to take. There he was at fault. The rest of the +College (and we were very small in numbers then) were prepared to +swear that they were within the walls of the College before midnight, +and finally there was my affirmation that I actually saw the deceased +cross the court that night. The Magistrates and police were a good +deal troubled, but they had no evidence and only rumours on the other +side. The porter’s evidence carried the most weight. The word of the +Lady Margaret Professor of Divinity might be doubted and even the oath +of the Regius Professor of Law might be found to be unsound, but the +statement of the Head Porter of St. Zacchaeus stood. + +“We held the inquest in the College precincts, and had no difficulty +in returning a verdict of heart failure, which was the medical truth. +But the wings of scandal began to beat round our academic calm, and it +was thought better that the friend of the deceased, who was perhaps +answerable for leading him into temptation in the beginning, should go +down from the University as quickly and as quietly as the body of his +poor friend.... He went, and disappeared. A quarter of a century later +he presented the great West window to the College as a peace offering +to the living and a secret memorial to the dead. Remembering the +circumstances which I have told you in outline, and not forgetting the +remarkable vision which I saw in the College court, you may be able to +guess for the first time why the subjects in the window were chosen.” + +There was a deep silence at the High Table, and the shadows of fifty +years seemed to descend upon the gas-lit court and to fill the hall +even into the recesses of the great gilded lanterns rising out of the +roof. In the distance the outline of the chapel darkened the very +night, and I was only sorry that I should have to wait till morning in +order to gaze at the coloured glass in the West window with a thrill +and a wonder that I had never yet thought possible in contemplating a +religious or symbolic object. I could not help asking the Master whose +was the mediæval mind that had dared choose the subjects. “I chose +them,” he said simply. + + + + +A SAINT + + +The first time that I was really impressed by the possibility of +supernatural power working outside the common or beaten path of +materialism was in a Devon country-house. I always believed material +things or ordinary events could be affected by the spirit, for instance +that it was quite useful to pray for or against rain, and that a fine +afternoon generally rewarded the Vicar’s prayers before a Bazaar or +School-treat. But that quite extraordinary things were liable to happen +out of the blue because of unseen and unknown forces used to be beyond +my reasonable expectation. It is not so with me now. + +I was staying in a beautiful but nameless old Manor House in +Devonshire, cut off from road and rail. The only approach was down a +breakneck hill, a kind of gravelly toboggan run into the smiling valley +below. Coombes of red, red terracotta earth enclosed the landscape +and over the hill-tops floated a glimpse of distant sea. A Devonshire +coombe is a pretty piece of landscape pretending to be a switchback +railway. It was spring, and spring in Devon gives a springier feeling +than anywhere else in England, whether it is the beauty of the Devonian +maids or the wonderful red colour of the earth. + +The Manor House was Tudor, dating from the time when Englishmen took up +home, beer and bowls and gave up Castles, archery and the San Graal. +It was built on monastic ground and had passed through the hands of a +succession of families, each of which had fulfilled the curse attached +to Abbey lands by slowly extinguishing their seed and silver and cellar +through the several and appropriate means of drink, debauch and lawyers. + +The Manor was inhabited by what are known as Devon worthies, which +means folk who are worthier of Devon than other folk, or perhaps that +Devon is worthier of them. Every day I wandered out between showers. +As a matter of fact I had hit the comparative lull between the vernal +deluges and the summer rainy season. It was delicious though wet work +watching the patches of gorse, which clung like the rags of a golden +fleece to the hill-sides, while the white bloom of the bird-cherry +trees lay on the twig-tops like a late snowstorm that had forgotten +itself and dried instead of melting in the sun. The harebells ran +like blue ink through the wood-bottoms. An occasional bee-orchis +sanguified the hedge, like a bluebell whose stalk had been soaked and +its leaf spotted with red wine, though from closer it looked like a +purple-hooded cobra in the green grass; and splotches of delicate +primrose never ceased to advertise the purity and colour of Devonshire +cream. + +The house was in the possession of the hereditary Lord of the Manor, +Sir Petronille Pawkins, Bart., a very robust and pugnacious gentleman +with the usual collateral relationship with Sir Francis Drake, a +violent temper behind his shirt and plenty of good wine in his cellar. +All were in evidence during the party. His mother, the Dowager Lady +Pawkins, had never been put out to grass, and had subsided into a +rather cheery kind of housekeeper. Certainly she took the place of the +pale silent wife everywhere except in the Oratory. The old lady came of +Catholic stock and, though frankly she had taken to drink, she had not +lost the Faith, which she had handed on to her rowdy son. The terrible +undercurrent and possible moral of this story will excuse my saying +anything so brutal about a lady who is dead and, I am certain, now with +the Blest. + +She lived in the house, rather terrorising the wax-pale wife. The +Dowager had a reputation for enjoying the cellar as much as her son, +so that the two hostesses were a great contrast. The Dowager was fat, +cheerful and, to my regret, generally tipsy. She had married the last +Baronet as a convent girl and, beyond adding a modern Chapel and a +Catholic heir to the family, gave no further example of piety. The +beautiful Flemish tapestry in the drawing-room of the adoring Magi was +an heirloom, not an evidence of devotion. + +She was mixing cocktails for the guests before dinner when I arrived. +She explained that this domestic duty fell to her because the present +Lady of the Manor did not approve of drinking at all, and was always +trying to induce Sir Petronille to take the pledge. This Sir Petronille +declined to do on the curious grounds that his father had died of drink +and that he owed something to his memory. She too was of Catholic +stock, from some forgotten sanctuary behind the Fens. She was young and +preferred to leave the brunt of entertainment to her mother-in-law. +They were too unlike for any rivalry to rise between them. She reminded +me of a candle burning away in the daylight to an unseen flame. Life +itself was hardly apparent in her eyes, which seemed to look backwards +into her inner self and not upon the wicked world into which she had +been given in marriage. + +The house party was various. As they sat round the dinner table the +first night, I could not help dividing them into the two categories of +Bottles and Barrels. It is an amusing game to play with oneself at a +dull dinner party. In the first place so many people are shaped like +a Barrel or a Bottle. And so often the mental contents are similar. +Bores are simply empty barrels, except (what is worse) when they are +overflowing ones. Social bottles seldom run to more than conversational +soda-water. Very rare is the sparkling vintage, and it is one that +needs to be deftly uncorked. I am afraid the Dowager was a typical +barrel. The human bottles did not strike me as worth tapping, even Sir +Petronille. There were two talkative Americans who could only have been +tolerated under the rule of Trappists and even then might have proved +unbearable to the Trappists. They were rather like people who had +stepped out of books with very little to say worth putting back into +books. Their flow of soul was as soda water without the water. There +were some neighbours who provided the news of Exeter and even from as +far as Torquay, which is the English Deauville, only more so. And there +were a few literary men and a budding politician from London who talked +rubbish. Naturally we pattered the Metropolitan movies, a cursory +list of which may help to date this story twenty years hence. We said +all there was to be said about Wembley, about the Labour Parties, the +Opposition Parties and Lady Colefax parties; about Steve Donoghue’s +riding; about the Rodeo riding; and Lord Dudley’s marriage. + +It was the last party that the unexpected might be expected to +happen. But good port covers much ordinary conversation, whereas +_vin ordinaire_ is difficult to conceal with the brightest chat. We +had reached the stage between the first and second glass of port when +the servants suddenly disappeared apparently with a scuffle. Our host +followed with an oath. Something had gone wrong below stairs. We would +have carried on polite conversation until relieved, had not a drift of +pungent smoke crossed the doorway. We left the room and hurried to the +staircase in time to hear an alarm of fire. The customary scenes at an +English country-house fire followed. The unselfish shifted furniture. +The selfish shifted for themselves. The budding politician assumed a +mediæval helmet and gave loud and continued orders from the stairs with +some such caption in his mind’s eye for the next day’s _Mirror_ as +“Young statesman acts as fireman!” The men servants stood in different +corners of the library, which was found to be in flames, discharging +Minimax squirts at each other. The chemicals slowly changed the colour +of their livery, but not the stolid cast of their countenances. The +ladies rushed up and down stairs impaled on the dilemma of saving the +hats in their rooms or leaving their evening wraps in the hall. The +rest of the party brought buckets and jugs of water which did as much +damage to the carpets as the Minimax to the shelves and curtains. But +true to its classical derivative the Minimax minimised the maximum of +fire. Amid much hissing and smoking the flame was quenched and the +damaged furniture carried into the garden, to wit: a gutted sofa, two +charred chairs and a stinking carpet. Everybody congratulated each +other on delivery from atrocious death, a telephone call was sent to +the Insurance Company, and beer was provided for the expected and +expectant firemen of the neighbouring Borough, who arrived in the +early morning. + +During the rest of that evening the fire supplied an agreeably +thrilling note to the conversation. The escape of the party was +celebrated with duplication and even multiplication of the port wine. +The Americans were shocked and then delighted and even unpersuaded to +uphold the reputation of a dry country against the enticements of a +drinking Baronet and a wet spring. Lady Pawkins was terribly upset, +whether by the fire or the drinking. She hardly appeared at all during +the next three days, leaving the house affairs almost entirely to her +mother-in-law. + +It was remembered that Sir Petronille had only remarked that the smoke +had spoilt the port left on the table, and that it was a damnable +nuisance the fire had not started a quarter of an hour later. The +insurance agent arrived and a cheque for damages was paid. All was as +it should be. Sir Petronille’s wife looked a little paler, and nothing +happened for three days.... + +We were returning to tea in the late afternoon when we found the +servants extinguishing a fire in an empty bedroom. There was nothing +but smoke and smell left by the time we arrived. It was a horrible +nuisance. Our host’s oaths took the sheepish grins off the servants’ +faces. The insurance agent arrived again and re-estimated damages. +It was curious that there had been no grate fire in the room, but it +was generously attributed by the agent to forgotten cigarette ends. +Everybody looked at each other foolishly, and then somebody blurted +out that it was only the ladies who smoked cigarettes. The men smoked +cigars and pipes. The agent bowed and smiled; “I have no doubt some +lady was forgetful,” he suggested. He was anxious to turn the incident +into a good advertisement for the company. “But they don’t smoke +in empty bedrooms!” shouted the Dowager. The agent bowed again and +withdrew with his report. There was a general laugh, I don’t know why. + +A second fire was excessively unlucky, and the only consolation which +could be offered to the host was that he had surely exhausted his share +of bad luck for a life-time. That evening the party kept sober and, +when towards ten o’clock the butler entered and with a very scared +face reported that a third fire had just been extinguished in the +Chapel itself, the party resembled so many aldermen and church-wardens +proceeding to view the site of municipal disaster. + +It turned out to be a slight outbreak and only a few smouldering +hangings had to be removed. It was promptly attributed to one of the +altar candles or to the blue light which Lady Pawkins kept burning +before the statue of the Lourdes Madonna, now generally taking the +place of the mediæval Mother and Child in the shrines of the Catholic +community. But it was proved that no candle had been lit since Mass +was said on the previous Sunday, and that only the supernatural could +have caused the hangings to be ignited from the lamp. Lady Pawkins had +been in the Chapel until just before the dinner gong, so all scent was +once more at fault. There was no scent in fact except the obvious and +unpleasant smell of burnt cloth. + +Three fires within four days was incomprehensible indeed. Either +it was an amazing coincidence, and by the law of chances could not +possibly recur, or it was the work of a firebug--more politely called +a pyromaniac. There must be somebody in the house with a Freudian +fancy for setting random fire to the furniture in broad daylight. +Even so, it was impossible to strike a cause. The staff was old and +warranted. Many had been reared under the family they served. A fire +in the Manor House was unheard of. Guests and servants were anxious +equally to prove alibis for themselves. The odd thing was that nobody +had been alone when any of the fires had started, except Lady Pawkins +praying in the Oratory; and the Oratory fire occurred while she was +out. It was more than strange. That evening the ladies were as voluble +as the men were thoughtful. The budding politician said he owed it to +his constituents not to expose himself to suffocation in his bed. The +Americans rehearsed endlessly the great fire in Boston, the greater +fire in Chicago and the greatest of all in San Francisco. And there was +talk of the disaster to the _General Slocum_ and much other cheerful +and appertaining matter. + +Nobody slept that night, and the gentlemen took turns to patrol +the passages. Nothing happened, nor during the next day, which was +a Saturday. There arrived detectives from one of the great London +agencies, and a Benedictine priest from the neighbouring monastery, who +came regularly to hear the confessions of the Ladies Pawkins. On this +occasion only the younger of the two was available. I regret to say +that the Dowager had, under the strain of three fires, become amusingly +drunk. I watched the younger woman pass into the Oratory and kneel, +paler-faced than ever. An hour later the monk passed out of the house. +She had apparently made up for the absence of other penitents, but what +on earth, I thought, could she have had to tell her confessor? But, +then, there are more things in Heaven and earth than.... Most of her +time was spent in the chapel praying, and the hours spared from her +devotions were lavished on the comfort of her guests. Her hospitality +was humble rather than brilliant. She was found one morning making her +mother-in-law’s bed, and nobody had any doubt of the unseen hands that +changed and rearranged the flowers in the rooms every afternoon. She +lived in the house, but she hardly seemed to be of the house party. Yet +she was indefatigable at every meal and in her care for the guests. For +their vinal welfare alone she showed indifference, if not abhorrence. +And, like most model hostesses, she made no attempt to add to the +gaiety of the party, though she never allowed a trace of tiredness +or boredom to cross her face. But her smile was worth more than much +laughter from the drunken. + +Meantime the sleuth-hounds had arrived--one in the impenetrable +disguise of a valet, who spent long mornings and discreet evenings +brushing the threads out of our evening trousers. Another was ambushed +as literary adviser to Sir Petronille Pawkins, and it was given out +that the Baronet, who was almost illiterate, intended editing some +chapters of his very obscure family history. While we ate, they sought +clues and found them not. The sole result of their search was the +finding of a number of private letters in coat pockets, which letters +were surrendered to those least intended to see them. A number of +unpaid bills, addressed to the Dowager Lady Pawkins, were handed +by mistake to Lady Pawkins. And a letter from an Inebriates’ Home, +directed to Sir Petronille, gave the Dowager the shock of her life. +She, poor soul, had remained in a very intoxicated state owing to +reaction from the incendiarism. I surprised her one evening mumbling +to herself. It was a long rigmarole about trying to fight it (I presume +she meant the firebug), about her failure and what a disgrace it was, +and finally how good Alice was (Alice was the daughter-in-law). “She +won’t give in. She’ll beat it,” and the old lady burst into hysterics. + +The local police carried out a portentous investigation of footprints +and thumbmarks to substantiate a theory of malicious arson from +without. The local constable found and rightly measured the inspector’s +bootmark in the garden clay, and the inspector found a finger-print on +a window-pane a few hours later which might or might not have been the +constable’s. The clues discovered by means of the house party would +have filled a shelf in the Scotland Yard museum. + +Nevertheless, there were comic variations in the house-party life, and +people became quite amusing against the tragic background, though a +certain amount of discreet panic took place. Fear of the unknown hushed +the rowdiness of the party. The second fire had sobered them. After the +third few dared to take their normal rest. It was obvious to material +minds that, if fire could break out on a sofa or among hangings for no +reason during the daytime, it might do so during the night-time for a +better reason. Nobody cares to be roasted in bed, so we broke the party +into night patrols and relieved one another in watching the passages +and hunting for the most likely places for the spontaneous combustion +to occur which had been solemnly adduced by one of the theorists. The +leader of each watch was armed with the dinner-gong, on which he was +urged to sound the alarm. The next night was unquiet. The alarm was +given on two occasions, needlessly. One of the Americans dropped a +lighted cigarette into his bed, while trying to keep awake until his +time for watch. He promptly gave the alarm himself, and the presence +of half the household was required to satisfy his conscience that by +sitting on the sparks he had averted a catastrophe. The second alarm +was caused by the officer of the early morning watch tripping on the +stairs and falling, gong and all, to the bottom. The next morning +the representative of the Fire Insurance arrived and, after making +investigations on his own account, announced that the Insurance Company +had decided not to renew the policy as they were convinced that the +fires could not be accidental. He was convinced that fire had been +ignited, especially in the case of the chapel curtains, by the use of +paraffin or petrol. For the rest of that day everybody searched for +combustibles. But during this time no oil had been permitted in the +house, and even a box of firelighters, thanks to their specific name, +had been buried in the garden. + +There was, of course, nothing to talk about at meals except these +strange happenings. The Devon Worthies could rake up no analogy +except rick-burning, and were inclined to lay the trouble to gipsies +or poachers, whom they classed with Bolshevists as the enemies of +all mankind. The Americans continued to talk with consummate fluency +about the San Francisco fire, with variations on the Boston fire +and the great Chicago fire, which was traced to an Irish widow’s +cow. The servants became so alarmed that they would only work in +pairs. Everything was done to facilitate the work of the detectives. +Their finds continued to be irrelevant, to say the least of it. They +discovered a secret staircase, which had been walled up a century +previously. They also discovered a cupboard full of empty bottles, to +which cupboard no member of the family could or would produce a key. +The next discovery was mine. + +I was sitting in the drawing-room studying the Literary Supplement to +_Vogue_, when suddenly I saw the old Flemish tapestry of the Adoration +of the Magi stretched across the wall move! There was no draught +or motion of the air at the time. I thought it must be an ocular +delusion caused by my glasses. Nobody was pulling or even touching the +tapestry. But the threads in its texture were moving and wriggling like +ashen-coloured worms. The nimbus above the Virgin’s head was trembling +and crackling and the white elbow of her arm was twisting and slowly +blackening in front of my eyes. It was all happening in perfect silence +and for no apparent cause. That was the terror of it, and I dragged +myself out of my chair and forced myself to examine the tapestry +closer. The woof was crisping and crumbling under the action of intense +heat, though it was not yet on actual fire. I stared in a foolish and +fascinated sort of way until the sudden spurt of pungent smell roused +me to what senses were left to me, and I began feebly sounding the +alarm. At this moment Lady Pawkins came down the stairs and entered the +room. When I pointed out what was happening, she became deathly white +and rang the bell three times, the concerted signal for a fire in any +part of the house. Detectives and servants arrived almost immediately +and quickly extinguished the sparks running through the threads of the +tapestry before beginning an exhaustive inquiry, of which I was the +chief butt. The tapestry was handled, fingered and almost dissected. +All my words were taken down, and I was even searched for matches, but +in vain. I did not describe, a very curious sensation which had been +growing upon me, which was the ridiculous idea that Lady Pawkins was +somehow responsible for what had happened. The official theory was that +the oriel glass had acted like a magnifying glass in setting fire to +the tapestry. + +After this, the atmosphere in the house became not only serious but +rather strained. It was like living in a crematorium with no honourable +chance of escape, a crematorium in charge of unseen and probably insane +attendants. Were we the victims of an abominable practical joke? Or was +there an invisible criminal or an unknown madman amongst the guests? +We had stopped suspecting the wretched servants. We grew more inclined +to look round among ourselves. Everybody laid what had happened to his +neighbour, but how to associate one iota of proof with any individual +was a hopeless difficulty. In vain, mental traps were set and the most +innocently seeming inveiglements devised. Nobody gave himself away by +deed or word or thought. + +The atmosphere became quite impossible towards the end of the week. +It was far worse than the presence of a ghost or a supernatural +phenomenon. A White Lady or an immured nun or chained monk would have +afforded welcome relief. We could have slept peacefully amid spectral +rattles and death-warnings. But the menace hanging over the house +seemed to combine the terrors of the earthly and the unearthly. The +firebug that flieth by day giveth no warning, and, whatever was the +cause of the incendiarism, there was no comfort in the night. The house +party continued to its appointed end rather like a comic funeral, at +which the skeleton sat at every feast and lurked in every cupboard. At +night the house was watched by night-watchmen with instructions to fire +upon anybody attempting to fire the house. And all the while out of +doors the beautiful spring was bursting into moist melody. As for the +landscape, it was red, red earth all the way, with jerks of blue sea +over the hills and far away. The hedges burst into flowerage. Devon is +the only county rhymed with Heaven, but it has Paradisal parallels. + +It seemed incongruous to see Nature so happy and busy, spinning the +loves of flowers and birds, while within the walls of the old house the +lords of creation sat in moody and suspicious silence. I must admit +that it was one of the most exciting weeks of my life, and certainly +I would never have missed the experiences: the uncanny supernatural +sensations, the actual personal knowledge of a fire and the study +of human psychology reacting to strain. On the whole everybody had +improved as human beings. People ceased to be boring or selfish. +Everybody became anxious to protect or reassure everybody else. The +common fear made us all friends, and we felt we would have something +to talk to each other about, whenever we met, for the rest of our +lives. The only person who seemed to show not the least change was Lady +Pawkins. Her time-table was totally unaffected by what had happened. +She still rose at an earlier hour than her servants and prayed in +her Oratory. On Sundays and Feast days she remained praying most of +the day. Even on weekdays she read the whole Office of the Church to +herself. She ordered the meals, and though she left the entertainment +to her cheery and collapsible mother-in-law, her personality none the +less penetrated the whole house. I was never more conscious of it than +at each outbreak of fire. Guests and detectives seemed to look upon +her as a phantom and of no importance in the search for the mystery, +and yet I reiterate the extraordinary impression I had received in the +subconscious part of my soul that she was somewhere at the origin of +all this trouble. + +At last Saturday dawned and the visit was over for guests, who had +been struggling between an intense desire to depart and the thrill of +remaining. Most of them had recovered their balance at the prospect of +going. There were three extra detectives by the end of the week and +the very meals we ate were cooked under Scotland Yard supervision. +The Americans were drawing plans of the central heating system, which +would be necessary before they paid a second visit. We had long given +up trying to affix the deed to any particular person. It was all too +complicated. + +But two things happened that Saturday morning, which I have not +disclosed until to-day. The Benedictine chaplain arrived as usual +and, after hearing the news of the week from Sir Petronille, made +his way into the Chapel where he was joined by Lady Pawkins. As he +descended the stairs an hour later, the tension precipitated us into +conversation. He talked about the untoward occurrences and the ladies +of the family with the simplest gravity. He spoke with the kindest +benevolence and pity of the Dowager: “She put up such a strong fight. +But the holy have no peace in this house. She is at peace since she +ceased struggling with all her body and soul. Not so Lady Pawkins.” As +he spoke, I had the curious feeling in my mind that he had no doubt +either as to the source of the fires. When I described the horror of +the igniting tapestry to him, he was tremendously interested and asked +me to show him the exact place. The tapestry had not been put away and +still hung in the drawing-room with an ugly scar upon the Virgin’s +arm. He was really excited beyond measure when he saw the mark of the +flame, and I heard him muttering to himself: “Poor lady, poor lady! +How could she bear it?” Then he flung himself on his knees and began +to pray. I made allowance for his nerves and for his deep affection +for the Pawkins family and began re-examining the tapestry. I noticed +for the first time that the fire had been confined to the imagery of +the Blessed Virgin and to her arms alone. The Holy Child and the Magi +had not been touched. Something in the thread had kept the flame to +the same section of colour in the web. The good monk was very much +moved, and remained some time on his knees. I suppose he thought that +there was something sacrilegious in even the singeing of the Virgin’s +likeness. + +An hour later I went to the Oratory to say good-bye to Lady Pawkins. +She was there immersed in prayer and it was some time before she +noticed me. Rising from her knees, she came slowly towards me and held +out her right hand with a quiet smile as though to apologise for all +that had happened during my stay. As she raised her arm I caught sight +of her skin under the hanging sleeve and my eyes froze to it. It was +burnt and charred to the bone! God! I was glad to get out of that house. + + * * * * * + +Then I was right, and she was in some mystical and appalling way at +the source of all that had happened; and the monk knew. Yes! I was +sure that he knew, and now I realised why he had fallen to prayer +before the burnt picture of the Virgin in the tapestry. Everything +began to fit itself together in my mind. The Dowager’s strange words +about herself and her daughter-in-law, coupled with those of the +monk--what was it that they meant? How was it that the poor drunken +Dowager had fought against it with all her might and soul, but that +the evil had been too strong for her, and why, since she had given up +struggling, had she been at peace? Could it be that though the old lady +had collapsed under demoniacal assault and let herself take to drink, +there was some mystical and tremendous excuse for her weakness, that in +the atmosphere of that house there was a power which would not permit +people to live quiet, ordinary, sober lives? That women who married +into the family found themselves attacked by an influence which gave +them no rest, which actually forced holy people into evil habits? Was +I right in guessing that the only chance a woman had in that house was +the overwhelming and simple practice of mediæval Sanctity, the gifts +of prayer, holiness and atonement carried to an heroic degree? Such a +woman was given the chance of becoming saintly or sodden--there was no +middle course. + +So I guessed, but I never returned to confirm my guess. You can only +imagine my feelings a year later when I took up a newspaper and read +that the country residence of Sir Petronille Pawkins had been burnt to +the ground and that everybody had been saved in the house except Lady +Pawkins, who was believed to have returned to the Chapel to save the +holy vessels. I suppose she would not yield--more power to her burnt +elbows! But she must have gone to Heaven in a fiery chariot. + + + + +CANNES + + +Recently the most extraordinary and unexpected adventure has befallen +me, which I am anxious to preserve in the form of a Short Story. + +It concerns a railway accident which occurred while I was travelling +through France to the Riviera. I ought to have been on the crashing +train and for some strange reason I was not. The reason is really +strange and remains to this day unexplained. But I have devised a +possible clue to the fantastic or psychical forces which were in play +and which prevented me being immolated in the catastrophe. There will +appear a climax if I tell my story rightly, but I am still waiting for +the _dénouement_. Roughly, this is the outline. I was summoned to an +aunt’s sick-bed at Cannes and had no time to book a berth in advance. I +attempted to travel in the restaurant car of an express. Friends left +me at the station. Witnesses in Paris knew that I was leaving that +night and, if possible, by that train. They read of the train’s crash +in the papers the next morning. My name was not in the casualty list +simply because I was not travelling in the train. I had deliberately +changed trains for a strange reason. + +This is too bad for a start, for I have been very carefully trained in +the Pelman school of literature, and have subscribed to an expensive +course in the Finsbury School of Practical Journalism, and have had +several Short Stories corrected by a doddering ex-member of Parliament, +by the writer of social snips in a Methodist weekly, and an utterly +futile and yellowish novelist whose very decadence has decayed. I +should have remembered that it is necessary to give no hint of a Short +Story’s end, if the attention of trained readers is to be kept, and +that the catastrophe should be concealed till the practised palate of +the epicurean magazine-taster is prepared to assimilate it. But now I +have revealed the whole skeleton outline of my Story in one nutshell +paragraph. It is too bad, for the whole fact and even the mystery, +such as it is, leaks out of those first sentences, and I shall have to +continue with Pelmanic padding to the obvious end. However, perhaps I +shall get this Story into next year’s “Collection of the Worst Stories +of the Twelve-month,” which I believe are industrially collected into +an annual by two Chicago professors of belles-lettres and added to that +invaluable transatlantic series “What Not To Read.” + +But I have a Story to tell, and with the help of a little volume +entitled “Short Story Writing for Profit,” by Michael Joseph, which has +fallen into my hands, I shall essay to tell it. His entertaining little +plan informs me that the theory of the Short Story may be likened to +the shape of a triangle--a long base, one long side, and a short drop. +I must keep this in mind, especially as my story conveys an illusion of +the human triangle. Let me at least preserve that triangular form which +is essential to the modern Short Story. + +[Illustration] + +I therefore set out to draw _A--C_, _Base of characters_, as per plan, +with _A--B_, _Incidents leading to the Catastrophe_, and _C--B_ the +_Climax_, with _B_ for _Catastrophe_. I have a feeling that with such +clear indications I cannot fail. My real difficulty is that I have +to adapt a true story to the Procrustean bed of fiction. I learn I +have got to provide a Title (done), an Opening (I am opening as I +write), the Body of the Story, and the Catastrophe upon Climax, and if +possible, but this is not essential, a _dénouement_. + +The Opening is in the Gare de Lyon, which I reach about half-past seven +on a Sunday night on my way to the Riviera. I am not travelling for +pleasure, but in response to a summons to fetch my dear and favourite +aunt, who has been very fashionably ill at Cannes in company with +some of the best-known names in English Provincial Society. This year +anybody who counts in Leeds would cease to count in Leeds had they not +been numbered on a Riviera hotel register. The _salons_ of Liverpool, +the wit of Glasgow, and the beauty of Hull, Halifax and Huddersfield +have been emptied along the Garden of the Riviera like a rich manure. +Even poor old London, which since the war has been outmonied and +outclassed by the manufacturing cities of the North, contributed its +little quota of idle poor. My dear aunt went for her health, and I went +because I am in her Will. I had got as far as the Gare de Lyon in my +Story. + +I do not feel like filling out _A--C_ with characterisations of either +my aunt or myself, so I will proceed to _A--B_ (Incidents leading to +the Catastrophe). The first incident lies in the fact that I can never +pass through the Gare de Lyon without a very vivid thought passing +through my mind. Thirty years ago (this dislocation of time is against +all the Short Story rules, but it is essential), this aunt of mine +stood in the Gare de Lyon and suddenly she saw a man running across +the platform, followed by another. He had the misfortune to trip and +fall, whereupon, to her horror, the other drew a revolver and shot him +not once, but many times, until the police removed him and his victim. +It was a crime of passion committed by a jealous husband on his wife’s +lover. As everything had been done on all sides of the triangle, nobody +had anything to say, and the drama was soon forgotten in the thousand +and ten more dramatic incidents of the Paris phantasmagoria. But my +aunt never forgot, and years later, when I was a small boy in Paris, +she showed me the scene of the murder and recounted the details. It +was the only murder she had ever seen, and the only one I had heard at +first hand, so it remained in my mind as fresh as blood. Every time I +crossed the Gare de Lyon, travelling South, it returned to my memory +with renewed force. And though I was in a special hurry, and in a state +of real agitation owing to the telegrams I had received from Cannes, +I halted at the fatal spot and remembered, as it were throwing myself +back in time and out of circumstantial focus. I enjoyed the curious +feeling that possibly I was the only person alive who knew exactly +what had happened there on that tragic day. It was part of my personal +tradition. + +This murder is an Incident, not the Catastrophe in my story, which +I am still labouring to tell with such sanity and sincerity as my +reader will allow me. Friends in Paris sent me in their car to catch +the 8.10 _Rapide_. I had not reserved a sleeping place because the +train accommodation was filled for weeks in advance. I gave a voluble +porter ten francs, and explained that it was a case of necessity and +that I must reach Cannes the next day, as my aunt was ill; that I was +prepared to travel in the restaurant car the whole way, or even in +the baggage van. I only carried hand luggage, and while the porter +was making my arrangements I walked down the platform to loosen my +leg joints before what promised to be a night of cramp. The porter +rejoined me beaming, and assured me that he had arranged everything +by himself, that my bag was in the restaurant and that I would find +a seat in the corridor, when I suddenly noticed a passenger on the +platform far more hurried and agitated than I was. She walked up the +train, peering with quick movements of her neck into every carriage, +but in vain. Then she remained standing at one of the wrought-iron +pillars that sustain the roof, looking like the veritable picture of +despair. The train was late going out (half an hour of delay, the +porter told me), so I felt tempted to walk past her, and to my surprise +found her large, glassy eyes fixed full upon mine. I continued ten +yards and swung round. She was still there, and her eyes were still +riveting mine. I passed her not twice but half a dozen times, and each +time her eyes fixed, absorbed, hypnotised and terrified me. They were +not the eyes of a woman, who queries and accosts men in streets and +railway stations, the glittering and questingly plunderous eyes, nor +the brilliantly attractive orbs of the adventuress. Nor were they the +eyes of the widow and the mourner, those gushing fountains of violet +salts and pathetic brine. Tragic they were and haunting, restless and +insatiable, searchful and despairing. I felt quite unable to take my +place in the train, and continued walking up and down the platform, +and each time I received her eyes full into mine. It was naturally +not for me to speak, but I gave her every chance, and emboldened by +her piercing glance which shot pity, fear, pain, peril, I bent my +head towards her until our eyes cannot have been more than six inches +apart. Then I heard her saying simply, “_Changez! il faut changer de +train. Dites lui de changer de train._” I was so troubled that I could +make no reply. I passed her once again, and she said again, “_Il faut +changer de train._” When I looked back she had disappeared, and the +signal was being made for the train to start. But her eyes had not gone +out of mine, and I could still know them anywhere if ever I saw them +again. They were wonderful and wistful eyes, and a little terrible. +They never blinked or flinched or flickered. But what struck me most, +apart from their undeviating stare of agony and terror, was that they +were perfectly dry--the dry stare of the dead. I felt their presence +even more after their owner had disappeared into the rush and crush +of the station. I no longer felt like a real person, but as though I +were watching myself in a dream, and I did the absurd sort of things +that one does in dreams. I obeyed her entreaty to change trains without +questioning whether it was intended for me. I snatched my bag and +threw myself upon my surprised porter. He thought I had decided not +to travel at all, and could not understand me when I gave him another +ten francs and asked him to find me another train, presumably in the +same direction! There was a slow train in the parallel siding already +crowded and almost overfilled. Before he had found me a fresh seat, +the _Rapide_ was passing out of the station. I turned and watched +the slow, soundless egress of the train I should have occupied. I +did feel a fool, but again the dream-sense overcame me, and I looked +with a curious intense feeling into every face I could sight in the +disappearing carriages. One man was looking out of the window. Was he +the object of that woman’s wild search and agony? Another was preparing +to undress. Groups were settling down for the night. The restaurant car +was empty, but the white-capped _chef_ was busy in his tiny kitchen. +It all passed through my sense of vision like a phantom. The porter +touched me on the shoulder and led me to the slow train. He treated me +as one distracted but harmless. He placed me in a tight compartment +with six others, and committed me to their charge. I remained sitting +bolt upright for eighteen hours, past Dijon and Lyons; past Avignon, +where the rose of dawn met us; past Arles to Marseilles, where our +engine breasted the breeze of the Mediterranean and snorted with new +breath into Toulon and along the Amethyst Coast to Cannes. + +At Cannes I felt as though I were awaking from a dream. I struggled +towards the hotel, where my convalescent aunt had been hanging +irresolute between life and death, and was now sufficiently well to +decide between two exquisite hats--one from Paris and another bought +in Cannes. Fortunately a friend in need had nursed her through the +crisis of pneumonia, and recovery was now a question of days. It was +Martha MacArthur, one of the world’s delectables. At my aunt’s bedside +I apologised for missing the _Rapide_ and arriving so late. Martha +started. “Missed it? Why, the _Rapide_ crashed last night, with great +loss of life!” As my aunt had just escaped from the jaws of germigerous +death, it was perhaps not the moment to acquaint her with my even more +astounding survival, but I felt an overwhelming desire to ask Martha +why I was alive. Mr. Joseph, in his “Short Story Writing for Profit” +remarks on page 118 that “certain names have a strong suggestion of +character about them. Martha suggests the dutiful housewife; Dolly, +Betty or Kitty the rather frivolous young lady.” According to the +rules I should have never introduced the name of Martha into this +Story, especially as Martha presented the very opposite of the dutiful +housewife as she slung me in her Rolls-Royce through the narrow streets +of Cannes, leaving perilously minute margins between her wheels and +trembling human obstacles. But Martha is one of the protected. Her golf +is Paradisal, her card play diabolical--I can speak from experience. +On our way to the Casino at Cannes--which is the great caravanserai +of the loose, losing and lost, I ventured at last to ask her why I +was alive. She took it as a reflection on her driving! Before I could +tell her my Story, we had entered the great Casino--which seems built +of dissected strata of coloured ice-cream; with great plate-windows +framing pictures of the Mediterranean, and electric chandeliers hanging +over potted palm trees like bunches of horrible glassy dates--and under +an enormous Chinese black and white lantern I unfolded my tale. It was +so strange, telling a ghostly yarn in that heated atmosphere to Martha, +who sat like a frond of Swiss edelweiss, cool and white and natural +in that huge orchidaceous hot-house, where monstrous flowers of the +Venus Fly Trap variety swayed to and fro in the scented air, seeking +whom they might conveniently suck--those flowers to whom champagne and +shampoo mean more than the daily dews and brushing breeze of heaven. +For a moment I imbibed my surroundings. I felt brought down to the real +earth; and a drink-soaked and perfumed earth. There was nothing ghostly +or dreamy within those walls. I told my weird yarn against a strongly +contrasting background. + +Martha said nothing beyond tossing her multiwaved head of newly-hatched +canary fluff into the air. I asked her again, at the end as at the +beginning of my Story, why I was alive. Martha accepted and considered +my story. Then she said that I must have been attuned to see what +was probably invisible to others in the station. Had I ever seen the +face in the vision before? she asked. No! Did it seek to attract any +beside myself? I could not say. Possibly, in spite of the individual +fascination it concentrated on myself. Did I look for the face on +the train I took? Yes, I searched the train at Marseilles and again +at Cannes, but I had seen nothing. Martha’s little oval face became +Buddhistic with wisdom, and she said: “There must be a reason. There +must be a hidden law. Rhythm is the secret law of life. My golf is +rhythm. My dancing is rhythm. That’s why I won’t dance with you. My +card play is rhythm. That’s why you can’t play with me. My Rolls-Royce +is rhythm.” I shivered at this particular memory. “You must have been +in spirit-rhythm with some soul trying to communicate with another +passenger, perhaps the wife of one of those killed or injured, or the +mother. A psychological communication cord was pulled. That was all.” + +I felt that I had been very lucky in noticing that cord being pulled. +I grew calmer and less exalted. The tables in the Casino were filling +with visitors. All the unmentionable and all the most-mentioned people +were crowding and jostling together. An Indian Prince entered with +his white wife, followed by her white lover, which looked like one of +Buchanan’s artistic “Black and White” Whisky advertisements. A lady +suddenly became lit with the vapours of wine, and began clapping a +broad-backed English Peer between his startled shoulders. Almost at the +next table to Martha was Monsieur Lazarus (of Paris). It was almost a +Scriptural touch. All the lights of Leeds and the bloods of Birmingham +were marshalling in that delightful atmosphere where baccarat is not +a sin and Sin itself is but a baccarat. English people had thrown off +their national hypocrisy for once. The doors revolved, and I noticed +Mrs. Grundy herself enter in company with a courtesan to whom she +had kindly given a lift, and who was gracefully lighting a cigarette +for her in return. They were all there--the _demi-mondaines_, the +half-world watching for gentlemen half-seas over to rifle. They were of +all sizes, from the Brighton flapper to the Double Dutch. But they gave +Leeds and Birmingham something appreciable to see and speak about and +even to handle. + +We rose and wandered into the inner gambling hall, where the tables +were arranged according to prices. At the high table, roped and guarded +by attendants, some of the great intellects of Europe played baccarat +for huge stakes--thousands and tens of thousands of francs. The shoe +of cards was passing. There was an English Marchioness looking like +the last rose of last summer as the French bank-notes dropped like +faded pink petals from her fingers. There was a gorgeously-dressed +pickpocket, who still spied sentimentally for international service +and patriotically relieved stray Englishmen of their francs. There was +an exiled King playing for his hotel bill. There was a Bond Street +jeweller fleecing the clients he overcharged at home. There was a green +Egyptian Prince trying furtively to pick up a little cash with one +hand and royal honours with the other. He was financed by an American +Lady who liked sharing in the pseudo-curtsies he extracted from the +gullible. There was a transatlantic widow in hooded black, whose face +of suppressed fury when she lost money made the humanitarian glad that +there were no husbands left to her reproach. And there was a beautiful +Italian Countess, whose favours inclined to the most substantial +winner at the tables. She at least must have had a human heart. But +it takes women with hearts and men with intellect to play baccarat. +One felt sorry that the love and council-chambers of the world were +even temporarily deprived of so much. The shoe of cards was passing, +and the notes were passing into the maw of the Casino, the little +insatiable slit, which takes a tithe on all gains and on all losses. I +was fascinated watching the croupiers, men like dead, dissected fish, +whisk the cards and bank-notes about with their long, thin shovels of +pearwood, which moved as quickly as the dorsal fins of sharks basking +on a sea of green baize. And the evening was passing into night, and +night into dawn. + +Martha continued to explain her Gospel of Rhythm. Luck at the tables +was rhythm, she said, and when one was out of luck, it meant that one +was simply out of tune or accord with some subtlety of rhythm. My +escape from the doomed train had been due to some rhythm into which I +had strayed with the receptive note uppermost. Luck and rhythm were +the same things. Then she asked me what I had been thinking of when I +came to the Gare de Lyon. And I suddenly remembered the murder that +always crossed my mind there and there only. I told her the story of +the murder that my aunt had once seen, and had passed so vividly into +my mind. “Exactly,” said Martha. “That accounts for it all. You must +have seen the wife trying to warn her lover that her husband was on his +tracks, and the astral reflection of her agony to get him to change +trains was projected into your mind rhythmically.” + +It sounded a good solution. I could imagine it all: the secret visit +and departure; the discovery by the husband of the hour of the lover’s +train; his pursuit with a revolver, while the agonised wife made an +equally desperate attempt to warn the other first; her failure to +warn her lover; the husband’s successful search and then the drama of +blood. I suppose I had put myself into the mood to see her unhappy and +disembodied soul, which is for ever doomed to scour that platform on +a vain quest. Her words had accorded miraculously with my fate. Luck +and rhythm, then, were the same. And that’s my Story, though I have +not kept the rules of short story telling. What I have written down is +true in the essentials. If you want to know how true it is exactly, ask +Martha MacArthur! + + + + +THE NECROPHILE + + +The most extraordinary story I ever heard in my life came from the +mouth of a priest. It came quite unsought, for I was making a silent +retreat in a Carthusian monastery. It was likewise unexpected, for +I had gone to rest, not to rack, my mind. The rule of Saint Bruno +enforces a cessation of sound. And the Great Silence from vespers to +midday had rolled over the wearied souls in the guest house twice: +silence unbroken save by the solemn and rugged chant of the monks; real +chant and real monks. The surreptitious aid of organ pipes was unknown +in the Carthusian service. The roaring and wheezing of compressed air +through leaden guts and wooden tripery, however harmonious and tuneful, +had never been thought necessary in the Carthusian scheme for bringing +Multiplicity back to Unity, Created to their Creator and contemplatives +into that glowing orb of essential Contemplation which is God. +Supremely and serenely God contemplates, and the holy contemplatives on +earth enter His thoughts and His contemplation. And they contemplate +Him in return. If it were not so, how else could they endure that +appalling life of solitude, mewed in little prisons, toiling in lonely +workshops and solitary gardens, or, after rising to chant the sublime +office at midnight, returning to snatch a few hours of slumber, before +dawn recalls them to the choir and the Carthusian Mass. For, steeped +in the thirteenth century, they keep the ceremonies and liturgy of +their religion before it was demediævalised and emasculated by the +Renaissance. So delightfully do the Carthusians remain in their own +century that they still prostrate themselves flat at the Confiteor, and +wear stockings cut out of two pieces of linen and spliced together! +Knitting-needles would be heresy, and a sewing-machine modernism! It is +so throughout their rules and customs, which leave them with the proud +boast shared by no other Order. Never reformed because never deformed. +_Numquam reformata quia numquam deformata!_ + +We were a little wearied, for we had been listening to the great Office +of Matins chanted from midnight until two in the morning. Ensconced in +the hanging gallery, buried behind the huge printed prayer books of the +Carthusian rite, we had sat, letting the rival delights of slumber and +plain-chant dispute for our senses. At times it was like being carried +out to sea upon successive waves that choked one’s ear-drums. At +another time one felt sinking, sinking into the dull, matted vibrations +that eternally reach the ocean depths from above. Then the sound had +died down, and each holy father, wearing the ghostly white shroud in +which he will one day be buried, picked up his lantern and made his +way back through unending cloister to the cell in which he circumvents +death with pious irony. Death and the devil are put to considerable +mock in a Carthusian house. Death causes no alarm, no terror. All his +tricks, all his stage-effects have been put into daily practice by the +Religious. The utter loneliness that cuts off the soul from the whole +human family, the secretion behind narrow stone walls, the white +funeral clothes, the silence that forbids all the hum and humours and +humdrum of noisy, gossipy human life, reduce Death himself to parody. +And then? And then they see intellectually, that is to say they +contemplate while yet alive what the dead see to their exquisite joy or +lingering loss. + +The guests were the usual habitants of monastery guest-houses. A poet, +who had failed of attaining perfect sonnet-form first on cocoa at +Oxford, and on cocaine subsequently in Paris. He was thinking, in some +despair, of joining the Holy Church. An architect successful enough in +his line, and with a rare knowledge of Gothic, but superficially and +glitteringly, for he was an atheist, and none can have real knowledge +of the Gothic grandeur without acknowledging the true religion and the +true God. God, shall we say? built the vault of Heaven, and strewed +the gargoyles of the constellations across its symmetry. Mediæval man +built the Gothic Cathedral in reply, and God saw that it was good. +God poised the planets in space to show what could be done without +actually breaking eggs, and man riposted with the flying buttress, +that marvellous hanging miracle of thrust and strain riveted into +immobility, and man showed God that he, too, could suspend stone in the +void. And again God perceived, almost to His delighted embarrassment, +that it was good. + +None of us could understand how a Gothic architect could remain an +atheist. Once the Divine in man, that is to say his art, is realised, +it is only a step to the Divinity. There was also a Monsignor, an +Austrian and a mild-faced mystery. It was not until the end of the +retreat that we learnt a little of his identity. We were committed on +our honour to silence except during the hour of recreation, when we +moved round a high-walled garden, wondering desperately what things +were happening on the highway the other side--that is to say in the +world. + +There were monks in the Monastery who had not seen a newspaper for +thirty years, and even happy ones to whom woman was an extinct animal. +A silent laybrother served our meals with shaven head and untrimmed +beard, looking like the shrouded figure of Time himself. After each +meal I expected him to leave a running hour glass on the table instead +of the cheese, and point toward it with bony fingers as though to +suggest that the course of our life was also finished. The strain of +silence was having its effect, and on the last day of the retreat we +became more and more communicative during the hour of recreation. + +I told some very dull and uninspiring tale. I suffer from normality, +and my life is inclined to convention. The architect, while redoubling +his artistic appreciation of the Carthusian life, repeated his +atheistic ultimates toward life. He gave the rather absurd reason for +his attitude that he had been always disappointed by women. Who hasn’t, +including the Saints? I could not help retailing him a newspaper poster +I had once read in America which ran: “MAN TWICE DIVORCED REFUSES TO +BELIEVE IN GOD!” We all laughed, and the Monsignor began disclosing +his past. As we had expected, he had incurred some kind of disgrace +in his own country. He was not a fallen priest, but a Prelate on the +shelf. It was not owing to any scandal, he explained, and we believed +him, but owing to his intellectual backsliding that he had missed +his ecclesiastical career. Modernism had fired him with its bright +Will-o’-the-wisp, and he had not remained unsinged. However, he had +been permitted to retain priestly rank and dress, and to travel on his +own means. He was visiting the English cathedrals (an American rather +than a Christian form of pilgrimage) and had been so shocked by their +ghastly and sepulchral interiors that he had fled to the Carthusians +as he said to seek a little oil for his creaking soul. The actual +services he had seen had filled him with depression. As he expressed it +himself they reminded him of the facetiousness of undertakers! Better +he thought that the cathedrals had been destroyed than made ridiculous. +His was the true Catholic spirit. + +He never forgot the holy office which was his, and made a serious +attempt to supplement the silent efforts of the Carthusians in +converting the architect. On our last evening of recreation we agreed +to make a concerted assault on our companion. We found that his atheism +was not based on any pose of disbelief, but on a total inability to +understand how a human body could rise formally and substantially from +the dead. “I don’t see why spirits shouldn’t survive like sheets of +luminous paint, but as for atoms rearranging their constituency in a +human body it is impossible,” he argued. “Annihilation seems far more +logical and probable, and proper after death.” + +“Nevertheless,” said the Monsignor, “we believe in the resurrection +of the body from the dead.” And he proceeded to the theories of +scholastics. “You must understand that the body like the soul is +created not generated by the Creator. Creation is a more perfect and +sublimer act than generation. Soul and body are both called out of +the misty void, out of space, out of nothing, and therefore both +are capable of passing into complete abeyance again. The Creator can +uncreate and then recreate. The resurrection of the body is a form of +recreation. But He Himself will not annihilate an atom of His own work.” + +The architect returned to the charge: “The atoms of a dead human +body pass into other bodies. Whose body shall they be on the Day of +Resurrection?” The reply was that Unity could bring about Multiplicity, +and just as the multiplication of the loaves was a scriptural miracle, +and the multiplication of the Host a constant occurrence in missionary +history, it was possible that atoms could be multiplied to serve their +different turns so to speak. + +“Can God unmake? Can He annihilate the dust He has created?” asked +the architect. “No!” said the Monsignor, for they had settled down +to a duel, “but God is the cause of energy as the sun is of colour, +and as the sun can equally cause colour to rise or fade, so God can +cause energy and existence to come or collapse out of the atoms. That +is death! But the sun can one day recolour those identical atoms in +other leaves. The atoms can be the same, so that you really get a +resurrection of the body of the leaf. The human body can be similarly +restored.” Somehow it did not convince. + +“What age will our bodies be when they rise again?” asked the +architect. “We shall be outside of Time and therefore quite ageless. +God is not a source or a sequence, but the primal power. He is the +Motor causing all motion. Our bodies are emanations from Him, and He +can cause or uncause them voluntarily.” + +The conversation was only prevented from becoming quarrelsome by the +difficulty both combatants felt in wielding metaphysical terms. They +disagreed as to what atoms were, as to whether the divine power showed +itself in a materialistic manipulation of things or in a kind of cosmic +mania. The architect was at one time willing to admit the personality +of God, but only on the corollary that God was mad. It explained so +much, the crinks in the universe, the genius of man, the brilliance +of the stars, the comets tearing out of place. The madness of God was +of course a divine madness. “Yes,” said the Monsignor very solemnly. +“Bethlehem was madness, Nazareth was paranoia, and Calvary delirium.” + +From the metaphysical the discussion became biological. The architect +admitted that fresh bouts of the life-spirit could reanimate dead +matter, but not the same set of atoms. Once dead, nothing could revive +a dead anatomy. Could the Monsignor record a single instance except the +legendary tale of Lazarus, who was probably in a state of coma, and +whose personal experiences by some extraordinary oversight on the part +of the Evangelists had been withheld from the human race? + +The Monsignor became angry and took his challenge. “I believe it is +quite possible,” he said, “for the life-spirit to be restored to a +dead body long after physical death has occurred. I will tell you a +story for which I have the evidence. I shall make a series of positive +statements and leave it as such. The circumstances are morbid in +the extreme, but you will excuse my narration of them. I have never +breathed this story before, but I consider that I am justified if I can +at least refute your statement that the dead rise up never. I say they +do. I can give an instance which was not coma. Life can go, and life +can be reinfused. + +“When I was a young priest in Vienna, before my rise to favour at +Court, I was, in addition to my parish duties, detailed for work at +the Morgue. I waited there three nights every week to receive the +unknown dead, and to give them the benefit of a religious reception. +Some of the dead were recognised, and a few were claimed. Relatives +were grateful for such Catholic rites as I could give to those, who had +generally died without Absolution or Sacrament. I loved saying Mass for +the Unknown dead lying in the Morgue, not knowing their names or their +lives. The Church is the Mother not only of the living, but also of the +dead, and her arms are strong to stretch down even into the pit. How +surprised some of these stray souls must have been to find the Church, +which they had forgotten on earth, following them with charitable hands +into the other world. I was stationed for two years at the Morgue. + +“One day the police brought an unclaimed body and left it upon a +marble slab. It was that of a woman still in her beauty, and not more +than thirty years of age. I could see that she had been a woman of +pleasure, though, as is often the case, the extreme sadness of her face +counteracted the dis-sanctification of her body. Poor child! The Morgue +was seldom without one of her unclassed class. I could say Mass for +her which I could not for the suicides. The suicides the Church leaves +to God. He alone can say the Office of the Dead for those who have +destroyed the life which He gave to them, and which He alone has the +right to take. + +“It happened that evening that the Commissioner of Police brought +an anonymous party apparently of relations to view the tragic human +relics in the Morgue. One of them appeared to be of rank, for the +Commissioner saluted him at every opportunity. They remained some time +in front of the woman’s body admiring the great beauty of her features +and inquiring her name. Though the records were examined, nothing +definite could be learned except that she was a courtesan, who had +had the misfortune to die during an evening party in the house of a +gentleman, who preferred to remain unnamed. His doctor had brought the +body and filled the necessary certificates, and the great gentleman, +at whose expenses she had perished, had sent a hundred kronen to +provide her funeral. It was understood that she had no family. In his +anxiety to learn her history the distinguished stranger asked for me +to be presented to him, and I found myself shaking the hand of a Duke, +connected with one of the German Royal Houses. When I was unable to +add to his information, he turned from me with wandering eyes and an +expression which to me seemed bordering on dementia. Curiously enough +he congratulated me on my good fortune in being chaplain at the Morgue, +but this I took for an excess of politeness on his part. It was not +considered a very high ecclesiastical position. He was closeted for +some time with the Commissioner and drove away. + +“Later that night I was summoned to attend a dying man, who died +before I could do more than hear his confession. He was friendless, +and his body was taken to the Morgue. I followed. It was a late hour, +and I decided to finish reading my Breviary in the Secretary’s room. +While seated there, I was astonished to hear footsteps in the inner +hall, where the unclaimed dead were thrown on marble slabs. A shadow +was cast against the frosted-glass partition, and it was followed by +another. I stood involuntarily in the doorway. To my amazement it was +the Commissioner, who was again taking the Duke round the grim contents +of the room. I could not help overhearing them, and what I did not +overhear my horrified senses supplied. There are things that one has +read in books about sick souls or demented bodies, that I had never +dreamed of meeting. How can I explain? + +“To forestall my story, the Duke I could realise was deeply afflicted +mentally, I do not say morally, for he was not responsible. It was +not hereditary but accidental. I learnt all this some time after. I +must explain that he had had a terrible experience at marriage. After +a passionate and romantic courtship his young wife had died of heart +failure in his arms a few hours after the ceremony. The marriage night +had become a watch night of the dead, during which he had passed a +ghastly vigil instead of enjoying an efflorescence of happiness. In +answer to his entreaties he had been left alone with the body of his +wife that night. His groans and prayers were heard until a late hour.... + +“The effect on the unhappy Duke was serious. His character, hitherto, +had been irreproachable, and his experiences in love matters exceeding +slight, considering the opportunities possible to his rank and fortune. +It was a stroke of incredibly bitter irony, which I should hesitate to +lay at the door of a benevolent Providence, that his marriage night +should have been of such horror. His bride was buried, but the effect +on the white tablets of his mind was lasting. To a large extent he +became a recluse, avoiding society, and more especially all the gay +world of women and wives and half-women and half-wives, who present +such an alarming phase of modern civilisation. Unfortunately his +loneliness was obsessed by one very gruesome but innocent form of +sentiment. He only fell in love with the dead, in whom he ocularly +memorised the last vision of his wife. There was no carnal wickedness +on his part, for he showed signs of a diabolical possession, that is of +not being his own possessor, and of indulging in uncanny and fantastic +wishes, which in his saner moments he would never have tolerated. His +friends proposed that he should be solemnly exorcised by the Church, +but his Confessor was nervous, and the modern Cardinal Archbishop +would never give his consent to anything so mediæval. In the Middle +Ages of course the most solemn and terrifying of rites would have +been performed, and I have no doubt that the poor Duke was actually +possessed by an unhappy demon--explain his malady how you will. He was +unable to resist this terrible instinct, this love of watching women +who were newly dead. I suppose it could be explained. The supreme +anguish and the supreme joy of his life had come to him on the same +day, and he had mingled them in the one night until agony and ecstasy, +delight and grief, life and death must have become indistinguishable. +But the result had been distressing in the extreme, and from time to +time the mad Duke emerged from gloomy solitude to satisfy his widowed +eyes. The police had orders, certainly not to facilitate his sepulchral +amours, but not to prevent him, for the doctors when consulted agreed +that if he were thwarted he would become dangerous. As it was, he was +studiously observant of the natural rights and feelings of the living, +and though when his secret agents heard of the death of a beautiful +woman they instantly visited the next of kin, he never pressed his +suit except with the most pathetic delicacy. In the cases when through +poverty or even through a curious form of snobbery (for with some folk +snobbery is stronger than reverence or death) he was permitted to see +the corpse, he always insisted on defraying the eventual expenses of +the funeral and, when the relatives allowed, of appearing at the grave +side of the object of his momentary affection. There is no human law +which forbids a man to love a corpse, provided the dead body is not +desecrated, and receives proper burial within the number of ordained +days. And the Duke was careful almost to the verge of scruple on this +point. However morbid this habit might be considered, it was overlooked +under two heads. There was the fact that the Duke’s aberration caused +no unhappiness to anyone except himself, and secondly that he suffered +the most agonising remorse and shame between each outbreak of his +singular passion for still life. The leading pathologists declared that +it was a very exceptional case. + +“In any case the Duke was not interrupted in his Platonic love affairs +with Hades, though, poor man, I remember his pathetic grief, which +could be charitably construed into a madman’s ideas of being faithful +to a dead woman. + +“However, I learnt all this long after that evening which was to +have such a curious effect on my subsequent life, the evening of the +Duke’s visit to the Morgue, a visit as I then imagined out of ordinary +curiosity. As I previously mentioned, I had returned late that night +to dispose of the friendless man, whose soul I had previously guided +as well as I could into the shadows of the other world. I was reading +the last words of my Breviary by the flickering gaslight, when suddenly +shadows passed the frosted glass, and to my horror I heard the Duke +making arrangements for the temporary watching of the beautiful woman +I had already seen him cover with piteous eyes. I gathered that it +was not considered discreet, and would entail a licence from the +police, to remove the body from the Morgue to his private house. So +saying, they both entered where I was standing. It was one of the most +embarrassing moments of my life. The Duke turned as pale as one of +the marble mortuary slabs, and the Commissioner actually seized me as +though to prevent my escape. When they realised that I was a priest, +they seemed relieved, for a priest becomes so used to the seal imposed +upon the confessional that even secrets which come to him in other +ways join that silence of the grave. They both read what came in my +face, and without a word nodded to each other, and passed on their +way. I finished writing the formularies descriptive of my unknown +client, and left him lying with the others. I noticed that he was on +the next slab to the mysterious woman. It was beyond human nature for +me to refrain from glancing a second time at her features. They were +beautiful with the pallid unreality of the sculptor’s art. I have +observed that if the sculptor attains the slightest line of beauty or +personality in his art, it is far more wonderful than the painter’s. +It is more difficult to raise life out of the marble depths than upon +the surface of canvas or paint. But to leave by brush or chisel any +idea of the life that has recently left the countenance is the most +difficult. And this lovely model from the Divine sculptor conveyed that +haunting expression which sometimes the mediæval tombs possessed, as +though life lingered in death. How can I describe it? If you have ever +seen a fort or town which has been surrendered to the enemy, there is +a moment of tremendous pathos after the flag has been lowered and the +garrison withdrawn, before the enemy have taken possession. The prize +lies like the body of Patroclus between contending rivals. So, I may +say, lay the body of this beautiful woman, over whom life and death had +contended, and now that the colours of life had been lowered she lay +awaiting the legions of death and corruption. I turned away, making +the Sign of the Cross, and said the _De Profundis_ for the absent +soul. It was well that it had passed from its hostel’s desecration. +The next morning the body was gone. And then the weeks and the months +passed.... I was agreeably surprised that winter to be summoned by my +Bishop, and told that the moment of my promotion had arrived. I was to +be sent to a fashionable parish, where I would find more leisure to +continue my taste for historical studies, which the Bishop was gracious +enough to say had met his attention when inspecting the Seminary. He +wished me to leave my curacy, and with it those unhealthy but rather +fascinating duties at the Morgue, while another priest took my place. +I bowed to the Bishop’s decision, and kissed his ring. As I rose to +leave his anticamera he mentioned without a trace of inner meaning, +as though he were saying the most natural thing in the world, ‘You +owe your promotion to the kind offices of the Duke.’ To my amazement +he mentioned the name of the Duke I had reason to remember under +ineffaceable circumstances. The Bishop looked at me with the gentle +wondering look as though to say: ‘Go in peace, my son, your career is +made. You know how to keep secrets. To those who can keep the secrets +of humanity or of the Church all things will come.’ At least this came +into a mind, alert to guess the reasons of the Duke’s action in my +favour. + +“I found my new position delightful--new interests, new ecclesiastical +visions, new friends. My confessional was thronged, which is always +pleasing to a young priest. When one becomes older, one’s professional +vanity can be adequately satisfied by shriving one old washerwoman _per +diem_. One day the confessional bell rang out of my usual hours. I +descended into the Church and a woman heavily veiled began telling me +the history of her life. As a good confessor, I forget all she said. +It is a blank, but I can say that the sweat poured down my face before +I left my seat. She joined me in the sacristy as she wished to speak +to me of other matters, and once outside the sacred seal my memory of +course returns. I recall that she was anxious for me to arrange her +private wedding. She wished to be married at the dead of night, and +my name had been mentioned as the only one fit and willing to perform +the ceremony. I replied that I could do nothing without my Bishop’s +consent, but that I would take him the particulars immediately, if she +would leave me her name and address. She replied that that she could +not, but a carriage would come to fetch me that night to perform the +ceremony, which would take place in a private house. So saying she laid +the marriage fees on the table, and without letting me look through her +veil handed me a letter from her bosom, which she requested me to give +the Bishop. Then she withdrew. + +“That afternoon I called on the Bishop without giving notice, and to my +surprise was admitted immediately. He listened quietly to my request, +which I never dreamed for a moment he would permit, but I gave him the +lady’s letter. He glanced at the contents as though he knew it all +in advance. Without a trace of surprise or reflection in his eyes he +nodded and told me to perform the ceremony that night if I was sent +for. I gasped something about papers and ecclesiastical authorisation. +He forestalled me with a packet of papers, bidding me fill all the +particulars except the names of those about to be married. He ordered +me under severe penalties to bring back the papers without attempting +to read the signatures. He himself would fill in the names in the body +of the document. I respectfully withdrew, and waited in my rooms that +evening with some of the trepidation that I can imagine a girl feeling +while waiting for her first romance. + +“After a solitary dinner I waited and waited. I finished reading +my Office for the day, and still sat waiting. I was too excited to +pray, too curious to meditate, too tired to read any book of piety. +I waited from nine to eleven, and from eleven to half-past eleven. A +bell rang and to my amazement my friend the Duke was introduced. He +explained that he had come because he was not sure if I would come on +such a wild goose chase, and also because it was necessary for me to +come blindfolded. Under his guarantee I naturally lent myself to the +adventure, and left the clergy house in a two-horsed carriage with a +tight bandage round my eyes. The Duke never spoke to me, but he helped +me very graciously out of the carriage, and through a courtyard, and up +what seemed a very fine flight of stairs, for I quickly felt that I was +treading marble, not wood. + +“Then my eyes were released and I found myself standing in a long +and richly curtained apartment. There were two witnesses blindfolded +like myself, standing in front of an altar brought apparently out of +a private chapel. Others there were none except the Duke and the lady +whose confession I had heard that afternoon. The Duke then asked me +to perform the marriage ceremony between them. I bowed and took up my +place before the altar beside which were laid the necessary vestments. +As in a dream I proceeded to recite the prayers and perform the +gestures which should symbolise and solderise the mystical union of +two human beings. I had reached the moment for the Duke to place the +ring on the finger of the bride, when she let slip her veil, and for +a minute I could neither speak nor move. I should have been prepared, +but it had never crossed my mind, not even as the wildest and maddest +possibility. My friends, the bride whom I was uniting in marriage with +the Duke was the woman whose body I had seen laid on a marble slab at +the Morgue a year previously! + +“She stood there with the same transcendent beauty, but with the slight +flush of life and love recurdling in her cheeks. This was the woman +whom I had seen among the dead and for whose soul I had said Mass! The +dead shall rise up and praise Thee, O Lord! + +“Truly I may say that love is stronger than death and that God had most +strangely permitted this woman to be raised from the dead, by the whim +of a madman’s sentiment. Though she had been a sinner she was found +not unworthy of what I account as a miracle. Like the Prince and the +sleeping Beauty in the Fairy tale the Duke had restored her to life. +Their marriage was naturally morganatic, but as the incident restored +the Duke to his normal senses, it was a marriage that neither Church +nor State cared to forbid.” + + + + +THE BEAU GESTE + + +The _Beau geste_ is rare enough but not unknown in English life. +Certainly there is no English paraphrase. “Beautiful gesture” bespeaks +the orator or actor without conveying a certain brilliance, a sense of +the unique and sometimes the sheer spirituality which is inherent in +the _Beau geste_. “Noble act” sounds like a subscription to a hospital. +The schoolboy who thought that _Beau geste_ was another French way +of saying _Bon mot_ could not have been further astray. The _Beau +geste_ must be heroically conceived and, what is harder, artistically +expressed! + +The Saints have often shown themselves capable of the _Beau geste_, +which carried to a sublime degree in supernatural matters can often be +advanced as a reason for canonisation. An ordinary soul may cherish +the sense of the _Beau geste_ through a lifetime without finding the +occasion. Expression does require an occasion, a crisis or a crash. +Nothing became King Charles so well in his life as leaving it. Charles +on the scaffold, Sir Philip Sidney at Zutphen and Byron at Missolonghi, +knew how to make the _Beau geste_ to posterity. There is no life +however spoilt or degraded that cannot be irradiated if not redeemed by +the _Beau geste_ at its close. There is the _Beau geste_ of the sinner +as well as the _Beau geste_ of the righteous. The Good Samaritan was +of the latter and many a pardoning husband since. The _Beau geste_ +of the profligate is rarer, but neither disgrace nor degradation can +tarnish the _Beau geste_ when it is made. The American clergyman, +who was executed for poisoning an unfortunate sweetheart when he saw +the chance of marrying a richer, seemed beyond the pale. There was +possibly nothing he could do to redeem himself, but with a supreme +effort he succeeded in blinding himself in prison. “If thine eye offend +thee pluck it out.” Well, he did so, and went not unjustified to the +gruesome chair. Again, the Dutch dancer, whose career of spycraft was +brought to book by the punctuation of a French firing squad, rose to +that occasion. Dressing herself for execution in a superb opera cloak +she only asked leave to give the signal unblindfolded. This was granted +by the officer on duty. She gave the signal by lifting her arms and +revealing her person to the bullets. “_C’était beau_” quoth the Gallic +centurion in charge. + +Men and women are both capable of the _Beau geste_, but it takes a +woman to appreciate it sometimes, to accept its shining significance +or to bow to its grim subtlety. A woman’s _Beau geste_ is often lost +on a man’s intelligence but a man’s is never lost on a woman’s. Even +in connubial life the _Beau geste_ occurs and in the hour of greatest +disaster. Couples are too often coupled like railway carriages on +well worn lines by certificated couplers. They are expected to roll +placidly from Junction to Junction with occasional rests in the siding. +Everything is done to avoid accidents, but accidents will occur on the +best regulated lines and the collapse, like the start, of married life +can be relieved by a _Beau geste_ embalming even what may be a broken +memory for both. In any case a _Beau geste_ is never lost on a woman. +Let me think of two instances, one at the commencement, and the other +at the end of a married career. + +I remember a young Italian Prince, the future head of a family, whose +veins ran with patrician and papal blood. At one moment of his life +he insisted on entering a _mésalliance_ by marrying a very beautiful +courtesan, whom many of his friends had known under attached but +detachable circumstances. They were naturally very distressed when he +insisted on crowning his deep love with marriage. It seemed unnecessary +and suicidal and caused his family the utmost apprehension. As a matter +of fact courtesans who have made their career and their fortunes may +yet make admirable wives. Everything however was done in this case +to avert the catastrophe. Even the lady, who loved him with equal +nobility of passion, refused to allow him to sacrifice himself. But +her unselfishness made him more desperate and more determined to wreck +his prospects at her feet. His friends were equally determined, and in +a last effort to avert the marriage confronted him with legal proofs +that his intended bride had been confined of an illegitimate child. Of +her lovers he was aware, but this was new to him, and for a moment he +was staggered. Recovering himself, he said, with one superb gesture +of contempt, “Then it was by an immaculate conception!” and married +her the next day. It was the _Beau geste_ of a great lover and of a +Catholic nobleman. A Protestant bourgeois would have virtuously slunk +out of the affair and left her to the streets. + +But John Betterman, whose marriage story supplies me with the second +of my instances, was just a well-meaning and wealthy English +public-school man, two generations away from Trade and, if truth be +told, three generations off a butler. There was no glowing blood in his +descent and no noble obligations held sway in his composition, but when +his wife left him he behaved with real magnanimity. And in his case the +_Beau geste_ repaid him a hundredfold. Like most of us, he had to pass +through the experience of feminine desertion. + +John Betterman was no lover, and, much as he loved the affectionate +woman who married him for his well-furnished house in Belgravia, his +choice cook, butler and housekeeper, he could never inspire her with +more than a deep appreciation. Affectionate appreciation lasted until +his wife fell in love with one of those American officers who caused +such havoc in the Allied ranks. Cornelius Murphy stood about six foot +four and looked a cross between George Washington and Adonis. He danced +like an Archangel on the tight-rope, and Broadway had taught him to be +a real lover. He was fatal, like all his type, to the unsophisticated +women of Europe. John Betterman’s wife had dreamed of such a find +before she met him. Once she had found her dream, she never stopped +meeting him. Captain Murphy received a standing invitation for lunch, +dinner and tea and a sitting invitation for most moments between. It +came under the Hospitality to Allies scheme. After the Armistice they +danced together for six weeks. The Armistice was not made applicable +to the war of sexes, which raged all the fiercer after the suspension +of masculine hostilities. Man’s earthly warfare was not intended to +be against his own sex. He must eternally meet the approaches and +desertions of the beloved enemy, whose adorable artillery has always +included all the refinements of poisoned breath, scraps of paper and +submarine poignarding. The question was how would John Betterman take +it. Quiet, inoffensive and obedient husbands can be far more dangerous +than the blustering Pasha. + +Cornelius Murphy and Mrs. Betterman withdrew to a Railway Hotel, from +which she telephoned the first news of her flight to her husband. He +took the parting like a hero. He would cause the necessary reasons for +her to divorce him, and he only asked her to come and fetch her things +the next day and promised that she would not find him in the house. He +added his word of honour. With a sudden sigh she hung up the receiver, +but grateful that she was spared pursuit or scenes. “I will go round +to-morrow and fetch my clothes and all I need travelling abroad,” +she said to Murphy. “It is such a relief that he takes it so kindly. +English gentleman, you know.” + +“No, you don’t,” shot Murphy, alert and suspicious, “No such thing as +an English gentleman when it comes to that. It’s bound to be a trap. +You’ll find lawyers and detectives waiting for you.” + +Immediately she felt stung with a faint pity for her husband and +insisted on obeying his last unselfish request. “No,” she said firmly, +“I know John Betterman. He would cut off his hand rather than set a +dirty trap. I shall go to-morrow alone.” + +“For God’s sake, you shall not!” shouted Murphy. She drew herself up +and said, “It is the price of my remaining with you to-night.” He bowed +his head ashamed. “I was afraid some harm might come to you, darling. +If I were your husband and could trap you I would kill you.” + +The next morning he motored her to her husband’s house and waited +while she collected her luggage. A letter was waiting for her on the +hall table in his handwriting. She opened and read. A cheque for ten +thousand pounds fell to the floor. There was no mention of it in the +letter, which ran simply: + + DEAR JULIA, + + I have been a good husband but not good enough for you. You have been + a perfect wife and to you I assign no fault. If there is something + lacking in your life you must complete yourself elsewhere. When I + come to the end of my life, I shall be as glad as I am now unhappy + that I did not hinder you mounting a flame, which would bring any + other woman unto earth and ashes but upon which I know you will + rise to the highest heaven. When your life is complete, perfect and + finished, let my love still lie like a wreath of immortelles at your + feet. + + JOHN. + + +She cried a little when she read it. A new kind of feeling rose in her +heart which possibly she could not explain. It has been said that every +man kills the thing he loves. Perhaps it is sometimes true that a woman +loves the thing she kills. It was her soul’s response to his _Beau +geste_, the tiniest seed of a love he had never awakened in their whole +married life. + +Cornelius Murphy was relieved when he saw her emerge, but he spied her +tears in a second. “Is he there? Did he frighten you?” and he pulled +out his army pistol and dragged her across the threshold. She did not +like his roughness and deliberately backed into the house. Murphy +followed. “Of course he’s not here. I only felt a little sorry going +away, that is all,” she explained. “I guess he had better not follow +us,” said the other and, by way of a visible hint, he loaded his pistol +and left it in the tray of visitors’ cards. Then they both went to +America. + +When John Betterman returned to his house that evening it looked as +empty as the shell without the pearl. He gave one glance at the pistol +in the hall, read the name, “Capt. Cornelius Murphy, 105 U.S. Cavalry,” +and gave orders that it was never to be touched. In the morning he +stood staring at that implement of ruffianism and feeling ironical +amusement. But the impetus of his _Beau geste_ was unabated and he +consulted his lawyers on his wife’s behalf. They showed the same sleek +sympathy which coffin-makers always extend to their clients and gave +him the necessary instructions how to enable his wife to divorce him +with least expense and most credit to herself. It was necessary that +he should find a lady who was willing to share the same room (nothing +more, but to be legal hardly less) at an hotel and to forward the +written testimony to the proper quarters. + +That evening, accordingly, John Betterman walked round and round the +purlieus of Victoria Station until he was accosted by a cheery lady +with a head of red tow, who suggested drinks in Victoria Station. To +this proposition he agreed, and under these amical surroundings she +confided to him that she was locally known as “Pink Tart” and that +she was ready to pass the evening with bachelors for the sum of ten +shillings sterling. John Betterman offered her five pounds on condition +that she spent the night sitting on one chair, while he sat reading in +another, and that she made no sign of her existence until the morning. +Her name was Susan Honeyman, and she decidedly wished there were +more wealthy lunatics and less impoverished rakes in the vicinity of +Victoria Station. + +Evidence of this extraordinary evening was duly furnished to the +lawyers of Mrs. Betterman, who brought proceedings for divorce in the +most respectable fashion, and received a good deal of broadcasted +sympathy from readers of the best read column in the _Daily Press_, +especially when the flagrant details of Mr. Betterman’s infidelities +were exposed and even the nickname of Miss Susan Honeyman was set down +in stark print and read eagerly by those who would never have allowed +it to soil their lips. + +John Betterman felt these shameful and painful details intensely, +but he had come to take a strange and fantastic pleasure in his own +sufferings. His suffering and his shame were for the sake of the woman +he loved. He could ask no more. + +Every night washed he his pillow with his tears and imagined deeper +sufferings and further humiliations for himself. Toward his wife he +felt no resentment in the least, not even a little. It had all turned +and curdled into a bitter resentment against himself, bitterer than +death. The months passed and his wife’s divorce was made absolute. +He had borne up his heart while in the twilight stage of “decree +nisi,” but dark finality bowed him to the ground. All that night he +sat wishing to make an end of himself. At last he felt that death +and suicide were too good for him. He must make himself suffer even +more than he had suffered all those weeks, but how? He felt that no +scourging could have hurt him as much as that undefended divorce trial, +the crushing allusions of the paid lawyers, the scornful comment of +the Judge, and, what cut him like vinegar poured into a slit spleen, +the nickname of the woman with whom he was proved to have passed the +stipulated time of lust. If it had been a “Green Goddess” or a “Black +Beauty” it would not have looked so ridiculous in the evening papers, +but the fatal synonym of Miss Susan Honeyman lost him all sympathy even +from himself. He could not help hating himself like Hell. + +The next night the house became more than he could endure, and he +strode into the lamp-speckled dark. This way and that, like an +unimaginative madman longing by some astounding stroke to trouble the +mocking world, he sought some action that would help her and hurt +himself, even if it were criminal. He would have gladly gone to prison +to explain this sin of hers. No! by the sweet bones of Christ! she was +sinless and immaculate! But he would willingly have gone to prison to +serve some long sentence incurred by Murphy so that she might live +happily with him. He would out-Enoch Enoch Arden in that way. How could +he sufficiently lower and degrade himself to justify her desertion of +home and husband in the face of the world? + +A familiar figure reeled against him near Victoria Station. “Got +any more fivers for sitting up to watch you read all night?” quoth +a coarse but kindly voice. Why, of course he had, and he laughed a +skeleton laugh as he recognised his old friend, who had often told +her friends the story of her midnight escapade with a madman and was +often reminiscent of the divorce proceedings in which her name and +style had been taken by hired lawyers in vain. “Out for a lark?” she +asked, but John Betterman was in dead earnest, when he asked her to go +even further than on their former meeting and consent to marry him at +a registry office the next day. Miss Honeyman would have been really +surprised had she not taken his proposal for a joke. “Why, won’t one +night at the hotel do you again? What do yer want marrying me at the +end of me life?” And she roared with laughter. Only once before had +she been asked in marriage, and that was by her original seducer, who +had subsequently thrown her on the streets. However, John Betterman +not only treated her to supper but gave her twenty pounds to pay her +arrears of rent and buy a decent dress to make a proper appearance the +next morning. No wonder that she went her way rejoicing, astounded at +her luck in falling in again with so profitable a madman. It was in +hopes of another windfall and not of the matrimonial position that +she made her way to the registry the following day. To her amazement +and perhaps a little to his own, John Betterman awaited her, prim +and punctual, but with a look of insane pride in his face. He took a +perverted pride in the depth of degradation and misery he found it +possible to inflict upon his own soul. Before noon they were united +legally by the law of England, and by three o’clock Mrs. John Betterman +the second was lying quite drunk under his dining-room table. It was +years since she had tasted champagne. She had that excuse. She lay +there while John Betterman wrote to his first wife. He wished to put +her into a position from which she could for ever more look down upon +him. He took no further notice of his second wife. Had an angel from +Heaven picked her up and made her drunk with the wine of celestial +grapes she could not have been enjoying greater bliss. In fact at each +interval of sick gratitude she constantly expressed her opinion that +such was the actual case. + +He looked up when he had finished writing and at the same moment heard +the bell ring. His housekeeper entered. It was a cable from America +sent by his first wife and it read with tragic simplicity: + + “All I have done has been a horrible mistake. I am on the returning + boat. Please meet me on Saturday at Liverpool and forgive your + adoring wife.” + +He looked up and remained watching Mrs. Betterman the second slowly +drag herself into a chair and fumble with a cigarette. He twisted +the cable into a spill, touched a red coal and lit her fag. Then +he left her in charge of his housekeeper and went to bed. All his +other servants had given notice and left long ago. On the whole he +decided that it was wisest to keep her under liquor until Saturday. +It was still Tuesday. When his first wife reached Liverpool a special +messenger awaited her with a sealed letter from John Betterman +announcing his legal marriage with his second wife and asking her, +his first, to accept the remainder of the fortune at his disposal. He +himself remained in the gutter. + +It was her turn to receive a shock. She sat stunned in her cabin, +unable to go ashore, thinking over the year. It had been a bitter +experience and this was the knife. Murphy had taken her money and, +after dancing her almost to death in the lowest haunts of New York, +had left her for a professional dancer and disappeared. It was the +British Consul who had advanced the money for her return, and this was +her return. In her misery stood forth the miraculous white flower of +sea-engendered love for her husband. It seemed inconceivable to her +that she had not loved him before. She only knew that she had loved +him ever since she had hesitated for one fatal second on his empty +threshold. The thought of his _Beau geste_, infinitely divisible and +intangibly volatile, had caught in some secret recess of her heart and +flowered during the dismays and miseries of her American trip. But +love, real love, is cheap at any price. It was a wonderful experience +for her to feel as she did. Though fate had driven her down a blind +alley and the cup she had snatched had been broken across her bleeding +lips, yet here was a cup more tempting and a more perfect delight. Lust +had carried her across the Atlantic. Love had accompanied her home. +She felt how marvellous it was to feel as she felt even in her intense +suffering. She had never dreamed it was possible. What tinsel all dream +is to one thread of reality! + +That night John Betterman gave a holiday to his housekeeper and opened +his own door every time the bell rang. His instinct was right, for the +second ring that he answered was hers. When he opened she knelt, and he +lifted her gently past the threshold that was once theirs. They looked +at each other and he perceived what certainly he had never seen in +her eyes before. She whispered, asking forgiveness, and then with the +lover’s practical outlook, whether the coast was clear? Where was the +other woman? He shuddered and pointed upstairs. She insisted on meeting +her successor. He told her that after nine o’clock she was generally +insensible to the world of visitors and motioned her towards her former +room. Feeling it was part of her penance, she followed and beheld lying +across the bed a rather jovial-looking drab breathing liquor heavily +from the gills. It was an awful moment for her and John Betterman. +Their two faces of agony met and she discerned from his the reflection +of her own great love. And there lay this wretched creature between +them. It was maddening that they should suddenly love each other as +greatly as they did; maddening, too, that they had taken the trouble to +marry and divorce in the past. Yet it was maddening in a delicious way +that they had found each other at last. If they had never divorced they +might never have fallen in love with each other. But they did not try +to think. He picked her up in his arms and the great flash of immortal +love made them one as they stood gazing at each other in trance. She +slipped to his knees. + +There she only petitioned that, as she had forsaken him as wife, he +would not spurn her as mistress. The connubial chamber was filled but +she understood now why he had filled it with the filth of the street +rather than seek a presentable second hand rosebud. It was his love for +her. She understood the self-torture he had inflicted upon himself, +his refusal to try and find happiness. She had the woman’s instinct +to realise that this snoring slut symbolised as great a compliment +to herself as though her adoring lover had committed suicide on his +deserted doorstep. Poor John Betterman had committed worse than +suicide. He had assumed a mental torture that no Inquisition would +have imposed. He had clad his soul in the most ghastly of public _San +Benitos_ and made the most piteous _auto-da-fé_ that a despairing man +could make. It all rushed upon her and she only begged to share in his +humiliation. She only asked to lower herself with him into the gutter. +She had forfeited the position of wife but she prayed to be allowed to +live as his hireling in the mews round the corner. She was content to +live in shame. She would go on the streets if he would be her lover. +She promised she would never intrude into his house. He would find her +whenever he wished, humbly waiting upon the hour of his divine visit. +He plucked her from his knees and kissed her ecstatically. There came +an unconscious grunt from their nuptial bed and its temporary incubus +took the occasion to snort. + +They could not help laughing. They were lovers and everything turned +to amazing happiness or screaming humour. There could happen nothing +disgusting or distressing to them. The unconscious second wife was +only delightfully ridiculous. The poor thing on the bed had no soul +really, no meaning. She was just a frightful phantom. The next day John +Betterman took rooms over the mews for his first wife and their strange +_ménage_ took root and continued, John Betterman keeping this horrible +but harmless creature under his roof, allowing her five shillings a +day for drink, and leaving her entirely to his housekeeper to prevent +scenes in public. Though she was his legal wife, he had never dreamed +of living with her. She was merely allowed to infest his house like a +tame elemental, smelling as unpleasantly as they say elementals smell, +but far less uncanny. Instead of casting or buying her out, he simply +allowed her to sink brandy-logged in harbour. He was very kind to her +and she could not last very much longer. After dinner every evening he +retired to the mews, neighbours said to escape the horrors of married +life. On Saturday nights the phantom struggled into the purlieus of +Victoria Station, where she returned happily to her old life except +that she treated any men she could induce to come with her. If John +Betterman’s brandy hadn’t been so good she would have sunk underseas +long before. She really was living quite a happy animal life, without +care or worry, comfortably found in bed and board and drink. The +police knew her circumstances and let her alone. She was cheerfully +hail-fellow-well-met with half the boosers and all the broken men and +women of the locality. Sometimes they bamboozled her of her money, but +she was never blackmailed. The wretched company she kept contained +sinners but not beasts. She was believed to have a store in her +stocking and found to be very generous. She always drank to her last +penny. And some outcast was always ready to see her safely home. A year +passed.... + +She met the beast-type one night, a ruffianly swashbuckler, who spent +his time frightening prostitutes by pretending to be a detective and +squeezing their hard-earned gains. He had heard of Mrs. Betterman’s +reputed savings and when her red, frouzled hair was thrust into his +shirt one Saturday night he devised unto himself prompt and easy +plunder. He swore at her foully and she rather liked him for it. When +he had drunk her last penny, he wanted to take her to her lodging. +She brought him staggering home. John Betterman’s house was empty and +she used her key to open the door. Without turning on the light, she +dragged him upstairs, with the promise of a case of whisky under her +bed, which was true enough, though she forgot that the whisky had been +drunk weeks before. When he found there was no drink, he demanded +money, made avaricious and surprised by the comfort and richness of +her room. He would not take “no” for an answer, but she was used to +dealing with pugnacious gentlemen, and though it was a long time +since she had had to push one downstairs, she was able to master her +carousing companion. He fell heavily through the darkness. She judged +by his swearing that he was not seriously hurt. It was a nuisance. +She would have to follow and let him out of the door. She switched on +the lights in the hall. He was picking himself up. A long, cadaverous +looking fellow with a big nose, who might have been a cashiered cashier +or a Mormon elder in better days, and a hatchet-shaped cheek, was +reeling towards her. She shoved him against the door, where he stood +at bay begging and then threatening. He refused to leave the house +until she paid him and began twisting her wrist until the rotten bones +cracked. Furious with pain, she cut his mouth with the wedding-ring +on her free hand, cut him again and again, till he spluttered blood. +It stung him to singular fury and he looked round for a weapon. By +a chance, that was not so curious, his eye fell on the hall table, +and a clean revolver lying amid the grey visitors’ cards. His hand +closed familiarly upon it and without hesitation he discharged it into +the drunken red halo beside him. With a heart-rending cry the second +Mrs. Betterman fell into a shrivelled heap, but the dirty blood which +trickled from her mouth and gaping temple was not as red as her hair. +Her slayer stood looking at her sullenly. Then he realised that it was +a good chance to go, and blew the second cartridge through his throat. + +The police were quickly summoned by the hysterical housekeeper and +spent an hour taking down wholly unnecessary information, for the ends +of Justice had already been served. There was no thought of suspecting +a third person in the crime as the name on the revolver corresponded +with cards and envelopes addressed in the dead man’s pocket. Early next +morning, John Betterman came home and was surprised to find waiting for +him a letter from the Coroner. + + + + +THE EVIL EYE + + +This is a plain tale of that mediæval belief--the Evil Eye--playing its +course in a modern London suburb. Perhaps it is all nonsense ... like +vampires in Kensington. Anyhow, Peter Joneson made a mistake in caring +to come to Mrs. Guilda Faning’s flat every day. Mr. John Faning made a +mistake in not caring that he came, and Mrs. Faning made the mistake +of not caring whether her husband cared or not. None of their feelings +then approximated to definiteness, which was probably a mistake and in +the end a pity. Peter Joneson’s at least tended towards definiteness +and Mrs. Faning was pleased to accept his definite admiration of her +person and personality. + +Peter Joneson used to come almost every afternoon and stay as long +as he could. If he missed tea at the flat, he used to write rather a +dull letter of apology or send some smutty flowers bought from the old +woman sitting outside the public-house. He became a piece of movable +furniture in the flat, like an old armchair for Guilda to rest on +mentally or Mr. Faning to shift sometimes from the room unconsciously. +Peter was punctual at coming and good at going. But it was all rather +hazy. He was like a mouse to Guilda. Mr. Faning was one of the happily +uninspired men who want nothing in life. Peter, of course, felt he +wanted something. Guilda only wanted to want something. For want of +something, she began to train herself to want Peter. Peter, of course, +wanted her in a comfortable sort of way but without evil prepense. She +never dreamed of hunting Peter, for she had instinctive woman’s pride, +if her suburban breeding did not allow her good taste. It was enough +that she began to like Peter for the reflex of her liking to reflect +itself fivefold from the lenses of his eyes. The invisible flash and +counterflash did not produce discordancy but touched the same key, +was wafted on the same plane and formed the same ray. The attraction +between them was complete. + +But she made a mistake in showing him one day that she loved him, and +Peter made the mistake of showing her husband that he had discovered +that she loved him, and finally Mr. Faning made the mistake of showing +his wife that he had begun to dislike the man she liked. For, of +course, she only liked him the more. Hitherto, nothing had mattered. +Peter had poised his own mind open and for the first time felt her +emotions moving with his. He had always been prepared to fall in love. +Not she, and she still hesitated to admit the great and spicy wind +that bloweth from the South, after having been so long satisfied with +the puffs and draughts and teacup-tempests that make up middle-class +temperament in suburban flats. They had all three agreed in the wish +to live comfortably and quietly. Neighbourly flirtation had suited +both the Fanings, and Peter had made a well-conducted collusive foil +to the husband. The passion that had suddenly flashed between him and +Guilda was as upsetting to all as a hawk lighting on a canary cage or a +thunderstone falling into a suburban rockery. + +Mr. Faning was quite upset, for love had crossed his wife’s path once +before. During courtship he had had a serious rival whom Guilda had +loved to distraction, and the stronger she had loved the sadder and +sicker the chosen lover had become until he died. This tale must be +told without subterfuge or keeping back the point. Guilda said he had +died of love, and married her second string. The neighbours said that +Mr. Faning had put weed-killer in his tea. An old housekeeper with a +drop of gipsy blood had said that Guilda, whether she knew it or not, +had the evil eye and would be the death of any person she really loved. +Mr. Faning, however, married her and had lived quite happily without +a day’s illness ever since. This Mr. Faning had taken to disprove +the theory thoroughly. Guilda used to laugh a little when he stated +this view. More logically put, it showed that she did not love her +husband or that the evil eye on her part was mythical. Just an empty +superstition and she had put it quite out of her mind. Her married life +had been quite uneventful and unsorrowed except for one thing. Whenever +she had trained and come to love a dog, it was run over or disappeared +mysteriously. There was Fido, crushed by a cart; there was Carlo, who +had been twisted in the spokes of a butcherboy’s bicycle, and Horatio +Bottomley, a magnificent bulldog, whom she had loved above all her pets +individually and above the whole human race generally. Well, they had +all come to grief and those whose bodies had been recovered lay in the +dank little garden between the gate and the door of her house. + +And now romance had come with all its light radiancy of prelude, +exciting her mind to an intense pitch of curiosity as to what lay +behind the next turning. She was in no hurry. She still cared for her +husband exactly the same, without loving him. Peter she loved without +really caring for him. She was still careful of her husband’s throat +when he went out at night, while of Peter’s sore throat she seemed +rather oblivious. Perhaps it made him more interesting because the sore +throat had been developed in her service. Sensitive to the possibility +of romance in the prosaic and humdrum surroundings of her home, Guilda +felt that Peter’s mechanical arrivals with teapot and sugar basin must +be changed. She quietly enjoined him to come at a later hour and never +by the front door. He must climb into her drawing-room by the balcony +and wait until she answered his taps. Somewhat against his will, Peter +had submitted to this daily ordeal until the servants were as used +to one form of entry as the other, and the policeman standing at the +corner received a hint from Mr. Faning himself that his friend was not +practising to be a burglar. Mr. Faning had been puzzled by this new +departure, or new form of entry rather, but vaguely supposed it would +satisfy Peter’s absurd affection for his wife. + +It didn’t. Peter left strips of skin on the rusty iron trellis-work +and caught chills on wet draughty winter evenings. His hacking cough +gave Guilda a sensation she thought she had long ago buried. And +Peter, had he known, had no reason to complain of his cold, for it +heightened Guilda’s love. Attraction had passed into love with her. +It was then that Mr. Faning became aware, not of Peter’s love, which +mattered nothing to him, but of Guilda’s which he had never possessed +himself. This did seem to matter to him a great deal. It was no use +her explaining that she only made Peter climb in for a joke. Mr. Faning +banned a joke that made himself as ridiculous as Peter. Peter was told +he was a good fellow, but his visits were limited in future to one +a week, and would she be kind enough to admit him after ringing at +the front door? As for Guilda, he told her that she was the laughing +stock of the parish. Everybody knew she was pretending to be living +in Mayfair and trying to show the neighbours that she secretly had a +lover. It must stop! + +Guilda’s face crimsoned and her passionate fury allowed her no retort. +She could have reconciled a jealous outburst from her husband with her +romance, blows even and threats of divorce. But to be called the joke +of the parish was more than she could bear. When he strode out angrily, +she waited for Peter’s taps impatiently at the drawing-room window. +They came. + +She preferred to be the tragedy of the parish rather than its joke. It +had never occurred to her that she could be ridiculous. Romance was +not ridiculous and she grated her teeth. There was a strange look on +her face when she opened the glass door behind the curtains and let +Peter come in coughing. Her eyes looked passionately upon him and a +great tremor shook his lungs. It was some time before he could recover +himself. She stroked his back and he dropped gratefully into a chair. +For the first time pity passed into her love and love itself became +fused to passion. She told him to follow her to her room, which Peter +had never seen, never even imagined. It was quite like other bedrooms. +That rather puzzled him, the same sort of furniture. All the wooden +atmosphere of Maple’s, all the china soul of Whiteley’s, was there +expressed with just the necessary alleviation of the feminine, the silk +stockings hanging on the chair, the powder-puff and three dog collars +on the dressing-table. He felt deliciously bewildered and tried to say +something. One of her new garters, bought at a Selfridge sale, was on +the bed. He was sorry it was not on the floor or he would have picked +it up. As it was, he said “_Honi soit qui mal y pense_,” as he touched +it. At that moment Mr. Faning came in. + +Guilda had already begun to pour out water into a basin and, picking +a towel off the rack, slipped Peter’s hands into the warm water. Mr. +Faning stood watching until she had washed them free from the soot and +dried them between the fresh folds of the clean towel. Then Faning +burst out angrily: “I came back just to see that this joke wouldn’t go +too far, and I find you in my wife’s bedroom! Never come back into this +house again.” He turned to his wife and re-knifed her with the foolish +words “joke of the whole parish!” She never answered him, but bowed her +head and kissed each of Peter’s hands.... Peter went out shaking like a +reed. When he reached his own rooms he found himself spitting blood. He +stayed in for several days. + +Peter felt very distracted those days. He made no effort to +communicate with the Fanings. He felt he had lost a man friend, and +the affectionate companionship of his wife. Companionship he had +regarded as heavenly, but a red-blooded intrigue struck him with all +the discomforts of hell. He sat dimly facing the prospect of fire. He +had been so happy in his paradisal peace. He had now no choice but to +clear out altogether or throw himself beyond the old relationships +of family friend, and consider the Faning household in the sombre +guise of mistress and enemy. It was appalling to think of, and he spat +blood steadily through a night until his landlady became alarmed and +sent for the doctor. He was found to be quite ill, and suffering from +tuberculosis. + +It was a month before he returned from the hospital. He had never let +Guilda go far from his mind. How could he? He intended to be faithful +to Mr. Faning’s injunction, and not cross the forbidden threshold.... +But as soon as he was walking about again he made a point of passing +the flat every afternoon on his return from the office. Always at the +same hour, at the hour of tea, he came, and stood, and went, while a +fragrance as of the delicious teas of the past smote his memory each +time. He knew then how deeply he was still in love with her. It gave +him a queerly increasing throb each time. His regularity in passing +under the old lodestar was noted by servants, and brought to Guilda’s +notice with the half-humorous and half-sympathetic understanding which +can make servants and mistresses kin. One evening Guilda was watching +for his passage, and threw him down a token. It was not a very romantic +one, but token it was. + +Peter was startled to be hit on the shoulder by an object flying out +of the dusk as he stood absorbing his sip of evening melancholy. He +picked it out of the mud. It was a dog’s collar, which he recognised, +carried home, and considered carefully. He did not dare to look up. +As he had suspected, it was one of the three dog collars that graced +Guilda’s dressing-room. Apart from a hundred teas and the washing of +his hands it was the first present she had ever given him. He turned +it over again and again in his hands, and then he began turning it in +his mind. He could not be faithless to the token she had given him, +even though it was but a morgan fey beckoning out of the fog. An unseen +light flickered before his closed eyes. A tremendous sadness passed +into his temperament such as he had never felt before. It left him so +uncomfortable that he tried to find a more ordinary name for it. He +decided that it must be a form of illness. It was a natural weakness +and reaction after the first days of convalescence. He was coughing +again, but thank God! without spitting blood. + +The dog collar was perplexing. It might be interpreted in several ways. +Firstly, he might be considered a dog and needing a collar and leash! +Secondly, was he a drawing-room pet once more? Thirdly, she had once +told him how deeply she had loved her dogs. Could he aspire to a share +in the great love she had had for Fido, or in the holy emotion she once +felt for Horatio Bottomley? He began to question himself seriously. But +it was gratifying to be even noticed and, though the dog-collar had +descended on the bridge of his nose like a leathery meteorite, it had +already assumed the glamour of daystar in his mind. It was probably a +contemptuous joke on her part, he told himself, perhaps even an act +of hostility from Mr. Faning. He hated even to think that it might +possibly be a practical joke on the part of a servant. He remembered +the fate of Malvolio and shivered under the smart of ridicule. Of +course there was the thousand-and-oneth chance, which makes the test of +the lover--the chance that nobody would dream of following in commerce +or in politics, or even in gambling, but the lover follows the +thousandth chance. Deep below the strata of ten respectable generations +there lay some spark of the Restoration in Peter Joneson, some chip +even of some far-off but possibly prepossessing cavalier, enough to +send him that evening to linger a second time under the Fanings’ flat. + +Half timid he felt, for his body was trembling all over, but half +determined, as though he were fated to press his suit and be done with +it. However, he took his stand under the flat, and fear was all but +making him move after he had cast one rhapsodical glance through the +fog when he stopped dead still! He thought he saw Guilda move against +the blinds of her bedroom, and all the pleasant pusslike purring in +his soul became embattled passion. Peter decided to climb to the top +floor of the flat, the floor beyond the balcony where Guilda slept. +Fastening the dog collar round his wrist, he screwed his shaky clerk’s +hands to the sticking point and crawled up the trellis work. In two +minutes he was gasping on the balcony and a fine sweat was blinding +his eyes. Then he swung himself on the railing and began pulling his +febrile body up the stone work. He had luckily lost a good deal of +weight lately, but this was offset by loss of strength. He reached +half-way, and felt he could get no further. The fog thickened, and he +waited to gather his last energy. He would see Guilda. That he was +sure of, and he bargained with his gods that if he saw her this once +he was willing never to see her again. This once, this once, and his +strength swayed on the tottering side of weakness. He could not tell +whether it was weakness or strength that beat in his veins. He was not +a psychologist or he would have known that it was neither. However, +he hoped it was new strength, and began to drive his nails into the +mortared chinks. He spent whole moments hanging by his finger-tips. +What agony! His grateful palm closed round a helpful ledge. It was +her window-ledge! And he drew himself up with a last effort. He was +kneeling on the very sill and a warm light was bathing him, but he had +not the necessary last half-ounce of strength left to raise his arm +and tap the old signal. He sat puffing and sighing until Guilda heard +unusual sounds and not catlike, or, she thought if it was, it was a +very sick cat. She came to the window. Peter saw her shadow swim into +the blind like some enormous bird, and, like a vulture’s crooked wings, +her long arms, trailing bands of vesture, moving to the window-bolt and +slowly opening it behind the undrawn blind ... “Peter, I knew it was +you. I have been thinking of you all the evening. I had an idea that if +I thought strongly enough you would come.” Peter extended his smeared +and bleeding hand, on the hilt of which was fastened her dog collar. + +She laughed as she helped him into the room. It was the merry laugh of +love achieving love.... The window redescended. In the fog no one had +seen. So Peter Joneson came within sight and touch of attaining the +unattainable. He sank wearily but dreamily into an arm-chair. Dear, +dear Guilda! She was pouring out the nice warm water again in a basin +and bringing it to him. She was kneeling at his feet again with a nice +crisp towel. He suppressed a frightful fit of coughing, which would +not have chimed with the delectation of the moment. She had wiped the +soot off his skin, and softened the clotted blood, and was drying his +fingers, when suddenly the fresh blood began to spurt into the basin. +There was quite a nasty cut there. He must have struck a snag of +glass in the mortar. She uttered an exclamation of grief which pierced +his flesh as the glass did not. At the same moment the inclination to +cough became his imperative and dominant sensation within. He felt +he would burst if he could not shake his lungs into his throat. But +with a stifling exercise of will power he drove it down his gullet, +while Guilda tried to slake the flow of his blood. It did not seem +possible to stop. She pulled the dog collar tighter and tighter round +his wrist, and still the drops flowed. Peter watched her as in a kind +of delicious nightmare, but he felt something heavier than iron was +sinking on his chest. He must try and shake it off. Perhaps it was only +a dream. He was awakened from his dream by a fierce thrill running +through his body. His wide eyes stared at Guilda--stared and stared. +Good God! her hands were laid on his cut. He could feel her staunching +his blood. “Don’t, oh don’t trouble!” he cried on the top of a heaving +crash in his breaking lungs. “Don’t! don’t! don’t!” “But I love and +adore you, Peter. Can’t you feel how I love you?” And Peter, in +frenzied and prostrate terror felt his blood surge fiercely, unsatedly, +passionately--and then the crash came. His body broke asunder, and +he slipped from her with a single gasp. He coughed savagely, and +sank at her feet. He could just clasp them before he passed into +unconsciousness.... She simply stared. + +When he awoke he felt endreamed not with the soft drowsiness that +follows sleep, but startled with the horrible ticking beat with which +one comes out of an anæsthetic. He tried to remember if he had been +going to have an operation and could not, but there was a doctor +standing there, and holding his pulse with a grey face and a watch. +Oh, thank heavens! It was the watch, and not his heart that was making +that awful tick, tick, tick! Faning was standing there, which was +curious, looking at him with a look still more curious. And why was he +in a strange bedroom? Then he caught sight of Guilda. She was carrying +a basin across the room full of blood.... Then he remembered. She had +washed his hands, and his eye followed her gratefully across the room. +But he was growing weaker. Never had he felt so weak before. He was +too exhausted to make sign or sound. He could hear the doctor talking; +“I am sorry you did not send for me earlier, Mr. Faning, during the +night, for he has been bleeding without cessation, and he must have +been very anæmic before....” Peter’s eyes strayed to the bijou clock on +the dressing-table. It was eight o’clock! Then he must have been two +hours unconscious. He must have fainted. Then he noticed that it was +daylight. Then he lay back, and gave up the ghost. Simply died! + +The doctor, as a matter of fact, had been expecting him to die since +six o’clock. He had cut the main artery in his wrist and had died owing +to blood failure during the night. The doctor sat a little puzzled. +He had seen cases of bleeding to death before, and the rarer cases +of bleeders who are liable to shed blood at a touch. But this was an +accident, and he mentioned to Mr. Faning that it would involve an +inquest. Faning blanched, for he wisely hated scandal more than sin, +and the idea of a dead body being found in his wife’s bedroom was a +confusing prospect. Coroners were so unsympathetic in these days. He +suggested it to the doctor, and the doctor agreed that an inquest +would be awkward. What was particularly difficult for him was to +explain where the man’s blood had gone to. There was only a pint or +two in the basin and on the towels, and yet his veins were practically +emptied. It would be a puzzling inquest, and had better be avoided. +Guilda crept to the doorway and watched her husband and doctor deciding +action. No servant was allowed to pry into her room that day, and it +was given out that Guilda herself was unwell. She dropped into bed at +Faning’s orders, and lay there half frightened, but weirdly sad and +content. She slept until the evening without thinking of the corpse her +husband had locked into the bathroom. At tea-time the doctor returned, +and, when no one stood in the street, they pitched the body over the +balcony into the garden where it fell with a sodden crash. Then they +waited and waited, but no policeman came, no newsboy gave the alarm. +Their plan was imminent and certain of success. The body would be found +cold that night or in the morning by the milkman, and every policeman +on the beat would testify to the peculiar character of the gentleman +and his way of entering his friends’ houses. It suddenly occurred to +the doctor that something would be missing. “The blood?” he said: +“there is no blood in the garden.” Fortunately no servant had cleaned +the basin, and the clotted fluid was diluted with hot water and carried +carefully outside into the garden, and splashed about the crumpled +figure under the trellis-work. Softly it sank into the gritty earth of +two dogs’ graves. + + + + +THE WEIRD GILLY + + +Once upon a time--and a long time gone, before the wind and the rain +had come to live in Ireland--O’Donnell held festival with the fine +gentlemen of Donegal. + +They sat in the house at Ballyshannon which he had graven of yew and +thatched with gulls’ plumes, and they feasted upon new of all meats, +and old of all liquors. As they drank high and deep, their plaited hair +fell over the wine cups their fathers had taken out of the graves of +the Danes. In face of O’Donnell himself sat the Joyless Jug. It was +called so because it had been used to fetch water by the patron saint +of all the O’Donnell’s. It never ran dry on O’Donnell’s table, and this +by the marvelling was esteemed a miracle. + +As the company peered through the lime-white arches of the hall into +O’Donnell’s apple garden, they saw a strange gilly pricking the sour +fruit with a javelin. O’Donnell sent a Saxon slave to bring him in. The +stranger gave astonishment to them all. He wore patched hose over his +swinging shanks, and a mantle that would have wrapped a mare and foal +was gathered to his girdle. A naked sword trundled at his heel-tip, and +he carried three charred javelins of holly. The puddle water splashed +out of his deerskin brogues while his ear-tips peeped through his +mantle hood. + +“God save you and ripen your apples,” quoth he, and, as he smacked his +lips, the wine leaped in their cups. + +“And who and wherefrom and whither exactly art thou?” asked O’Donnell. + +“My habits take me to Islay in Scotland one day, to the Island of Man +another, and to Rathlin the next, for a ranting rambling rover I am.” + +“Your name? and you are welcome,” said O’Donnell. + +“The Gilly of the Gael.” + +“It is enough; sit where you would drink, and drink where you sit.” + +“Indeed,” said the Gilly, “I will sit, or I will sit not, as it pleases +me. I would hear music to play the ache out of my legs and the water +out of my shoes.” + +O’Donnell called his harpers to play smooth and soothing strains out +of their live harps. They were the pride and power of O’Donnell’s +entertaining. + +When the gilly had listened a while through his hood, he spoke to the +harps: “I have never heard minstrelsy the like--not since I heard the +musicians of Beelzebub tinkling iron with their sledgehammers on the +nethermost ground-tier of Hell!” + +He seized a harp himself, and shook the last melody out of it. Then +he played to the gentry of Donegal and such music that all the women +travailing in the town and the gallants gashed in battle lying within, +were soothed to sleep and stupor. + +“I perceive thou art an harmonious rogue,” said O’Donnell, and he +forgave him the insult he had delivered upon the harps. + +“One day I am sweet, one day I am bitter,” quoth the Gilly, “one +morning under sun, one evening under moon, and here one day, and not +here the next.” + +O’Donnell saw a source of endless entertainment for the men of Ulster, +and he told off twenty gallow-glasses, as they valued their straw and +ale, to guard the gates, and he hid twenty horsemen in the apple grove. + +But the Gilly was gilly to no Lord. + +“Watch for me, ride for me,” cried he, “or I am clean away.” The +gallow-glasses sprang to seize him leaving. But he passed them, and he +ran through the horsemen, spearing their apples as he went. Then the +riders rode each other down in tumult, and the gallow-glasses fell upon +each other’s knives. + +But the Gilly was gone--and he left a herb for their healing, a little +bundle of starwort, with O’Donnell’s watcher on the hills. + + * * * * * + +At that time it chanced that the son of Desmond had gathered the men of +South Munster to proclaim himself Desmond against his father. Hove the +weird gilly within hearing; + +“God save you, and keep sprigs to your trees!” he cried entering. + +“And who art thou of all royal rascals and runners?” + +“I am Duartane O’Duartane, runner to the King of Ireland,” he told +him, “and I have run Ireland from the shelly shore of Sligo to the mud +mountains of Thomond.” + +“Play or be hung,” said Desmond, thinking the squelch of his brogues +was all his music. + +The Gilly would not play, but when they ridiculed him he caught the +harp from a blind harper of Desmond so swiftly that the harper thought +the wind had taken it. First he made the harp sound, and then to sing, +and at last to speak. The harp said: + +“The music is not more lasting than the harp that begot it, and the +sprig is not stronger than the tree that grew it.” + +“Thou art a traitor to thy clan,” cried the young Desmond to the harp, +and his men-at-arms cut the harp-strings with their swords. The Gilly +slipped aside and called out: “One day I am sweet, another I am sour, +one day in North Donegal, one day in South Munster,” and away he +vanished like a twang of his music. + +It happed at the time of the Gilly’s raid and riot through Ireland +that M’Keogh of Leinster, the hereditary crown-bearer and coroner to +the MacMurrough, lay sick of a bog-palsy in his leg. The twelve royal +physicians of Leinster were gathered about the one leg, for until he +could walk the new MacMurrough might not come by his crown. To be +crowned by a sick man was against the Brehon law of Ireland. + +Swung the Weird Gilly to sight. + +“Who art thou, watering my garden with thy brogues?” cried M’Keogh. + +“A medical student picking plants,” answered the Gilly, “and if you +promised to put away all niggardliness, I would heal the sorriness of +your shank.” + +“So be it,” said M’Keogh, and sent his gold robes to patch beggar’s +rags at his gate. + +The Gilly slit a leaf of nightwort with his javelin and dropped it then +and there on M’Keogh’s leg. With that, M’Keogh’s leg rose under him and +started to run out of the house, and M’Keogh with it, and the twelve +royal leeches of Leinster running after. There was no catching him till +he tired toward evening. When they brought him back he offered the +Gilly his one daughter for wife. + +“It is well,” said the Gilly, “be she foul or be she fair, she shall be +mine.” + +That night a banquet was spread with porridge for plenty and water for +wine. But when the guests were gathered, a servant ran in crying: + +“The foreign physician is over the hills and faster than a russet hare +between a day and a night of March.” + +“We knew he was a false rascal,” declared the twelve royal doctors of +Leinster. + +At this time it chanced that Conor of Connaught was preparing to avenge +a foul insult done upon the dead and the living of his country. A +Connaught crone had lent a basket to a hag of Munster and had received +neither it nor its eric-price in return. Sped the Gilly within speech +of them. He was crossing the ridge of Ireland that runs from Dublin to +Galway. + +“Who art thou, running with thy ribs wrapt up in a mantle?” asked Conor. + +“I am the Gruesome Gilly and I run through Ireland to see good wars and +fair fighting, and if you would have me now I will join gladly.” + +“Will any hiring purchase you?” quoth Conor. + +“Nothing unfair to be done to me,” answered the Gilly. + +So he marched with the fighting men of Connaught and of Far-Connaught, +till they overstepped the marches of Munster. Heaven gave them +blessing, boon and victory, for they carried away two spotted cows from +the Hag of Munster, and her one-horned bull, as a solace for the basket. + +When the men of Munster learnt of the disgrace befallen them, they +marched for half a day and half a night. But the Gilly kept them at bay +with his javelins in one hand, while he drove along the cattle with +the other. He kept running betwixt the prey and the pursuit till he was +past the fords of the Shannon. It was the greatest cattle-spoil of the +time, and gave hymning to harpers and piping to poets for a spring-tide. + +When they came to Conor’s house, Conor drained the first flagon of wine +and left the Gilly thirsty. “The drink goes with the deed,” said the +Gilly, and, before the words were with Conor, he had disappeared. + +At the same time, O’Kelly the King of the Kellies was bidding men to +banquet. Came the Gilly within call. + +“Art thou a Kelly of Munster or a Kelly of Leinster?” was all the +O’Kelly would ask a stranger. + +“I am neither, but a good conjurer,” said the Gilly, “and for five +flagons I will prove the goodness of my art.” + +“Prove,” said O’Kelly, and five hundred Kellies shouted “Prove!” + +“I will wag one ear, while the other is still,” said the Gilly, and all +the Kellies were silent for it seemed not easy to be done. + +Then the man of tricks tied one ear with the end of his mantle and +wagged the other. O’Kelly gave him five flagons full. + +“I will show thee another,” said the Gilly, and pulling a long thread +out of his mantle, he tossed it in a ball to the clouds. He drew his +mantle over the end of the thread and a hare ran up and away to the +clouds, and then a beagle, and then a dogboy, and, last of all, a +fairy-woman. They listened to the merry hunting cry, until all had +entered the mists. Then the Gilly reeled down the thread, and there was +the hound picking the hare’s bones and the dogboy meshed in the hair of +the fairy-woman. O’Kelly called for another trick. + +“I know only one better,” said the Gilly, and vanished. + +That day MacMurrough King of Leinster was banqueting in his house. +There were sixteen harpers playing for him to choose which should be +the choice harper of Leinster. + +“Whence art thou?” asked MacMurrough. + +“One day am I in Islay and another in Man, one day with the heat and +the next with the cold, one day with Conor and another with Kelly,” +answered the Gilly. + +“How do my harpers harp with those of Conor and Kelly?” asked the King. + +“There is no music I would compare them with,” said the Gilly, “except +the melodious thunder of the Porters in the Pit.” + +The King ordered him to be strung forthwith. + +When they had gibbeted him on the crow’s perch, they returned and met +him coming out of the King’s house. They ran back and found it was the +King himself they had hung, and the Gilly had left a sliver of batsbane +for his anointing before burial. + +That time the Gilly was gone without saying farewell or fare-ill. Away +he vanished with his roguery and ranting, with his wandering and his +wizardry, as all magicians and artists, that shall be since or ever, +must vanish and leave but a little breath of wonderment with the folk +of the world. + + + OREMUS + + + + + JOHN LONG, LTD., PUBLISHERS, LONDON, ENGLAND, 1924 + _Wyman & Sons, Ltd., Printers, London, Reading and Fakenham_ + + + + +Transcriber’s Note: + + +Obvious errors in punctuation have been silently corrected in this +version, but minor inconsistencies and archaic forms have been retained +as printed. + +The French in the Baudelaire prayer has been silently corrected. + +The following changes have been made: + + On page 102: belives _to_ believes + On page 131: work _to_ word + On page 184: or _to_ of + On page 213: Spindlehorn _to_ Spindelhorn + +New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the +public domain. + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 77896 *** diff --git a/77896-h/77896-h.htm b/77896-h/77896-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..e89976c --- /dev/null +++ b/77896-h/77896-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,11748 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html> +<html lang="en"> +<head> + <meta charset="UTF-8"> + <meta name="viewport" content="width=device-width, initial-scale=1"> + <title> + Masquerades | Project Gutenberg + </title> + <link rel="icon" href="images/cover.jpg" type="image/x-cover"> + <style> + +body { + margin-left: 10%; 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+ margin-bottom: 0; + margin-left: 5%; + margin-right: 10%; +} + + +.center {text-align: center;} + +.right {text-align: right;} + +.smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + +figcaption {font-weight: bold;} +figcaption p {margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: .2em; text-align: inherit;} + +/* Images */ + +img { + max-width: 100%; + height: auto; +} +img.w100 {width: 100%;} + + +.figcenter { + margin: auto; + text-align: center; + page-break-inside: avoid; + max-width: 100%; +} + + +/* Poetry */ +/* uncomment the next line for centered poetry */ +.poetry-container {display: flex; justify-content: center;} +.poetry-container {text-align: center;} +.poetry {text-align: left; margin-left: 5%; margin-right: 5%;} +.poetry .stanza {margin: 1em auto;} +.poetry .verse {text-indent: -3em; padding-left: 3em;} + +/* Transcriber's notes */ +.transnote {background-color: #E6E6FA; + color: black; + font-size:small; + padding:0.5em; + margin-bottom:5em; + font-family:sans-serif, serif; +} + + +/* Poetry indents */ +.poetry .indent0 {text-indent: -3.0em;} +.poetry .indent6 {text-indent: 0.0em;} + + +/* Illustration classes */ +.illowe6_2500 {width: 6.2500em;} +.illowe2_1875 {width: 2.1875em;} + </style> +</head> +<body> +<div style='text-align:center'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 77896 ***</div> + + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_i">[Pg i]</span></p> + +<h1> +MASQUERADES +</h1> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"><div class="chapter"></div> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_ii">[Pg ii]</span></p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> +<div style="border: 2px solid; max-width: 30em;"> +<div style="border-bottom: 1px solid; padding-bottom: .5em;"> +<p style="margin: .5em; text-align: center;"> +<span style="font-size: 200%; font-weight: bold; letter-spacing: .2em; word-spacing: .5em; line-height: 1.2em;"> +THE LATEST<br>LIBRARY NOVELS</span></p> + +<p style="margin: 0; text-align: center; word-spacing: 1.5em;"> + <strong><i>Seven Shillings & Sixpence Net Each</i></strong> +</p> +</div> + +<div style="padding: .5em; border-bottom: 1px solid;"> +<p> + <span class="fleft"><i>A WISE FOOL</i></span> <span class="fright"><i>Edward Charles Reed</i></span> +</p> + +<p style='clear: both; padding-top: .25em;'><i>This is the Prize-Winning Novel in the John Long +(2nd) £500 Prize Competition for the Best</i> First <i>Novel. +John Long’s previous £500 Prize Competition for the +Best</i> First <i>Novel was won by Emmeline Morrison +with her Novel, “Good Grain,” probably one of the +most popular novels published in recent years</i>.</p> + +<div style='font-size: 90%;'> + <span class="fleft">THE WOMAN TEMPTED</span> <span class="fright smcap">The Countess of Cathcart</span><br> + <span class="fleft">THE FACE IN THE NIGHT </span> <span class="fright smcap">Edgar Wallace</span><br> + <span class="fleft">THE MARQUISE RING </span> <span class="fright smcap">E. W. Savi</span><br> + <span class="fleft">MASQUERADES </span> <span class="fright smcap">Shane Leslie</span><br> + <span class="fleft">THE CHALLENGE </span> <span class="fright smcap">Nat Gould</span><br> + <span class="fleft">DESIRE OF THE DESERT </span> <span class="fright smcap">Arthur Applin</span><br> + <span class="fleft">BURNT BRIDGES </span> <span class="fright smcap">Temple Lane</span><br> + <span class="fleft">THE HIDDEN HOUR </span> <span class="fright smcap">J. B. Harris-Burland</span><br> + <span class="fleft">THE ROSE OF ALGIERS </span> <span class="fright smcap">Cecil H. Bullivant</span><br> + <span class="fleft">THE VENUS GIRL </span> <span class="fright smcap">Leslie Beresford (“Pan”)</span><br> + <span class="fleft">TIGER RIVER </span> <span class="fright smcap">Arthur O. Friel</span><br> + <span class="fleft">THE LAIRD </span> <span class="fright smcap">Winifred Duke</span><br> + <span class="fleft">THE DAY OF RECKONING </span> <span class="fright smcap">E. Almaz Stout</span><br> + <span class="fleft">THE SEA DEMONS </span> <span class="fright smcap">H. M. Egbert</span><br> + <span class="fleft">THE BREAD OF DEPENDENCE </span> <span class="fright smcap">Edmund B. d’Auvergne</span><br> + <span class="fleft">THE DANCING GIRL </span> <span class="fright smcap">Gaston Leroux</span><br> + <span class="fleft">THE ARREST </span> <span class="fright smcap">Frederick Brock</span><br> + <span class="fleft">THE INVISIBLE NET </span> <span class="fright smcap">J. J. Bell</span><br> + <span class="fleft">STORM </span> <span class="fright smcap">Halliwell Sutcliffe</span><br> + <span class="fleft">THE WORLD OUTSIDE </span> <span class="fright smcap">Harold MacGrath</span><br> + <span class="fleft">THE CRÊPE DE CHINE WIFE </span> <span class="fright smcap">Amy J. Baker</span><br> + <span class="fleft">THE MYSTERY OF WO-SING </span> <span class="fright smcap">A. G. Hales</span><br> + <span class="fleft">THE COMPULSORY MILLIONAIRE </span> <span class="fright smcap">W. Harold Thomson</span><br> + <span class="fleft">BARNEY </span> <span class="fright smcap">S. B. H. Hurst</span><br> + <span class="fleft">THREE OF A KIND </span> <span class="fright smcap">Emmeline Morrison</span><br> + <span class="fleft">JOAN PETERSON—SPORT </span> <span class="fright smcap">Margaret Armstrong</span><br> + <span class="fleft">THE LEGACY FROM NOWHERE </span> <span class="fright smcap">Peter Gladwin</span><br> + <span class="fleft">ROOM 13 </span> <span class="fright smcap">Edgar Wallace</span><br> + <span class="fleft"> CHÉRI-BIBI, MYSTERY MAN </span> <span class="fright smcap">Gaston Leroux</span><br> + <span class="fleft">THE END OF A CIGARETTE </span> <span class="fright smcap">Edward Gellibrand</span><br> + <span class="fleft">MARGOT’S PROGRESS (3s. 6d. net)</span> <span class="fright smcap">Douglas Goldring</span> +<p style='clear:both; line-height: 0;'> </p> +</div> +</div> + +<div style='padding: .5em .5em 1em .5em;'> +<p style='text-align: center; margin: 0;'> +<span style='word-spacing: 1em; letter-spacing:.1em;'> JOHN LONG, LTD., Publishers, LONDON</span><br> +<span style='word-spacing: .6em'> And at all Libraries and Booksellers everywhere</span> +</p> +</div> +</div> +</div> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_iii">[Pg iii]</span></p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"></div> +<p class="center p15"> +<strong>MASQUERADES</strong></p> +<p class="center p10"><strong> +STUDIES IN THE MORBID</strong><br> +</p> +<p class="center"> +BY</p> +<p class="center p5"> +SHANE LESLIE</p> +<br> +<p class="center p4"> +AUTHOR OF<br> +“THE OPPIDAN,” “DOOMSLAND,” ETC. +</p> + +<br><br> +<figure class="figcenter illowe6_2500" id="colophon"> + <img class="w100" src="images/colophon.jpg" alt=""> +</figure> +<br><br> + +<p class="center"> +London</p> +<p class="center p5"> +John Long, Limited<br> +<br> +12, 13 & 14 Norris Street, Haymarket<br> +</p> +<p class="center p4"> +[<i>All rights reserved</i>] +</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_iv">[Pg iv]</span></p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"></div> + +<div class="justified-block">Made and Printed in Great Britain Copyright, 1924, by John Long, Limited All rights reserved</div> + +<br><br> + +<blockquote> +<p class="center"><i>Readers are requested to note that all the characters in this book are +purely fictitious, and the names are not intended to refer to any real +persons</i></p> +</blockquote> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_v">[Pg v]</span></p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"></div> + +<blockquote> +<p>“Masks, masking and unmasking of masks; all is +Masquerade.”—<span class="smcap">Apocrypha of Solomon.</span></p> +</blockquote> +<br> +<blockquote> +<p>“<i><ins id='baudelaire'></ins>Seigneur, mon Dieu, vous le Créateur, vous le maître; +vous qui avez fait la Loi et la Liberté; vous le Souverain qui +laissez faire, vous le juge qui pardonnez; vous qui êtes plein +de motifs et de causes et qui avez peut-être mis dans mon esprit +le goût de l’horreur pour convertir mon cœur comme la guérison +au bout d’une lame; Seigneur, ayez pitié, ayez pitié des fous +et des folles! O Créateur! peut-il exister des monstres aux +yeux de Celui-là seul qui sait pourquoi ils existent, comment +ils se sont faits et comment ils auraient pu ne pas se faire?</i>”—</p> + +<p class="right"> + <span class="smcap">From Baudelaire’s Family Prayers. </span> +</p> + +</blockquote> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_vi"></a><a id="Page_vii"></a>[Pg vii]</span></p> +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"></div> + +<figure class="figcenter illowe2_1875" id="cross"> + <img class="w100" src="images/cross.jpg" alt=""> +</figure> + +<p class="center"> +TO THE ENTERTAINING SOUL<br> +OF THAT SUPERFINE WRITER<br> +FREDERICK ROLFE BARON CORVO<br> +IN PURGATORY +</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_viii"></a><a id="Page_ix"></a>[Pg ix]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="CONTENTS"> + CONTENTS + </h2> +</div> + +<table class="autotable"> +<tr> +<th class="tdl"></th> +<th class="tdl"></th> +<th class="tdr"><span style="margin-left: 0.5em;">PAGE</span><br></th> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"></td> +<td class="tdl"><span style="margin-left: 0.5em;"><a href="#THE_POPES_TEMPTATION">THE POPE’S TEMPTATION</a></span><br></td> +<td class="tdr">11<br></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"></td> +<td class="tdl"><span style="margin-left: 0.5em;"><a href="#CONNEMARA">CONNEMARA</a></span><br></td> +<td class="tdr">24<br></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"></td> +<td class="tdl"><span style="margin-left: 0.5em;"><a href="#INSPIRATION">INSPIRATION</a></span><br></td> +<td class="tdr">43<br></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"></td> +<td class="tdl"><span style="margin-left: 0.5em;"><a href="#BALTHASAR_THE_CRUEL">BALTHASAR THE CRUEL</a></span><br></td> +<td class="tdr">59<br></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"></td> +<td class="tdl"><span style="margin-left: 0.5em;"><a href="#A_SAVING_PHANTASM">A SAVING PHANTASM</a></span><br></td> +<td class="tdr">75<br></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"></td> +<td class="tdl"><span style="margin-left: 0.5em;"><a href="#JEALOUSY">JEALOUSY</a></span><br></td> +<td class="tdr">83<br></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"></td> +<td class="tdl"><span style="margin-left: 0.5em;"><a href="#THE_DRUMMER_OF_GORDONMUIR">THE DRUMMER OF GORDONMUIR</a></span><br></td> +<td class="tdr">96<br></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"></td> +<td class="tdl"><span style="margin-left: 0.5em;"><a href="#THE_SUPREME_COMPLIMENT">THE SUPREME COMPLIMENT</a></span><br></td> +<td class="tdr">110<br></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"></td> +<td class="tdl"><span style="margin-left: 0.5em;"><a href="#A_STUDY_IN_SMOKE">A STUDY IN SMOKE</a></span><br></td> +<td class="tdr">121<br></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"></td> +<td class="tdl"><span style="margin-left: 0.5em;"><a href="#THE_MISSIONARY">THE MISSIONARY</a></span><br></td> +<td class="tdr">131<br></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"></td> +<td class="tdl"><span style="margin-left: 0.5em;"><a href="#MIDIR_AND_ETAIN">MIDIR AND ETAIN</a></span><br></td> +<td class="tdr">169<br></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"></td> +<td class="tdl"><span style="margin-left: 0.5em;"><a href="#KATHLEEN">KATHLEEN</a></span><br></td> +<td class="tdr">177<br></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"></td> +<td class="tdl"><span style="margin-left: 0.5em;"><a href="#JOHN_SALTUS">JOHN SALTUS</a></span><br></td> +<td class="tdr">197<br></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"></td> +<td class="tdl"><span style="margin-left: 0.5em;"><a href="#LOADED_DICE">LOADED DICE</a></span><br></td> +<td class="tdr">214<br></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"></td> +<td class="tdl"><span style="margin-left: 0.5em;"><a href="#AT_THE_HIGH_TABLE">AT THE HIGH TABLE</a></span><br></td> +<td class="tdr">225<br></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"></td> +<td class="tdl"><span style="margin-left: 0.5em;"><a href="#A_SAINT">A SAINT</a></span><br></td> +<td class="tdr">235<br></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"></td> +<td class="tdl"><span style="margin-left: 0.5em;"><a href="#CANNES">CANNES</a></span><br></td> +<td class="tdr">252<br></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"></td> +<td class="tdl"><span style="margin-left: 0.5em;"><a href="#THE_NECROPHILE">THE NECROPHILE</a></span><br></td> +<td class="tdr">264<br></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"></td> +<td class="tdl"><span style="margin-left: 0.5em;"><a href="#THE_BEAU_GESTE">THE BEAU GESTE</a></span><br></td> +<td class="tdr">282<br></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"></td> +<td class="tdl"><span style="margin-left: 0.5em;"><a href="#THE_EVIL_EYE">THE EVIL EYE</a></span><br></td> +<td class="tdr">299<br></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"></td> +<td class="tdl"><span style="margin-left: 0.5em;"><a href="#THE_WEIRD_GILLY">THE WEIRD GILLY</a></span><br></td> +<td class="tdr">312</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"></td> +<td class="tdl"><span style="margin-left: 0.5em;"><a href="#Transcribers_Note">TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE</a></span><br></td> +<td class="tdl"></td> +</tr> +</table> + + + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"></div> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_x">[Pg x]</span></p> + +<div class="my-box4"> + + <span class="center p5">THE BIG LITERARY EVENT OF 1924</span><br> + <span class="center p6"> + THE JOHN LONG<br> + £500 PRIZE NOVEL</span> + <br> +<span class="center p10"><strong>A WISE FOOL</strong></span> + <br> +<span class="center p4">By EDWARD CHARLES REED</span> + +</div> +<div class="my-box5"> + +<p>“A Wise Fool,” by Edward Charles Reed, the +Prize-Winning Novel in the John Long (2nd) +£500 Prize Competition for the Best First Novel, +gained the distinction from among several hundred +Novels sent in. It is an exceptionally brilliant +Novel, written on really original lines. Revealing +high literary quality, the story, which is modern in +atmosphere, is such as to make the widest appeal. +It is a throbbing tale in which love, adventure, +romance and passion are skilfully combined. There +is no gainsaying the ineffable charm of the narrative +nor the lovableness of certain of its characters. In +Edward Charles Reed, the publishers and their +advisers have the firm conviction they have discovered +an author destined to make an enduring +reputation by his Novels. It will be recalled that +John Long’s previous £500 Prize Competition for +the Best First Novel was won by Emmeline Morrison +with her Novel, “Good Grain,” probably one of the +most popular Novels published in recent years.</p> + +</div> +<div class="my-box6"> + + <i>Ready Autumn, 1924. Crown 8vo, Cloth, 7s. 6d. net</i><br> + JOHN LONG, LTD., Publishers, LONDON + +</div> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"></div> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_11">[Pg 11]</span></p> + +<p class="center p10"> + MASQUERADES +</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + <h2 class="nobreak" id="THE_POPES_TEMPTATION"> + THE POPE’S TEMPTATION + </h2> +</div> + + +<p>Under the great Dome that floated like a golden +bubble upon the red tranquillity of the sea +of sunset lay the indecipherable shadow of a +crumbling City. It was a City of secular silences, +and yet it was filled with the murmur of the prayers +of those who were long dead. It was a City of many +mansions and narrow streets, of slow-filling fountains +and great dumb doorways. Upon the time-eaten +walls were set windows, whose dust-shrouded panes +separated the twilight without from the twilight +within. In that City was no sign of mart nor sound +of amusement.</p> + +<p>Under the Dome stretched the great palace. +Through corridors of jacinth and chalcedony-coloured +marble stirred a quiet and unending business. It was +a business that seemed to have begun in the faraway +centuries and to move towards slow fulfilment +with the ending of the world. From time to time +the noiseless shadows of men in sable-coloured dress +moved through the corridors or passed into the darkness +of the rooms. Some were slashed with sashes of +scarlet as of hyssop or with purple as of grapes, all +of which had high liturgical significance, but they +made little show compared to the soldiery guarding +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_12">[Pg 12]</span>the gates. Behind balustrades of alabaster and upon +snowy marble floors stood the guardians of the gates. +They were magnificently clothed in yellow and black +and vermilion, as though to signify very clearly that +their watch was not withdrawn in the golden morning +nor in the red of noon nor yet in the pitchy darkness +of the night.</p> + +<p>Behind the gaudy metallurgic gates and past the +long corridors of the colour of jacinth and chalcedony, +fenced in an inner chamber by men, whose swords +turned every way, an old man rested in a chair of +cedar wood. The lineaments of his face and the folds +of his garments were as white as fretted ivory. A +white cap circled his silver hair. His eyes were like +two wicks burning in a lamp of snowstone. His feet +were shod with shoes whiter than wool. Upon each +shoe was woven a crosslet of tinsel thread. At a +little distance it gave the appearance of the print of +a nail of gold. The old man sat resting.</p> + +<p>Arranged upon shelves of camphor wood and behind +crystal panes were a few very precious presents from +contemporary but mundane rulers. The table, upon +which the old man rested his arm, was a souvenir +from the Emperor of the Sun in recognition of his +recovery from water on the knee by the timely application +of a miraculous medal. It was exquisitely +inlaid with the solar radiations that Celestial Royalty +affect on their notepaper. The old man was sometimes +seized with a thought of irony. He himself +was the only child of a sunburnt peasant. Nevertheless, +since he had accepted the Pontifical Maximate, +his Arms were the Keys of Heaven and of Hell, and +his seal was the Seal of the Holy Fisherman.</p> + +<p>Other very marvellous gifts there were. Upon +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_13">[Pg 13]</span>the pallid marbles stretched carpets dyed azure with +the blood of shell-fish found only in the Solomon +Archipelago. They had been brought by the Queen +of Sheba, a most devout soul, then living as a comfortable +exile in Paris. In the corner stood a life-size +lion of gilded bronze with eyes of red carbuncle +sent from the King of the Sahara, who also was a +god after his manner. His love of studied effect was +well known to explorers, and was often mentioned in +the Press. In an opposite corner was another table +of pea-green marble all blurred and blotched in a +pattern of streaks, the gift of the Lord of the Everlasting +Snows in default of his ancient allegiance. +From the old man’s girdle of white camel-hair hung +a rosary of tawny beads which his devoted liegeman +of the Isles in the North had robbed from the strange +Hyperboreans, who are of such near kindred to the +seals that they may be dispensed to take them in +marriage when there is a shortage of their own stock. +The floor was of worn pavement of onyx stone presented +to the predecessors of the old man upon the +Throne of the Fisherman by an Oriental Sovereign +so long ago that his name had been forgotten among +his own people. And his people in turn had been +forgotten by the historians, which showed that they +had deserved well of the gods.</p> + +<p>The old man was glancing through some parchment +papers, which his scribes had written in clear script +but in a character without character. His scribes +all wrote alike, and they wrote in a language that +was dead. As the old man finished reading each +parchment, of his spontaneous clemency he affixed +his minuscule initials and the year of his Pontificate. +The parchments showed that his duties were manifold, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_14">[Pg 14]</span>that he had the souls both of kings and of children +in his keeping, that he was the anointed Reader of +Scripture to the Nations, that the Calendar of the +Saints was in his keeping and jurisdiction. One +parchment was the Ban of the greater excommunication +of the Great Mogul, who had audaciously removed +the feet of the pontifical ambassador when he omitted +to remove his episcopal sandals. A lesser excommunication +there was directed unto the King of the Wends, +who had married three wives albeit in his sleep, and +his court chaplain had considerately forwarded a +certificate that his Master was suffering from sleeping +sickness. Over and above the scroll and screed of +all these precious documents was inscribed in Stephens’ +indelible blue-black ink the supreme style and bearing +of the old man, to wit “THE SERVANT OF THE +SERVANTS OF GOD.”</p> + +<p>As the night drew apace, the old man felt very +tired, and his hands seemed weighed down as though +with invisible chains. He had indeed spent a very +tiring day. Before dawn had broken in streams of +white fire upon the Dome, he had been roused from +his slumbers to say his prayers. Chamberlains clad +in dark green velvet with gold chains enlinking the +pontifical cipher had led him to a velvet stool to +meditate awhile on the four last things, which shall +come to man and woman and priest. The ritual +forbade him to eat until he had offered sacrifice upon +the High Altar where none but he was allowed. He +had been brought under the Dome on a palanquin of +gilded lattice-work and carried by carriers in the +gestatorial uniform into the Basilica of the Holy +Fisherman. And at the High Altar facing the people +he had sung the Liturgy, moving now to one side +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_15">[Pg 15]</span>and then to the other behind the six golden candle-sticks. +Like a huge-headed moth with heavy scaled +wings he had seemed in the white blaze. And all +the while the Holy College had stood and moved +and prayed around him in scarlet, and the crying +of the singers had never ceased. When he sat back +upon the Throne that is above all earthly thrones he +had felt faint for food. His secret Chamberlains +had upheld him while his private flabellifers had +fanned him with the great festal fans of ostrich plume. +It had been the Feast day of Him whose emerald +enamelled his waxen finger and whose Keys he carried +in his consecrated girdle. The emerald had once +served as an optic glass to the Fantastic World +Emperor, who had been indiscreet enough to use the +Servants of God to illuminate his gardens at night.</p> + +<p>The hours had passed slowly for the old man +watching his venerable acolytes and eminent assistants +through the clouds of incense smoke. From time to +time his closing eyes had lighted on the great Image +of the Divine Fisherman, which was enthroned opposite +to him. Time had made the Image as black as bitumen +except for the feet, which the pious lips of pilgrims +had burnished till they shone like molten bronze. +And each time he had thought of the stupendous +stewardship for which he must one day give account. +He remembered too the quiet days of study in his +hermitage before he was burdened with the nets of +the Fisherman. Peace and happiness he had forfeited +since the dread night when the three score +and ten Princes of the Holy Blood had chosen him by +secret balloting in a golden chalice to be Lord over +them. Since that night men had come from the ends +of the world to thrust their burdens upon him, though +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_16">[Pg 16]</span>his own burden seemed sufficient. Tears had anointed +his waxen cheeks and fallen like transparent drops +upon his richly chased chasuble, upon the stellar +stole and upon the jewelled maniple which hung from +his wrist like some dead humming-bird.</p> + +<p>But the multitude perceived not that he wept, for +his eyes were turned away from them toward the great +Image, which was clothed in the likeness of the vesture +of God. Upon the head of the great Image the Acolytes +had set a treble crown signifying the Sovereignty of +the Gate that is Above and of the Gate that is Below +and of the Gates of Twilight, which lead neither to +Heaven nor to Hell. In the hands of the Image +were clutched the Great Keys and, though the philosophers +of the world made light thereof and though the +rulers of the world acted as though it were otherwise, +there was no doubt to the folk but that they symboled +the Keys of Heaven and of Hell. From the +shoulders to the sandals of the Image hung a cope +of frosted gold, and it was fastened with a lock of +living sapphire. Dire and doomful was the face upon +the Image of the Fisherman, and the Image filled +the shadow of one pillar of the Great Basilica. Now +each pillar of the Basilica was about the thickness of +a mortal man’s house.</p> + +<p>When the Liturgy was finished, there arose a Deacon +with archacolytes at his side in scarlet vestments, +and bowed to the old man, and straightway the silver +trumpets sounded through the Dome as it were the +sound of a single reed of an organ or as the note of +a sea-wave in the hollow of a sea-shell. And all +the Princes of the Holy Blood arose and processed +slowly before the old man as he was carried from the +Basilica over the heads of the people. When he was +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_17">[Pg 17]</span>lifted above the heads of the people he raised his +hand higher to bless them. His fingers fluttered like +the wing of a tired dove moving upon the face of +many waters. And all the people moaned like the +thunder of the tide, “O Priest and O King, live for +ever!”</p> + +<p>When they had brought him within the Palace, +they disrobed him of his heavy vesture and gave +him a piece of broiled fish to eat, and to quench his +thirst a slice of pomegranate seethed in old wine. It +was the hour when he should receive the pilgrims, +who came from all over the World-that-is to beg his +favour in the World-to-come, or to ask the eleemosynary +aid or the autoscript of the old man; others for dispense +to make forbidden espousals within the circle of +blood and others to be annulled of theirs for ever. +To each and to all he spoke softly but surely, saying, +“This may I give to you, and I give it to you without +price,” or “Of this it is not permitted to give you, +and I give it to you not at all.” After the pilgrims +had passed upon their way, the old man gave audience +to his own ambassadors in the presence-chamber. +They wore thin chains of gold and Symbols set with +amethyst or emerald according to their degree in the +Sacred Precedence. As each went his way, the soldiers +of the guard raised and let fall their spears.</p> + +<p>Lastly there had come to the door a Lord of the +Most Holy, Indeviable and Undeniable Inquisition. +He was clad in white samite and hooded, so that the +guard looked not on his face. Him the old man bade +be seated and do swiftly whatsoever he was come to +do. And the Lord Inquisitor bowed himself to the +ground and kissed the old man’s feet. Then he arose +and heard the old man’s confession such as he was +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_18">[Pg 18]</span>bound to confess daily, saying to him: “Let my +Lord reveal whatever evil he hath done or caused +other to do, and every evil word he hath spoken +or caused other to speak and every evil thought that +hath crossed the mind of my Lord’s Holiness even +unto the shadow of the shadow.”</p> + +<p>And the old man searched into his own mind and +reported gravely, “O my Lord, thy Lord searcheth +and findeth no evil done or deemed this day save the +great weariness thy Lord felt in the continual presence +of the Servants of God.” The Lord Inquisitor looked +grave as in his duty bound and answered, “This even +were a sin, O my Lord, for when the eyes of the Fisherman +grow weary then are the nets broken.” And he +bade him say the Seven Penitential Psalms and to +pray for the soul of the Lord Inquisitor. And when +he had received the Absolution of the Lord Inquisitor, +the old man smiled for the first time that day. Then +the Lord Inquisitor had knelt to receive the old man’s +blessing and the great green emerald moved symbolwise +upon the air. Delicately and discreetly as a +dancing master, who had corrected the steps of an +innocent child, the Lord Inquisitor passed into the +corridor. His head was shrouded once more and +bowed as though he had conned the pages of some +very secret and sacred book. As he passed, the +soldiers saluted him but fearfully, knowing the office +which was his. It was his to unlock and lock the soul +of him who kept the Keys of Heaven and Hell.</p> + +<p>The old man was awearied and his Chamberlain +brought him a little broth of bread and wine, saying +to him as of set ceremony: “Gall He had to eat and +vinegar to drink.” When he had eaten, they led +him into a small ungarnished room to sleep. And +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_19">[Pg 19]</span>the day was the thousandth day of his pontificate, +and the night was the thousandth and first.</p> + +<p>With the dawn of dark unto the dark of dawn +the movement of men to and fro ceased under the +Dome. The old man slept and forgot his visitors +of the day. Yet there stood a visitor at the outer +gates. For less than a moment of that which is +called Time a Shadow darkened the Gateway. +Through the corridors which were of marble, the +colour of jacinth and chalcedony, passed the Shadow. +And within the small ungarnished room it sank into +shape. No legate announced this visitant, no Chamberlain +ushered it past the doors, and no soldier of +the many, who stood guarding the gates moved his +spear-head in salute. The old man neither stirred nor +spoke in his slumber. But on the horizons of sleep +he beheld a vast panorama as of a desert stretching +around and beyond him. Sands that glittered like +yellow silk in the garish sunlight, rocks and caves +there were, sands stretching endlessly. In the dead +distance a dot of jet moved and grew larger and +larger until it seemed to be like an eagle flying across +the mirage of the air. When it was quite close it was +grown to the stature of a man. And a Voice proceeded, +saying to the old man who watched aghast: “Art thou +not lonely in thy weariness and weary in thy loneliness?”—employing +a remarkable zeugma of speech.</p> + +<p>The old man answered: “Nay, for He Whose +servants I serve is continually present with me.”</p> + +<p>And the other answered: “There is none with thee, +for in the wilderness every soul is one and alone, +and here there is neither God nor Man—for even +thyself art above all mankind and but a little lower +than the gods.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_20">[Pg 20]</span></p> + +<p>“I know not who or whence thou art,” cried the +old man, “but thou speakest false, for I am not as +God and I see the footprints of a man in the sands +before me.”</p> + +<p>And the other, laughing horribly, said: “The footprints +that thou seest were left by One That was +not Man.”</p> + +<p>Then the old man grimly remembered his office and +answered with the tongue that is indefectible from +truth: “Nay, but most truly He also was Man, and +let whosoever denieth be Anathema!”</p> + +<p>The other, finding him not unwary, spoke again: +“I know thee who thou art, thou holy one. Would’st +thou not be set amongst thine own people again and +see the place of thine own home?” To the old man’s +anguish rose a vision of his father’s house and his +mother’s hens feeding on the tiny midden under the +little vineyard where he played as a child. With a +parched tongue the old man would have made stress +to answer him, but the plains swayed suddenly in his +sight and he perceived the sun turn to blood and +himself compassed by a cloud darker than darkness +and felt himself carried through the thin air, unable +to stir or speak, until he stood planted above +the world upon a gilded pinnacle of the Great +Basilica. Below his feet in the distances crowds +of people vibrated as though the carcass of the +earth had rotted and had become a moving mass of +maggots.</p> + +<p>And the Voice whispered to him: “I have set thee, +O thou holy one, upon the pinnacle of the Temporal +Power that thou mightest be a sign in the sight of +all men and strengthen their faith. Cast thyself +down from hence and the Angels of Him, Whom thou +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_21">[Pg 21]</span>servest, shall watch over thee and keep thy foot lest +it be dashed against a stone.”</p> + +<p>The old man answered: “With desire have I +desired to go down unto the multitudes, that I might +become a servant where they have made me a Prince, +but it is not given unto me to fulfil my own will in +this generation.”</p> + +<p>It seemed then as though seven vials of darkness +had been loosed from the sky and that a cloud of +iron hemmed the temples of his brain, and that he +was being lifted whither he knew not. When his +eyes were opened, he perceived that he was upon the +top of an exceedingly high mountain and that a +light shone at his feet, which was not the light of the +sun nor of the moon nor yet of the stars. He beheld +and lo! it was a great glamour from the jewelled +crowns and diamond sceptres of the Kings of this +world. They were all gathered at the foot of the +mountain and their armies were ranged behind them +across the plains as far as the eye could reach. And +in the estuaries of the far-away seas the masts of +their ships and galleons trembled like a forest of +reeds. And again the Voice spoke to him, saying: +“All the Kingdoms and Dominions and Principalities +that you behold, these all will I give unto thee with +all that they contain and possess if thou wilt genuflect +to me but once.”</p> + +<p>And the old man, knowing out of memory what his +answer should be, murmured: “Get thou behind me, +for it is written that thou shalt not tempt the Lord +thy God nor even the Servant of the Servants of +the Lord thy God.” Then the Voice that had spoken +to him out of the shadow fled away like a shrill wind +moaning to itself in the wilderness. Beyond the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_22">[Pg 22]</span>plains of the earth and estuaries of the sea it passed +into a wail of despair. And the wail died away.</p> + +<p>In the dead of the night the old man cried out +aloud, and the Chamberlains thrust their gold chains +upon their necks and hurried to his side, and the +guards lit their torches and crashed their spears to +the salute. And the old man questioned his Chamberlains, +saying: “Who hath come in, and who hath +come out, and who hath questioned me when I slept?” +They answered: “No one hath questioned the Holiness +of our Lord, for no one hath entered in.” And +the captain of the guards swore that not so much as +a shadow had passed between the spear-points of +his men. In the morning the old man sent for the +Lord Inquisitor and revealed to him all that had +happened in the night. With the answers to the dire +Voice which had proceeded from the shadow the +Lord Inquisitor was well satisfied. And he asked +him how he had replied to the Voice tempting him +to see again the place of his father’s house and the +little cottage and the vineyard and the tiny midden +and his mother’s hens, and the old man trembled, +saying he had not known how to give answer, for +his tongue had become parched to his mouth.</p> + +<p>And the Lord Inquisitor, who was an apt theologian, +said: “It was well that the Voice that spoke from +the shadow passed to deal thee other temptation.”</p> + +<p>“With desire that is greater than desire have I +desired to return unto my own home,” said the old +man, “but he that tempted me did not press me +above my strength, carrying me away to the top +of the Basilica when I could not give answer.” And +the Lord Inquisitor answered: “He that tempted +my Lord dared not continue lest he should remember +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_23">[Pg 23]</span>his own home, for he too hath been separated from +the place of his desire and of his beginning and of +his love. And how shall he tempt others of temptation +that he himself is worse than tempted of? For +others may yield to temptation, but the Tempter +cannot yield unto his, which is as a terrible desire +possessing him. He can only be tortured, not tempted, +for the home which he hath lost is eternal. The +home which the Holiness of my Lord hath deigned +to desire but hath consented not to revisit is but an +earthly one.”</p> + +<p>“Frankly, then,” said the Pope, “the Devil is +home-sick.”</p> + +<p>“Damned home-sick,” said the Grand Inquisitor.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_24">[Pg 24]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="CONNEMARA"> + CONNEMARA + </h2> +</div> + + +<p>I have been highly recommended in the scholastic +world, though that is not what I have set out +to say. I left the London Board School with a +caseful of certificates, and later I gained the highest +honours at the Training College before entering my +mission as a teacher. There was only one phrase in +my final dossier which might be read in a derogatory +sense. It was to the effect that my extreme common +sense supplanted all trace of imagination. Heaven +knows that no such deficiency can be laid to my +credit now. I am even supposed to have imbibed +a little madness. But to return!</p> + +<p>After several years passed in the normal teaching +curriculum I began to experience a desire for change, +to which the steadiest and least neurotic are liable. +But I did not feel that I was indulging in anything +fantastic when I applied for the post of governess +abroad. The Agency replied that no suitable place +was on their books, but that if I cared to consider Ireland +among exotics, they could offer me occupation +with an old Irish family on the Connemara borders. +Though entirely (I am not sure whether to say blissfully) +ignorant of Ireland, I felt that any change +would save my mind from becoming rutted in the +monotonous. The terms were generous and the +work promised to be light. I was expected to accompany +three children in their play-hours. There was +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_25">[Pg 25]</span>no specific mention of lessons. I forwarded my formal +acceptance with a selection of diplomas. A week +passed before I received an answer in Early Victorian +copperplate with all the flourishes of our ancestral +script. It was written by some local schoolmaster +presumably in the hedge, if not the liquor-shop, and +was intended to convey the instructions of the fine +old Irish family aforesaid:</p> + + +<p class="right"> + “<span class="smcap">Greek Kalends</span>, May, 1888,<br> +<br> + <span style="margin-right: 5.5em;">“Gortinealy Schoolhouse.</span> +</p> + +<blockquote> +<p>“<span class="smcap">Revered Madam</span>,</p> + +<p>“I am instructed by my laudable and proficient +patron, Mr. Sinnach, hereditary proprietor of +Gortinealy and <i>fundator optimus</i> of the above +seminary, to write you word that your letter has +been by me examined and found syllabically correct. +We have made trial of your enclosed diplomacies and +pending special consideration by Mr. Halloran, +our esteemed Curate, with whose sententious monograph +on the Irish Round Towers the London School +Board is doubtless acquainted, and by Mr. McGrath, +the gombeen man down the road, we duly pronounce +them creditable to yourself and printer. These +ensigns of learning we duly return with our patron’s +command to present yourself at a near date (next +fairday preferred) at Gortinealy terminus.</p> + +<p>“I remain your obedient and certificated <i>frère</i>,</p> + +<p class="right"> + <span class="smcap">Timotheus O’Hussey</span>. +</p> + +<p>“<i>Postscriptum ad demonstrandum.</i>—I may divulge +that I have had Mr. Sinnach’s children under mensal +and manual instruction since last lambing. They +are already acquaint with Copying, Mathematics +and Dithyrambics.—T. O’H.”</p> +</blockquote> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_26">[Pg 26]</span></p> + +<p>I must say that I felt a little puzzled by this effusion +and quite failed to perceive the pedantic jealousy of +the local sage jutting between the lines. I went to +our Carnegie library and read all I could discover +about Irish Round Towers, including one of Moore’s +Melodies which I learnt by heart. Mr. Halloran’s +treatise was unfortunately unknown. I suspected +that the Postscript was a variation of the poor old +joke which includes Education under the three R’s, +Reading, ’Riting, and ’Rithmetic. Mathematics no +doubt corresponded with the latter. Copying was +writing, but Dithyrambics was Greek to me. I +hunted in a dictionary and found it really was Greek, +in fact “an ancient Greek metre peculiar to Dionysian +strains.” Even so it conveyed nothing to my mind. +I afterwards discovered that it must have been meaningless +to the writer no less, whose chief object had +been to overawe a rival with his own knowledge.</p> + +<p>Meantime I dispatched a telegram of acceptance, +and shipped myself to a southern port of Ireland. +I shall always remember arriving in the early dawn. +It was a hot July, and a gossamer of greyish pink +trailed from the inland mountains into the pearly +bay. Behind the yellow tidal rocks the bright green +branches of trees pierced the mist. It was like a +picture at the Kensington Art School. As soon as it +became day, it began to drizzle, and whether the sun +was shining or not, it continued to drizzle at intervals +all day. I realised that I had changed climates at +least. I am prepared to admit that the Irish climate +is as tropical as its admirers claim, but I add that it +always remains at the rainy season!</p> + +<p>On landing in the rain I discovered to my surprise +that no inhabitant carried an umbrella. My sunshade +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_27">[Pg 27]</span>(for it was July) was the only human contrivance +besides the slates on the house-tops for baffling the +elements. I passed down the unsheltered quays to +a weather-beaten, groggy-looking building labelled +TEMPERANCE HOTEL. A passing drayman kindly +picked up my luggage, which would otherwise have +been abandoned. At the hotel door I asked the host +how much I should pay the driver. “Nothing at +all!” he answered; “but come in and eat for the +Glory of God, for you must be famished.” After +breakfast I asked if I could be driven to the railway +station, and again what fare I was expected to provide. +“The old man will give ye a lift,” I was told, “he’s +bound that way.” And as I stared in reply, my host +continued: “’Tis a lone widdy woman he takes ye +for, and he thinks it would be unlucky to take money +off ye.” I thought of London busmen!</p> + +<p>I was indignantly asserting my real state in life, +but he explained that a fresh young woman travelling +in black clothes could only be taken for a widow +woman, and maybe seeking a mate! Again I expostulated +as to my intentions, for he seemed interested +in my welfare, and we chatted until my train was +due and indeed long after, for he was sure that no +train would ever be so inconvenient as to leave for +Gortinealy at the right hour. By the time I was +driven to the station I had learnt several lessons not +often propounded in London Board Schools, including +that of Irish Hospitality. I spent another hour at the +station talking with the driver. I could not help +asking him why we had not seen a single umbrella +that day. Did nobody possess one? “Ye lie!” he +answered kindly; “every son’s mother and mother’s +daughter of them does trot out an umbrella on fairdays.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_28">[Pg 28]</span></p> + +<p>“Why fairdays?” I asked.</p> + +<p>“To keep the flour and the tea dry, of course,” was +the reply. And I queried no more.</p> + +<p>Then I boarded the train and after endless tours +and detours, during which I vaguely dreamed I had +crossed the Alps and the Steppes, I reached Gortinealy +towards midnight. It was pitch dark and +the atmosphere was filled with melting clouds. It was +not till I saw it in the morning that I realised that +it was not a place at all, at least not to London eyes, +for it consisted of a sprawled line of cabins, some +with thatch and some under slate, surrounded by +driving mists and stationary swamps as far as the +eye cared to reach. It was loose space rather than +fixed locality.</p> + +<p>A kind of deputation awaited me in the station. +There was the Curate, and I felt that his bulging silk +hat must be lined with the famous manuscript on +the Round Towers. There were two grooms in +faded hunting coats and top-boots, and a weird personage, +whom I immediately recognised by the quill +pens over each ear as my certificated <i>frère</i>, Timotheus +O’Hussey. Their attentions overwhelmed me. The +Curate patted my back, the grooms confiscated my +luggage, and Timotheus burbled a little Latin. I +heard him saying: “<i>Salve Domina!</i>” How I love +the Irish, and yet I would rather teach conic sections +to elfs in Hell than return as a governess to their +country! They immediately offered me refreshment +in their very refreshing way. When they discovered +that I had found food at the port of entry they +were immensely surprised, it not being a fairday. +Still, they insisted on my eating home-made +bread in the signalling box and gulping some tea +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_29">[Pg 29]</span>as black as coaldust. “Is it far to the house?” I +asked.</p> + +<p>“Not far in daylight but a good step after midnight,” +was the mystifying reply—“maybe getting +on for ten miles.” And my heart sank, for I had +been provided with the certain piece of mathematic +knowledge that seven English miles went to five +Irish. I climbed with set mouth into the high-braced +trap. The Curate who had been sent to meet me +made a charming little speech of welcome into the +arms of the family, who, I was painfully aware, were +still distant by fourteen miles. Then he stepped into +the night. The two grooms threw my luggage into +the rear and held it down as though it were a live +thing. Timotheus sat at my side in front handling +the reins as fantastically, I guessed, as the pen. And +so we started to rock and crash through the night.</p> + +<p>I immediately began to feel terribly silent and +lonely. Thank heavens one of the axles creaked. It +seemed like my last connection with the civilised +world of streets and wheels. A trace of starlight +struggled through the dripping cloudbanks, throwing +a little silver gauze upon the country-side until I +could discern a stretch of waste and wood on either +side. One remote scrub was pointed out with a +whip flick as the grandest corner in the world for +finding a fox. There were no fences, but the road +was lined by huge boulders, which so far from being +there for macadamising purposes I learnt were lapidary +trifles brushed out of the roadway itself. I began +to wish I had taken a course of geology, which might +have been more illuminating to me than geography +at the moment. I was dead tired, but I pricked my +ears when I heard Timotheus enlarging on the pleasures +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_30">[Pg 30]</span>and magnificences of the Big House, to say nothing +of the royal descents of his laudable patron, and his +three children whom he alluded to as “bright-eyed +Homerians.” With inspiring gravity he gave me to +understand that he had recently introduced them to the +Greek Syntax. I gathered as well that Mr. Sinnach was +a mighty hunter and spent his time driving and tearing +the foxes out of the woods and the mountains and +the ditches. Timotheus assured me that he did not so +much enjoy the fox-hunting as he hated the foxes +“with the illustrious hate of a Lucifer crossed in love.”</p> + +<p>For two hours we jogged and jolted through a stretch +of that primitive void called Irish landscape before +the carriage lights suddenly haled a whitewashed +portico out of the gulf of night. “Welcome to Gortinealy,” +I heard a soft voice say a minute later. +It was Mr. Sinnach, the Master, as they called him. +I shall never forget the first time I saw him standing +with his red hunting coat in the lamplight. He had +been waiting to receive me in all his war paint. He +was a real gentleman, though I used often to shudder +hearing him swear. As he led me courteously into +his stronghold I looked round for my luggage. One +of the grooms was throwing it to the other in the +window. I looked back into the night. Between me +and civilisation stretched a Sahara of Wet. Warm, +however, was the oak-lined hall within, adorned with +innumerable guns, skins and antlers. At the top of +a rickety old stair they lit a silver candlestick for +me and motioned me down a long passage. At the +end was my room, which possessed a key that would +have unlocked the Tower of London. I felt as tired +as though I had been through examinations.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_31">[Pg 31]</span></p> + +<p>I was still in my travelling dress when I awoke +the next morning and looked out of the window into +a courtyard. Beyond the wall lay the end of the +world. I changed and hurried downstairs, but there +was no sign of human life. A servant appeared and +familiarly informed me that my charges had celebrated +my arrival by taking to the mountains on ponies, +and that the Master himself always gave the clock +a good start on mornings there was no hunt. Between +his long hours in bed and his longer hours in the +hunting field or among his horses and hounds, I +used to see him very little during my stay at Gortinealy, +for all his leisure time was divided between +stables and kennel.</p> + +<p>But the children, two boys and a girl, proved more +delightful company than a whole Board School of +London Cockneys. They knew more queer things +about Natural History than a double course in Biology +could have taught them. They must have been running +wild for years, and certainly they were not guilty +of the least education. They may have passed very +learned hours studying Dithyrambics with Timotheus, +but I had to begin by teaching them to spell English. +I don’t think the London County Council inspector +would have approved of them entirely. They seemed +to have been taught to boycott correct English. +But I grew to love them more than I can say, which +is always the way in Ireland. There is very little +lost there between loving and hating. Nothing is +tepid except the soft rain, and the soft tepid rain—it +raineth every day.</p> + +<p>As soon as the children discovered that I could not +ride or fish or shoot, they took a kind of pity for me +and consented to appear on certain hours to hear +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_32">[Pg 32]</span>what I had to say for myself. Apparently I interested +them, for they consented to appear fairly often. In +the evening I read them books of Natural History, +which proved my sole means of winning their attention. +Punishments were always out of the question, and +they took no notice of my praise. I suppose I taught +them something. But they could always be trusted +and did not appear to get into trouble like most other +children. They could shift amazingly well for themselves. +The mornings were at the hazard of lessons, +but every afternoon we went on the bogs or mountains. +I gradually forgot the feel of the pavement and lost +my street legs. I learnt the art of bog-trotting instead. +But my real adventures were played in the minds of +the children themselves. They had been brought up +without playmates and had grown almost uncanny +in their relations with animals and birds. The elder +boy seemed to be able to charm them by his eyes. +As for the girl, I used to call her Pocahontas, for she +was more Indian of the woods than girl of the schoolroom. +Their minds were quite uncramped by education, +and the whispers of nature were audible to +them. Their father took very little interest in their +welfare. If he wandered out for a walk he always +took one of his grooms or walked a couple of his +horrible hounds—but never a child.</p> + +<p>I could not understand his intense feeling for his +smelly hounds, with their horrible yelping and slobbing +mouths. One morning coming along the passage, +I discovered that he actually kept one in his bedroom +at night. He used to make me think that he was a +lost soul for ever in search of his lost time. I never +saw so much time lost as in that household. Mr. +Sinnach had no real occupation unless you count +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_33">[Pg 33]</span>fox-hunting, and between the hunts he showed no +sense of rest. To me he was as gentle and harmless +as a child. I sometimes thought his life was the +life of a man who was followed, except there was +nothing that would dare follow him in those woods +and hill-sides, over which he was sovereign and squire. +He never made the least inquiry as to the progress +of his children’s lessons. Their sport alone interested +him. I believe that the boys had never been punished +for anything except for not riding straight or for spoiling +a puppy. He must have been one of the world’s +authorities on horses. Personally I had no interest +in that direction except for a home for old bus-horses +to which I used to subscribe. I once made this +deserving charity the subject of conversation at +dinner, but he only sniffed very fiercely and said +“Dogsmeat! dogsmeat!” I am afraid I could +guess what he meant, and it horrified me.</p> + +<p>He became a different character when the fox-hunting +began. His step grew smarter and his +hoarse voice could be heard roaring in the small +hours before sunrise as he shouted to the grooms +and hounds out of his window. The hunt used to +arrive from all quarters and all the early morning +there was pandemonium getting them started for the +distant meet. How often I was awoken by their +stamping horses! How often I listened to the yelping +hounds as the huntsmen flicked them into seething +order! At night the Master used to return wearied +out in body but a raging lion in his heart. I could +always tell whether success had attended him by the +sound of his voice. After a blank day he would +curse man and hound, but if Reynard was dead +he would ride up to the house cheering like a schoolboy. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_34">[Pg 34]</span>His hatred for the fox was almost inhuman. He +used to brandish some blood-stained relic of the +unfortunate animal through the house. Sometimes +he used its fresh pad to stir the wine for his friends. +I always stayed upstairs when they were drinking +orgies over their success. At first I was excited +enough by what our Board School Inspector would +have called “giving vent to the passions of Neolithic +Man,” but it became monotonous in the hunting +season. I lived, worked and felt well, but I rather +lost the sensation of time. Time stood rather still +at Gortinealy and typically indeed there was only +one motionless hand hanging on the face of the old +clock on the stairs. The only use for clockwork +in that strange old house was for timing the length +of their runs after the wretched foxes. The number +of minutes in each run was carefully scribbled in +some loose sheets of paper that were generally left +between the leaves of the Family Bible. I found them +there one afternoon and spent an hour pasting them +neatly into a copybook. But the Master was wild, +when he returned that night, and for the first and +only time he used bad language to me personally. +He questioned me very carefully. Why had I been +opening the Family Bible? Had I read anything +besides the records of family sport? Had I read +the private family entries? and so forth, until my +curiosity was thoroughly aroused. He seemed +scarcely to believe my denial. When I tried to find +the Bible the next day it had disappeared. It was +not for two weeks that I found it by chance lying at +the back of a shelf of books. I opened it at the flyleaf. +There were columns of births, marriages, and deaths. +The death column was curiously divided into two +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_35">[Pg 35]</span>sections and puzzled me. In some years there +had been as great a mortality as fifty written in +numbers, but I could not believe the clan was so +considerable to include so many deaths. The other +column was clear enough, a long list of ordinary +entries. But two struck me with an odd thrill because +I could not grasp their meaning:</p> + +<ul> +<li> “Edward Sinnach—1848—killed by them.</li> +<li> John Edward Sinnach—1871—killed and eaten.”</li> +</ul> + +<p>This was all I had time to read before the Master +came in and began looking furtively at the shelf +behind which I had replaced the Bible. I spent the +whole night lying awake and trying to think sense or +read purpose into those words. I went to sleep with a +mild conviction that my employer was the degenerate +descendant of a remarkable missionary family, one +of whom had been killed by the heathen in the forties +and another a generation later had not only been +killed but eaten, as the familiar rhyme puts it;</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent6">“By a cassowary</div> + <div class="verse indent0">On the plains of Timbuctoo</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Prayer and Hymnbook too.”</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p>For nights I wept silently for those two uncanonised +martyrs. I used to picture their travels and their +adventures, their sermons and their catechisms, and +in more terrible moments the details of their deaths. +But in what countries were they killed? It could +only have been in the Cannibal Islands. And +naturally my mind, which always seeks facts perpetually, +returned to the one awful question: “Was +Edward eaten as well as John?” It so preyed +upon my mind that I used to wake with the grim +query on my lips. It was a month before I gained +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_36">[Pg 36]</span>additional information. I had asked the elder boy +if he had ever seen his grandfather John. He replied +that he had died when he was quite a baby and his +father would never allow his name to be mentioned. +I asked why? It was because he had died a disgraceful +death. In a bed upstairs instead of in the hunting +field or fighting or travelling abroad, like every other +true member of the family. Of course this revelation +put an end to my romance about a young and earnest +missionary in the wilds of Africa and I could only +conclude that Family Bibles, like so much else in +Ireland, were used as vehicles for rather gruesome +practical jokes.</p> + +<p>Winter was fully and icily fledged, and snow made +a welcome variation to rain. The winds swept the +last leaves off the trees and ripped open the loaded +clouds till they dropped in hail and flake out of +the firmament. But between frosts the hunting +continued, for the Master seemed unable to sleep +if he had failed to have a run in the day. I think +he was only happy after he had seen a fox torn to +shreds on the fangs of his hounds. One stormy +evening he returned in a terrible humour. Though +they had enjoyed a wonderful run the fox had escaped, +and the Master alone of the hunt had returned +furiously dissatisfied, railing and roaring. I heard +him snarling up and down the long passage all that +evening. When I chanced to pass him he lowered +his head, it seemed to me shamefacedly. The boys +crept away from him and came to hear me read stories +in my own room. They were afraid of him, though +in his way he was fond of them. The first time they +had been in at the death of the fox he had gone wild +with praise and had dabbled their faces with gore. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_37">[Pg 37]</span>He used to say that they had not been properly +baptised till that moment, which made them his true +children. I don’t believe he would have recognised +them as legitimate if they had not been hard riders +before they were out of their teens.</p> + +<p>On the following day there was a meet at the other +end of the county, and the Master was out and riding +long before I came down to breakfast. I remember +hearing him shout to his hounds while I was still +in bed, and their deep belling note in reply. I lay in +a drowsy stupor, for sunrise was still two hours to +eastward. Once again the house was full of stamping +boots and clicketing spurs. Once again the old staircase +creaked and rattled to the heavy sound of feet +and I heard horses pawing the courtyard below. +Then the whole party rode away, and I fell back into +profound sleep. It was the last time that I ever +slept in that terrible house at peace.</p> + +<p>When I came down in the morning the children +were waiting for me, as chivalrous and charming +as ever. They condescended to listen to all I had +to say in defence of the awkward rules of spelling +which govern the English language. They were +curious children. I could not call them wise or +foolish, backward or advanced. They had had no +education and yet they were grown up. They were +little savages outwardly and yet angels to me. My +heart always reaches to them with a sudden ache. +That day I gave them the last lesson I was ever to +give them.</p> + +<p>All the morning the mist mildewed the window +pane, slowly flushing the roof and choking the +gutters and creating tiny waterfalls and leakages in +every direction. I used to think that we were in that +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_38">[Pg 38]</span>part of the universe where the rain itself is brewed. +The sound of water dripping or running filled every +corner of the old house. It was one of those days +which cause sympathy with Noah. The whole afternoon +I spent blinking over a book before a fire in the +hall, while the children sat round me in their charming, +chattering way. It had been too wet for them to hunt +that day and they were soon yawning. They made +no objection when I seized a chance to send them +to bed early. There was nobody in the house except +the old cook, for the whole household had departed +the previous night, including the old gardener, with +spade and terrier, to be in time at the meet. Darker +and darker grew the evening while the turf fire +flickered brighter and brighter until it collapsed into +a tiny avalanche of white ash. It was late when I +finally lost the thread of my reading and was roused +by suddenly hearing a long, distinct howl outside.</p> + +<p>I had passed so many months in the country +listening to the same series of noise, the wind, the leaves, +the birds of night or day and the rain, that I had +become keenly sensitive or suspicious of the advent +of a new sound. This was a wail such as I had never +heard before. I listened again and caught the same +curious shrieking. It was not, as I thought at first, +a dog’s howling. It contained too wild a note. I +could not guess what animal could have uttered it, +but I sat assuring myself that wolves had been extinct +for two hundred years in Ireland. I crept to the +door, when the sound came again, and started down +the long passage of the ground floor. I had not +gone half-way when I heard a sound that thrilled +the blood in my brain. It was not one howl but many, +a horrible chorus that rose and rang, which neither +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_39">[Pg 39]</span>the wind nor the rain could drown. As the sound +sank my courage sank with it. I began to shake +like a reed and a gust of wind might have overthrown +me. But I felt that I had to look out into the night +to locate the source of the sound or I should never have +slept. I entered the kitchen. The old cook had +retired to bed and I was alone with only a wooden +door between me and the outer court. I had the +strength to struggle to the window and look into +the night. It was not too dark for me to see that the +place was alive with wild animals, a dozen, twenty, +thirty lithe, slender creatures running round in a +quivering, coiling crowd. When one halted all halted. +When one raised his thin snout into the air and howled, +every living animal howled in echo. All the Diplomas +attesting my character for common sense could not +prevent me dropping into a dead faint.</p> + +<p>It must have been an hour later that I was brought +to my senses by a deluge of cold water. A sound of +low voices hummed round me, and I heard an Irish +voice say: “She must have taken it to heart, but +there’s no harm done.” I was led slowly into the +passage and to my own room, where I found to my +surprise that the children were in an agony of grief. +I strove to comfort them as well as I could. I pleaded, +and told them stories, but it was all in vain. I had +a vague feeling that they wept for me and because +I had swooned in the kitchen. I had forgotten for +the moment all that preceded the swoon. When +I assured them that all was all right, they cried; +“But no, Dad is dead, dead; fell from his horse and +was found in the wood.” Then my memory began +to start from its subconscious lair and I gradually +remembered everything.... After putting them to +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_40">[Pg 40]</span>bed I crawled into mine and remained there for that +awful night. I could close my eyes but not my +ears, and from time to time I heard the howling +recommence outside. And within the house I heard +the agitated steps of the servants and the men of +the hunt, who had returned, bringing the Master’s +body. They heard the howling as well as I did, +for they stopped dead each time the wild sound +recommenced. I knew then that I was not mad +alone but that it was a house of the mad. Gradually +the howling died down to a wail and passed away +into the thin dark of the night. But I could hear +men moving all night in the house, and when I came +downstairs in the morning, lights were still burning +in every room. Hunting men, men of the house +and neighbours lay huddled in the arm-chairs just +as they had ridden in from the previous day. With +blazing fires and copious liquor they had kept grief +or fear at bay during the night. I dared only then +to look into the courtyard. It was empty!</p> + +<p>My nerves had suffered such a strain that I wished +to return to England immediately, in spite of my +affection for the children. But their grief for their +father was pathetic and I decided to remain for a +few days trying to soothe them one moment and to +fit them into black cotton clothes the next. The +remaining days I spent at Gortinealy brought me +however a climax of unexplained mystery and horror. +The body was being waked and I continually overheard +the conversation of the servants and neighbours, +who were camped in the house and making the fullest +use of the cellars. I gathered that I was far from +being the only one to have seen the uncanny visitors +of the day. But the amazing thing was that they +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_41">[Pg 41]</span>seemed to have expected those wild howling animals +as naturally as they expected the undertaker at the +approach of death. All had seen or heard what I +had heard or seen and yet nobody was going mad +except myself. I heard one voice saying casually +enough: “Aren’t they saying there’s no foxes in the +other end of the county this fortnight? Every +cover drawn blank and the old women saying all the +foxes are gone to Gortinealy to see the old man dead!”</p> + +<p>Every night for nearly a week they waked the +Master’s corpse, sitting and smoking in relays and +telling tales of his great charity to his hounds and +kindred spirits and of his prowess in the field from +evening till dawn. I avoided what seemed to me a +painful form of heathen orgies except one night when +I was asked to look upon the poor Master’s face once +more before it was lowered into the grave for ever. +I could not refuse, and old Timotheus offered to take +me into the big room where it was laid out in the +sickly candlelight.</p> + +<p>We went down the creaking stairs and I peeped +into half-darkness. The room gave me the feeling +of being full of people or things. The candles had +mostly guttered out but, when my eyes caught their +focus, I thought at first that I saw mourners kneeling +round the coffin, tiny, sharp-faced hob-goblins but no! +they sprang up like noiseless and beautiful cats and +leaped over the furniture and out of the open window +into the courtyard. But they were not cats! I could +make no mistake what they were, for too often I had +seen their mangled pieces brought home after a day’s +hunting. They were slender live foxes! wriggling +through the furniture like maggots! God have mercy!</p> + +<p>Timotheus had dropped to his knees and was +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_42">[Pg 42]</span>reciting prayers at fever heat. Not until the last +vestige of fur had slipped from the room did I dare +take even a first step forward. Timotheus rose +and went before me, but I was not ready for the +next shock. I saw him lean over the visage of the +dead and stay riveted. I did not look myself, thank +God! but I heard the words he gasped. It was +only one sentence, the last words I heard in that +terrible house, but they will be the last words I shall +have the happiness and relief to forget if ever I lose +my memory. For all that Timotheus let past his lips +was: “Holy of Holy! but they have the face ate +off him!”</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_43">[Pg 43]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="INSPIRATION"> + INSPIRATION + </h2> +</div> + + +<p>It was a long time before it dawned on Marmaduke +McSmith that he must be an artist and a great one +possibly. Unfortunately his profession was that +of an undertaker’s clerk, which did not allow him all +the leisure or any of the atmosphere necessary to +greater kinds of writing. This was specially so during +the bronchitis season. A writer: since his artistry +almost necessarily took the form of pen and ink, for +scrivener he was bred. Doubtless had he been +educated to ply the brush on front doors or upon bath +tubs his instinct would have turned toward portraiture. +But the pen had been his technical medium +and year after year he had written mortuary letters +and filed the missives of mourners and the orders of +the orphan. There was a faint suggestion of widows’ +houses about his ledger, and the tears of the fatherless +had diluted his ink.</p> + +<p>All day he sat behind a curtain in the office of the +old-established firm of Gammon and Hardwash. In +the front window were two cremation urns, and like a +relic of the past hung a large hatchment scrolled with +an extinct coat of arms. Good taste combined with +good business to keep all sight of coffins to the inner +parlour. Not a hint was heard, not a funeral note. +As befitted a member of the British Undertakers’ +Association, Marmaduke McSmith was deeply absorbed +by the detail and technical knowledge of the burial +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_44">[Pg 44]</span>craft. The <i>Undertakers’ Journal</i> at his side seldom +added a new detail or afforded a new suggestion to his +mind. He read little else except the obituary notices +in every morning paper. In this form he sipped his +daily portion of the world’s news. His life was that +of a booking clerk to Hades. But his proficiency +delighted the customers, and his mastery of minutiæ +edified Gammon and Hardwash. Envious clerks +whispered that it was only a matter of half a century +before he actually became a partner; coequal with +Gammon, consubstantial with Hardwash!</p> + +<p>He had the true undertaker’s outlook. He often +amused himself by measuring people with his eye in +the street for their coffins or guessing straight off the +style and class of funeral they could afford. He +perceived the living world in the terms and catalogue +of death. Oak and elm meant to him no stately +foliaged trees but polished caskets underground. He +had a marvellous mind for “ruffles and sheets,” for +breastplates and handles, for cars and cortège. Happy +it might be said was the corpse which received the +funeral classified as “Class V Adults,” a form of +mortuary pomp he had devised to the last detail. In +the firm’s catalogue it was simply described as +“Gammon and Hardwash’s Jubilee model,” for some +of the leading ideas in the disposition of the cortège +had been taken from an attentive study of the second +Jubilee procession of Queen Victoria. It was a +masterpiece of taste and economy and was referred +to feelingly in the trade as “Mourner’s Pride.” It +was a marvel that so young and inexperienced a man +as Marmaduke McSmith should have devised the +nonpareil of the undertaking world. He was assuredly +intended for high place. He might be President of the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_45">[Pg 45]</span>Undertakers’ Association yet. But all this was only +the sepulchral gossip of the parlours, rumours caught +on the chilly little winds that blow down the alleys +of one Necropolis or another.</p> + +<p>In his way Marmaduke was developing into an +artist. Whatever department he touched he adorned. +He was given the delicate supervision of the Embalming. +He promptly made himself adept in the theory +and practice of human conserves. He was generally +chosen to nick the wrists and groins of the dead before +inserting the blood-pumping tube. His gestures were +those of the cunning surgeon rather than the job +butcher. He never lost dignity. He never allowed +the embalming fluids to be spoken of as pickles! +Then he was given the firm’s correspondence. All +day he sat perusing the letters and orders that flowed +as regularly as death into the letter-box of the firm, +corpse measurements, sentimentalities, absurd requests +for shells of sandalwood and silk and plush linings, +dogs’ coffins, catafalques for favourite cats; all of +which he read methodically and answered discreetly, +practically and soothingly, and great was the business +of Gammon and Hardwash. He wished that clients +would write more sensibly and often imagined the +brief and businesslike letters he would have written +in their place. He possessed a neat pen, but it was +a long time before it dawned upon him that it might +be the pen of a great artist and that he must write +about the living and not the dead.</p> + +<p>Had he lived in ancient Egypt when that country +was possessed and ruled by one gigantic undertakers’ +trust, when embalmment was the national art, and +literature found its outlet on the lids of coffins, he +might have stayed in the business and realised himself +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_46">[Pg 46]</span>as an artist among the dead. But as he scribbled his +first creative phrases on the backs of requiem and +obituary cards and sketched his poetical drama in +empty corners of his ledger he felt the overwhelming +call to follow his Inspiration and cut adrift from this +sepulchral business in which he felt he was being +slowly buried. But it required pluck as well as +decision to swim from his secreted moorings into the +literary tide. He knew that he would be without +cable or anchor and his eyes had often peered through +the curtains on that haggard crowd of clerks and +hacks and journalists making their way by day and +by night towards Fleet Street and the great printing +and publishing houses. He knew how much genius +and inspiration had been gulfed in that stagnant +Niagara. He knew those waters were oily with the +midnight oil and that their eddies were lingering signs +of the struggling writers who had sunk beneath the +surface. Still the artist in him bade him go out and +seek his Inspiration there. He felt confident of his +ability to wear the Palm, but a little diffident of his +enjoyment of the pains and penalties which crown the +palmward path.</p> + +<p>Anyhow he had saved enough to afford a three +months’ lifebelt, while he took the risk. All Art is a +risk. Perhaps the Artist represents the form that +gambling takes among the immortal gods, who set +the pieces of human life on the earth’s green baize. +Perhaps it amuses them to lay odds on the Oddities of +Life? Perhaps the gods have Favourites as much as +the betting public? It is a gamble whether the +divine fire can find itself. It was a risk whether in +those three months he could catch anchorage, security +or even success and literary position. But he shuddered +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_47">[Pg 47]</span>when he looked at the scurrying whirlpool of souls +perhaps once as divinely inspired as he, caught +now a hundred times more miserably in the shabby +nets of underpaid slavery. There was a side to his +nature which appreciated the dignity and seclusion +of Gammon and Hardwash. On rainy days and in +the bronchial season this was specially the case. The +more unpleasant the weather, the snugger he kept +himself in the little curtained parlour where he wrote +and worked. Better be a dormouse hibernating +warmly and well fed in his nest than a starving and +unnoticed lion.</p> + +<p>He never took the plunge until he was inspired by +Queenie Elkington to resign without asking pension +or character from Gammon and Hardwash. They +used to meet after work was over outside the Tube +and sit together in eating-house corners and he used to +read her his poetical drama. She listened wonderingly. +She was full of admiration for his punctuation even. +There was music in his commas and he could convey +ecstasy with a semicolon. She was the kind of +audience a writer loves, fair in every way.</p> + +<p>It was Queenie who persuaded him that he must +suffer for his Art. Was starvation necessary? he +asked her. She told him that any soul worth its +mettle would welcome the pain of its enclosing body. +Her words gave him vision and a direct metaphor +from life. He felt that to cling to his present stability +and petty comfort was stagnation and worse—embalmment! +Just as grooms develop horse sense and +equine features, so he was in danger of becoming a +walking corpse. Undertaking is a mummifying profession. +Sometimes he felt as though he were bound +by invisible shrouds. And all the while Queenie was +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_48">[Pg 48]</span>hinting liberty, offering to share her dressmaking wage +with him and incidentally her starvation. He knew +that her hours were twice his and her wage a half of his +salary. Between his salary and her slavery a gulf +indeed seemed to stretch. Slavery that was primitive, +terrible, logical, and perhaps the only setting civilisation +still had to offer the bulk of women. She was +tempting him to abandon his steady stagnation and +clutch the flying success to which she felt inspired to +inspire him. And if he missed, she would slave for +him. He hardly knew sometimes whether she was +tempting or testing him. In the end he felt merely +tired. Better be a starving poet, he felt, than a tired +undertaker.</p> + +<p>The Artist’s head was lowered over his empty +teacup and he murmured: “Will the London sparrows +bring me bread or the ravens boil me tea?” A quick +sheen danced through her eyes and into his, telling him +how wonderfully he spoke words and prophesying the +lightning that would be evoked by his writing in the +future. The Artist could see his genius flashing under +her eyelids and his epigrams unborn curling to her lips. +Talking to her seemed to cause poetry to swim into +his brain and he took the plunge. The old-established +firm of Gammon and Hardwash regretted the departure +of the most sepulchral and unlively of their assistants.</p> + +<p>As she had swayed him, so she buoyed him. Once +he had made an Artist’s despairing gesture towards +life and suffered himself to be carried along upon the +tide, she attended to the rest. She toiled to make +life in the single room of a tenement practicable. He +wrote all day and rested wearily at night while she +finished her over-work, not on the delicious teas of +fifty years ago but on the black-stewed juice reboiled +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_49">[Pg 49]</span>from the night before. He generally had enough to +eat, and the first poems and stories, that she placed for +him with editors, served to stave off starvation. But +starvation is not easily sated, and besides the Artist +owed it to Humanity to devote his time to a great +poetical drama. Like many of those whose lives are +inspired with the enrichment of Humanity as a whole, +humanity is forgotten at home. His Drama grew +upon him and he no longer looked with pity into +Queenie’s white face. Love even dwindled aside if +not away. He looked to her greedily for food and +inspiration. He used the light in her eyes like an +invisible fire to ferment the images in his brain. As +she grew whiter and thinner, his verbalisation increased +and his pen glowed with the current of poetic drama +he was laying upon sheet after sheet. Had he worked +faster, perhaps she would not have had to live so long +on half-rations. But the Artist took a slow, luxurious +pleasure in his work, and she would not have had him +hurried for worlds.</p> + +<p>By the time his Poetic Drama was complete their +affairs were rather desperate. She took it out to +market. It was one thing to find editors who did not +mind throwing guineas like solitary bones to poets, +but to find a manager willing to produce the most +stupendous Drama of modern times was the quest of +a lifetime, and her repeated suggestion that it was a +lineal and lyrical successor to the works of Shakespeare +fell on what might be called Baconian ears. One +manager she was able to draw into discussion at least +as to its merits, though he was amused at the idea of +placing Drama before the public that was not only +serious and poetic but beautifully written. He had +produced the wildly successful Revue, “Moneytime is +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_50">[Pg 50]</span>Honeytime,” to say nothing of the winsome farce +called “Blue-eye’s Eighth Husband.” He was a nice, +oil-scrubbed gentleman with permanently waved black +wire round his head. He was always kind to ladies on +the ground that kindness should be reciprocal. On +hearing her mention of Shakespeare he made a personal +allusion to Romeo and Juliet which was lost on her. +But he promised to read the Drama and make a decision +on the morrow.</p> + +<p>Next day when she returned, he asked her to come +to supper forthwith as an instalment of payment. In +a frenzied moment she concluded that he intended to +produce the Drama. As she ate his fresh food that +evening, her wits gathered themselves out of weary +hope and arranged themselves pleasantly on the hall +steps of achievement. He made no remarks about +the Drama, on which she could have passed an examination, +having typed and overtyped and undertyped +every line many times. He asked her how often she +ate such a supper and whether she took champagne +at breakfast, and finally if the dramatist was her +husband. To all of which questions the answer was +necessarily in the negative. Though he appeared +satisfied, he proceeded to detail some of the possible +expenditure needed to produce Poetic Drama on the +English stage. It was a question of the expenditure +to be lavished on a funeral. Great Drama was dead +and Mr. McSmith’s Drama was great, he reasoned. He +only wished he had the money to embalm such a +Drama and keep it on the stage regardless of the +public. The omen in his words unnerved her for a +moment. A dead hand seemed to be stretched out of +the undertaking past to crush the flower of the poetic +present. Tears welled in her eyes and she looked +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_51">[Pg 51]</span>hopelessly at the Manager, who promptly judged that +the appropriate moment had come to make acceptance +of the Drama. He began discussing rehearsals and +alluding to royalties, to all the details, the cabbages +and kings of the Theatre, the chances of a king in a +box at an opening night or of cabbages being thrown +at the actors on the last. Nevertheless Mr. McSmith’s +Drama was accepted. Thinking only of the Dramatist, +she made a practical reflection as to the price to be +paid him. “The price of what?” asked the Manager. +“The price you would be willing to pay for the acting +the drama?” He observed her coolly and observed: +“What price would you pay us for producing it?” +Then it was all trickery and deception! Was that +cold face one of mockery or——? She rose to go.</p> + +<p>But he still fingered the manuscript and motioned +her to stay. It was several minutes before she quite +caught his drift. It struck her with a dim sickness at +the back of her brain. Then he did expect such payment +as she could make. The situation planted itself +round her with ruthless logicality. Art needed a +triangle for its woof to be woven. There was the +Artist, there was his Inspiration and finally the medium +by which his Art reached the world, whether it was +publisher or picture-dealer or producer. Without each +other they fell into nothingness. Queenie realised that +it was not enough to have been the Inspiration. She +must find the producer and unite all three as it were in +her own person. Dramatic art could not live until the +breath of production had been breathed into its verbal +coils. Very simply and without tears she decided she +must pay the producer, and returned, leaving the +manuscript of the Drama at the theatre. She felt no +resentment when she surrendered herself.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_52">[Pg 52]</span></p> + +<p>Late that night she told the man whom she had +loved, and, what was greater, whom she had inspired, +that his Drama had been accepted on its merits. Then +followed days when they both battened on expectancy +and drank the thin, vibrating wine of hope. Rehearsals +drew near. Contracts appeared in black and white. +Rehearsals were successful; and the first night blazed +like a comet out of space, the night that affords a +greater consummation to the Artist than to the lover. +For the first night to the Dramatist is twofold. To +him the acts of creation and of birth are simultaneous. +Solemnly outwardly, and sinkingly within, Marmaduke +McSmith sat through the hours listening to his own +words trembling and tossing on the lips of the hired +interpreters, while his songs were mercifully tempered +by the slow thrill of the choric accompaniment. By +his side sat the woman whose whole being had served +to bring him to this accomplishment. Marmoreal was +her countenance, but her eyes shone with the steady +light of sapphires, the unalterable triumph of Art over +chaos and night. His eyes glistened one moment like +diamonds as panic swept through them and twitched +the optic nerve, but the next moment they grew dulled +and lulled with the auto-intoxication of pride. Queenie +and Marmaduke watched and watched till all was +sung or said and he suddenly caught a sweeter sound +than even his own words—the repeated cheering of +success. All was over! The critics were rushing to +their inkpots, the first-nighters were moving towards +supper and the Artist was receiving friends in his box, +blown and bloated suddenly with the ovation of fame. +The golden effluvia of compliments and applause +bathed his hot brow. He struggled down to the +stage puffed and bewildered; speechless save for the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_53">[Pg 53]</span>few words he was made to mumble through the blinding +calcium.</p> + +<p>It was Fate that thrust him into the Manager’s room, +where he had left his overcoat, and suffered him to +receive one flashlight of Queenie Elkington. The +Manager’s evil kiss was upon her marble cheek. +Marmaduke blustered between them and dragged her +home. He looked at the wretched woman trembling +half in pride for him and half in shame for herself. +Then he asked: “When did he start doing that?” +The inspiration faded out of her eyes. “It wasn’t +the first time, was it?” She answered him simply, +“No, not the first time. He kissed me the day I +brought him your manuscript.” The Artist searched +furiously in her cloudless eyes and found nothing in +the way of regret.</p> + +<p>The next weeks were carried breathlessly upon the +Drama’s triumphant wings. Press reviews descended +like a mist of coloured laudation. Resonant interviews +swamped the thin stream of prickling criticism. +The Artist really had no need to worry about his +Inspiration. For the time fame was poured to him +from silver flagons, and wealth handed up on a gold +plate. Vanity of vanities! but all authorship becomes +vanity. When the most beautiful member of the +chorus knelt and kissed his hand he felt strangely +moved. It was because his hand had written the +Drama. Men thought it an honour and women +thought it lucky to touch that hand, those inspired +fingers. He was very pleased with the action of the +chorus girl, and the following day he noted that she +was fairly fair, and the week following that she was +pretty pretty, so to speak. And the more he liked her, +the angrier he felt with Queenie for letting the Manager +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_54">[Pg 54]</span>embrace her on that night of nights. It was rather +bitter, but bitterness when it stays and curdles in the +mind often brings about a decision. Perhaps it was a +stroke of luck after all, for it dawned on his mind that +he had a perfect excuse for leaving Queenie when he +felt so inclined, and he told her so. He spoke to her +as a father might speak to an erring daughter. She +had served him well and he would always think kindly +of her, but now that he was famous he could not afford +to have his name connected with a woman who was +susceptible to anything as vulgar as a theatrical +manager. He was an Artist and he owed a duty to +his Inspiration. He turned her out. His drama +touched a hundredth performance that same night.</p> + +<p>She had no redress and she passed silently and +whitely into the black roaring night, into the whirlpool +above which she had sustained him in his months of +obscurity. For the last time the light glittered in her +eyes, though it met no response from his iris, which was +blurred with a little red patch as he went his way, +floating buoyantly, basking in a limelit sea, watching +his own portentous shadow bulge in the theatric moonlight. +He thoroughly enjoyed being the successful +dramatic writer of the day. He was very agile at +bearing the Palm. Actors and Managers came buzzing +and puffing round him, pleading and imploring him to +write another play. It was weeks before he consented +even to return to work. It was without misgiving +eventually that he dipped pen into the silver inkstand +presented by the staff after the five hundredth performance; +the pen by the way tipped with a real ruby, +the grateful tribute of the Chorus. For inspiration +there was the new beloved practising steps in a Poiret +gown on his expensive Persian carpet. Yet it was +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_55">[Pg 55]</span>not all as inspiring as might have been expected. The +Artist wrote phrases at intervals and the week’s work +filled many sheets, but too often he found himself +chewing the ruby knot at the end of his pen. Then +he would call the chorus girl to his knee and peer into +her eyes, which were lit with artificial radiance. They +lacked the stellar light which used to beckon him +from Queenie’s orbs. He looked in them and always +saw the fiery fume of his own pleasure. There was +nothing mysterious or new, nothing that he did not +know before. He never saw the shapes he used to see +of dreams personifying in his partner’s eyes. But +on the material side he was much better off. He +drank Tokay instead of tea, and ate fresh caviare +instead of stale seed cake. And he twirled his pen +and his hair and the chorus girl in turns. And nothing +very wonderful happened on paper. He was still +twirling all three a year later when his first drama had +been given a rest on the stage and managers were +asking anxiously and then angrily why he had not +filled his contract to write another. He had thought +he was safe in giving himself a year to write and he +had written reams, but he did not dare show them to +the managers. Compared to the first it was merely +corked wine.</p> + +<p>He felt that he needed a rest and the inevitable and +harassing month on the Riviera followed. The chorus +girl died of influenza in an hotel after losing six months’ +royalties for him in the local Casino. When he +returned to London he found he was in debt and that +his furniture was being sold out of his flat. He sat +down to twirl pen and thumbs again, but only +succeeded in breaking the encrusted ruby off his penholder +with exasperation. Eventually he mislaid it. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_56">[Pg 56]</span>It was found next morning and safely placed in a +pawnbroker’s safe by a careful charwoman. The +silver inkpot had become caked with the ink which +flowed in but not out. Hours he passed staring +blankly into blank paper and trying to crush the half-formed +answers to the eternal query why could he not +write another Poetic Drama as beautiful and as +wonderful as the first. But the fire was gone and he +could not catch the wistful pleasantry which the +critics were fond of divining in his lyrics. It would +not come to the surface of his mind as it had, when he +lived humbly and cheaply, lacking all that he now +enjoyed in such abundance. As though abundance +can ever be enjoyed, as cats drowning in cream have +never failed to observe. He lacked nothing now +except perhaps the one thing necessary!</p> + +<p>At last he arose darkly and miserably in the night. +There was nothing left to be done but to wander forth +in search of his lost Inspiration. He felt leaden-footed +and soiled in the soul. If his mind still moved +it was like a hobbledehoy and no longer a Pegasus. He +started in mad search for what he had lost. He swam +into the first dance hall and listened to the jazz-rhythms +with their slow and broken cross-ripples. He watched +the undulating shoulders of the dancers as they circled +and cross circled. But neither rhythm nor song did they +lend him. Then he passed into a drinking cabaret +and began sipping the yellow and pink-coloured +mixtures called cocktails which are to true wine as +mosaics are to real sculpture. But again he found no +release. In vain he drank unintoxicating intoxicants, +quenchers that proved unquenching, potations that +were impotent, and the chill, stupefying drench which +neither cheers nor inebriates and is called wormwood.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_57">[Pg 57]</span></p> + +<p>The Artist was at the end of all artificial expedients, +and it was very late when he came to close truths with +himself, and walked deliberately toward the mean +street where he believed Queenie was living. He had +left her with enough to live on and paid the rent on +their old lodging for a year in advance. He crept into +the ghastly tenement building. He knocked and +knocked vainly. There was no answer. He leaned +miserably against the door and it swung open. He +slipped into the foul passage and stood before the +single room in which his first Drama, his masterpiece, +had been written. It was tightly closed, but the lock +snapped under his thrust. He felt resentful against +the room and against the woman whom he had left +there, and resentful against himself, for an Artist only +hates himself when he realises that his Art has deserted +him. A stale odour and a dead draught met him as +he entered. He called and there was no answer. He +knew his way round the room in the dark and he +groped in the corner for the gas jet. He turned it +on, but it made no lucent response to a lighted match. +The gas meter was empty and then he noticed that he +had turned the gas off instead of on. He twisted it +back and forward. By the light of a second match he +looked round the room and his eyes fell on the bed +where his Inspiration lay cold and self-slain before +her time.</p> + +<p>In a moment all his ambition and hope seemed +to be turned off as completely as the gas. He was +where he was before he met Queenie Elkington. He +turned and shuffled back to his flat. He knew now +that the virtue had gone out of him, and why. The +Artist in him shrivelled into the undertaker’s clerk. +He sat down before the ink-crusted silver inkstand +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_58">[Pg 58]</span>and began writing on a blank sheet slowly in +scrivener’s copperplate. He wrote to order the +most beautiful coffin procurable. It must be made +of scented wood and lined with silk, and the fittings +must be of solid silver. In it he explained that +he intended to bury all that was precious to +him, his guardian angel in the past, what might +have been his ambition in the future, and the +Inspiration which had forsaken him in the present. +And this pathetic letter he sealed and addressed to +the old-established firm of Gammon and Hardwash.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_59">[Pg 59]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="BALTHASAR_THE_CRUEL"> + BALTHASAR THE CRUEL + </h2> +</div> + + +<p>Don Balthasar was called the Cruel for a number +of very satisfying and respectable reasons. +As a child he had flayed a live monkey, +which had been brought to amuse him in an ebony +cage. And he had been fond of biting off the heads +of singing birds or slipping hot needles into their +eyes according as he wished to make them sing or not. +Arrived at the age of discretion, he showed his +seriousness of purpose by taking a breakneck journey +across Spain without sleep and almost forfeiting +his meals in order to be in time for the execution of +his illegitimate brother. His hands had so often +failed of killing him that he was seized with the idea +of making his eyes at least fratricidal. But Don +Balthasar was always morbid.</p> + +<p>On the other hand he showed some remarkable +traits. His restless energy was an example to the +lethargic princelets by whom his boundaries were +neighboured. In the infliction of pain or the pursuit +of domestic vengeance he would endure what only +the bravest and strongest would dare. He had a +fine sense of the rules of chivalry and his discrimination +in matters of taste was never challenged. When +he said a ruby was a ruby, it was not disputed even +in the Orient; and for sign of his passionate hobby +toward precious stones he wore a large ruby in his +iron helm about as large as a cuckoo’s egg dyed in +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_60">[Pg 60]</span>carmine. He personally supervised the cutting and +trimming of the velvet vestments used in his private +chapel. His chapel was decorated with an excruciating +picture of Saint Bartholomew the Apostle being +deprived somewhat reluctantly of his apostolic skin. +And Don Balthasar’s clothes kept busy several +Moorish haberdashers during the greater part of the +year.</p> + +<p>He had peculiar notions as to property, particularly +towards what had ceased to be his property or had +ever been dignified by his ownership. For instance, +he aped the royal Castilian etiquette, which allowed +no lesser man to bestride a horse that had once been +ridden by a King of Spain or to marry even a forgotten +and abandoned lady love who had once enjoyed the +royal embrace. Don Balthasar, once at the end of a +long siege discovering in his net a damsel, whom he +had seduced in boyhood, comfortably married to a +burgess of the fallen town, insisted on strangling him +with his own hands that he might realise how high an +honour the unfortunate burgess had presumed to +pay himself. The burgess who had been found +in possession of the Don’s discarded romance died +in the market-place with his broken eyeballs staring +into the quaint features of Don Balthasar called +the Cruel, who considerately provided him with a +funeral furnished neither above nor below his rank. +What time he could spare from the adornment of +his person or the adjustment of etiquette he devoted +to the beleaguerment of Castles upon which he or +his ancestors had the shadow or phantom of a claim.</p> + +<p>At the moment of writing he was engaged in laying +close siege to the Castle of his arch-enemy Don Ximenes. +His tactical array resembled rather a game of chess +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_61">[Pg 61]</span>than one of those conflicts of sanguinary hordes +into which the beautiful mediæval science of war +developed. Don Ximenes was not in his lair, for +Don Balthasar had been conveniently apprised +of his secret absence on a neighbouring campaign +to which Don Balthasar had not been invited. He +could not lose the opportunity to bring two thousand +men against Don Ximenes’s Castle, which was in those +days of supreme fortification adequately held by the +Seneschal and twelve men. When walls were impenetrable +and ramparts unassailable except by the +slow poising and escalading of ladders, they were +sufficient to ward and defy a host. The Castle of +Don Ximenes was as solidly built and magnificently +engineered as any Castle in Spain, which was saying +a great deal. It was originally a Moorish stronghold. +The great dungeon-keep covered one side +of the quadrangle. It was crenellated and thinly +slashed with murderous arrowholes. The other three +sides were flanked at each corner by turrets massively +gathered to each other by a fortified passage running +round the whole rampart. The dry moat was cut +out of the quick rock. Across the moat rose a bridge +like the hump of a donkey’s back and protected by a +barbican. The angles and embrasures commanded +and cross-commanded every approach. While the +Seneschal watched from the top of the keep, two +men held each turret, three remained in the barbican +and three took turns to sleep. The Seneschal had +no more than enough men and provender to hold +the Castle for Don Ximenes, and it was weary work +peeping over the ramparts at every move made by +the redoubtable Don Balthasar.</p> + +<p>Don Balthasar with his masses of fresh troops +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_62">[Pg 62]</span>attacked or feigned attack at all hours, even at night +when his camp fires blazed red with feasting and +revelry. Each time an alarm was given by lighting +a torch at the menaced turret, the Seneschal would +collect the sleepers and hurry them as a reserve to the +ramparts to meet each successive attack. Every +third or fifth day there was a general attack and a +number of surprise attempts to hook scaling ladders +to some unwatched portion of the wall. With poles +and sledge-hammers the Seneschal and his faithful +few dislocated or smashed the feelers of the prying +ladders as fast as they appeared above the walls. +But day was as weary as night, and only the obstinate +loyalty of the Seneschal made the hours pass +without question or murmuring among his men. +His determination was unflexed. Everything he could +possibly value was at stake: the impregnable old +keep in which he had been reared as a child, his +loyalty to his lord, and incidentally his own wife and +daughter who, unknown to the besiegers, were helping +to consume his slender store behind the walls. It +was a strong satisfaction to him to know that ten feet +of masonry lay between their charms and Balthasar +called the Cruel.</p> + +<p>The Castle possessed all the strength and subtlety +of construction and design that Moorish and Gothic +architects could give after handling and remodelling +each other’s work. Don Balthasar found it quite +impossible to take it by assault and sat down in +permanent circumsession. Within, there was enough +to tide them over until Don Ximenes’s return, provided +he returned with the New Year. But occasionally +the Seneschal caught sight of a lean look. While +the camp echoed with revelry and the air was thick +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_63">[Pg 63]</span>with the steam of feasting, none of the besieged ever +ate to satisfy or drank into the delicious preludes +of intoxication. And there was a constant lack of +sleep, which is a great subduer of grumbling and +tedium. But no suspicion of the garrison’s loyalty +ever glided through the mind of the Seneschal. He +would not allow the possible fall of the Castle to dwell +in his mind. He only looked forward to the day +of triumph when the portcullis would be drawn and +the Don Ximenes enter into his keep as inviolate +as upon the day he had left it. If the Castle fell—well, +there was nothing worse that Don Balthasar +surnamed the Cruel could do to him.</p> + +<p>Nevertheless murmuring had arisen and sometimes +was hardly hushed before the sore-tried Seneschal +stumbled into hearing. Though the besiegers were +making no progress, time was; and time was on +the side of Don Balthasar. To the garrison it became +acutely clear that their days were shortened. There +was enough provender for a month or for three months +of semi-starvation. Two grim days already appeared +on the horizon: the day when the Seneschal would +announce half-rations and the day when, drowsy +with hunger, they would be surprised and one turret +would be taken and occupied with fresh troops, who +would pour like a Moorish poison through the passages +and into the stony veins of the Castle until +every corner was captured. The Seneschal would +undoubtedly fight to the end. When they had +filled their tiny tasks they would perish like pawns. +The life of foot soldiers was not sweet in Old Castile, +but it was thought by their lords to be much sweetened +by a death in their private service and defence. They +could but accept their approaching fate with the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_64">[Pg 64]</span>devotion of feudal hirelots. It was already a matter +of weeks or even days, and meantime Don Balthasar’s +banners flaunted the landscape. He was only waiting +for the first sign of weakness to show itself, if not +in the fortifications, at least in the less enduring +minds of men.</p> + +<p>The weak spot in the garrison manifested itself +one evening as the tired Seneschal was dragging +himself to his place of rest. The best prospect before +him was a name among those who had served their +lords to the death. The garrison had less rosy +expectation in the memories of Spanish chivalry. +They would be forgotten.... Two men-at-arms +stood in the Seneschal’s roadway. They had spent +the day guarding one of the turrets and they had +come to tell him simply that they were going to +mutiny. Knowing how essential they were to the +defence, they had no fear of instant execution. The +Seneschal might as well surrender the Castle forthwith +as dispense with their services. The Seneschal bowed +his grey face. Tired as he was, he still struggled +for time and thought and breath. He told them +that, if they wished to mutiny, the Castle could no +longer be held and he would send them over the +ramparts to announce the surrender to Don Balthasar +the following morning. He only asked them to keep +their share of the watch that night. The morrow could +care for the morrow. His only present endeavour was to +hold the Castle for that night. The mutineers appeared +to refuse his courteous offer, for they stood shaking +their heads in an awkward way. Then they spoke.</p> + +<p>They were not mutinying with any desire to save +their skins. Least of all did they wish to join +Balthasar or put him in possession of the Castle. They +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_65">[Pg 65]</span>were loyal men and true to their lord. The Seneschal +gave them an ironical glower. They were ready to +fight to the end, they continued to observe. They +only asked for a little consolation in the last days of +their lives. They insisted that they were loyal and +true to the great law which bound men of valour to +their lords. And they would yet obey the Seneschal +in all matters except perhaps where a stronger than +military custom constrained their souls. This was +all pointless speech, and the Seneschal made a sign +to express that he thought so. However, they +mentioned their readiness to fight to the end on +condition that their last hours were sweetened with +love. Their tranquil smile hardly seemed to clash +against the Seneschal’s baffled misunderstanding. +He, poor man, was feebly perplexed. If they had +asked for a larger ration of bread or wine he would +gladly have reduced that of his own family to satisfy +them. But they might as well have asked him for +the excitements of the chase or the luxuries of the +Moorish bath within the Castle’s narrow world. For +a moment they seemed to him mad; rendered mad +by the rigours of the siege. His next hope was that +they would fight the better for being insane. But +what a moment to think of love! And he answered +them with a kind laugh:</p> + +<p>“Would that I could satisfy your wishes, my +dear children, but you must not ask for a well of wine +in the desert or for loaves to rain from heaven. Love +will come to you some day among the beautiful girls +of the town when Don Ximenes has returned to his +own. Come, return to your noble duty, and some +of the best wine will be served you on the morrow. +Oh, my children.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_66">[Pg 66]</span></p> + +<p>“But we do not need your red wine,” replied +the mutineers. “If we are to die, we prefer we +should drink something better than red wine.”</p> + +<p>“My children, I would not hesitate if by opening +my purse or my veins I could furnish you with a +wine worthy of your valour during this siege. If +I could encourage you to hold out against Don Balthasar, +there is nothing that I would not promise +you. And my word is true as you have always +known.”</p> + +<p>“We do not ask for promises or words. We would +prefer to accept what you have to offer on the spot.”</p> + +<p>“But I have nothing, my children, except what +you know is in the store. If these are our last days +(which may the Most Serene Virgin otherwise dispose!) +at least you shall feed and drink well.”</p> + +<p>But the mutineers still looked at him with their +dull stare. “Well, in the Holy Virgin’s name,” +shouted the Seneschal, “what do you want?”</p> + +<p>“We want love, and if you will allow us a little +share of love we will hold the Castle with you till +the last of us is killed. It will not be well for any +of us to fall alive into the hands of Don Balthasar.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, make love,” murmured the tired Seneschal, +“make love and be happy.” And he turned slowly +away. “But where will you find love in this prison +of stone?”</p> + +<p>“We thought it convenient as well as pleasant +to offer our courteous love to your family.”</p> + +<p>The poor Seneschal’s face turned ashen; “You +mean my daughter as the price of remaining at your +duty?” And his determination to hold the Castle +at all costs received a fiercer blow than any that had +been dealt by the enemy. But still his staggering +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_67">[Pg 67]</span>mind was essaying how to hold on and on. The +mutineers came to his rescue when words failed him.</p> + +<p>“We are willing that you choose upon which one +of us you will bestow your daughter.”</p> + +<p>“And will you return to your duties if I bestow +her on the morrow?” he asked. The Seneschal’s +word was good and they saluted him with their swords.</p> + +<p>“You shall have her,” groaned the unhappy man, +as he laid his hand upon the younger and fresher +of the two, “but if the God of Castile and the Most +Serene Virgin suffer me to bring this Castle through +the siege I will not spare you.”</p> + +<p>The mutineers laughed; “Be not troubled. Our +days shall end long before Don Ximenes returns. +Don Balthasar will see to that.” The younger one +added: “When may I make the acquaintance of +the beautiful daughter you have promised me?”</p> + +<p>“On the morrow,” hissed the Seneschal; “have +I not said it? I cannot disturb her this night.” The +mutineer returned to his turret. His companion +remained bulking in the narrow stone passage.</p> + +<p>“And I, my master, must my last days be passed +without love or solace because my companion in arms +has borne less years of fighting and has less scars +to show in his boy’s face?”</p> + +<p>“Come,” murmured the exhausted Seneschal, +“That is no reason for leaving the ramparts. You +are a fine battle-pocked warrior and you could not +spend your last days more happily than by facing the +army of Don Balthasar.”</p> + +<p>The grisled warrior seemed to hesitate over what +was most likely to felicitate his last days on earth. +Then he spoke quite abruptly: “Give me your +wife and I will fight better.” It was like saying +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_68">[Pg 68]</span>“check” to a chess player playing with members of his +own family instead of wooden pieces. The Seneschal +bowed his head in utter despair and the other slowly +turned his back. His nod was as good as his word +under the circumstances. At that moment a torch +flared from the central keep, and the Seneschal rushed +to the scene of attack hurrying his reserves on the +way. A frontal attack was being made in full +force and he rushed from turret to turret shouting +hoarse commands and disengaging the cruel little +hooks and feelers, that were pushed over the walls, +with his own hands. Never had the garrison fought +so magnificently. The intrepid coolness and energy +of the two mutineers was beyond praise or emulation. +They fought with their hands, their feet and their +toes, hacking, pushing, kicking, and biting, now +in one corner and now in another. With their bare +hands they uprooted ladder after ladder and with +swift leverage hurled clusters of men headlong into +the hard dry moat. The Seneschal caught sight +of the pair at moments and his loyal, long-tried heart +was at rest.</p> + +<p>The attack died down with severe loss to Don +Balthasar. The garrison had reason to feel pleased +as they snatched portions of rest during the night. +The Seneschal reposed in the bosom of his family. +He was weary unto death, but he felt unable to sleep. +At the back of his mind throbbed the safety of the +Castle. It was his main preoccupation, and it still +gripped him in spite of the new bitterness, which +underlay his thought like a festering toothache. +“No, it was monstrous, unheard of in the annals +of war and chivalry, that he should sacrifice his daughter +and his wife!” He moaned in agony. Beside him +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_69">[Pg 69]</span>lay his wife, the long brown hair across her face. +He sat up in his leathern armour as stiffly as though +another attack had been signalled. Slowly he recollected +that he had given her away with his word.... +At that moment his daughter sighed in her sleep, +and he cried aloud once more. Did loyalty to his +lord demand that he leave nothing undone even to +his own undoing? Must he give wife and daughter +like provender into the jaws of those who were defending +his lord’s castle? It was unutterable, unspeakable, +unbelievable. Who would help him in +his biting loneliness, when he could not even think +of a road out or even of words in which to pray? +Unthinkingly he muttered aloud “Most Serene Virgin! +A thousand candles and a pilgrimage to St. James of +Compostella.” Then silence fell, and the weary +Seneschal felt an unanswered prayer eddying in his +empty heart. To whom could he turn in his distress? +His dear lord was far away. He would never see him +again. Again he cried to the Virgin, and again silence +followed his cry. He shivered with fear and fury. +He swayed miserably to and fro on his knees. If +he slept not, he would scarce be able to fight on the +morrow. A thousand curses that his last days on +earth should be embittered beyond the endurance +of the loyal and the deserts of the faithful. At one +time he began to despair. Perhaps it would be better +to hurl himself off the ramparts and let his dead body +announce the end of the siege to Don Balthasar the +next morning. No, that would leave wife and daughter +to the mutineers. He pulled himself to the top of +the mighty keep. There were the flickering lights of +Don Balthasar’s camp. Would the Serene and Holy +Virgin make no answer, give no sign to one so fiercely +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_70">[Pg 70]</span>tried? He had dedicated his daughter a hundred +times to the Immaculate Serenity. Well, what was +the use, if she could do nothing to save her child? +He began to expostulate with the Blessed Virgin and +reasonably. Could she do nothing with all the armies +of Heaven recognising her as their Commandress? +He scolded her with the childlike faith of the mediæval +warrior, who saw the Virgin like the Tournament +Queen learning over heavenly barriers and deeply +interested and concerned in all the affairs of heart +and chivalry on earth. “Take or abandon her,” +the Seneschal shouted into the night, “you know +best, most sweet and serene Lady, whether she shall +be yours or for Don Balthasar. If you will not +save her I will give her to him called ‘The Cruel!’” +He lifted his waving hands to Heaven as a man carried +down a whirlpool. Not a star fell. No vision +appeared.</p> + +<p>His mind was now set and he returned to the +armoury, pulled a vellum leaf out of a Breviary and +began writing a letter to Don Balthasar. Anything +rather than throw his daughter to the lout on the +ramparts. The Don was a Cavalier and a great +gentleman of Spain. He began scratching the titles +of Don Balthasar in the fullness of all the laudatory +etiquette of the time. Then he explained that two +of his soldiers had mutinied, which placed the Castle +in Don Balthasar’s hands whenever it should seem +agreeable to him. He begged Don Balthasar to +understand that he was not surrendering the Castle +of his lord foolishly or fearfully. The mutineers with +Moorish impudence had demanded his wife and +daughter as the price of keeping their place on the +ramparts. He ventured to place the matter before +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_71">[Pg 71]</span>the august eyes of Don Balthasar himself, who, as +the paragon of chivalry and loyalty and such matters +in Spain, could advise his troubled servant whether +loyalty to his family or to his lord came first, and +whether he was bound to persevere at the price of +offering his wife and daughter to these foul mutineers. +He appealed to Don Balthasar for a ruling. He +would bow to his decision.</p> + +<p>He carefully sealed the letter with his lord’s seal, +and went on the ramparts. He lit and waved a torch +with slow movements in sign of parley or surrender. +He was quickly noticed, and Don Balthasar’s secretary +approached with an escort. The Seneschal threw the +letter over the ramparts and staggered back to rest. +A whisper passed through the Castle.</p> + +<p>In the morning the garrison were not surprised to +see an unarmed company approaching the barbican +waving the personal standard of Don Balthasar. +The Seneschal himself descended from his watchpoint +on the keep and leaning through the crenellations +picked a letter from the top of a spearpoint. He +read it slowly and its purport burst like the first +glimpse of harbour on the eyes of the shipwrecked, +for Don Balthasar commended his loyalty and fidelity, +and was grieved to hear that two of his soldiers had +mutineered and shown a lesser sense of loyalty to +their lord. He considered that the terms they had +offered their Seneschal were arrogant and outrageous, +and foul beyond the foulness of the pit. He wished +the Seneschal to mind not their threats, but to let +them both desert to his camp. He gave his word +that their desertion would not afflict the Seneschal +in a military sense. Let him send them under safe +conduct forthwith.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_72">[Pg 72]</span></p> + +<p>The mutineers were waiting in their turret when +the Seneschal reached them. They had watched the +coming of the embassage eagerly, and doubted not +that the Seneschal had made a desperate bid for +terms to save the Castle now he knew he could hold +it no longer. Ineffectually for certain. With his +prize in his jaws Don Balthasar was not the one to +let it drop for a kiss given to his greedy cheeks. They +awaited the Seneschal as the player who has called +Checkmate and knows that any further struggle +is useless. The Seneschal showed neither levity nor +seriousness in his face. He spoke gently and firmly +as though he was discussing some minute part of their +routine. “My children, you have against all your +loyalty to your lord offered to mutiny and go over +to Don Balthasar unless I give you my wife and +daughter. I have decided to surrender the Castle +rather than allow such a misery to be inflicted upon +me, and I bid you accompany Don Balthasar’s men and +tell that great and terrible lord that I can no longer +defend the Castle and will accept his commands. +Go!”</p> + +<p>The mutineers looked up with angry surprise. +They felt they were being cheated out of their rights, +out of their agreement, out of their pleasure. They +had expected the immediate fulfilment of their demand. +At any rate the siege was over. They could only +rejoice that their weariness was at an end, though +they would have preferred a few more weeks’ fighting, +lightened as they had hoped by the wicked debauchery +they had devised at their unfortunate Seneschal’s +expense. For one baffled moment they hesitated. +But the Seneschal had left them no choice, and they +turned to accept the freedom they had not desired. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_73">[Pg 73]</span>They walked on to the ramparts amid their scowling +comrades and lowered themselves with a rope that +the Seneschal grimly held for them. With a malevolent +grin they slid down into their new allegiance. +At least they would be fed well that night, when they +brought Don Balthasar good news. They marched +away stretching their cramped legs between the +riders who had come to meet them. Within an hour +they stood before Don Balthasar called the Cruel. +He did not waste his time with them. He mentioned +his detestation of all kinds of disloyalty, especially +to an absent lord. He showed no surprise or gratitude +on hearing that the Castle was now within his reach. +To their terror-struck excitement they learnt that +the terrible one had been informed of the predicament +in which they had placed the loyal Seneschal. He +briefly informed them that he was unwilling to profit +by so base an action even if it did place the Castle +in his power. The mutineers stared at him with +dull amaze.</p> + +<p>The Seneschal was more agreeably surprised an +hour later when he saw a scaffold being erected in +front of the barbican, and his two defaulters being +bound and deliberately executed. A roar of laughter +and derision rose from the Castle walls. It was +almost worth the surrender to enjoy so majestic a +jest on the part of Don Balthasar. With parched +throats and weary lungs the garrison shouted <i>Vivas</i> +to Don Balthasar’s name. As for the Seneschal, he +could only utter delirious thanks to the Virgin, who +had delivered him so mightily from domestic shame +and agony. She had strange and devious ways, +the <i>Serenissima</i>, for coming to the rescue of her clients. +This was really her most brilliant master-stroke!</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_74">[Pg 74]</span></p> + +<p>The Seneschal laughed his first laugh during the +siege, and he was still smiling when the riders of +Don Balthasar again approached the barbican waving +the signal of parley. It must be for the final surrender +of the Castle, thought the Seneschal. Sadly he picked +the letter of summons from the tip of the spearpoint +handed to him.</p> + +<p>He broke the heavy seal and coloured cord fastening +the vellum. It brought him the greeting of his enemy, +who further made plain his great regret that contrary +to the laws of war he had killed two of the garrison +after they had left the Seneschal under his safe conduct. +But he had done what he thought was due to himself +and to the honour of all Christian princes. Treachery +among men-at-arms could not be too speedily or sternly +punished. But lest he had taken any unfair advantage +of the heroic garrison he was sending two suitable +men-at-arms to take the place of the mutineers! +By their fidelity to himself they were sworn to fight +exactly as the Seneschal disposed and directed them. +There was no doubt! Two stalwarts were waiting for +admittance at the barbican and their escort was already +riding away. And the letter was signed in the big, +gawky lettering of Don Balthasar himself who was +called the Cruel!</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_75">[Pg 75]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="A_SAVING_PHANTASM"> + A SAVING PHANTASM + </h2> +</div> + + +<p>When they parted they parted good friends. +Gregory Cappleston was more than a gentleman. +He was very affluent; and he refused +to let Matilda Bryant suffer financially by his marriage. +He was bound to marry to keep up the grand old +name of Cappleston. Aunts, aged and dowager, +expected him to marry if he was to expect anything +from them. He was a rough-and-ready fellow, Gregory +Cappleston. At the University he was called “Cobblestones.” +He wanted to be kind, but he did not cause +particularly smooth-going to those who came his way. +He found it hard to leave the woman who had lived +with him since Oxford days, but it was harder to find +a wife and tie himself to her for the rest of his days. +Matilda felt this turn in her life hardest, but she +suppressed the sighs of her soul even when she read +Gregory’s engagement in that column of marriages +and engagements of the <i>Morning Post</i> which may far +more truly be called one of agony.</p> + +<p>Still, she ought to have been preparing for the +wrench for years. Presumably she had known other +men before, and should have experienced the circumstantial +shock of a thoughtless man’s thought-out +departure. Cappleston never imagined her pained +for a moment. He was not insensitive, however, to +her genuine grief when he cheerfully announced the +settlement he had made on her. Nobody can live on +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_76">[Pg 76]</span>a woman’s love for many years without responding +to some of the myriad ripples of her inmost thought. +True, that with tragedy they become confused and +break off, and on the sand of hardship they are stayed +and disappear. But in the spectroscope of Matilda’s +mind a real love for the man, with whom she had +contracted herself quarterly for the last three years, +shone white. If the colours of her aura could have +been analysed, there would have been found no red +tinge of malice therein, no green line of jealousy, no +purple splosh of hate. The white soul is rare even +among good and virtuous women.</p> + +<p>She loved Gregory sufficiently not to wish him to +sacrifice his life to her. She was incapable of a scene. +She loved him enough to love herself for her own +self-suppression. She felt as though she were giving +her soul an opiate with a steel needle. It was so like +him to make over a lump sum to her without noticing +the lump in her throat. He kissed her for the last +time, and she wished him happiness in marriage as +few mothers have wished their own beloved sons. +As she walked out, he felt sorry, but not sorry in +another way, that he would see her no more. That +was in the letter and the spirit of their agreement. +She had played the game, he reflected. And he was +certain that he had, too. He was a Cappleston!</p> + +<p>The marriage was a great success. How could it +be otherwise? The pandemonium of an advertised +social event, the honeymoon reflected in the <i>Daily +Mirror</i>, the town house purchased from the dissolving +partnership of the Plantagenet-Goldenburgs, their +first country house party discreetly portrayed in the +<i>Sketch</i>, the shower of pleasant, meaningless snippets +which Press Agencies supplied from the <i>Powder +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_77">[Pg 77]</span>Puff</i>, the <i>Flapper</i> and other recognised organs +of fashion are still within the memory of Society. +Gregory began nibbling at a political career with a +good conscience. He had had his past like most men, +but unlike most men he had shown a post-amorous +generosity which satisfied him almost to feelings of +virtue.</p> + +<p>Domestic beatitude was his proper reward, and he +passed into paternal tranquillity watching the race of +Cappleston projected into yet another generation, and +his children growing up like little dissected parts of +his own youth. He watched them playing about the +house and reflected on that wonderful measure of +repayment he had been able to make to his wife. +So many women had no children. He had been +generous in his paternity. Generosity was his strong +feature. That was why he felt women had always +liked him, to use a mild expression. There had been +Matilda, for instance—but he dismissed her from his +mind.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>He was quite disturbed when her name was +announced by the butler. It was seven years since +they had parted. It was unexpected and it was +undesirable, this visit. He tore a preparatory blank +cheque out of his book before she came in. He was +always prepared to meet women with that astonishing +generosity of his. “Mrs. Bryant,” said the footman. +She showed no make-up to cover the difference of +seven years. It was not a professional—hardly a +predatory—visit, he reflected. Shabby clothes and +daylight were not heart-overwhelming. He gave her +a chair.</p> + +<p>“I am glad to see you looking so well, Matilda,” +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_78">[Pg 78]</span>he began chivalrously, “but you should have written +to me through my lawyers if you wanted to see me.”</p> + +<p>“I am not in need of anything that comes through +lawyers, Gregory,” she answered. “I only wanted +to see you again for the last time, you know.” Gregory +was puzzled.</p> + +<p>“But I am not leaving the country,” he said. +“Why should you want to say good-bye to me?” +“But I am,” she shot, and with a pause, “for another +country, and I am taking the shortest and cheapest +path possible. I am done with the half-world in which +I live. You know that for me middle age must be +what old age is to other folk. It is death, and I +believe in taking death by the forelock. But I wanted +to see you once again and to say that you were the +best thing I found in this world, and I would always +have lived with you even had you lost all your money. +I rather hoped the chance would come to show you +that. But it never did, and then you married and +were happy, and your happiness made me happy in +a sort of way. Good-bye.”</p> + +<p>“You’re not going to kill yourself?” asked the +astonished Cappleston. She nodded vacantly. Cappleston +was immensely touched. She had confirmed +the high opinion he had of himself. And she had +come without an ulterior object just to say good-bye. +It was amazing. He felt that something was required +of him. He was inartistic and could not rise to the +dramatic. But as a patron of several Church livings +he admonished her gently as to the heinousness of +self-destruction and how unpleasant coroners’ verdicts +were liable to be for surviving friends. He was one +of those men who live in dread of painful impressions +in public.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_79">[Pg 79]</span></p> + +<p>She was not to be dissuaded of her purpose, but she +agreed to see him before she committed the supreme +act of bodily renunciation. He offered to increase +her little income, but she smiled pathetically and +passed out of his presence. She was content to have +looked once again into his eyes. Her love had not +failed. It was no mere memory. She would certainly +keep the promise he had obtained from her.</p> + +<p>Cappleston was left to reflect on his proffered +generosity. He had never known a woman refuse +money before. But it was a woman’s way to want +what she wanted to the exclusion of all else for the +moment. For the moment she wanted to see him. +He felt suitably pleased. He was glad he was not +a woman to be swayed by whims and fancies, to be +utterly dependent on men’s good will and charity. +He felt glad to be a man and to feel virtuous. He +realised how much more generous he was than other +men, and threw himself back in his chair with the +easy content of a man who has always enjoyed life +without making his conscience suffer. Then a whole +year passed.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Gregory Cappleston, M.P., was sleeping alone in his +dressing-room when he woke with a jerk and saw a +figure standing at the foot of his bed. He looked and +could not doubt, for he believed in his senses and in +very little else in life. It was Matilda, and he was +intensely annoyed that she should have been so ill-advised, +not to say criminal, to penetrate into the +sleeping-room. It was indiscreet, outrageous and +very dangerous, and he hissed all this and more at her. +He made more than the protest of the British householder +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_80">[Pg 80]</span>and the patron of Church livings. He ordered +her to leave the house instantly, and as quietly as she +came—without waking his wife in the adjoining room. +He was too sleepy to imagine how she could have +entered without ringing or waking the servants. He +faced her look of piercing sadness with an angry stare, +but it never wilted. Then it faded away, and Cappleston +rather angrily discovered he was alone. He felt +as though he had been the victim of some clever conjuring +trick. He switched on the electric light, and +at that moment the voice of Big Ben rang through the +London hemisphere—one! two! three! He confirmed +the clock of Empire by his own watch, and +perceived that he was not dreaming.</p> + +<p>He rose and searched the room. It was locked, and +nothing had been displaced. He suddenly developed +a creepy and almost guilty feeling for no reason. It +was not in consonance with the mind of a virtuous +householder and a benefactor to his species. Then +it struck him full. Perhaps he had seen a ghost! +Perhaps, however, it was only a bad dream. Perhaps +it was a sign. Perhaps he ought to do something. +What about Matilda? He fumbled for her +address on the card he had kept in his pocket-case. +It was a flat in Maida Vale, quite impossible for him +to reach at this hour of the night. Nor respectable +either, but he could send his valet to inquire early in +the morning. He rang his night bell. His valet appeared, +and hoped he was not ill. Cappleston gave +him the card and told him to go to the address and +find out what was happening to the lady whose name +it bore.</p> + +<p>Further, Cappleston ordered him to refuse to take +<i>no</i> as an answer. He must find out how the lady in +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_81">[Pg 81]</span>the second flat was, and return as soon as possible. +If he had any trouble he could send a policeman in a +cab to fetch himself.... An hour passed, and a +second hour before a policeman rang at the door. +Cappleston let him in. The policeman explained +that a strange man had been found trying to force +entrance in a flat at Maida Vale and excused himself +by giving Mr. Cappleston’s name. He had been taken +in charge, and the police would like to have evidence +of his identity or sanity.</p> + +<p>Cappleston, with a weary “It is all right,” swung +himself out of his dressing-gown and dressed. He +accompanied the policeman without a word to Maida +Vale. He found his valet between the caretaker and +a policeman on the second floor. He had never been +there before, but he told the caretaker enough to show +that he had a right to entry, in fact that he paid the +rent of the flat in all probability. Besides, he had very +bad news for the occupant and he demanded entrance. +He was prepared to stand the financial damage of any +breakages, also the remuneration necessary to their +trouble. The police exchanged highly intelligent +glances, and the caretaker said he was not the one to +stand in the way of the law. Some panes of frosted +glass were cut out of the door with a chisel, and the +door opened from outside. The occupant, it appeared, +had given strict orders that nobody was to disturb +her till ten the next morning.</p> + +<p>Cappleston entered and opened door after door. +The farthest room of the suite was a bedroom. He +switched on the light. Matilda was lying on the floor +breathing heavily, while an empty bottle remained +in her outstretched hand. Cappleston ordered a +doctor to be brought, and a policeman saluted ... +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_82">[Pg 82]</span>a precious half-hour passed before any revival was +possible. But the doctor gradually brought her out +of unconsciousness. When she caught sight of Cappleston’s +worried face, she cried aloud: “Forgive +me, forgive me. I did not keep my promise.”</p> + +<p>“But I rather think you did,” he answered, “for +that is how I happen to be here. You came into my +room at three this morning, and it is now half-past +five. How can you explain it?” She could not +explain it. Women can explain anything, but they +do not always need to. Strange powers are always at +their aid. She confessed that she had taken a strong +overdose; and the sympathetic police withdrew at this +moment with several bank-notes of Cappleston to be +shared, or to be used for the repainting of Scotland +Yard, or whatever use gratuities to policemen are put +to. “But,” she continued, “I remembered when it +was too late my promise to you. I had passed over +the border, and my last feeling was a bitter regret +that for the first time I had broken my word to you, +the very first time in my life. Will you ever forgive +me?”</p> + +<p>“You need no forgiveness,” said Cappleston, holding +her hand while the doctor felt the pulse in the +other, “for you came into my room and stood looking +at me from the foot of my bed. I could guess then +what had happened. I never knew you to fail me in +any way. You always played the game, and your +word was always better than any gentleman’s. Thank +God, we were in the nick of time, for the doctor says +you would have been dead by ten o’clock. Matilda, +I have seen your ghost while you were yet alive. Or +was it your soul? It was the whitest thing I have +ever laid eyes upon!”</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_83">[Pg 83]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="JEALOUSY"> + JEALOUSY + </h2> +</div> + + +<p>Jealousy is the worst and most terrible in the sinful +category. Jealousy may not be the unforgivable +sin, but it is certainly the unforgiving +one. Jealousy is not to be defined or analysed. There +is a method in madness and a refinement in Love, +but Jealousy knows neither how to plan nor how to +relent. It is a torrential surge of misgiving and misdirection +that bides no hour and keeps no banks. It +is the strongest emotion known to man, for it has no +gradations, no preludes, and no convalescence. It +leaps fully armed and full-grown upon the jealous +brain, and gives no peace to the jealous nor if possible +to the jealoused. In man or woman it conspires and +consummates the acts of madness and crime, which +are sometimes but only pardoned to those who act +under stress of emotional love.</p> + +<p>Jealousy is the perversion of Love. It is unto +Love what the Apples of Sodom are to the fragrant +orange-blossom. It is even what Atheism is to Faith, +and Turpitude is to Sanctity; and perhaps great +lovers must tread along the gulf of Jealousy just as the +great contemplatives never realise the divine ecstasy +until after they have sighted the appalling abyss +which may be described as Time without God, otherwise +Hell, for Heaven is God without Time.</p> + +<p>Jealousy is more cruel than Love, though Love, in +all conscience, is cruel enough. Love more often +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_84">[Pg 84]</span>destroys the lover than the beloved, but Jealousy +seeks only the destruction of the jealoused. Jealousy +is the diseased elephantiasis of sentiment, Love smitten +to leprosy! Vision the divine and rosy Eros suddenly +turned into a leper white as snow! Vision +the once resilient and rainbowed wings caked and +cracked like the flukes of a rotten fungus! Vision the +delicate little limbs puffed and pustuled, and the +divine brow puckered and blistered, the mother-of-pearl +ears chipped and chapped, the mouth opened +like an old wound instead of a fresh budding rose! +Vision the eye rotting wickedly into its cavity—and +even so you have not sufficiently symbolised Jealousy, +the bane of mankind, and apparently of godkind as +well, since it is written that they include some who +are jealous!</p> + +<p>John Goldenough was jealous, yet he was highly +respectable. He was the active and reliable head of the +firm of Goldenough Brothers, the famous plumbers, +whose plumbing had accompanied the flag and made +the remotest and most tropical countries sanitatious +to their conquerors.</p> + +<p>The Goldenough plumbing had won medals at every +exhibition since the Great Exhibition of 1851, when +a diploma signed by the Prince Consort had been +awarded to the head of the firm. Miniature products +of the firm adorned the famous Doll’s House, minutely +constructed by the experts and artists of the British +Empire, and delighted Royalty, young and old, by +their realistic efficiency. It was the boast of John +Goldenough’s father that the sun never set on +Goldenough plumbing. Be that as it may, John +Goldenough was a very jealous man.</p> + +<p>Commercially he was jealous. It was not only +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_85">[Pg 85]</span>domestically that he cherished this cancer. Otherwise +he was unimaginative. With an assured competence +of means he devoted himself to the comfort of +himself and his family. He was not yet forty, and +he was the head of Goldenough Brothers. Pitt was +Prime Minister at twenty-five. John Goldenough was +the flower of British bourgeoisie, and he might be said +to incarnate the Nonconformist Conscience. There +was nothing against him at Bank or Chapel, unless in +the arcana of his heart he possibly kept something +against himself. He was a jealous man, that was all. +But human society understood and appreciated his +jealousy, for, if it constrained him to narrow ideas, it +led to impeccable business honesty. He was jealous +to a farthing in the accounts of his firm or of himself.</p> + +<p>But he was also jealous of family affections, though +this the world considered rather creditable, touching +almost. He could not allow himself to be supplanted +in the home circle for a moment even by another +member of the same family. In fact there was a dark +page to his record which only his subconscious memory +reflected from the darkened mirror of the past. As +the first-born he had been adored by his mother until +his nerves became restive if they were not basking +in the sunlight of her maternal hyperpossession. He +felt ill if she was not worrying or fussing herself over +him. He expected and required not only her attention +but her continued and foolish infatuation. When +her second son was born he became furiously jealous.</p> + +<p>During these long ante-natal months she had shown +herself less and less absorbed in him, and he had +become conscious of some impending rival. Uneasily +he sensed that her adoration was being drained elsewhere, +and the moment his baby brother arrived, he +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_86">[Pg 86]</span>knew that he must take second place. Jealousy ran +like secret poison into his every tissue and vein, though +he was too young to know or understand what and +why he felt. Possibly he was no more responsible +for his jealousy than for having the measles. Anyhow, +he bided his opportunity perhaps unconsciously, +but sullen and pertinacious. He watched his baby +brother being soothed and swaddled, pampered and +christened. It was a little more he felt than he could +stand. Months passed, and the new baby occupied +more and more of the nursery space and more and +more of his mother’s affection. After six months the +baby was introduced into the night nursery as well. +A nurse slept between the two brothers while a nightlight +floated in a basin of water in the middle of the +room. One night John found himself wandering +round the room in a state of horror. Nightmare was +upon him. He felt he was being cramped and suffocated +by the new baby. Fear mingled with jealousy +and self-preservation shot the speckled spectrum of +his hatred. In a violent effort to be rid of the besetting +menace he picked the nightlight out of its watery +cage, and threw it upon the barely moving heap of +down. A light flame flickered into the air, but John +had skipped back into bed before the baby cried, and +the nurse awoke too late to put out the flames. In +vain was the alarm given. By the time the household +had quenched the fire, baby was singed and suffocated +to death, partly by the smoke and partly by the +efforts made to extinguish the last spark. Through +the house rang one piercing cry—the cry of Rachel +mourning, the cry that from the beginning to the end +of the world can never be appeased, the inconsolable +cry of a mother wailing for her child.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_87">[Pg 87]</span></p> + +<p>John was only six at the time of the tragedy, but +from that moment his restlessness disappeared. He +was no longer troubled by nightmare, and continued +on his former course like a normal and well-behaved +little boy. Of necessity his mother renewed and +redoubled the old affection for her only son. Years +began to pass, untroubled and undimmed for either. +The pathetic and beautiful mother idealised and +idolised her son. He repaid her with an adoration +that was partly a reflected adoration of himself. There +was no rival. He had no brother, and she had no +lover, and each thought the other perfect. She +never dared marry one of the very many suitable +suitors who appeared on the scene after her husband’s +death. John’s jealousy was always enough to scare +her. He always slept beside her, and she would not +face or contemplate the days and nights when she +must relegate him to the attic. She liked to be near +him in case he stirred or cried in the dark. She was +not content with being his night nurse. She became +his governess and would let no one teach him except +herself. They became more intimately involved in +each other’s lives than they had been before his birth. +They had been the same body. Now they were the +same soul and mind, and he was the dominant. It +seemed forgotten that there had ever been a baby +brother.</p> + +<p>It was true even in her case that the mother can +never forget the child she has borne, but she saw +both the boys in the survivor. Without the least +suspicion of the distant crime she innocently loved the +slayer and the slain with one passionate and abiding +love. The plasticity of boyhood wiped all trace from +his memory. He was not conscious of his one awful +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_88">[Pg 88]</span>act of infantile incendiarism. But in the lower levels +of his nature it still lay memorified like one of those +buried fossils by which the gentle earth remembers +her past monsters. And close to the hushed record +under the running surface stream of daily life lay the +dismal dragon of Jealousy, but no fossil. It was +always there, though it was given no inducement or +provocation to break forth. It had lain there waiting +while Master John became a schoolboy, and a successful +one. He had gained too many prizes and enjoyed too +many successes to feel the least dislike or envy or +disgust of others at school. He took a successful +course at the University, and after coming of age he +took over his deceased father’s business. He was a +born plumber, a Master-plumber, and in fact he proved +the Empire’s Super-plumber. Tubs, piping, lavabos, +taps, sinks and shower-baths were his sphere. He +applied not merely intelligence but genius to the +problems of Imperial Sanitation. He received an +Indian decoration and a testimonial from an Australian +Premier. He prolonged the lives of the Royal Family +more than all the prayers in the Prayer Book on their +behalf.</p> + +<p>Respectability demanded only one thing further. +He must marry. His mother had long dreaded the +day when she would be supplanted herself. She had +kept herself free for him. It was more than she could +expect that he should keep himself eternally free for +her. As she had been nurse, governess and playmate, +sister and mother to him, she would doubtless, had +they lived in a Ptolemaic civilisation, been ready to +sacrifice herself yet further. But happily the Nonconformist +Conscience takes a rather sturdy stand. +So when John Goldenough married the daughter +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_89">[Pg 89]</span>of the chief clerk in his own firm, his mother +was glad enough to be allowed to remain as their +housekeeper.</p> + +<p>John Goldenough’s wife was more than pretty. +The daughter of an employee who had risen with the +years in the Goldenough employ, without pretence +of blood or breeding, she appreciated the social honour +which had been paid her, and was loyally prepared to +merge her personality and prospects in the Lord of +Sanitation, who had fallen in love as much with her +love for him as with her pretty little face. Unwittingly +he had transferred to her the whole accumulated +sleeping powers of jealousy, with which as a +child he had surrounded his mother. As little witting, +she mistook the jealous symptoms for an excess of +love for herself. His mother slowly sank into a second +place that was lower than servile. She never murmured +when he took her rings and gave them to his +sweetheart. It was no theft, for he slipped them from +her fingers while she sat sadly watching and mutely +wondering. She realised that he was sloughing the +old love for the new, and she felt the prick of sacrifice +when she saw the stones glitter on the wife’s fingers +the following night. She knew that she had been +replaced utterly and for ever. Then it was that she +began to mourn that she had never dared have other +children because she had been terrified by her son’s +queer jealousies. But she had had the pleasure of +spoiling him. It was spoiled goods in a way that +she was passing on to another, if that could be any +satisfaction to her.</p> + +<p>John Goldenough’s love for his wife passed by the +path of passion into jealousy, his underlying and +besetting mood. Jealousy is as delicious a sauce as +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_90">[Pg 90]</span>can flick the palate of a woman, who is in love with +the man who exercises jealousy on her behalf. But +when her love has been worn to boredom and only a +stump of convention marks the spot where once grew +the fairy tree of their romance, jealousy thrives like +poison-ivy round the dead wood. During the first +ten years of their marriage John Goldenough had +forbidden his wife to bear him children, partly out of +a sense of economy and partly, though this he never +admitted, because he wished to keep his wife’s love +concentrated upon himself.</p> + +<p>Himself an only son, he intended to have an only +son towards the end of his married life, and thought +it perfectly appropriate and proper to keep his issue +within this drastic limitation. He liked to feel her +sentimental as well as her material dependence upon +him. This dependence he thought could be prolonged +while she was childless. That she should +entertain an admirer had hardly crossed his imagination. +As it was, he could not bear other men to sit +beside her at table, and the politest and most constrained +givers of compliments to his wife were thrown +into terrified exit. In the end neither his friends nor +hers cared to call, esteeming themselves fortunate if +he showed himself merely nervous and not in some +way objectionable. He had been jealous at different +times of her mother-in-law and even of her maidservant. +She was compelled to shed them both. If +his love had become jealousy, hers had become fear.</p> + +<p>Despairing of finding some anchor for the desire +she still had to love something, she let a child live +and quicken under her heart. It was some time +before she let her husband know what was coming. +When he realised it, all his queerness came to the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_91">[Pg 91]</span>surface. Though he hung around her still like a +hawk around a chicken coop, he showed no gentler +shade of feeling toward her. His eyes seemed to +pass through her and to strike into the oblique future. +However interesting she might have become, he was +no longer interested in her personally. His mind +and soul were concentrated on the coming child, +of whom he quickly became jealous to the exclusion +even of the poor all-including mother. The sense of +paternal possession proved stronger than any marital +pride. As father of the coming child he demanded +some sympathy and praise, and finally took to +his bed in expectation of visits, gifts, and finally +congratulations.</p> + +<p>John Goldenough’s thoughts carried him afar. +The occasion was solemn enough in all conscience. +It was possible that a future head of Goldenough +Brothers was shortly approaching the earth. If the +child were male, what a vista opened before the +heir and successor of himself! In political circles a +Plumbing Peerage had already been mooted, and if +Plumbing, like Beer, Shipyards and tintacks, was to +produce a Peerage, who could be more suitable than +John Goldenough? To the man in the street the +plumbing age was synchronous with the rise and fame +of the great firm. And each time that John Goldenough’s +name was mentioned, the pulse of every +plumber in the Empire beat higher. It was an heir +to his future Peerage that he imagined. He could not +sufficiently impress upon his wife the care, the thought, +and the isolation which must surround her in a prospect +of such importance. Dull and listless, she +awaited the days of dreariness; the weeks of weariness, +which prelude motherhood. He had caused her to +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_92">[Pg 92]</span>occupy a room at the end of the passage, in which he +himself lay camped, intercepting her presents and +friends, and taking up more of the doctor’s time than +the patient herself. He felt a new importance, and +demanded the same reverence in the home that he +received in the plumbing world. He resented every +attention she received, all of which in some oblique +process of thought he wished to be applied to himself. +The child was his, and he felt an uncontrollable sense +of possession welling under his sense of pompous pride. +He grudged every moment that the child remained +part of its mother. He longed for the speedy dissolution +of their company, when he could take the +child into his arms and show the world that it was +his and his only.</p> + +<p>The moment came unexpectedly, for neither the +doctor nor nurse was under the roof when John +Goldenough was awakened from sleep by the premature +groans of his wife. He roused himself and hurried +into the room in which she was confined. He stumbled +twice and switched on the light with delay. To his +horror he saw that he was late. The child had been +born! He rushed to the bell to ring the alarm and +to bring medical aid. Then he hesitated, rushed to +the bedside and lifted the baby into the awaiting cot +and blanket. It was a boy, and a fierce burst of +pride and satisfaction outweighed any anxiety rising +in his mind for the mother, who lay quietly breathing +in the exhaustion of accomplished pain. It was a +boy! That was the great thing. Goldenough Brothers +would be perpetuated through the ages!</p> + +<p>Vistas of cosmic thought swept through his brain +during those seconds. He looked back unto the +foundation of Goldenough Brothers if not as far as +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_93">[Pg 93]</span>the beginning of the world, and he looked ahead and +saw the firm majestically installed around the world. +Where the name of Goldenough was not known was +simply not civilisation; that was all. If he had had +imagination, his mind might have visualised the firm +in Biblical guise contracting for the water-pipes of +Babel. But his social and personal pride was sufficient +to inspire him to mutter, “John, second Lord Goldenough,” +as he lifted and laid down the infant. He +covered him with the blanket and returned to the bell. +With his finger upon the knob again he hesitated. He +heard an arresting groan from his wife. It was the +first notice he had taken of her. Once more his +thought flashed ahead murkily, and he foresaw her +recovery, her maternal triumph, her possession of his +boy, perhaps as intimate and absorbing as his mother’s +devotion to himself. And he shuddered with jealousy. +It was his boy and he wanted no mother’s tender care +to soften the strong abiding bond between father +and son. He glanced at the child’s cot. In the far +past of buried deeds and dead thoughts he recalled +a child’s cot similar to this one. It gave him a dreamy +sensation of some previous existence, some underground +occurrences, but very far back. He could not +recollect the circumstance, but the sight of the baby +in the cot filled him with a vivid and fierce desire +to be rid of something. Flaming jealousy demanded +blood. His eye fell full on his wife, and a passion of +murderous envy coloured the very retina of his eye. +He could not bear to think that the success, the joy +and the satisfaction of the boy’s birth would redound +to her. He would have liked to kill her, and to +throw the nightlight upon the sheets if he could be +certain that they would have risen in solid, enveloping, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_94">[Pg 94]</span>destroying flame. His finger still hovered on the +unpressed bell. The alarm had not been given, and it +crossed the cunning of his frantic mind that, if he +waited a while, perhaps she would die of her own +exhaustion. She had not recovered consciousness. +Perhaps she never would.</p> + +<p>He stood feeling the bell knob. She gave another +deep groan, and moved as though in helpless signal +for aid. He guessed that she was slowly expiring of +hæmorrhage. The baby was quiet, and he needed +only to stand there waiting and watching till the +right moment came to sound the bell. He would be +found there striving to save her by her bedside, the +perfect type of the mourning, maladroit husband. +It was a question of timing the doctor’s arrival in +order that it might appear that everything had been +done, but that the Hand of God had been lifted against +good Brother Goldenough, so prosperous and happy +in all other affairs of life. In his mind he was already +dictating the notices which would appear in the local +Press in edifying eulogy of his dead wife and in considerate +sympathy for himself. His finger trembled +on the bell. Still he waited. A rattle of breath +had begun to sound in her uncovered throat. Her +broken body began to heave like a rudderless ship. +Then she fell quiet and seemed to sink like a corpse +under the debris of the bed. With a calm finger +John Goldenough deliberately rang the electric bell.</p> + +<p>The house was roused, but it was half an hour before +the doctor arrived in a terrible state of anxiety. He +had confidently prophesied the birth for the following +week. Meantime hysterical maids had chafed his +wife’s hands and poured brandy into her icy mouth. +The doctor felt her pulse and turned aside to the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_95">[Pg 95]</span>baby, which he lifted and examined with continued +anxiety. John Goldenough had retired, leaving the +medical profession to clear his work.</p> + +<p>Returning to his room he waited for the first bulletin. +Nurses arrived and the doctor’s colleagues were summoned. +Apparently she was making a fight of it +yet. An hour passed.</p> + +<p>The doctor, with a ghastly face, presented himself +at John Goldenough’s door. “I am sorry to have to +bring such bad news.”</p> + +<p>John Goldenough looked up with assumed despair. +“My poor wife, my poor wife!” he said, and buried +his face with much fantastic sobbing in his hands.</p> + +<p>The doctor laid his hand on his shoulder and said: +“Your wife, I am happy to say, will live, though she +has had a narrow escape.”</p> + +<p>John Goldenough stood upright. “What is your +bad news, then?” he asked feebly.</p> + +<p>“The boy is dead. He must have been born an +hour before my arrival. His umbilical cord was never +fastened, and he bled to death. If I could have +arrived only half an hour sooner!” And he passed +out.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_96">[Pg 96]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="THE_DRUMMER_OF_GORDONMUIR"> + THE DRUMMER OF GORDONMUIR + </h2> +</div> + + +<p>Two years before the war broke out, I became +trustee to Allan Gordon, of Gordonmuir, in the +county of Argyle and kingdom of Scotland. He +was not more than a fledged schoolboy when he +inherited his uncle’s property and the nominal chieftainship +of the clan. My connection was distant, but +I was persuaded by his aunt to supervise his affairs. +A week later, I found myself sitting in the “Flying +Scotchman” with an old lawyer for colleague, who +confided to me that he did not expect the estate +to bear our travelling expenses.</p> + +<p>Late that night, after a ten miles’ drive from the +station in the drenching embrace of a Scotch mist, +we reached Gordonmuir. I was chilled to the heart +when I first viewed the mixture of Indian bungalow +and mediæval dungeon that made up Allan’s mansion. +In the centre was a stone keep, ivy-clad, crumbling, +and crenellated. On either wing in the inclosure, where +they used to herd the stolen cattle, was a modern +shooting box attached with the minimum of architectural +art. My companion shivered in the gaunt +doorway like one of his old parchments crackling in +a draught. But Allan ran out, as cheery and cock-a-hoop +as the chieftain’s feather in his bonnet. He +seemed the one representative of joy and life within +that grisly precinct.</p> + +<p>We passed the whole of the next day discussing +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_97">[Pg 97]</span>wills and mortgages in the dead jargon of Scots law. +My colleague wished to pay off the mortgages and +the annuity due to Allan’s aunt, but there was equally +the question of Allan’s allowance at the university to +be considered, and I plumped for as much as the rickety +estate would allow. I felt that college life comes but +once, and not to everybody, and that three hundred +pounds was necessary to uphold the dignity of a +young laird thrown among Jews and Saxons.</p> + +<p>The lawyer insisted on cutting it down to fifty, +to preserve what he called a “feenancial aspeect.” +But Allan was satisfied; and so was I, when I found +that his gratitude took the form of free trout-fishing +for life. Trustees are not generally rewarded; in +fact, as my gloomy colleague reiterated, they are +oftener liable to terms of imprisonment for inadvertently +touching trust money with other than the legal +end of the poker. So I left the rest of the business +to his care and started out to test Allan’s trout—in +my opinion the most valuable stock he possessed.</p> + +<p>The old lawyer remained perfectly content wheezing +snuff to blow away the damp that rose out of the old +parchments, while Allan and I were whipping the +neighbouring lakes with iron-bodied flies twisting at +the end of silver gut. After a week’s work, the lawyer +left us to ourselves for good.</p> + +<p>“There are grand sheepskins in your chest,” he +told Allan, on departing, “and specimens of Scotch +law in all its manifold application. And there’s +much of interest concerning your family, much of +good report and some of ill—and one tale among the +papers that I reserve for your ears alone, though your +gillie, Murdoch, whom I have been questioning, can +serve you the popular version.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_98">[Pg 98]</span></p> + +<p>When the lawyer had gone, I never cared to ask +Allan what this might be; and reticence is to be +encouraged in youth. It was not for two years that +I was to learn.</p> + +<p>Meantime, I had taken vacations regularly at +Gordonmuir. Every autumn I travelled north with +a skein of trout lines and feather flies in my lap. It +is the one perfect occupation in a train. It plies the +heart with reminiscence and expectation by turns. +It soothes away more hours of motion than reading +or talking, and it leaves the mind active and the +fingers nimble at the end of the journey. Often have +I thought of patenting it as a railway amusement, +but then the true and complete anglers whom it +would occupy are diminished to few in the land.</p> + +<p>I used to arrive at Gordonmuir with my cap and +pockets bristling with silk flies and lengths of gut +every autumn. And Gordonmuir in autumn!—when +the skies have settled into their summer sheen and +the red heath is running to dull purple; when the +long, billowy hills lie reflected on the waters that +float above their foundations in the Hebridean sea, +hills that change their marine flora a few yards above +the rocky tide belt for all the sweeter weeds of earth—sea +pinks for mountain heather and the long yellow +tide ribbons for the crisp bracken and harts-tongue +ferns. Hills of transformation and wonder! At their +feet the heavy, opaque water of the sea lounges over +rocks studded with green limpets and suckstones, +while in their hollows, under the clouds above, the +bubbling springs run into fresh streams and lakes. +But the best contrast of all is furnished by the coarse, +lubberly fish that basks under the shadow of the rocks, +fit only for the seine net and the spear of the poacher; +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_99">[Pg 99]</span>a fish without a soul. But a good Providence replaces +him in the higher, dew-fed waters with the merry +brook trout—as gamy a jester, in his motley of red +spot and yellow, as ever tumbled at one end of a +fifty-foot line.</p> + +<p>It was this perennial sport that drove away the +gloom and discomfort attached to Allan’s residence. +He kept no servant but Murdoch, who was better at +twisting flies than making beds, and could stalk +game more easily that he could cook it. The house +itself remained dreary even when flooded by the five +thousand acres of sunshine included in the property. +It looked what it was—the half-dismantled mansion +of a line of fighters and spendthrifts. Even at night, +Allan’s red family claret and silver-sconce lights—sole +heirlooms besides a lock of the Pretender’s hair—were +as insufficient to clear the gauntness of the +atmosphere as the burning sunset and white starlight +to drive the evening mists from the hills.</p> + +<p>But our days were largely spent in the open air, +and evening found us too tired to care whether our +shelter was uncanny or not. Matters ghostly were +drowned in the steam of smoking cakes and trout +baked so fresh that their red spots showed like red +wax under the melting butter. And now that the +old days have passed away and that the iron has +swept over our home life, it is good to look back and +enjoy their memory.</p> + +<p>By the summer of last year, Allan had completed +his second year at Oxford, and I was enjoying my +third successive holiday for his and his estate’s benefit. +We had fished together through a sun-smitten June, +and filled a rush basket daily with peacock-coloured +troutlings. About the middle of July, a strange +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_100">[Pg 100]</span>thing broke the lazy monotony of life—the first, and +I hope the last, of its kind to come to me.</p> + +<p>We had finished our supper one night, and I was +sitting alone at the open casement of the dining-room, +watching the wonderful twilight night that doubles +summertime for those who live in northern latitude. +It was so light that the birds were stirring and calling +on the moors around. So full was the air of the +elusive, haunting sounds of the Highlands that I +found myself listening to a steady drumming beyond +the chestnuts in the avenue without remembering +exactly how or when it started. It was a distinct tap-tap-tap, +followed by a sequence of rub-a-dubbing, +and then a full drum symphony; a simple old tune, +but, coming in the white night, it sounded eerie +beyond words.</p> + +<p>For the moment I could only imagine it was some +kind of monstrous woodpecker, and I went upstairs +to ask Allan if there were such a species. He laughed +loud at my ornithology, and in a burst of rank college +wit mixed a long name out of the Latin for owl and +my own patronymic for the new midnight bird, +discovered by a south Briton travelling in high +latitude.</p> + +<p>But his mirth quieted when I insisted that it +sounded like a drum. He seemed startled, and +jerked down the creaky stairway. A minute later +he rang for Murdoch, and I heard him talking in a +calm undertone, which I confess did not prepare me +for the quaking tones of his gillie’s reply. It did not +sound like the brawny mountaineer I had known for +weeks without suspecting a chink in his heart. But +there could be no doubt, judging from his voice, that +Murdoch was exceedingly afraid. And fear in the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_101">[Pg 101]</span>unsubtle is not as the fear of the educated—it is +something far more primitive. A college man can +temper his fears with scepticism, but an honest, +superstitious gillie is without help. Murdoch was as +changed as the hills in winter. He trembled, and the +sweat ran off his face.</p> + +<p>“Oh, Master Allan, Master Allan, I know well that +drumming! It can only be the Drummer of Gordonmuir +that I was telling to you.”</p> + +<p>“Holy God!” said Allan. “Not so soon again! +Who can he come for now? I’m not nearly old +enough.”</p> + +<p>“Heaven will need to watch over you day and +night, my poor Master Allan,” moaned Murdoch.</p> + +<p>This sounded strange to me. I had never heard +Allan invoke his Creator before, for he had streaks +of Scotch righteousness remaining in his otherwise +untheological nature. He turned around as I descended +the stairs.</p> + +<p>“Come in here and listen!” he said.</p> + +<p>The drumming had ceased.</p> + +<p>“I don’t hear a sound of it. Perhaps it was +imagination,” I said, listening carefully.</p> + +<p>“No, I mean listen to the story,” he answered +quickly. “But first tell me honestly what you +made of it.”</p> + +<p>“Well, Allan,” I could only reply, “I’ve already +told you that since there is no species of woodpecker +that drills into Scotch timber at midnight with a +sound you can hear a mile off, it struck me as remarkably +like a drum.”</p> + +<p>Allan stood at the open window for a moment +before shoving the casement down with a jerk.</p> + +<p>“That’s what it is exactly, and probably my aunt +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_102">[Pg 102]</span>is dead now.” And he left me in the room with this +enigma, in order to comfort Murdoch, who was on +his knees outside, muttering what sounded uncommonly +like spells against witchcraft.</p> + +<p>He sent Murdoch to bed, and then poured out some +brandy.</p> + +<p>“I suppose you have some inkling of what that +drum means,” he said, handing me a glass. “I’d +better tell you the story now, at least what our friend, +the lawyer, put together from letters in the muniment-room. +You know, of course, that we have a fetch, +like all well-regulated families in the Highlands. +The whole county <ins id='cor_102' title='Original: belives'>believes</ins> in the Drummer of Gordonmuir, +who plays the unholy part of death-watch to +our little establishment. The lawyer found a paper +that described the movements of the clan when we +turned out for Prince Charlie in 1745. Apparently +they shared in his first successes, for they sent back +an English drummer prisoner. Two of them were left +to guard him, and, because he wouldn’t play some +rebel air, they lowered him down the wellhead up +to his shins in water. But, barbarous as they were +in those times, I don’t think they intended his death.</p> + +<p>“After the Battle of Culloden, there was some alarm +of the English coming, and they scattered to the hills, +forgetting their prisoner, I suppose; at least they +left him to his friends, if they believed they were +coming. But the English never came, and the poor +drummer was left drumming vainly in that wellhead +to attract attention. It must have been a weary +death.</p> + +<p>“Weeks afterward, the clansmen crept home, +and my ancestor had to invent excuses and alibis to +save his property from confiscation. They found +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_103">[Pg 103]</span>the prisoner lying in the well with his sheepskin +drummed right through and the drumsticks chewed +in his teeth. It was an ugly thing to find under the +place where our rearing and living and dying were due +to go on till doomsday. If ever a spirit had the leisure, +and, I am sorry to say, just cause to possess itself +of a family mansion, it was surely that drummer.</p> + +<p>“At first there was talk about building on a fresh +site, but lack of funds drove them to the alternative +of burying the drummer, with an iron stake to pin +his body to the bottom of the sea in a place where +two tides meet. I suppose they got the recipe from +some old witch who had escaped the faggots in the +previous century. They burned the drum on a fire +of dead men’s bones, and filled up the wellhead with +all manner of heathenish rites.</p> + +<p>“But it was not the least good. The drummer +rose out of the sea, and he has drummed every +Gordon of Gordonmuir, male or female, cradled or +crutched, into the kirkyard when their day came. +He drums up yonder whenever one of our family +is going to die. He generally gives us a week or a +month’s warning, as he feels inclined. Murdoch +will tell you how he drummed my poor uncle frantic +before he died, four years ago. That’s why he is +scared for me. Personally, I feel too hale to be anxious, +and, besides, I have come to the comfortable conclusion +that my aunt is dying and her annuity with +her.” And he tried to laugh.</p> + +<p>Neither of us could strip or sleep that night, sitting +bolt upright over our brandy till the morning. We +listened and listened, and whether it was only the +wild echo of my imagination or that Allan’s aunt +was very hard of dying, I am persuaded that we +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_104">[Pg 104]</span>heard the drumming come and go, go and come, the +whole night.</p> + +<p>It was several days before we warmed to the fishing +again, and even then Murdoch’s gloom turned us into +mutes. Allan cheered up, however, became hilarious +even, when a judicious inquiry as to his aunt’s health +brought a favourable reply. My last traces of +uneasiness were dissolved a day later in the death +struggles of a tremendous six-pound trout with a +back of Tyrian purple and a hooked under jaw like +Punch.</p> + +<p>In such wise we fished away our last days together +on earth, and I would not change their manner even +if I had them back again.</p> + +<p>The gradual approach of autumn made the passage +of July more beautiful than ever. The stone pines +stood waiting for winter in their burnished green, +while the chestnuts below flushed to crimson as if +with modesty at the coming nudity of their boughs. +Under them all, the wood bracken sobered to yellow +and then to burnt madder, until it became indistinguishable +from the earth tint. Farther below, the summer-coloured +sea heaved through masses of orange weed +the sunlight seemed to have charmed out of her +submerged gardens. And with the dying splendour +of summer passed away the last days of peace.</p> + +<p>August brought war.</p> + +<p>It makes a short story to tell what occurred in the +weeks following. Allan left Gordonmuir immediately +to rejoin his university’s training corps, of which +he was a member. His family name and county +standing procured him a probationary commission +in a Scotch regiment already serving in France. +He left for the war, with Murdoch as his soldier +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_105">[Pg 105]</span>servant, and I saw him no more. He did not reach +the actual front until after the retreat of the British +army from Mons, but he was in time to share in the +astounding battle of Ypres, and, alas! to perish in its +final stages. The brief War Office telegram announcing +his death, with Lord Kitchener’s regrets, was sent to his +trustees.</p> + +<p>Allan was the last of the Gordons of Gordonmuir. +As his sole relative, his aunt, declined to live there +in his stead, the house has been abandoned, and it +may be said that the curse of the Gordons has come +home to roost in its decaying timbers for ever.</p> + +<p>Yet that is not all.</p> + +<p>Six weeks later, I found myself a few miles behind +the battle front where Allan had been killed. I had +volunteered my services as an interpreter, and was +posted to the unwarlike business of searching the +German prisoners for documents and diaries, which I +translated for the intelligence of the general staff as +well as my limited German permitted.</p> + +<p>One day I was crossing the street in the little French +town where we were quartered when some of our +wounded were brought in. One of them called out +to me by name in a piteous tone, but I did not recognise +who lay under the red linen bandages till the voice +went on:</p> + +<p>“Eh, man, do ye not remember that famous trout +we were catching together?”</p> + +<p>It was Murdoch. He had been hit in the head, +and was raving, but he knew me and continued +to call for me and Allan, while they lifted him into +the temporary hospital. I visited him regularly, +and when he was better, he was able to tell me the +circumstances of Allan’s death:</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_106">[Pg 106]</span></p> + +<p>“It was terrible, just terrible, from the start to +the finish. We were marched one way and another +and posted at last about the city they call ‘Wipers.’ +Master Allan was given a ditch to hold, which is no +proper covering for a Highland gentleman. To the +right was a wood lined by an English regiment, +and on the other side of us was the colonel and the +rest of our men. The shells never stopped falling +out of the air like invisible rocks that blew to dust +before you could mark them. Soon the Germans +began to come across the fields as packed as a shoal +of fish, and squalling like the gulls that follow the +fish in the bay—stout-looking men with spikes on their +heads like the first show of a stag’s antler.</p> + +<p>“We all fired away, making easy shooting. Master +Allan took my rifle, and I sat loading for him until +it was too hot to touch. When all the men next to us +were killed, we picked up their rifles and stood together +committing manslaughter without thought of judge +or jury. But the Germans never ceased coming, +and the men in our ditch grew fewer and fewer with the +shell fire. Every now and again there came a burst +among us like a quarry blast, save that it was limbs +and pieces of men that fell out of the air afterward +instead of bits of rock. And blood enough there was +running out of that ditch to taint the Solway Firth.</p> + +<p>“At last, after the wounded were taken to the +rear, there was only Master Allan and myself left. +A little farther on, we could see the colonel and a +single private loading his rifle for him. The colonel +sent him for reinforcements, but he never came back. +Then the colonel signalled to me to join him. I +crawled down the ditch to his side, and he told me +to take word to his commander that his bit of the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_107">[Pg 107]</span>line was worn away, and to ask should he rely on +angels or fresh troops to hold it.</p> + +<p>“I left them there, Master Allan and the colonel, +firing their shoulderful of rifles in unison, so as to +give the Germans the impression that they were +still in good force. I started crawling and running +in turns till I came across an outpost, who took me +to the general’s head-quarters—just a table behind a +blackened hayrick, but it was good protection.</p> + +<p>“The general gave a grim laugh when I delivered +the message, and told me that he had just sent the +last cooks and camp followers up to the line with +rifles.</p> + +<p>“‘And tell your colonel,’ he added, with a look +that might have been either despair or mockery, +‘that he had better rely on angels for lack of more +material reinforcement, but you can also add that +we do not expect the Germans to come on again. +They seem to have had enough of it for to-day.’</p> + +<p>“I set out to make my way back, and had crossed +half-way over the sticky fields when I heard a sound +that set my heart beating harder than the German +cannonading could make it. You would hardly +believe it, but I heard the rolling of a drum up +in the clouds. At first I couldn’t distinguish it +above the booming of the guns and the crackling +of the rifle fire. But there came a lull, and the +drum began rapping out like the crying of the +moor fowl between the discharges of a thunderstorm, +and it brought the tears to my eyes and the +fear of God to my heart, for I know the Summoner of +Gordonmuir by now, and, oh, to think that he should +have crossed the seas to play the last of the Gordons +of Gordonmuir home! It was a grand and wonderful +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_108">[Pg 108]</span>sound to hear the noise of battle dying away to our +right and the artillery bursting out on our left, and +all the while, above German and Scotch and English, +our bonny Drummer playing the devil’s own march +out of God’s sky!</p> + +<p>“But before I found the ditch again, I lost my +way and the darkness came over me. I was hit by a +bullet in the leg, and the loss of blood took the heart +and the feeling out of me, and I just lay down within +sound of the Drummer and waited to die. In the +morning, they picked me up unconscious, but not too +badly hurt, for I was back in the line a fortnight later.</p> + +<p>“But Master Allan and his colonel, they found +them lying where I had left them, in the midst of a +pile of empty rifles. The Germans never dared come +up to the pair of them, though they could have marched +straight forward and none to hinder them. Maybe +they were afeared and maybe their bones were too +heavy, and maybe the Drummer of Gordonmuir +had drummed holy terror into their souls. I am +thinking that the Germans must be an unholy people +and displeasing to Almighty God, that He should +allow the heathen spirits and kelpies out of the woods +to come all the way from Scotland to discourage +them!”</p> + +<p>Poor Murdoch! He was hard hit this time, and +he began to rave again. It was the same story he +told again and again until the night he died, holding +my hand and calling out to Allan. I have no doubt +that he is acting gillie to him somewhere in the next +world, beyond space and the other side of time. He +would not have wished to live after his chief.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>A month later, a postscript to this story reached +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_109">[Pg 109]</span>me as strangely as such things can occur. I was +sitting up one night in my billet, translating a batch +of German papers and sorting what useful intelligence +I could glean from the epistolary rigmarole, when a +written date stabbed me like a knife.</p> + +<p>It was the date of the day on which Allan had been +killed, and it headed what purported to be a private +soldier’s account of the fighting from the side of the +attack. I read it through very carefully and then +made a translation, not for the use of the general +staff, but for the trustees of Gordonmuir. The last +page ran as follows:</p> + +<blockquote> + +<p class="right"> + <i>Before Ypres, October 31, 1914.</i> +</p> + +<p>In spite of the fierce attacks which we delivered +during the day, the English line was not perceptibly +thinned in any direction where we could push our +final thrust. At one point of attack we could +distinctly hear the drums of the enemy playing +all the time to the rear, which showed that they +had available men in that direction. This, together +with a slackening of fire, gave us to understand +that it was a ruse. We shifted our attack +accordingly down the line, but up to this moment we +have not yet broken through.</p> +</blockquote> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_110">[Pg 110]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="THE_SUPREME_COMPLIMENT"> + THE SUPREME COMPLIMENT + </h2> +</div> + + +<p>She was very beautiful, far and away the most +beautiful feminine divinity of our generation. It +was a puzzle how the Manufacturer of Gods +and Goddesses achieved her manufacture with the +human elements at His disposal, for even the +most exquisite skeleton of whittled ivory as a background +and the finest modelling of the refined and +rosy clay of girlhood, all tightly and attractively +enclosed in the thinnest and most transparent chicken-skin, +could not account for the charm of Melissa Delme. +Minute were the saphenous veins underlying her +satined skin. Her eyes were glaucous as those +of the grey-eyed Athena. Her hair was as barley-sugar +finely spun. Her lips tied a tiny tulip. Her +feet were quicksilver. No reference to her stage +success is needed. From the moment that she first +appeared at the Hounslow Hippodrome to the series +of rapturous farewells for ever associating her name +with Worthing Pier, her professional path was a +rose alley and her private life a continual and seraphic +serenade.</p> + +<p>Perhaps that was why it was so dull. It was all +Up without Down. Her whole life worked like a +little piece of divine clockwork. Delicate as was +her art, her success was machinelike. It was too +perfect to admit of any criticism or even of much +discussion. It is true there was some division in +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_111">[Pg 111]</span>the Clubs as to whether she sang better than she +acted or whether she played the violin better than +either. At White’s a vote was actually taken and +her power of song exalted above her expression in +music. The Travellers’, on the other hand, decided +that she danced even better than she sang. At the +Bachelors’, however, these matters remained too painful +for discussion.</p> + +<p>So her life remained unutterably dull. Every man +who met her fell in love punctually at the third minute, +and remained doing and saying and presumably thinking +the same things at scheduled intervals. The +London male seemed to be furbished and furnished +from the same gigantic slot-machine. She had only +to drop a pennyworth of smile and press with her +hand, for the same wearisome sequel to follow, the +same inane amatory collapse, the same letters, the +same flowers to match the cut and dry compliments, +the same proposals. For a fortnight she once fled to +America in wild hope of variety and adventure, but +returned sadly after enduring the same accents and +the same accidents from New York to Chicago, and +back.</p> + +<p>Melissa Delme remained on the stage for two years +of crowded life and crowded audiences. But the +greater the crowds that flocked to see and hear her, +the more lonely she became. She was too bright a +constellation to become companionable. Had she +been less a paragon she might have found a paramour. +But she remained as intact and virtuous as a marble +statue in the midst of a shopful of brittle and vulgar +Chelsea china. She was really a little too beautiful +and it had made her capricious and careless. Some +women try to resemble posters, but it was the posters +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_112">[Pg 112]</span>that tried to look like Melissa Delme. She had long +ceased to care whether she was admired or not. She +only cared whether she admired herself. All other +admiration was commonplace, but the flashing compliments +of her mirror were Narcissan and acceptable. +Externally she became exquisitely unique. Within +she remained unabatingly bored. She never expected +to fall in love. The God, Who made her, had exhausted +Himself, and in finishing His masterpiece forgot or +withheld one thing, the capability of receiving or +feeling love. So she remained the divine masterpiece +and mistress of no man. Then the time came when +she was understood to be considering proposals and +they multiplied, but without disclosing more +originality than so many tenders from British tradesmen. +The first note of variety occurred in the letter +of a Cabinet Minister in Holland. She read it and +took it as a joke, but in the end she married him and +took a Dutch treat. Tell it not in White’s and whisper +it not at the Bachelors’ Club! It appeared that he +held a very responsible position in his own country as +Minister of Cheeses. So she settled down in the +romantic Hague and gave birth to a succession of +little Dutch dolls. There is no foundation to the +rumour that she was the only woman to cause jealousy +to the Queen of Holland. She was never anything +but virtuous, beautiful and bored. In the end her +beauty bored herself. She was too beautiful; that +was all. There was no flaw in her morals or in her +looks. She was only discovered to be not quite +human, which was not surprising as she had been +created a Goddess.</p> + +<p>But it is historical to relate that supreme efforts +were made during her sparkling career on the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_113">[Pg 113]</span>stage to deviate her virtue and to keep her for +England.</p> + +<p>When all ordinary compliments had failed, the more +ingenious of her admirers set themselves on the path +of invention. One of them sent her a beautiful leather +toilet bag with every article made in chocolate—chocolate +hair-brushes, chocolate flasks and bottles, +chocolate scissors and manicure with enough silver-paper +to give the illusion of reality. She played with +it for half an hour before she sent it to the Children’s +Hospital. I mention this comparative success, for +the idea was originally mine and was carried out by +my dear friend Ernest Beaugent, who spent the best +years of his life and genius courting Melissa Delme. +His hot rival during those years was his brother Peter, +who on hearing of the success of my chocolate immediately +and recklessly capped the gift the next day +by sending her a whole portmanteau stuffed with +sweets. That was possibly why confectionery figured +so considerably in his later bankruptcy proceedings. +Then Melissa took to skating, and all her admirers +ransacked the dealers for skates—iron skates, steel +skates, American skates, Swiss skates, Norwegian +skates. However, Peter triumphed for a winter by +having a pair of skates made of gold with steel blades. +Gold skates could not be trumped, and it was not till +the spring that Ernest found occasion to cap the +compliment.</p> + +<p>It was over camellias. In those days flowers were +often unprocurable in England. There was no flower +express from the Riviera. The flower industry in the +Channel Isles had not been developed. To ask for +a bunch of camellias in January was like asking for +plovers’ eggs at Christmas. Yet that was exactly +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_114">[Pg 114]</span>what Melissa asked of Ernest one Monday morning, +presumably to be quit of his attentions for the week. +She was going to the Opera on the Wednesday and said +she would much like to carry a bouquet of camellias. +Instead of offering her the moon on a silver salver or +a slice of the sun, would he be practical enough to +procure so simple a nosegay? Ernest went out +thinking. That night he crossed to Paris. Melissa +must have thought no more of him, for he afterwards +learnt that she had ordered herself a large spray of +artificial blossoms. He crossed to Paris because he +did not believe that the camellias were really impossible +to obtain. He happened to be a railway director by +trade, and one of an inventive turn of mind. Though +born a gentleman and bred a graduate, he had surprised +Victorian society by becoming a competent +engine-driver. He had qualified in all the tests, and +every Saturday instead of a ride in the Park or joining +a shooting-party he used to drive an Express to some +watering-place on the South Coast. He was on the +Company’s reserve list of drivers in case of invasion +or railway strike. And in emergency he was always +liable to be summoned. Several times he had driven +Royalty without mention of his name being made in +the Court Circular. It remains, by the way, for a +Labour Government to insert among the names of +guests or preachers who have the honour of boring their +Majesties the names of the honest engineers and +stokers who have the honour of driving them.</p> + +<p>Ernest’s Directorship enabled him to keep back +the next train due to leave for Calais, which being duly +caught he sat back and let thoughts run through his +brain valves with an open throttle. He reached Paris +the next morning and called on his French colleagues, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_115">[Pg 115]</span>who were Directors of the lines to the Riviera. Haltingly +but obstinately he explained how important it +was that he should have certain flowers in London by +the evening of the following day. It was believed +that there was one horticulturist in the South of France +who kept a camellia farm.</p> + +<p>He had long held the repute of a mad Englishman +among his French colleagues and his predilection for +driving engines appeared only a vagary of sport. It +was more conceivable to them that he should want a +special train to fetch camellias from the Riviera, but +even so whether it was, as he said, for a wedding or, +as they suspected, <i>pour complimenter une dame</i>, it +seemed an inconceivable luxury. They suggested +telegraphing and arranging for the next train from the +Riviera to bring a few blossoms on his behalf. He +assented wildly and waited a day and a night in Paris. +He was fond of describing how the Riviera Express +reached Paris on the early morning of Wednesday +leaving him one half-hour to transfer the expected +bouquet of camellias to the first train leaving for +London. What was his amazement when he found +the officials of the train struggling under three huge +baskets full!</p> + +<p>There was just time to convey them from the <i>Paris, +Lyon Méditerranée</i> station to the train at the <i>Gare +du Nord</i>. That evening he reached her apartment +and sent a fresh bouquet to her while she was dressing. +The answer was an invitation to her box that night. +He had moved her at last! The compliment had shot +home and it only remained for him to crown his deed +by scattering the remainder of the flowers outside her +doors as a surprise. He emptied three basketfuls. +There were a hundred bunches at least in each and to +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_116">[Pg 116]</span>his delight they carpeted the whole of the tiny space +between her dressing-room and her sitting-room. +Bunch by bunch he flowered the floor and went his +way. The result could only be imagined. When +Melissa Delme swept out of her room in an opera cloak +of the colour of green agate with a silver lining she +felt her feet treading on something soft. It was a +minute before she realised that the carpet had changed +its touch and texture during the time she had taken +to change herself into evening clothes. Later in the +evening she allowed Ernest to know that he had added +a full minute’s delight to her simpler emotions. It +was undiluted triumph!</p> + +<p>News of Ernest’s <i>coup</i> percolated the Clubs and +led to more and more serious attempts to win the +unwinnable. His contemporaries racked their brains +and their bank accounts in the endeavour to surprise +and please her, but she was difficult to surprise and +impossible to please. For her generation she remained +more than a little unattainable. She was the great +unattained. In fantasy I can visualise her now. +She had green-pupilled eyes like emeralds washed under +spring water, and hair that was neither gold nor +bronze. Her step was long famous on the boards. It +was said by critics to be precisely composed of a +Fairy’s falter, an Angel’s tread and a Dryad’s trip. +The divinities entrusted with her composition had +very deceptively fitted layers of Aphrodite and Adonis +in the mould without vitiating the exquisiteness of +her sex. Her boyishness made her girlishness even +more feminine. Her femininity framed her boyishness +to perfection. While she reigned on the stage, her +dazzling purity, based on boredom and the unfortunate +omission of one vital element in her celestial make-up, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_117">[Pg 117]</span>made the acting profession even more respectable than +it really is. Clergymen’s daughters applied for places +in the Chorus; an Archdeacon’s wife wrote a play +called “Archidiaconal Functions,” which three Bishops +incidentally denounced by Pastoral without having +read, and several Dowagers wrote to Mr. Edwardes +of the Gaiety Theatre giving permission for their +unmarried daughters to play leading parts.</p> + +<p>And all the while Ernest was devising new ways of +surprising her, and his brother was trying to cap and +supplant him. Ernest’s love became Platonic perforce. +He took the habit of inquiring her holiday movements +and taking the engine-driver’s place on the metals. +It pleased him fiercely to think that her life unwittingly +was in his hands; that he was even directing her path +and her speed; that while she lay back in cushioned +companionship he kept lone watch spying out her +lightning track, as though it had been granted to him +to carry her through space. The first time he had +hopped off the cab at the end of the journey and +revealed himself under his oily rags she was more than +surprised. For the second time in his life he had +pleased her. No admirer hitherto had adopted such +an unexpected disguise of approach. The second time +he appeared to her as an engine-driver she took no +notice. In the end he was content to drive the trains +in which she was travelling out of pure and unrewarded +intellectual love.</p> + +<p>Peter had no profession or accomplishments, so he +could only waste ways and means to keep step with +his brother’s courtship of Melissa. He once crossed +the Continent to watch her change trains at York. +She was staying in a country house, to which he had +failed of an invitation, but he travelled two days and +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_118">[Pg 118]</span>a night to be in time to meet her on the platform and +to carry her wraps to the next. Then he waited bareheaded +while her train drew out.</p> + +<p>Soon after this romantic excursion Peter’s affairs +passed from bad to worse financially, and finally a +family conclave met to decide whether to cut his +losses or cut him adrift. Peter was the only light-hearted +person at this domestic trial and investigation. +Though Melissa was never mentioned, it was found +that his debts had been largely incurred in planning and +conducting surprises, parties and compliments on her +behalf. His family were grave but generous. Ernest, +as head of the family, took a lenient view towards +one whom he considered an ineffectual rival; the +game was in his hands. He suggested that his brother +should leave the country and promise his family not +to return provided they guaranteed him a tolerable +income out of their own inheritances. Peter’s future +was thus settled. After the meeting Peter approached +his brother and rather limply muttered that he was +sorry to have caused all this trouble, but that if his +brother would lend him sixty pounds down that day +he would gladly sail to Australia and forgo the +annuity his relations so kindly proposed for him. He +promised they would never hear of him again unless +he struck gold or won the Melbourne Cup. Ernest +looked into his brother’s sheepy eyes and felt moved +both to pity and economy. It was surely better to +present him with sixty pounds then and there than to +give him a banker’s order for an annual hundred. He +drove him to the Bank and gave him the sum in crisp +new notes, said good-bye handsomely and returned to +his Club. He had reason to feel virtuous, generous +and comfortable.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_119">[Pg 119]</span></p> + +<p>An hour later he was about to sit down to a good +dinner when a messenger arrived from the Terminus +station-master with an emergency summons to drive +a Special to the South Coast that evening. He looked +at his watch. He had twenty minutes to get to +Victoria and look over his engine. It always did him +good mentally and physically to drive a fast train to +the sea, especially a small one made up of Saloon and +Guard’s Van. He could imagine making a speed +record with no stops. He was at Victoria in ten +minutes. His overalls were ready and his favourite +fireman was already wiping the clutches with an oil +rag. It was a new powerful engine, the finest on the +line, and he spent every minute before the start fingering +and touching levers and parts. Steam had brought +the boiler to the point of exasperation. At the sound +of the whistle he loosed the engine with a sniff and +a plunge across the Thames. It was exhilarating to +gather speed and he had no thought of the occupants +of the Saloon—semi-royalties or South American +millionaires, no doubt. He gave them a rippling run +over the steel threads through Surrey and Kent. +The engine throbbed and danced to all the emotions +that are procurable to steam and grease and steel, +and Ernest made the dash of his life—one indeed that +he was never to forget, though it was years before he +dared tell, even in the secret recesses of his Club.</p> + +<p>As he neared Folkestone he felt proud of his own +driving. He had not lost a minute out of the fastest +expected time. He was moving the engine across the +points as slickly as a dancer moves his partner in and +out of corners on a dancing floor. He slowed the +train down to an exact standstill like a musician +bringing to final poise and close some great piece upon +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_120">[Pg 120]</span>the organ. He felt the great instrument of hissing +pipes and pounding pistons and escaping winds sink +under his powerful handling to a solemn standstill. +But when all was over and the fireman was creeping +round the front of the engine with the oiler, Ernest +felt a certain curiosity to see what particular Pasha +or Serene Highness or Great Mogul or plain New +Yorker could have afforded the cost of such a trip. +Slipping off the panting mass of metal he passed round +the station into the waiting-room, through which the +passengers were bound to pass. With a greater throb +at heart than the engine had given in its fastest +moments, Ernest reeled. He had recognised that the +Serene Highness in this case was Melissa Delme. He +could only pull the greasy cap off his head and stand +to foolish attention. Whether she deigned to recognise +him or not he never knew, for he devoted his eyesight +to exchanging a long and meaning look with the +Pasha. The Pasha was brother Peter! Ernest said +he just stood and choked, as though he had swallowed +a lump of train grease. When the couple had both +disappeared in the direction of the Boulogne boat he +began to feel that there was something magnificent in +his brother’s performance. Ernest crawled home on +a goods train and on arrival at Victoria inquired what +the cost of the Special had been. He was told that it +had cost just sixty pounds!</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_121">[Pg 121]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="A_STUDY_IN_SMOKE"> + A STUDY IN SMOKE + </h2> +</div> + + +<p>All that winter of the war men laboured at +furious speed to furnish the guns which the +British Government had forgotten to make +before the war. Guns were needed imperatively for +the navy, and even more for the hapless army bogged +in Flanders mud. So the factories and foundries of +Woolhurst worked at full pressure. The factories +screamed and glittered through day and night, and +the foundries drew a muffled roar as an occasional red +mist burst out of their chimneys and a gun or part of a +gun was cast. It was slow but furious work—furious +in the detail of fire and molten metal, slow in the +aggregate of fitting and testing each mighty gun. +Furious work for the sweltering workers, stokers, and +moulders, but slow, infinitely slow, to the waiting +officials, and slowest still for the officers and men +waiting for gun equipment by land or sea.</p> + +<p>To beget a gun on official paper is a different thing +from its long generation and growth in the foundries. +An order can order but not quicken a gun’s delivery. +The most imperious official cannot make the molten +metal more malleable to man’s dire need.</p> + +<p>Thousands of workers wrought like cogs in a machine, +surrendering their thought and strength to the metal. +The pay was good and the toil overwhelming. There +was no time or strength left to think of anything +except the immediate toil. They were fascinated and +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_122">[Pg 122]</span>caught like moths upon the outskirts of that chaotic +bonfire for which they were binding iron faggots and +filling steel squibs. Cranes, lorries, and trucks picked +up their output and disappeared. There was no time +to ask a question. The harder and fiercer they worked, +the sooner the war would be over. Only madmen and +Socialists asked why. The argument stood that the +higher and brighter the bonfire was piled, the sooner it +would be burnt out to a finish. No one in the Woolhurst +factories queried the uselessness and meaninglessness +of all their labour except Ben, the local Labour +leader. Whatever he was known as to the officials, +he was Ben to his fellows, and always had been, in +strike and out of strike time. He worked with the +rest but he did not think with them. The bitter +humours, which a little reading and much agitating +had left in his brain, were not dissipated in the burning +fires of the foundry. He grew bitter as he grew +wearier. He felt careless whether he gave his full +power to the work of destroying the workmen of +another country. It was only the war of one ant-hill +against another. Patriotism had not caught him in +the board-school, and less during his apprenticeship to +work. His education was what he had given himself +out of the <i>Labour Press</i> and from second-hand copies +of Marx and Carlyle. As he grew careless, he grew +clumsier and earned the curses of the foreman, as far +as curses availed against the hot blasts. He hated his +work and all around him.... He hated the great +gun which they were casting in molten form. He +could see the white-hot metal pouring like milk out of +the furnace. The sight did not exhilarate him in the +way it seemed to inspire the others. His muscles +relaxed and his eyes went languidly out of focus. The +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_123">[Pg 123]</span>seething mass of blazing liquid drew his languor into +itself. The foreman was still cursing. It needed only +a touch to upset his balance. Without a splash or a +ripple he passed into the fiery mass ... an accident!</p> + +<p>There are times when a ship cannot be stopped for +a paltry individual who has fallen overboard, and the +foundry could not be held up for one man’s remains. +A big gun is worth many human lives. Besides, he +had disappeared. Cremation was complete and total.</p> + +<p>By the time the glowing liquor had passed into the +moulds and entered into the long process of cooling, +the human moth was charred to the nothingness of +carbon, and every bone and particle was digested by +the steel. His tomb not only enclosed but absorbed +him. He had become part and ingredient of his own +sepulchre.... And there could be no inquest, for +there was no relic for a coroner’s inspection. Long +before the gun was adjusted with all its minute and +meticulous parts, long before it was tested and sent +to a naval dockyard, the unfortunate man it contained +was forgotten, and had become as nameless and +anonymous as the gun itself. Nameless was the +six-inch gun that was sent to sea, and nameless let +the cruiser remain on which it was hoisted.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>For weary weeks <i>H.M.S. ——</i> patrolled the northern +mists, with a brighter interval in the Mediterranean. +Undeviating drill and perpetual practice brought crews +and armament to a stage of perfection bordering on +staleness. The chaplain came into the captain’s +room with a puzzled look.</p> + +<p>“Sick?” queried the skipper.</p> + +<p>“No,” said the chaplain, “I have been talking to +the men.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_124">[Pg 124]</span></p> + +<p>“Not done talking to them yet?” laughed the +other, who took a good-natured but perfectly sceptical +view about chaplains and their functions.</p> + +<p>“Well, I should say,” suggested the chaplain, +“that they have been talking to me lately.”</p> + +<p>“What about?”</p> + +<p>“About spirits!”</p> + +<p>The captain shifted his foot and spun round: “I +thought it was your business to talk to them about +spirits, and what you didn’t know about the spiritual +simply wasn’t spirits”—and he laughed outright.</p> + +<p>“This is not my kind of spirit.”</p> + +<p>“The men will want to be teaching me my job +next!” exclaimed the captain.</p> + +<p>“These are not the spirits of the Prayer Book so +much as ...”</p> + +<p>“What?”</p> + +<p>“The spirits that are called ghosts.”</p> + +<p>“Well, are there no ghosts in the Bible?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, but not quite the same kind that the men +have come to believe is on board this ship.”</p> + +<p>Anything affecting the nerves of the men became a +preoccupation of the skipper, and he grew grave.</p> + +<p>“Go on.”</p> + +<p>“Well, sir, it is very like a hallucination, but I +thought you had better know what the men are +thinking about, in case it is interfering with their +work. They do not like handling one of the starboard +six-inch guns.”</p> + +<p>“What do you mean? It is brand-new and tested +to the ounce.”</p> + +<p>“The men think there is a spirit in that gun and +that he appears every time they fire the gun.”</p> + +<p>“Cannot they blow him out?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_125">[Pg 125]</span></p> + +<p>“No, for it is in the smoke after firing that they +discern the figure of a man, and they think that he +will end by sinking the ship....”</p> + +<p>There was a longish silence, for the captain was far +too good a sailor not to know the part superstition +plays in a sailor’s life. Devoid of religion himself, he +was calculating the result of such a fear on the gun’s +crew. For months the Grand Fleet had been chafing +at anchor, with intervals spent bursting through the +fogs or charging the mists. Mysterious performances +known as P. Z. exercises, devised by admirals, carried +out by captains, and rectified in practice by humble +individuals in chart-rooms, occupied most of their +seagoing. The exact strategists were learning that +accuracy and certainty were more difficult to obtain +on the water than on paper. The reckonings of ships +varied, and the value of given fire against given +armament did not always respond to theory. Even +blindfold chess gave more certain results. This was +blindfold boxing against an enemy who was as often +below as above the waters. Months of phantom-chasing +took its effect on men’s minds. Crews became +used to being called to action preceding no action. +Destroyers reported enemies that melted into mist, +and imaginary submarines caused panic in the Firth +and the Flow. The invisible enemy preyed more +substantially on their minds than would have been +the case had action materialised. The strain told, +and the sarcastic elements seemed to mimic the thunder +of guns whose smoke only curled into the mocking +clouds.</p> + +<p>The practice day following the conversation of +chaplain and captain on <i>H.M.S. ——</i> was fine and +clear. The Dreadnoughts were slowly making line +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_126">[Pg 126]</span>to the practice-ground, preceded by the cruisers in +formation, while the destroyers ran in and out like +bicycles twisting amongst huge motor-buses. The +captain of <i>H.M.S. ——</i> took his position on the +bridge, and asked the chaplain to stand on the far +end to note the firing, while he remained at the other.</p> + +<p>“Watch the firing of the forecastle-guns, and +especially of the starboard six-inch. I shall be glad to +have your detailed report.”</p> + +<p>At a signal from the flag-ship the fire-control of the +cruisers was tested. They fired in turn at a slow-moving +target. The turn came for <i>H.M.S. ——</i>. +The port forecastle-gun emitted a cloud of smoke, a +great rolling blanket of white vapour. Captain and +chaplain pierced it with their glasses, and it had +rolled away before the splash of the shell showed +where the aim had fallen short. The cruiser swung +slowly round, and the brand-new 9·2 fired for the +tenth time in its existence. Captain and chaplain +watched the smoke without raising their glasses. It +slowly melted in the bright breeze, disintegrating +and discolouring of itself. It was quite thin before a +man’s figure could be discerned struggling in the +dissolving smoke. It seemed obvious, matter-of-fact, +and chemical, except that it was a figure of smoke. +The figure was only comprehensible for a moment or +two, for the wind elongated his writhings; and his +limbs, as though on the rack, were torn apart with +delirious speed. But the impression of human agony +remained with every human being who watched the +torment of the smoke. Only the officer controlling +the fire watched the target and noted how near the +shell fell this time. By the time the next shot was +fired, not a wisp of the ghostly smoke remained.... +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_127">[Pg 127]</span>And the fear of doom remained in every heart on +board that night except with the captain and the +chaplain. The chaplain had decided clearly that it +was either a fantasy or a divine omen. In the latter +case it was for the good, and in the first case it did +not matter. As for the captain, he was both puzzled +and unafraid.</p> + +<p>The chaplain had noted the firing and its results +very carefully as directed, and he handed his notes +to the captain, who read them in his cabin. They +were accurate and corresponded to the official account +in the log.</p> + +<p>“You make no mention of the smoke,” suggested +the captain.</p> + +<p>“No.”</p> + +<p>“Well, I saw a very distinct outline of a man in +the smoke, and I expected you would have recorded it.”</p> + +<p>“No,” replied the other. “I particularly left the +spook to you. It would have been no evidence for +me to have seen and reported it, for I am officially +supposed to believe in spirits.”</p> + +<p>“Well,” said the captain, “I who do not believe +in them have seen this.”</p> + +<p>“Blessed rather are those who have not seen and +yet have believed,” said the chaplain.</p> + +<p>“That is hardly my case,” replied the captain, “for +I have most distinctly seen and yet have not believed.”</p> + +<p>Both turned then as sensible men to consider the +effect of the hallucination, or whatever it was, on the +crew of the gun, and incidentally on the whole ship. +The men had come to regard it as a bad omen. To +them it was worse than carrying round a corpse. +They thought the gun was haunted and that, however +deadly its firing to the enemy, it would in the end +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_128">[Pg 128]</span>prove more fatal to the ship. They believed they +were on a doomed vessel. It was no use changing the +crew of the gun, as the whole ship seemed involved.</p> + +<p>“Provided I can drop a hit on the enemy with that +gun in action, I do not so much mind if the ship sinks +under me,” was the captain’s final deliberation....</p> + +<p>The long wait of months was broken for some by +the instantaneous decision of mine or explosion, for +others by change of latitude and ship; for some, +indeed, it was never broken; but for a few it was +crossed by the magic signal, “action!” On a joyous +day for <i>H.M.S. ——</i> issue was joined in the North +Sea with a German raider supported in the dim distance +by enemy light forces. The captain gathered all the +threads of his life and training into his hand, and +stood glued to the bridge. The chaplain went down +to steady the men, who in the glad glow of coming +action forgot all their troubles of body or mind. The +moving smoke on the horizon was the sign of retreating +enemy, and cruisers with torpedoes were dashing to +cut them off. Every heart on board beat in steady +throb of unison with the ship’s engines. Precious +minutes passed, and the smokes on the horizon were +no nearer. The largest smoke was separating from +the others. Half an hour passed and a hull was +outlined. It corresponded to the raider, one of those +sweet prizes which had been dashing in and out of +middies’ dreams for months. As the raider drew off +from her escort, chancing a northern mist, <i>H.M.S. ——</i> +followed into the gathering vapour. Fire was being +exchanged between the others, but he reserved the +raider to his own. Careless whether she was dropping +mines, he pushed into her direct wake. In ten minutes +he would open fire. And he did.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_129">[Pg 129]</span></p> + +<p>The fore-guns flashed in turn and eager glasses +picked up the splash of the first shell falling short. +The captain groaned, but his groan was choked with +relief as he watched the next shell drop with a red +flash on the raider’s bridge. He telephoned his +congratulations to the gun’s crew, who received them +in British silence. The red glare of fire was rising +from the raider under the British fire. She was blazing +steadily, and the captain no longer kept check of his +guns. They were being fired in irregular but enthusiastic +salvoes. The German flag was visible, white +against the yellow smoke, so good were the captain’s +glasses. Another glance and the flag was gone. He +immediately gave the signal to cease firing. A +destroyer ran in and fired a torpedo, whereat the +raider turned quietly over....</p> + +<p>Leaving the rescuing to the destroyers, the captain +of <i>H.M.S. ——</i> cheerfully inquired if there had been +any casualties. The chaplain joined him on the +bridge with a list.</p> + +<p>“I am afraid there have been a few.”</p> + +<p>“I never knew we were hit.”</p> + +<p>“No, we were not hit by the enemy, but unfortunately +a six-inch gun starboard exploded after firing +one shot, the second shot of the action, and the whole +crew were killed or wounded.”</p> + +<p>The captain buried his face in his hands, forgetful +that this was the end of the perfecting day of his +career, when years of preparation were tested in action. +Action and victory had come and also unlooked-for +disaster.</p> + +<p>He could return home and report a brilliant and +decisive action, but the nature of his casualties necessitated +an inquiry. A great deal of evidence was taken +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_130">[Pg 130]</span>as to the explosion of the six-inch breech, and as little +as possible was allowed to reach the public. It was +proved that the gun had been made with every possible +care, being tested and regulated in every way. The +metal itself was subjected to a close examination, and +found to be of the best. The only flaw was traced to +a slight superfluity of carbon, which remained inexplicable +amid the alloy, and no blame was attached to the +maker, or to the crew or captain who had had charge +of her in action. This carbon had undoubtedly brought +about a weak point in the gun, and under pressure she +had exploded, though in practice she had been successfully +fired. It was an explanatory but unsatisfying +report....</p> + +<p>A month later—“Carbon is a material cause at +least,” remarked the captain to the chaplain, “and +carbon could have come from a man.”</p> + +<p>“That is a possible solution, if you think it likely +that some man fell accidentally into the gun when it +was cast,” replied the chaplain.</p> + +<p>“I know it,” said the captain, “for it was my +suspicion, and a private and careful inquiry has +placed me in possession of the fact that this gun came +from a foundry where a man had been actually lost +in the molten metal.”</p> + +<p>Both sat in stony silence, and then the captain rose +to go.</p> + +<p>“Whatever I saw and you saw and the ship’s crew +saw, the cause was material and a man.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, and as you have had reason to observe, a +man is a spirit,” said the chaplain, returning to his +duties....</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_131">[Pg 131]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="THE_MISSIONARY"> + THE MISSIONARY + </h2> +</div> + + +<p>The life web of Theodosia McSolomon was short +but vividly painted and could only be picked +and plaited together from different angles of +the globe. To begin with, she was brought up strictly, +straitly, and even sanctimoniously by her father and +mother, who were Presbyterian Minister and Ministress +in a secluded corner of the County Armagh in Ireland. +It was called Gortaherrin. She grew up to honour +her father and mother, though she could hardly have +wished the long days promised in the land for such +servitude. She could hardly have desired long life +in their lifetime, for she served them more as a slavey +than as a daughter. Her brother Theophilus helped +her with the harder work in the kitchen until he went +to college, whereupon she sank into the position of +servant except on Sundays, when she occupied the +front pew at the Meeting House. It remained a sign +to her of salvation, social as well as celestial.</p> + +<p>She grew into graceful girlhood, tall, and healthy as +the wild rush under the sweetening sky; waxen-white, +not the white of sickness, but the white of the hawthorn’s +limelight bloom on the hedgerows in spring. +Her nature stayed deliciously unspoilt, for she had +never known a kind <ins id='cor_131' title='Original: work'>word</ins> or a kind action, nor expected +either. She lived on buttermilk and eggs, and turf-baked +soda-bread. She seemed content with her fate, +but for no particular reason except that fate was not +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_132">[Pg 132]</span>discontented with her. She had the essentials of life +without a single extra. Face-powder, love-letters, +corsets were of the Devil! She was not unhappy, for +she had never known what it was to be happy. And +healthier she grew and fairer and more wiry in all +her curving limbs, but her hair was not wire. It was +best described as spun primrose petals; spun into a +thin silken weft. It was of a texture that made the +daffodil look coarse and the yellow-wagtail seem +painted. The closest clue in nature was the glint of +the full harvest moon on the yellow shooks of the +bogland corn when ripe and reaped. It was as thin +and nearly as transparent as a thread of baby’s spit, +each hair of her. And she wore it in the shape of a +little tight unwieldy bun like a tennis ball that has +collected cobwebs.</p> + +<p>Her garments were ghastly. One annual skirt. +Mother’s old hats trimmed with ribbon. Father’s +cast combinations patched and reefed with thick +darning thread. A scarecrow’s purgatory in sum! +The good girl sincerely did not wish to be any expense +to her dear parents. She was given no opportunity to +be so. Mother would have liked to have been affectionate, +but affection had been mangled out of her. +She asked nothing of a life in which she perceived +nothing. All was in the life to come. Without +meaning it, she weighed like wet washing on Theodosia. +Father was always as erect as an arrow and as indeflectible +as the Grace in which he was imbued and +abounding. He stood in Grace up to the ear-lobes. +His high hat was smooth with Grace and his boots +were greased therewith. His only trouble in life was +how to give unto others out of his over-abundance of +Grace. Mother had Grace, sufficient for salvation, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_133">[Pg 133]</span>though father had had his doubts of her once, returning +from their honeymoon. Theodosia ought to have had +Grace, for everything humanly possible had been +done to instil the divine condiment into her soul. +However, she had always been a very unresponsive +child. Even at her baptism she had not cried, to the +amazement and disappointment of the old Irish +woman who held her and believed that departing +demons should cause screams in the normal way. +Apparently they had preferred to stay. And later +Theodosia’s honey-coloured hair had given further +anxiety to the old woman who had tended her with +some goats and hens in childhood. It was not quite +the same colour as the scutched flax which yellow hair +should resemble. It was stranger still. Her mother +must have been overlooked by the fairies before +Theodosia was born. Farmers’ maids would never +let her see the churn or a new-born calf for fear of +blinking the milk or overlooking their cattle. They +thought her hair unlucky. It was not a decent human +colour.</p> + +<p>In the vacation her brother brought home a fellow-student +from Trinity, Josiah McWherry. He was a +lithe and likely lad. All day Josiah and Theophilus +studied for the Ministry, and in the evening they +conversed with the Minister’s family. The Minister +was of great use to the boys on any point of philology +or philosophy. He had swept gold medals into the +full of his student’s cap. On Sunday nights he would +only talk Doctrine, and he was still fervent against +Unitarians, with whom there had been great controversy +in his youth. He used to talk about the great +Doctor Hanna—“Roaring Hanna.” And he always +ended upon a great orthodox note: “As the Father +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_134">[Pg 134]</span>is God, so is the Son God, and the Holy Ghost is God.” +He was a Trinitarian to the backbone, and would have +stood stiffer than a stake in the flames. However, +there was nothing except Unitarians and Papists for +him to feel stiff about in his young day. Home Rule +and women’s bicycling came later. Spiders scuttled +and beam-lice somersaulted when he spoke on either +of those subjects. One was the destruction of the +Union with England, and the other of the marriage-union. +He would not give Home Rule to Papists or +to women. It was by the firelight, listening to Dr. +McSolomon, that Josiah first saw the glint of silvery +golden-grey in Theodosia’s hair. When she leaned +over the blazing turf, the red light played through +the long plaits. They were allowed to be let down +in the evening, and the effect by fire was like mulled +claret poured over melting butter—not that Josiah +knew the joys of claret at any temperature. But he +looked long and often at the primrose hair and contrasted +it with the flower face, which was always as +white as snow—white as the fuller’s earth, thought +Josiah scripturally. But he kept his thoughts to +his presbytical self, and not till he returned to Trinity +did he indite a series of sensible letters concerning +sights in Dublin, which Theodosia was allowed to +read after perusal by each parent in turn. Naught +suspecting or imagining, she wrote a nice answer full +of Gortaherrin news, and a pleasant, callow correspondence +was opened between the Manse and that +famous seat of learning in Dublin. Correspondence +was encouraged, as it gave city news to the old birds. +Josiah returned for the next vacation, and ventured +to propose to Theodosia. She accepted him from a +mixture of ingrained modesty and obedience. Her +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_135">[Pg 135]</span>parents were not informed owing to her total innocence, +and took no suspicion until an incautious love-letter +sent to her (care of a romantic local post-mistress) +and sewed into Theodosia’s pillow was found by +Theodosia’s mother and handed to Theodosia’s father, +who was unable to speak for several days. He always +acted slowly and deliberately. Hasty wrath or unweighed +reprobation was neither in his policy nor of +his temperament. Theodosia was not lectured or +beaten or accused of any specific crime, but she was +locked into her bedroom for a fortnight and nourished +upon the bread of affliction and the water of tears. +The letter received no allusion at home, but she never +received another. Josiah McWherry wrote four Sundays +in succession and received no answer. Puzzled, +he stopped writing. She obviously did not enjoy +reading in ink what she had allowed him to whisper +over the firelight or when she was washing the delph. +He was a faint lover.</p> + +<p>She took her medicine well, though she imagined she +had touched the outskirts of romance. A gentle thrill +had attuned her, though Josiah had only proposed a +nice arrangement for her, a sort of transfer in domestic +service for the future, and she had wrongfully kept it +from her parents. Love was a term of mixed meaning +to her. Love was something peculiar to God, and +mortals who indulged in love got into trouble. God +so loved the world that He had damned most of their +neighbours, the Roman Catholics for sure, and the +more-worldly Episcopalians, who went to the Horse +Show and Monte Carlo to spend their rents. Theodosia +came out of her room chastened. The rod of John +Calvin had been thrust under her milky skin. It was +a priceless skin, for which many a woman of the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_136">[Pg 136]</span>world would have flayed her own in exchange. It was +as clear and clean as wind-flowers reflected in the +moonlight water.</p> + +<p>She had not seen her father during the fortnight. +He was waiting for her in his study. With one terrible +frown he absolved and abolished the past. Then he +revealed the future. Correspondence of any kind was +forbidden. She must promise never to write to Josiah +again, and she promised, giving her simple word, that +was as adamantine as that of Medes and Persians. +She had undoubtedly written more than one love-letter +herself, or Josiah would not have been beguiled +into his evil communications. Dr. McSolomon regarded +her as a lapsed child until she had atoned. +Grace might still be applied mercifully. Grace had +been noticed to reside to a fuller degree than usual in +a neighbouring minister, Mr. Caleb McRoarty, a sober, +steady and godly-minded widower living in those +circumstances which never receive the meed of pity +and attention accorded to the state of widowhood. +When has a merry widower been bespoken? Mr. +McRoarty might be expected to call any day and +press his suit, which Theodosia was reminded needed +no pressing. She would have a chance to become +mistress of her delph and her mangle, and to preside +over a Manse of her own.</p> + +<p>This was the second time Theodosia felt her life +stirred to the core. It gave her intense repulsion +and she shrank like a flower into its half-opened bud. +When Mr. McRoarty called, she wished for the first +time that she had never been born, but she showed +no tremor, no protest, no scene. She had a deep +feeling that her life must turn far otherwise, and, +when her parents left her in the kitchen with Mr. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_137">[Pg 137]</span>McRoarty she heard him with present smiling and +absent mind. He was well-meaning and inclined to +be absorbent. The first touch of absorption was +pain to Theodosia, but in the circumstances +Mr. McRoarty believed his caress had been not only +permissible but acceptable. He embraced her over +and over. It was his way of clinching a bargain. He +had already given her father a cow. It was an +exchange in kind, and Theodosia seemed willingly his. +Sentiment might be thrown into the bargain. But +his clutching arms tore down the curtain, and she +suddenly glimpsed life in a Manse with this black-coated +but fangless gorilla. He was not cruel or +vicious to look at, not very amorous even, unless it +was of her hair, which he fastened into a plait and +rubbed over his mouth. Theodosia started like a +sensitive human violin. She could not bear to be +scraped by those large hands, though they thumbed +the Gospel; or kissed by those thin lips, though anointed +with the dew of a thousand sermons. She shivered +and writhed until he stopped. She stood in a stupor +without saying a word till he went out and bade +good night to her complacent parents.</p> + +<p>Then the break came. Hurrying into the kitchen +she washed until she had washed her face clean and +clean, and brushed until she had brushed his stickiness +out of her hair. What was she to do? She felt like +wax that could not rid itself of his impression. She +blew out the candle and still saw him gibbering +round her in the dark with the horrible agility of old +men who momentarily believe themselves young. +His flaccid kisses still sounded in her ear-drums. +She lit the light again and determined to write to +Josiah, who was living with his father in Belfast. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_138">[Pg 138]</span>Yet she had promised, and to break a promise was to +go to Hell. Then the elfin element in her made a +nudge. Why not send Josiah an empty envelope? +It was a sign to be interpreted and it was not exactly +writing a letter. She addressed an envelope and +wrote nothing within. But would he understand +that it meant an empty heart, blank despair and +appeal for help? But the fairy part of her worked like +a charm. She snipped off a primrose tress of her hair, +placed it inside the envelope and ran with it in the +night to the post office. She couldn’t have written +less. She couldn’t have sent more. And she had +not broken her Christian word!</p> + +<p>Josiah had the courage or curiosity of youth to +understand, for he came over from his father’s Manse +three days later. She was lucky enough to see him +in the road before he took the turn into the Manse. +She ran to meet him and to tell him all. When +they came to the Manse door, her father was waiting. +He did not seem to mind Josiah’s arrival, and let him +stay to supper, questioning him kindly about his +examinations. Josiah found himself alone with the +old man and plucked courage to mention his case. +“Theodosia and I had kind words together last +vacation and I hope you did not mind the letters I +could not help writing to her. I know she showed +them to you.”</p> + +<p>Dr. McSolomon smiled a deep and saturnine smile. +He so seldom smiled that the motion produced a +little stiffness in his face for the rest of the evening. +When it was time for Josiah to leave, he informed +him quietly that Mr. Caleb McRoarty had made +successful application for Theodosia’s hand and that +he intended marrying them himself the next month. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_139">[Pg 139]</span>As a matter of fact Dr. McSolomon had only intended +to inform Caleb of this the next morning. That +evening Josiah informed Theodosia. This was the +third shock she had felt in her life, pleasurable or +otherwise. Pleasurable had been the coming of +Josiah to Gortaherrin, far from pleasurable the wooing +of Caleb; but the bare announcement of her marriage +with Caleb, though the greatest shock of all, gave +her neither pleasure nor pain. It conveyed the +emancipation of disaster.</p> + +<p>Everything was combining to the decisive moment, +even Caleb who had shot his bolt too soon. She +had felt his horrid hook, like the minnow grazed +by the rusty pin of a schoolboy’s coarse fishing line. +If it were not for the memory of that foul embrace +she would have remained and swallowed the fate +her parents designed for her; unconsentingly no +doubt; ruefully resentful perhaps, and cowed unto +humiliation, and certainly embittered to all time. +In thirty years she thought she would probably +resemble her mother, a bootmat in disposition, and +rather like an old boot in shape. Her hair would +become like her mother’s, snowy white. While there +was colour in her hair, it seemed there was hope.</p> + +<p>Hope for what? Josiah had already started walking +down the drive. She slipped from the kitchen door +across the fields and awaited him in the high road. +When she acted, she always acted without thinking, +out of a lonely and gallant instinct. She was of the +blood of the martyrs of the Covenant, and then the +fairy in her bade her not lose the man she had +once summoned out of the void by casting with a +lock of hair. She went and she met him hasting +away with that lock clutched in his hand. When +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_140">[Pg 140]</span>she glimpsed it she knew that fate was blazing her +path. He had hardly risen to the moment, but it +was her fate, not his, that possessed the moment. +Perhaps he had no fate, only a soul and that a cut +and dried and preserved specimen. Perhaps she had +no soul, only a tremendous fate. She simply told him +that she was coming with him to the station, and at +the station she told him she would come with him +to Belfast, where he was living with his father, and in +Belfast she intended to tell him she would marry +him. He began nervously counting the money in his +pocket as soon as she broached Belfast. There was +just enough to bring them both there. He trembled +counting it to the station master. She noticed his +emotion and pressed his other hand. She could +feel her lock of hair rustling between his damp fingers, +and she knew it was well. They sat and talked for +two wonderful hours to each other in the ill-lit third-class +compartment, and even in the dirty oil-light +her hair assumed supernatural glow. Their plan was +unsophisticated. They would join hands before his +father and swear themselves man and wife according +to the marriage law of Scotland. They did so on +arrival and remained the night under the roof of the +surprised Josiah Senior, Theodosia sleeping with the +still more surprised Mrs. Josiah Senior, while father +and son discussed the next move in the kitchen. +They decided that Dr. McSolomon must be faced with +a clean breast, the fullest apology must be offered +and humble entreaty made to suffer their marriage +to remain. They both agreed that Theodosia, knowing +her father so well, was the proper person to carry +this out.</p> + +<p>Next morning, Theodosia was singularly and +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_141">[Pg 141]</span>poignantly recalled from the realm of romance to +acute realism, when she left the bedroom of Mrs. +Josiah Senior for the breakfast table and heard her +bold rescuer suggest that she should return and +explain matters to her father. She sat shyly and +silently, wondering and watching. Then she shook +her tangled head and Mr. Josiah Senior said that he +would take the journey to prepare the way for her, +and he was as good as his word. He returned late +in the evening and reported that terms were possible +though the wrath of Dr. McSolomon was terrible. +He learnt from the mother that he had deliberately +cursed his daughter, and a frightened farm-girl had +expressed the fears of the household by saying that +his curses had killed the house spiders in their webs! +On learning that some form of service, some rag of +respectability, had been clutched by the sinful pair +in the presence of a Minister of the Gospel, he had +remained silent for an hour and had then declared +that since the neighbours, assisted by the romantic +postmistress and the Episcopalian station master, had +already put the gossip over ten parishes that his +daughter had run away with another Minister’s son, +Josiah had better marry her outright and keep her for +ever. He made no conditions except that Josiah +should go abroad with her or, if he continued to work +for the Ministry, go on the mission field. He forbade +utterly Josiah or Theodosia setting foot within +Gortaherrin Manse until the hour of their death or +his, but he held out the appetising suggestion that +he would come and unite them finally under their +new roof in Belfast.</p> + +<p>That delicate and indelible scene actually occurred. +Josiah had had the presence of mind to leave the house +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_142">[Pg 142]</span>by the back entrance when he sighted the rectangular +Minister of Gortaherrin standing at the doorstep. +There could be no description of the hard white +mask in his face save that every angle was an acute +angle. The gesture with which he had smoothed +his grey silky beard was an indication that he +considered scandal had been averted by narrow +margins, though his brother Minister showed him +the large, unseductive bed in which Theodosia and +Mrs. Josiah Senior had passed and continued to pass +night time. Next to scandal, Dr. McSolomon hated +most the sense of being thwarted, and Theodosia had +thwarted him bitterly. She had raised a power +before which domestic tyranny had failed and the walls +enclosing the Manse had fallen like the walls of +Jericho. Bitterly he thought of Rahab and the +scarlet thread which that ingenious lady had shown +from her window, and he cursed Rahab and Theodosia +in the same breath. He declined to see or bless his +daughter, but, to save allusions in the local paper +and his good name from the postmistress, he was +willing to be present with his wife at a public ceremony +and the sooner the better. Josiah agreed to take +Theodosia into the foreign mission field, and the +rite took place in accordance with the Presbyterian +Church of Ireland. Josiah took Theodosia to be his +lawful wedded, lawful bedded wife, and slept with +a gentle primrose cloud about his head. Neither +before nor after the ceremony did Theodosia’s father +speak to her except for one terrible moment when +for the first time they were alone in the waiting-room +of the railway station, and Theodosia, greatly +moved, threw herself on her knees to ask a father’s +blessing, if not his forgiveness. But Dr. McSolomon +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_143">[Pg 143]</span>never unbent, though at least he spoke two words: +“Shoo, Whore!”</p> + +<p>He was of the iron calibre of the Covenanter, +indeflectible of Grace and inexorable of judgment. +When his eye offended him he plucked it out, and +when his daughter offended him he vomited her +overseas. It was very doubtful to him now whether +she would save her soul, but at least he had saved +appearances. He was of the relentless stock that +breeds martyrs and of the blood that crieth against +Nineveh. But home scandal is worst.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>The Reverend Josiah McWherry and Mrs. Theodosia +McWherry had passed four years on the Mission +in China. They had had a stiff and rather a dull +time, as it were sowing tame oats. They had +struggled and scraped and saved to make ends meet, +for there had been born to them three children, and +Theodosia was expecting to complete her book by +adding a synoptic fourth to Masters Matthew, Luke +and Mark McWherry. Josiah saved souls and halfpennies +with equal avidity. If the extreme opposite +of spendthrift is a theological virtue, it was his. +The expenses of mission life were formidable though +a Society in Chicago advanced a bounty of fifty +pounds on every child born in the mission field. So +economical were the evangelising pair that they actually +saved a little on the bounty won for each child. +Theodosia understood that they were putting aside +the money needed to revisit Ireland and never grudged +the pinch in dress or food. Besides, she thrived on +the rice, and her skin was still unspoilt by the sun and +her hair remained the colour of pale primrose. Suave +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_144">[Pg 144]</span>Orientals observed her beauty with a polite wonder. +Though they were quite untouched by the Reverend +Josiah’s God, they secretly observed and admired +Josiah’s goddess. Josiah became mechanical, with +his mind set and focused on the double task of saving +Chinks in his tin chapel and tin in his chink-box. +Chink, chink! The lot of a missionary is not a particularly +happy one. His fellow whites succeed in living +down any notion he may instil into the East of the +moral perfections of home Christendom. He himself +ceases to believe in Europeans, and the Orientals +seldom begin to believe in him. It is the working +of the old paradox, that Christianity began as an +Oriental religion, a sublime teaching of the Desert, +and, when brought back to the East in Western +trousers and upon elastic-sided boots, becomes +unrecognisable there as religion at all. The puzzled +Orientals observed domesticated missionaries preaching +from a pulpit of middle-class mind and second-class +comfort One Who abandoned Mother and declined +wife. The McWherrys were as unsuccessful as might +have been expected in the task of presenting a suburban +Calvin to the children of Confucius, and were intensely +relieved by a call to minister to a semi-European +community in Hong-Kong. It sounded pleasantly +provincial after the frontier misery of the Mission, +and they accepted the call. They took the first +steamer down the coast out of the little Chinese +port; Matthew, Luke and Mark with them. There +was the additional reason that Hong-Kong was +provided with white doctors, and Theodosia stood in +need of one in about two months’ time. They agreed +that the call must be providential. They were two +days at sea and never out of sight of the coast, when +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_145">[Pg 145]</span>Theodosia was prematurely seized with pangs and +premonitions. Her condition grew more serious and +it became obvious that she would arrive at Hong-Kong +with an addition to their party, for whom no ticket +had been provided, and, as Josiah calculated with +panic, no bounty could be claimed. For the high +seas are extra-diocesan and a child born at sea cannot +be described truthfully or even theologically as born +on the mission field. Theodosia lay calmly in her +berth showing no traces of panic nor pain. But +Josiah’s panic was considerable. It was financial. +Though he sat sympathetically holding her hand, +he was harassing his wretched mind with the +agonising chances of losing fifty pounds, if she were +quickly and successfully delivered at sea. It was +not only unlucky, he felt, but it was unchristian to +let an innocent family be deprived of their right +to so great a sum. It was even intolerable. But +any minute it might be so.</p> + +<p>The day grew into night, and a long harassing +darkness began for both. Morning came and nothing +serious had happened. Theodosia only thought of +the child. Josiah only thought of the bounty. He +looked out upon the smooth sea and beheld a land +which was never quite out of sight. The ship’s +doctor was of opinion that her child would not be +born that day but would certainly appear before +they reached the landing stage of Hong-Kong. It +set Josiah thinking and finally he went on the bridge +and suggested to the captain that it would please +the powerful Missionary Societies if he took his ship +into the nearest port for the event. Land doctors +had naturally more experience than sea doctors +of such cases. Of course he had heard of such things +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_146">[Pg 146]</span>as “Water Babies” and he laughed nervously. +He was terribly anxious for the sake of his wife. The +captain only remarked that he knew no port within +three days’ journey except Hong-Kong.</p> + +<p>At noon Josiah was feeling as desperate as a +Minister of Providence feels it is right to feel, and +again he mounted the bridge. This time he demanded +to be put ashore in the long-boat with his wife. He +had consulted her and she had vaguely consented, +believing they were not far from their destination. +“My wife is anxious to be put ashore before her +baby is born. I insist on our being placed in the long-boat.” +The captain only remarked that in such +circumstances a sea doctor was better than no doctor +at all. It might look very calm, though it did happen +to be the season of the year for typhoons. However, +he consented and ordered the ship’s stoppage. He +was aware of the propriety of not offending the +Missionary Societies. They provided a great deal +of traffic on the coast. His action could be interpreted +as an attempt to save human life and he would allow +a crew of three to row the lady with her husband +ashore. The three children, Matthew, Mark and +Luke, were left with the stewardess.</p> + +<p>Theodosia was carried out of the bowels of the +comfortable ship and lowered down the companion +ladder into a bed prepared in the stern of the long-boat. +The shore did not look more than an hour’s +row away. With broad grins the two seamen began +rowing toward land, while a third steered, and Josiah +continued his indefatigable attentions in the stern. +As the boat drew away from the ship, the light of the +sinking sun flickered and rested a moment on an +untidy tress of primrose hair. It was the last detail +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_147">[Pg 147]</span>visible to a few curious and pitying passengers who +stood watching from the main deck—a gleam of +primrose hair disappearing rapidly into the Yellow +Sea.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>As a matter of fact Theodosia suffered less mental +agony on this crazy trip with Josiah than during +their elopement to Belfast. Then her mind had +been on the rack. Now it was only her body that +suffered as the slow pain got hold of her and she +lay back under an open sky festooned with the +gathering indigo of virulent storm. Shore was +considerably farther than the atmosphere had let +them imagine, and, though it remained clearly visible, +they did not seem to have drawn closer during the +first hour. Another hour passed and once or twice a +tremor shot through Theodosia’s body while she +uttered not the ghost of a groan. Each time he +felt her quiver, Josiah felt fifty pounds being wrenched +out of his pocket. The very tide under the churning +boat seemed to be drifting away with his well-earned +bounty. Her very hair seemed like a bunch of +melting yellow sovereigns to his feverishly anxious +sight. From time to time he urged the rowers +with imprecations, mild but loud. Land drew +decidedly nearer and the outlines of the harbour +he had visioned were taking shape in his eyes. Even +if the baby were born on the landing stage, the bounty +might yet be won. Josiah unfortunately had no +sporting sense or he might have been as thrilled as +the native seamen by the gamble he was making. It +was a woman’s life against fifty pounds! Theodosia +rapidly passed beyond all emotion save pain.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_148">[Pg 148]</span></p> + +<p>“Ahoy! Boat Ahoy!” descended upon them +through a megaphone. They held their rowing +and then their breath. Above them towered a great +liner through the yellow misting, immense, massive +and majestic. It was slowly bearing down upon +them. Transfixed with dread, Theodosia watched +with the helpless feeling growing upon her that the +mighty ship would cut the child within her into +halves. For herself she had no thought, and Josiah +had no thought for her either as he stood up and +shouted “Ahoy! Ahoy! Ahoy!” The liner +deliberately stopped and a companion ladder was +lowered. For the second time that day Theodosia +found her child-bed the cynosure of a sympathetic +passengers’ deck. By this time she was feeling +weird as in a dream. Some strange destiny was +approaching her in that mighty ship of the high seas. +She found herself hoisted through the air, taken +into a comfortable stateroom and treated for starvation +and shipwreck by three stewardesses. The rowers +and Josiah were similarly treated in the saloon, and +discovered to be thirsty rather than hungry. A real +thrill was supplied to the lazy and luxurious passengers +when it was announced at dinner that the rescued +lady had been delivered of a child! As a rule European +ladies do not choose the China seas as the best place +for an accouchement or an open boat in typhoon +weather as the most propitious surroundings. It +seemed rather remarkable and caused talk amongst +the crew, who were the first to learn the underlying +cause from their rescued mates. The grim truth +began to circulate through the ship, from crew to +officers, from stewardesses to lady passengers, from +pursers to gentlemen in the smoking-room. The +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_149">[Pg 149]</span>indignation was spontaneous and summary. Josiah +received morally freezing shoulder blades wherever +he turned.</p> + +<p>Meantime Theodosia lay in a comfortable bed, +for the first time in her life. She was placed in one +of the state-rooms of the royal suite, which a Persian +Prince courteously placed at her disposal. Her +experiences were widening. She had experienced +child-birth before, but she had never drunk champagne. +It had the dizzier effect. Then they brought her +fruit and titbits daily. Ladies in beautiful clothes +came to watch and wash the baby. A purse was +subscribed to provide him with a loving cup. The +baby cried and crowed without realising the fluke +that had dropped him into a bed of clover, whereas +he might have easily been tossing like a broken eggshell +in the China seas. The captain of the ship +and the Persian Prince applied for the position of +godparent, and were present at the baptism, performed +by the ship’s chaplain with distilled water. +The whole ship was interested. The only person +unnoticed on the occasion was Josiah. Theodosia +was particularly pleased that the Prince had accepted +the position of godfather. What would Gortaherrin +have thought?</p> + +<p>Oddly enough the captain was an atheist and the +Prince was no less than the living head of one of the +great Mohammedan sects, who venerated him as a +remote descendant of the Prophet, and believed him +incapable of sin and ready of miracle. His bath-water +was collected very carefully every morning by +worshippers and dispatched in sealed cans for the +degustation of the faithful—throughout Pan Islam. +Some was sipped in the Afghan hills and some was +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_150">[Pg 150]</span>swallowed in the Sahara. In India it was administered +as a powerful spiritual tonic at the moment of death. +The lower classes used it to cure diseases. But its +main virtue was internal, and the faithful had acquired +almost a taste for the scented Parisian soaps in which +the Prince was pleased to cleanse his body. The +salaciousness of his instinct was perhaps offset by +the saponaceousness of his hide.</p> + +<p>He was by chance one of the first to welcome +Theodosia when she was brought on deck. She +was stretched under an awning, while ladies took +turn to hold silk parasols between her and the breeze. +She lay with her white skin shining like a river-run +salmon, fresh and fruitful, unflecked and unflushed—while +her primrose hair moved delicately in the warm +air. It was a colour that the Prince had never seen +before in his long experience of light-skinned women, +European or Eurasian. And he studied it as he +would have studied the water of a diamond or the +wine in a ruby. Theodosia was quite unconscious +of his admiration. Two things stood clear in her +soul. Her baby lived, and her love for Josiah was +dead, dead as that money bounty. But the present +hour felt like Paradise.</p> + +<p>Unconsciously and then consciously her mind had +shed Josiah. She had overheard the unceasing +indignation of the passengers who came to pet the baby. +Women looked at her as though she had suffered +some great martyrdom for her sex or for her religion, +or as though she had been rescued from the arena. +Men bowed with tender smiles or stood eyeing her +as though she were some fair form of fish pulled out +of the sea. Josiah used to creep about her with an +expression that might have called for pity, had there +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_151">[Pg 151]</span>been anyone to pity. But of all on shipboard none +pitied and none pardoned. Theodosia only asked +him what there was to pardon. She was perfectly +cheerful and politely hoped Josiah was not as sick +as he looked.</p> + +<p>There was always some new friend to talk to her +and she never felt ashamed, for her old clothes had been +put aside for ever. The first class passengers collected +a trousseau for her. For the first time in her life +she had sampled the soft delight of wearing the finest +French underwear, fringed with gossamer lace and +spliced with tyrianthine ribbons. Her body was +massaged every day by rhythmic fingers, and her +legs were encased in silk stockings of so fragile and +transparent a web that the colour of her veins was +apparent. She was laid upon cushions and given +winsome wines that made her gay or sleepy and +deliciously aware at intervals of a new world and +new impulses. She knew continual pleasure and +happiness for the first time in her life. She was +surprised to find herself flooded by such tender +and luxurious emotions. Life had always been +rugged and hard, with a hardness against which +she had never kicked. It was only once in her life +that she had desired with desire, and that desire +had been fulfilled. She had wilfully compelled +Josiah to come to her and take her away to Belfast. +She could never desire again as she had desired then. +She acquiesced now in whatever life brought her of weal +or woe. She had not shrunk from pain and death, +when it seemed to be her portion. When fate flowered, +she did not decline the lovely pleasure. She had +endured the Chinese mission without a murmur; +filth, discomfort, poverty, lonely childbearing and +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_152">[Pg 152]</span>her queer dread of the Orientals. She always had +a quiet fear they would get her some day. She +had read of Boxers. Now her life had taken a wonderful +twist, thanks to Josiah’s idiocy and greed. She +learnt that she would be deposited by the liner in +Japan in a few days.</p> + +<p>The Prince was particularly active in his attentions +and curious as to her future. He hung about in a +wonderful dressing gown, an heirloom in his family, +contrasting with the London trousers and boots +below. Josiah showed no emotion except anxiety +as to who would pay for the return trip. That was +rather unexpectedly settled by the Prince, who, after +some entrancing conversations with Theodosia and +a very heart-to-heart talk with Josiah, proposed to +pay Josiah’s journey back and to give Theodosia +a much needed holiday, at his expense also, in Honolulu +and California, whither the ship was bound. Josiah +said he was the only gentleman on board. He was +certainly the only one to speak to Josiah.</p> + +<p>Theodosia’s glowing health and acquiescence of +mind enabled her to recover quickly from the creasing +of childbirth. She took her children naturally. +They had come as a consequence of her immense +and primitive desire to escape from Caleb McRoarty. +China was another consequence and she had accepted +the rough and tumble of her lot. Even when Josiah +had thrown her into an open boat she had not uttered +one repining word. She had not desired comfort +or even life. She had always felt she was paying +a penalty. And now it all turned to this, the +admiration and adoration of a whole ship. It was a +far cry from Belfast, and Gortaherrin had shrunk +into a point upon the other side of the globe. Josiah +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_153">[Pg 153]</span>had dwindled into something incredibly small. All +feeling for her father had died in the waiting-room at +the railway station in Belfast, when he cursed her +for her harlotry, and now it had died for Josiah +for whom she had given up her father. She felt as +much for Josiah as for the skinned body of one of the +kids she used to see hanging at the Irish crossroads. +As for her mother, she was only the ridiculous rag-accompaniment +to her father. Theodosia was +primitive and could grasp only one thing at a time. +Once Josiah had been the one and absolute idea, and +now he had shivered to nothingness. He had come +to her on the wings of her great desire, the desire +of the bird to escape from the cage. He had been +the wings of her desire and she did not mind seeing +them crumpled now. At least they had carried her +to the empyrean. She watched his ghostlike face +hanging round her cabin. He really looked like +a goat’s ghost if there were such things, ridiculous, +inane and unwanted.</p> + +<p>A new idea had come into her life. She was enjoying +it! The great physical wrench she had endured +combined with the beautiful clothes, in which she +was dressed, to give her the glorious emotion of the +chrysalis when it has been bred to butterfly. She +was lying on the deck at delicious ease. Her feet +were encased in white, gold-brocaded shoes, and her +body lapped in a rose dress faintly frothed, as it +were, by a shawl of lighter pink falling from her +shoulders. Flesh-coloured were her silk stockings and +like a web of rosy silk was her flesh. The two plaits +of her primrose hair attracted so much attention +that she left them hanging. They were rather like +the pollened antennæ of some florivorous insect; +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_154">[Pg 154]</span>their soft sheen like the pellucid cinnamon of the +rain-washed sunset of spring. She had rather despised +her natural coloured hair compared to the bright +hennas and auburns and chalybeates of the ladies +aboard. It never occurred to her that hers was the +only undyed foliage and her face the only unrouged +petal in the first-class dining saloon. But it had been +obvious to every man with taste on the ship, and the +Prince was a man of exquisite taste as well as of +highly religious sensibilities.</p> + +<p>One day he approached her not for the first time +truly, but for the first time they discussed religion. +The idea of accompanying him on a holiday had +charmed and absorbed the innocence of her mind. +She had felt no remorse in sending Josiah back from +Nagasaki, nor had Josiah felt any qualm when the +Prince, with the generosity that a great Christian +nobleman might not have shown, had paid him the +forfeited bounty out of his own pocket in consideration +of the plucky attempt Theodosia had made to save +it. Fifty pounds was nothing to him. He had given +eight thousand the previous month for a French +race-horse. The only prick of conscience she felt +was her desertion of the new mission-post even for +a month. The children could remain with Josiah, +except the baby, and His Serene Highness played +with Baby too charmingly. How surprised she was +to learn that he was the head of a great religion. +She found herself growing sad at the thought of his +perdition. But it was satisfactory and a little wonderful +to be arguing with the head of a real Mohammedan +sect. It would be a good chance to find out how +Moslems really felt towards Presbyterian principles. +Perhaps?—and her heart leaped—she might be able to +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_155">[Pg 155]</span>convert this prepossessing Prince. How wonderful! +He was a sort of Senior Moderator in his own community, +and must have untold influence.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>They were together. “If you are a Mohammedan,” +she asked him, “are you not a teetotaller?” “No, +I always drink wine.” “But the example must be +wrong for your followers?” she queried. “They +never drink wine, but they do not mind me doing so. +They believe that by saying a few words I can always +change wine into water betwixt the cup and the lip. +They are very faithful.” Theodosia shivered. She +felt like having tea with Antichrist. But he was so +sweet playing with Baby. She dared ask him if he +had many wives. No white man had ever dared ask +him such a question, much less a white woman; and +he had known a gamut of one and a gallery of the +other. He trembled with rage, and then with amusement. +He had never met a white woman like this +before, and a missionary’s wife as well. He had +always shared the official contempt for missionaries +and the official indifference to their wives. He had +the Oriental’s disgust for the wives of professed holy +men. In fact, a Maharajah’s hundredth concubine +seemed less displeasing to him and to God than the +missionary’s lady with her black jet brooch, and +Jumble Bazaar written all over her clothes. “Yes,” +he told Theodosia, “I have many wives at home, +and they are all good friends.” Theodosia looked at +this heathen with great pity. “Would you never +give up the poor dear ladies and let them become +Christian?” “I do want to give them up and to +marry one nice Christian instead,” the Prince stated +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_156">[Pg 156]</span>with a delicious smile. Theodosia woke to possibilities. +“They need a Queen among them to instruct +and help them,” he added, “a white golden-haired +Queen.” He was watching how she would take it. +She clapped her hands. “How splendid! They +could all become Christian. Wouldn’t it be wonderful +if you married a white lady. How I should like +to be her!”</p> + +<p>The Prince hardly knew whether he was talking +to a schoolgirl full of the “Arabian Nights,” or to a +very mysterious and self-concealed courtesan. But +he knew that he was fascinated and not merely drawn +fleshward. It was moonlight, and the Pacific Ocean +was full of filtering sounds and suppressed purples. +From time to time a great phosphorescent sheet shot +across the ship’s track like the sea’s luminary echo +or defiance of the moon. Butterfly by day and moth +by night, Theodosia felt freed of her shell, and the +name of her shell was Josiah.</p> + +<p>The Prince was beginning to see his way. At +Honolulu he suggested that Theodosia should return +with him to Persia instead of continuing to California. +Theodosia was quite willing and began to visualise +a new future. Though the Prince had hinted that +she might become the white Queen he had alluded to, +it was clearly impossible as she herself was married, +and then he was possibly married in some queer way +to all those dark ladies. An extra one might not +make a difference for him, but it would puzzle the +Belfast Presbytery. In the end he proposed, with his +unfailing tact, that she should enter his harem as +English governess to his wives. She could share +their limited life and, if she liked, she could consecrate +herself to their conversion. All Theodosia’s scruples +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_157">[Pg 157]</span>were overcome at a puff, and she began to feel as +radiant in conscience as in body and mind. She no +longer felt she was acting treacherously to Christ +and Kirk. Under her conscience, however, a subconscience +warned her and a subconsciousness +tempted her to unknown delight, and, when she +succumbed again and again, the very warning +became an overwhelming delight or expectation of +delight. All this occurred in the undebating and +unchallenged recesses of her soul, where modern +ideals and primitive instincts keep company.</p> + +<p>As long as she talked a little religion every day +with the Prince, Theodosia felt that all was justified. +Josiah only made two converts a year in China. She +might really devote six months to a convert so important +as the Prince. It was true that he would +only talk religion when she refused to hear him on +any other subject. He preferred to tell her of Parisian +theatres, and his race-horses and the splendours of +his royal palace. He found himself unaccountably +checked every time he tried to touch sex, though she +allowed his ebony hands to move on her canary-coloured +hair. Though she was deeply versed in her +Scriptures and had an eye for his soul, he had a number +of arrows in his Moslem quiver which surprised her. +And this it was that surprised him most. The only +thing she ever asked him for was his soul. White +women with whom he went even as short a trip as +London to Paris generally asked for pearls. But to +go to Honolulu and back and be asked to become +a Presbyterian was a rich experience. And he desired +her exceedingly. With hushed desire he desired.</p> + +<p>Woman though she was, she mistook his desire for +her body for nervousness on behalf of his own soul. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_158">[Pg 158]</span>Religion often confuses a woman with her own halo. +She asked him delightfully what could hold him back +from Christianity, or why she might not smooth +away any particular difficulty. He smiled his catlike +smile and asked: “You say that Allah childed +by Miriam the Virgin?” Theodosia nodded. “And +the Child was God?” Another nod. “Then the +Only God became many Gods?” “Only two!” +she threw in a little hastily, for he sharply rapped: +“And the Holy Ghost, of whom you were speaking +yesterday?” “Yes, the Holy Ghost also is God,” +she admitted, “but no others.” “Allah is become +three Gods then,” he said, and spoke no more. Sometimes +she would have persuaded him that the Son +also was God and the Holy Ghost, God, but he stroked +her and soothed her enthusiasm with Oriental calm. +“I would find it far easier to believe that Miriam the +Virgin is God,” he said one evening. “Gracious!” +quoth the daughter of the Manse, “do not become +a Roman Catholic, whatever you do.” He laughed. +“You have so many different Churches among the +Christians, and so many Gods, that I cannot discern +which is right.” Yet he always seemed to be laying +his difficulties at her feet, when he lowered his head +on her shoulder. She showed no repulsion, which +was to him astonishing. Never had he met white +woman the like. “Women are to me religion,” he +continued. “The great prophets have made it a +choice between women and religion. I have found +that they are the same.” She did not quite understand +his meaning, but she quickly composed the only +meaning attachable to his words in their circumstances. +He must be fond of her and, because he +was fond of her, he must want to become a Christian, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_159">[Pg 159]</span>she assumed. She looked round into the high-bred +dusky face on her shoulder and without moving her +lips touched his with her mouth. She intended it +as a friendly little act of gratitude, as though she +were stroking the nice old tame tiger behind bars in +the Dublin Zoo. At most he might have purred. +The effect on the Prince was, however, different. He +tossed his lighted cigar into the sea like a tiny redheaded +rocket. Then he caught her mouth between +his lips and drew it slowly into his, while his arms +crept round her body, and his ring-jewelled claws +spread themselves on her chest like a panther holding +its surprised prey. She saw his face slowly rise from +hers, and in the dark his feline teeth flashed with +tiny but exquisitely set diamonds. She kept quite +cool, though dimly realising how romantic a Governess +she would be expected to be.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>In Persia Theodosia came into her fairy own. +Geographically she knew not where she was, within +hundreds of miles. She had been brought inland +by native bearers, had been carried in litters, +with her baby, and finally thrown amongst the +ladies of the harem. There she had been clothed +in Eastern dress and looked to herself like a perpetual +Christmas card. She was strangely remote from any +idea of a Presbyterian missionary. Her feet, cased +in rich-smelling morocco, were no longer the elastic-sided +feet of those who bring good tidings upon the +mountain-tops. The dusty, rusty dresses of the +Jumble Sale were no more. The thread-worn skirts +were replaced with something more in accordance +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_160">[Pg 160]</span>with the surrounding Jungle. Her mother’s black jet +brooch had been destroyed or lost by the Prince, +who gave her pearls instead. She wore them for his +pleasure, half stripping herself at night in order to +keep cool—pearls in long strings, falling festoons, white +waves of pearls. He liked to watch her concealing +her modesty behind their dangling sheen, and she +would lie back like a flower which has weathered long +vernal frosts and is bursting bud more brightly for +the delay. In that tropical Asian summer she +bloomed like a flower of the Irish spring. And her +hair was in perpetual flower, summer or winter, with +its strange and indescribable coloration, milk of +dandelion, cream of marigold or quintessence of honey. +It gave the Prince a queer religious exaltation.</p> + +<p>Theodosia did not fail to fall in love with her lover. +It had all come with such a rush. Not until she was +ensconced in his harem did she realise that he intended +her to occupy the position of a favourite +wife, and that even among the dark ladies she was +favourite, and that his holy favour was upon her. +In the Palace and the Palace gardens she was accounted +something divine. Servants fell prostrate before her. +Days of wonderful ease and luxury followed. Weird +sights and colours came to her through slitted shutters. +Theodosia was clothed in Oriental dress by silent +slaves every morning, though when she dined with her +Prince a vitiation of taste insisted on Parisian gowns. +He was really a dazzling creature, not handsome but +forceful and intoxicating in his converse and behaviour. +Gorgeous was his dress, taken clean out +of the “Arabian Nights,” though at moments he wore +beautifully tailored London suits, which Theodosia +used to mistake for the first signs of Christian +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_161">[Pg 161]</span>disposition. She had given up the attempt to convert +him. He always listened with agreeable politeness +and then countered with something too unexpected +or upsetting for words. Indulgently he would hear +what were to him the utterly preposterous doctrines of +Irish Presbyterianism, and then quietly inquire how +any Prophet, however well spoken of in Belfast, could +be the bodily son of Allah. Or he would quote +cleverly from the Scriptures and the Koran until she +was so muddled that she knew not which he was +drawing argument from. And when challenged on a +doctrine she would coyly refer to John Knox or John +Calvin, and once she referred to her father’s great +hero, Dr. Hanna of Belfast, and the Prince asked if +Hanna was a lady preacher, and laughed her to +scorn.</p> + +<p>When she had had her little say, he would read +her ecstatic words from the Song of Solomon and +give her coffee filled with a sharp-sweet little flavouring, +and then she would forget everything except his +marvellous love-making. To the subtleties and ecstasies +of love she had always remained a stranger. +She had known nothing more intoxicating than her +own desire, and that she had achieved. Josiah had +always treated her with Presbyterian primness, wooing +her with perfectly wooden propriety. Her ecstasy +of Josiah’s embrace lay in release from home. When +home dwindled into hemi-spheral distances, the +ecstasy of Josiah ceased. He was a dull lover, in +other words a perfect husband, and he retained a +certain prosaic modesty of courtship by his total +absence of any poetry of motive or motion. On +occasions of connubial felicity he never did more than +read her a chapter from the Epistles of St. Paul. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_162">[Pg 162]</span>The difference between St. Paul and Solomon was +considerable.</p> + +<p>The Prince remembered the word of the Prophet, +whose blood ran in his tropical veins, and how Mohammed +had said to every faithful, “Woman is thy +field, plough her after thy will.” And he made love +to Theodosia, to all her emotion and to all her soul, +and with his body did worship and with his soul did +adore her until she would swoon in his arms, and only +awake from swoon to become sufficiently and sweetly +conscious that she was swooning again. Often an +Asiatic moon looked through the forests and gardens +and lighted on her beautiful primrose hair as it lay +in wet wythes across the hot mouth of His High +Serenity and Holy Highness, who was graciously +pleased for the moment to forget his race-horses in +France and his chorus girls in England, and even +the Exalted Star of India, which he had received +during his last visit to Calcutta. For her part, Theodosia +awoke to all that he roused in her. Whithersoever +he called, she followed him even in a dream. +Surely he had never known white woman like her, +for she was the first to respond to his love and not +to his pearls. And she satisfied his soul as well as +his body. He found something strange and almost +uncanny in her hidden beauty and unconscious charm. +She came to exercise a magical effect on him, and +when he remembered how she had come to him out +of the seas, like Aphrodite through the foam, she +became poetry and passion, a veritable goddess in his +eye. Her sway and power became tantamount in the +seraglio and, had she cared, supreme through the Palace +and through the dominions of the Prince.</p> + +<p>It was so strange, in his eyes, that she never asked +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_163">[Pg 163]</span>him a favour and even gave him back the jewels with +which he delighted to heap her sinuous body. Through +unguents and the fingers of her attendants she had +acquired a grace and dexterity for which her health +and simplicity of life had prepared the way. When +she lay sleeping she lay like a white snake that had +just sloughed its scales, firm and warm and rippling. +The Prince was appreciative of the gifts of Allah +and felt frequently grateful that he was of the kindred +of the Prophet.</p> + +<p>It was true that he was often criticised in the Orient +for his excessive love of things European, of English +clothes, white women and French luxuries, but it +was never dreamed or hinted that he could betray +the faith of Islam. Astuteness as well as piety +combined to keep him steady on that point. With +the European Governments he was on the best of +terms. His subtle religious influence was always +thrown on the side of the English Raj, and a letter +from his pen was always accorded special attention +whenever he deigned to point out some unnoticed +excellence of English rule or to convey some sentiment +of the East to her understanding rulers. +Though excluded from certain clubs, he stood +socially very high in Europe.</p> + +<p>Nevertheless there were movements abroad in +Asia, and the ways of the Prince were not well seen +by the Nationalists and devotees of Asiatic Bolshevism, +and he was freely criticised and even cursed among +many who should have been his followers. He had +the misfortune to be equally distasteful to students +with European culture, who applied a knowledge of +the Higher Mathematics and chemistry to bomb +manufacture in the East, and to the fanatics, who +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_164">[Pg 164]</span>hated him for the horrible rumour that he had introduced +a white missionary woman into his household.</p> + +<p>But no rumour reached Theodosia, who was lulled +to ease and at moments lifted to ecstasy, until she +forgot her father and her father’s Kirk. The strictness +that had been bred into her with a ramrod lapsed. +She gave herself up to her lover until she could hardly +bear to pass a day or a night without him. The +sound of revolution and uprising never reached her. +She never read apprehension on his strained features +or realised that he loved her every hour as though it +might be their last. She loved him each time as +though it were the first. It was her perennial +spirit. They were great and wonderful lovers, that +was all.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>The end was bound to come and it came. A day +broke with ominous quiet over the Palace. The +Prince had departed that morning on business of +state for many days. He was travelling on his way +to India. His secretary had just telegraphed the +number of guns that the station master and the +British Government were expected to provide, also +the height and trappings necessary for the elephants +privileged to carry his baggage and the holy bath +water.... An hour or two passed of perfect calm.... +Then a low wail arose outside the Palace and +a frightened woman crept into the women’s quarters, +spreading word that the holy one, the beloved of the +Prophet, had been assassinated at the railway station. +A moan swept through the harem like a subconscious +sob of Suttee, as though every woman that had ever +lain in his arms was turning her face to the wall to +die. Slaves threw themselves on the ground and +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_165">[Pg 165]</span>tore out their hair, mourning their dead lord with +pitiful and heart-lacerating sounds. From outside +the Palace rolled the rumble of confusion and disaster. +Cries and occasional shots pierced the still of the +afternoon air.</p> + +<p>Theodosia, much astonied, felt neither grief nor +fear. She had loved him as she could never love a +husband or one of her own race. He was a vivid +unreality, a weird monster, who came to her in dream, +half Cupid and half Caliban, but he had appealed to +the fairy part of her nature, and he had raped her soul +till she felt there was none left. Therefore she sat +without regrets and without remorse carelessly waiting +what might come. As the shouts outside grew fiercer, +women were thrown into hysterics of fear and grief.</p> + +<p>Nobody knew now what might come. Theodosia +was the only one who might have been expected to +feel some tremor, to show some fear, for within her +moved the child of the Prince. She kept her mind +unstricken within herself that the child might not be +frightened in the womb or released before the hour. +Something stronger than herself upheld her. An +immortal mood lifted her above the accidents of +Oriental revolution. She was not overmatched by +circumstances nor overthrown by approaching fate. +She did not trouble to imagine the future in which she +lived or died. She sat there vacant-minded with full +body and high heart in that Palace of mourning and +terrified despair. More than ever before in her life +she knew that she was not of those around her. The +mysterious sense of power and isolation drew her +apart, which had once drawn her apart from her +family in Ireland. During another hour fell expectancy +hung over all. At last came knocks, cries and +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_166">[Pg 166]</span>repeated inquiry. The guards had left their post so +that the fanatics were able to enter without a word. +The revolutionary students had settled the fate of +the Prince at the railway station. It remained +for the strict reactionaries to carry out a visitation +of the harem.</p> + +<p>The infidel wife of the favoured child of the Prophet +had long been a ribald rumour upon the lips of their +enemies. They had smarted too long under the +taunts of other Moslem sects. Armed men, reeking +with dust and fury, intruded. The harem was laid +desecrate. The women crouched upon the floor of the +inner chamber awaiting the sword. Theodosia retired +to the room which privilege had accorded her and sat +bolt upright. It had struck her that they would not +dare to kill her while she carried child, the sacred +child of the head of their own religion. But was it +likely that they could know of her condition? She +was only thinking how to save her child. Fate seemed +always condemning her to child-bearing in perilous +places. She stripped her pregnant body and threw +over herself the beautiful opera cloak that her lover +had given her. Then she waited. She could hear the +harem being interrogated and repeating the formulas +of Antichrist: “There is one God and Mohammed is +his Prophet!” Each woman repeated the words with +abject and craven eagerness. Theodosia was listening +and wondering whether their repetition on her own +lips would save her child or not. A certain pride sat +in the place of her soul.</p> + +<p>The search for the infidel woman followed. The +inner apartments were ravaged, but the fanatics were +surprised to see a white woman advancing coolly +towards them, clad in a dark electric blue and green +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_167">[Pg 167]</span>cloak fringed with ostrich fluff round her neck. There +was a wild cry: “There is one God and Mohammed +is his Prophet!” She stood smilingly shaking her +head. Her nonchalance roused their fury and a man +advanced threateningly. She saw the glint of steel +in his hand and her feet froze to the marble steps. +She was surrounded by assassins on every side, and +she was not unaware of the danger. She opened her +cloak and lifting it upon both arms, said simply, +“Respect the child of the highly favoured son of the +Prophet.” They drew back, crying, “It is true! +She bears the child of the Prophet. Let her acknowledge +Islam and live!” She stood there watching +them idly and carelessly as in a dream. “Acknowledge +there is one God and Mohammed is his Prophet!” +they screamed, with swords and daggers lifted within +striking distances.</p> + +<p>“There is one God,” she replied, and a silence +as of death weighed upon the Palace and upon +her words. “The Father is God, and the Son +is God, and the Holy Ghost is God!” A groan +passed through the fanatics on hearing this Christian +blasphemy within the very dwelling of the head +of their faith. Was it possible that this white +infidel had been tolerated within, as rumour said, in +order to corrupt the Moslem wives of the holy one +and to defile the very hearth of their religion with +Christianity? Now they knew the worst. They +threw themselves upon her, and holding her wrists +and ankles, carried her within and out of sight of the +other women.... There was a pause and no sound +was heard in that Palace until the cry of a newly-delivered +child. A crowd of men and women had +gathered outside. To them was shortly carried a +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_168">[Pg 168]</span>dusky new-born boy. All knelt in adoration, for it +was a Prince of the blood and kindred of the Prophet, +and the hereditary head of the faith. Perfect and +unscratched and unbruised was the child, as always are +children born Cæsareanwise.</p> + +<p>But even in that last hour of agony Theodosia found +joy to look upon the child that was born into the +world, before it was taken away from her for ever, +and strength to cry aloud to her torturers, “The +Father is God and the Son is God!” She could say +no further, for a strong hand took her throat and +she felt a ropelike strangulation shorten and finally +quench her consciousness. Fiercely the blood seethed +in her temples and the breath battered the tissue of +her lungs. Swiftly, swiftly the fairy blood danced +out of her heart and poured in torrents upon the floor. +Slowly, slowly she died, not unworthily of a daughter +of John Calvin, and was at eternal rest.</p> + +<p>In the days of the Roman persecutions she would +have not failed to become a spouse of Christ. She +could have stood in the arena as calmly as she stood +in the seraglio, and let her body be meshed by the net +of the <i>retiarius</i> as smilingly as she had lifted the folds +of her opera cloak. When the women crept back +frightened in the morning they found her body where +her slayers had left it. Round her twisted neck was +tightly tied a long plait of her primrose-coloured hair. +It lay like a spilth of wild honey upon a broken bough +of a white ash-tree in the first break of dawn, after +a stormy night in some far away country of the West.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_169">[Pg 169]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="MIDIR_AND_ETAIN"> + MIDIR AND ETAIN + </h2> +</div> + + +<p>Once upon a time the Kingdom of Meath was as +rocky and stone-bound as the fields of Connaught +to-day. Etain the girl fairy lived with Midir the +King of the Elf-mounds of Ireland. She was the most +beautiful of her kind, for the folk of Ireland judged +beauty ever afterward by Etain the beautiful, but +she was unstable and fitful. She had a mind and a +half-memory, as well as a full memory. It was out +of her half-memory that Midir heard her speak in +her sleep of other lovers beside himself. With brooding +on her strangeness he became a stranger to her in +his own mind. With that he left her and went riding +upon his coal-black horse. A snow-white hound ran +for shadow by its side, for no fairy horse can throw a +shape upon the ground.</p> + +<p>It was a second wife he brought home. She was +also of the fey, and her jealousy was more terrible +than the jealousy of women born. She dealt secretly +with her Druids to ply Etain with spells. They +made Etain as a butterfly that eateth flowers. Etain +fluttered vainly into Midir’s sight, but his eyes were +cast elsewhere and the Druids’ wind blew Etain like +a silken leaf across moor. Seven years she was carried +hither and thither by the king-winds of Ireland until +she lighted in the palace of Midir’s dear foster-son by +the Boyne water. He knew her for woman under fey +and built her a little house with windows instead of +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_170">[Pg 170]</span>doors, and fed her with bog myrtle and rowanberries. +At evening she would assume her ancient beauty. For +the Druid spell was by the Sun and by the Moon and lost +power in the twilight, which is neither of sunshine nor +moonlight. Midir’s Druids knew she was come by Boyne +water and hastened till they found her bower hanging +like a swallow’s room to the palace walls. Etain was +drying her wings in the light. With a magic blast they +tossed her again upon the elements, and for seven years +she floated like a little satin cloud hither and thither.</p> + +<p>A lesser wind dropped her into the court where +the people of Ulster sucked sweet hydromel from +methers. Etain fell into the cup beside the King’s +wife. It was a woman’s cup and white with milk, +so that she swallowed Etain for a white curd. In +earthly shape was Etain reborn and then was she +called Etain, for her fairy name was not revealed +then or thereafter by dream or Druid. With Ulster’s +princely daughters she was reared till the noon of +maidenhead. One day they bathed together in the +blue speckled sea. A strange horseman rode by upon +a coal-black horse, and a seagull sailed for silvery +shadow under its hoofs. All but Etain slipped into +the waves, but she stood, caught in her half-mind. +The stranger said, so that she heard:</p> + +<p>“She was so delicate that a Queen quaffed her +unwitting. Her place is not with earth children. +For her sake Meath shall be smoother than sea and +the Elf-mounds of Ireland laid in ruin. The men of +Ireland shall measure beauty by her name for ever.”</p> + +<p>He said, and slipped behind air and was unseen. +Hither and thither the princely maidens of Ulster waded +for wonder and for fear of his words. But Etain stood +trembling like a winged thing in a draught of fire.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_171">[Pg 171]</span></p> + +<p>Eochy was King of Ireland and lived in the demesne +of Meath. For the man of Meath is the ruler of the +men of Ireland. But the rocks of Meath gave no +place to his horses, and the rushes no milk to his cows. +He was wont to ride round Ireland visiting every King +and Kingling of his allegiance. His loneliness for one +was not healed by the company of the many. He +stayed unwedded, not finding mate among the royal +women of Ireland. Harpers he had sent upon horses +and wizards upon air to find one willing and worthy +to queen Ireland. Lastly he rode out with only a +favourite harper alone with him. Toward evening they +found Etain. A purple mantle stitched with silver +hung across her shoulder. With a silver comb she +drew her hair into plaits. Her cheeks were red as +the sun upon the West, and her arms were whiter +than the snow falling at dawn. Her teeth were pearls +dashed in the foam of the sea. Her eyebrows were +darker than the wing of the bright beetle.</p> + +<p>The King asked her name. “I am Etain of the +Elf-mounds,” she said; for by dreaming she had happed +upon the place she came from. He asked if she were +betrothed, and she told him that the Kings and +noblemen of the Faery came wooing her by all the +wells and waterways of Ireland. To forsake all the +women of the world the King promised, if she would +but come with him to Meath. But for love of the +World-under-wave she would not queen Ireland.</p> + +<p>Eochy returned to his home. By day he lay him +down, and by night he rode and swam. Love of +Etain let him not enjoy the life and valour of the +world. Druid and harper could not quell the pangs +of his pain nor the sorrow of his sickness. A leech +came, who could tell the disease in the house from +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_172">[Pg 172]</span>the smoke curling on the roof-top. “No need to +lament,” quoth he, approaching the palace, “this man +is undone by one of the two peerless plagues which +afflict the men of Ireland. It is envy or it is love.” +He saw the King and said: “It is not envy. It is +beyond the dream of Druid and the healing of harpers. +The herb of the physician cannot attain thereto.” +The King rose and said: “My disease hath run deeper +than my covering of skin. My love is a kingdom of +strength and I am held therein. I am wrestling with +a spectre. I am tossed to Heaven and I am thrown +into the sea. I am enamoured of an echo.”</p> + +<p>“Better seek the rock that gave you the echo,” +said the leech, and the King set riding again with his +harper. When they approached the dwelling of +Etain, the King sent his harper to play in her hearing +while he waited the distance of the sound away. +Etain saw the King passing and took no notice, for +she saw the darkness of his horse’s shadow upon the +rocks. But of his sweetest the royal harper harped. +When he played of the wonders and wooings of Meath, +Etain listened and the Boyne river passed from her +memory, and the Kingdom of the Elf-mounds from her +half-memory. She rose to reward the harper. Nothing +would he take but to tell her his story. He told her of +Eochy, High King of Ireland, wasting away for her sake, +until she took pity and told him to send the King to +tryst at dawn that he might live and not die of her.</p> + +<p>At dawn of dawn one drew near to her, and courted +her with tales of the beauty and bravery of Meath. +She soothed his love and went her way in the twilight. +In the true dawn came the King, and when he found +her gone he wished to lie down and die. His harper +found Etain and persuaded her to tryst with the King +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_173">[Pg 173]</span>at the dawn of the morrow. Once again it was the +wraith that came to Etain in the twilight of dawn, +but with the likeness and the voice of Eochy. The +wraith told her that the women of Meath had lost all +beauty in the night. Etain said: “It is with Eochy +and not with you that I trysted at dawn lest he should +come to his death.” The wraith replied: “It were +better that you should court me than the sick King, +for I was your lover in the aforetime.”</p> + +<p>Ever was Etain remembering, and the wraith spoke +to her by the fairy name that lay in her half-memory, +and said: “I am Midir and by the sorcery of Druids +we were driven apart. Again have I found thee as +ever of enduring beauty and faithless mind. When +I prattled to thee of the Methians thou thoughtest I +was their King. King am I only of those who pass +under wave and beyond world.” Then was Etain +divided between her love for Faery and her anger at +the trick which Midir had played against her, and +she made pretence that she would marry the man who +had Meath for his own. Answered Midir: “Can I not +give thee all the may-meadows and well-waters of +Ireland for bride gift?” Answered Etain: “Even +so would I not exchange the Methian royalty for +thy lineage, which is none that men know.” “True +said,” replied Midir, “for there is no lineage +where there is neither birth nor death.” Fiercely +he pressed her to return with him to the Elf-mounds, +saying: “Thou shalt live for ever with +the primrose-haired. Thou shalt be Queen of the +tribes who pass all-seeing and unseen through the hills +of Ireland. Pleasant are the plains of Ireland, but +there is a Plain which is beyond pleasure. Delicious +to the minds of men is the sweet hydromel that the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_174">[Pg 174]</span>women of Ireland brew in vats, but the drink of my +country enchanteth every sense together.”</p> + +<p>Etain would have laid away her pretence then and +gone with Midir, but Eochy drew near with his harper, +and the earthly harper drowned the dream of Faery. +For a year and a moon and a night Etain lived with +Eochy in the Kingdom of Meath, and theirs were all +the boundaries of all Ireland. Whoever is Lord of +Meath kingeth every bound of Ireland. “The Setting +is with the Jewel,” as the Brehons have said. Their +allotted time passed and they chanced to sit in the +hall of banquet. The inner gates were closed. The +armed men were withdrawn from the ramparts, for +it was against the chivalry of Ireland to make attack +after nightfall. The porter stood alone in the court. +A warrior was seen passing within the gates. The +porter knew not his face nor his accoutrements and +still-stood with fright. His knees kissed and his heels +fled from each other. Eochy heard the clinking of his +knees and cried aloud to the porter: “Who knocks?”</p> + +<p>“Midir of the Elf-mounds,” was the reply, “and +I am come to play against the royal harpers for a fee.”</p> + +<p>The King of Ireland consented, both for his love of +harmony and for his love of the hazard. Now the +best harpers in Ireland are they who have learnt their +tunes from the herdsmen who listen at the holes of +the Elf-mounds, and Midir made sure that no harper of +Eochy would play other than echoes of his own music. +Very cunningly he played the music of challenge, and +sang of the youth and beauty of the world that is ever +young, until the old wine in the casks stored under the +roof became fresh wine of the grape and poured down +the walls. When he had finished, the very warriors +and poets of Eochy cried: “Victory indeed!”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_175">[Pg 175]</span></p> + +<p>Then the King called his favourite harper, who had +been stolen out of his cradle by a water-wench, and +had heard better music under wave than ever upon +earth. Long he played and all listened, Midir most of +all. It was no music of Elf-land or echo of the elfin +tune, but the music of the cities which have been +drowned in the Western sea. The night winds carried +the music into the trees outside the royal rath of the +King and, though it was winter, they burst into bloom. +When he had ended, all present cried: “Victory over +victory!” Midir asked the fee he should pay to the +royal harper of Ireland. “Clear the plains of Meath +smooth of stone!” said the harper, who knew whence +Midir came. Midir went as he came.</p> + +<p>At dawn the royal steward went out and found the +fields as smooth as the face of the clouds, and a great +host with fairy oxen carrying away every stone except +the magic stones of the Druids, and sinking them into +the bogs and waterholes of Ireland.</p> + +<p>But Midir was unsatisfied and came to the King the +next night, passing porter and portals into the room +of banquet. The King asked his need, and he said: +“A game of royal chess.” The board was set of +gold and silver squares, and the King slew half of +Midir’s chessmen. Midir pretended anger, and bade +the King choose whatever stake he would. “Rid the +fields of Meath of every rush,” said the King. At +dawn the royal steward went out and reported that a +multitude of small folk were hewing down the last +rushes as men destroy a forest.</p> + +<p>The next night Eochy came again and asked another +game. The King gladly consented to show his skill. +Midir played with the wisdom of his own people, and +he left no piece but his own standing upon the board, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_176">[Pg 176]</span>and the King’s kingpiece. The King inquired his +stake. “To hold Etain the beautiful in my arms for +a moment of time,” said Midir. The King was troubled +and bade him return after the month.</p> + +<p>At the end of the month Eochy filled his halls with +chosen warriors and trim swordsmen, and sent men +riding to and fro upon the ramparts. Midir passed +through them all. “A debt is due to me,” he said. +“I have not considered yet,” said the King. “Etain +the beautiful thou hast promised me.” “But only +for a moment of time,” said Eochy. Fear came upon +Etain, for the year of her forgetfulness was passing +from her. To the King she clung, saying: “Until thou +resign me I will not go from thee.” “I will not +resign thee,” said Eochy, “but he may take thee in +his arms for a moment of time as thou art, and in the +midst of my warriors, and while my horsemen gallop +the battlements.” “Well said,” quoth Midir, “for +a moment of love time is longer than all time.” To +Etain then he whispered her fairy name.</p> + +<p>She withdrew not from his arms, but passed away +with him as she had come, through the lattice of the +roof. Eochy the King rose and cried aloud as a sheep +shouteth to an eagle bearing away her lamb. When +the warriors in the court heard the cry of the King, +they leaped against each other with their swords in +their hands and shame in their eyes. And the riding +men spurred to and fro upon the ramparts. Yet +no one was seen to pass, and though the King of Ireland +rode into the night with his harper and his Druid he +never came by Etain the beautiful. But the fields +of Royal Meath to this day are smooth of stone and +rid of rush.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_177">[Pg 177]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="KATHLEEN"> + KATHLEEN + </h2> +</div> + + +<p>I cannot prove that animals have souls, but I +would go so far as to say that the apparatus of a +soul is there. Instinct is obviously not soul, and, +moreover, is based on hereditary earth-fears and earth +desires. With death, instinct dies like any other +quality—like the power of smell or the colour of the +fur. Reasons given to prove that animals have no +souls are that they cannot laugh or they cannot pray, +or they do not leave behind those wisps or waifs of +floating personality which we call ghosts. Only +beings with souls to lose or save have the faculty of +impregnating place and time with those unsolved +emanations, which we attribute to some great emotional +violence or grief or crime, when we say that such +and such a house is haunted. But then, if the material +of a house can be haunted—that is, possessed by spirits, +good or evil, of the past—why should it not be possible +for an animal to become possessed and, being sentient +and animate, to reproduce such effects as that same +spirit would have on a human body?</p> + +<p>But of themselves animals have no souls. Otherwise, +one might sadly imagine what a multitude of +ghosts would haunt the human race. Would not the +old coach roads be infested with phantom horses once +worn slowly to death in order to keep the system of +mails and stages, before the era of railways, up to +time? Would not numberless donkeys haunt the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_178">[Pg 178]</span>sea sands? And all the cats and dogs left to starve +in deserted houses should provide the spectral shapes +of their anguish and despair, all manner of feline +phantoms and canine come-backs. But, however +inhumanly an animal dies, it is just because it is +not human that it leaves no avenging or haunting +emanation on time’s spectroscope.</p> + +<p>But an animal is susceptible of lodging a soul or +spirit escaped from some other source. Holy Writ +and Mediæval Sorcery combine to reassure us on that +point. The driving of the evil spirits out of their +human host into the Gadarene swine was the greatest +experiment in Psychical Research since the seance +of Endor, when the witch raised Samuel from the dead +with the deliberate dare-devilry of a Kensington +Pythoness. The Gadarene swine showed that the +bodies of animals could be properly possessed by +spirits, and of course the necromantic Middle Ages +broidered every single Gospel fact to the full, and +recorded every kind of fantastic variant such as +familiar spirits occupying owls and men’s souls entering +into wolves; all the horrible legend of lycanthropy, +to give it its right name. The accepted fact +that spirits could so easily make themselves at home +in an animal’s body led the theologians to the theological +deduction that an animal could not possibly +have had a soul. It was empty, in fact. A human +body, of course, is not easily occupied by spirits unless +the person has been foolish enough to get out of his +body and lose the way back. However, that is +another story.</p> + +<p>To return to Psychical Research and the animal +world, nothing is better attested than the perception +of the unseen to which the primitive instinct of a dog +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_179">[Pg 179]</span>is liable. Our eyes are often too scaled or civilised +to see what is happening in our own drawing-rooms. +Dogs sometimes follow with their eyes some passing +apparition which is held from their owner’s sight. +And they rise and shiver in that numbing ice-breath, +which is so common a concomitant of that which comes +from the unseen. I have known of caged birds dying, +well, it was said of a cold draught, but really of sheer +terror....</p> + +<p>Of leaving ghosts themselves animals have no +specific record though they frequently figure in ghost +stories. But the survivals and superannuations of +human personality do return under animal form. +There was the case of a Scotch recluse, who had a +morbid little way about him, and was always upsetting +his prosaic family by threatening to return to +them in the body of one of his many pet sporting dogs. +He was so insistent on this subject that the moment +he died his family had all his dogs destroyed, but he +came back all the same and rather unpleasantly, for +visitors used to complain of the whining and scratching +of a dog at their door during the night. Horses have +certainly been known to make their distress known to +their owners by telepathic means, whether they have +thrown a foal untimely or stumbled into wire in the dark.</p> + +<p>An old school friend of mine, Edward (and the +family name I leave out) was convinced that a woman’s +spirit dwelt in his favourite mare, but the circumstances +he would never allow to be studied scientifically +or published in any way. As he has long left the +country, and as I think that I alone saw the story +from start to finish (and can now evolve some theory) +I will tell it as well as I can, always making the reservation +that it is an unpleasant story in the extreme. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_180">[Pg 180]</span>However, with the necessary changes in names and +places it can do no harm to present it to the morbid.</p> + +<p>We were all at school together, Edward, Lord +Petersfield (that was not his name) and myself, and +Eton will make a very good disguise for the name of +the Public School. Edward and Petersfield were +prominent in athletics from the first, though Petersfield +was always ahead. He was a bullnecked fellow +with a face and nose of the type the Americans feelingly +describe as “plug-ugly.” He had no brain, and being +a peer’s son would never have been expected to use +it if he had one, but he had tremendous grit and +determination to collect all that he wanted in the shape +of silver cups and coloured caps—in glorification of +his bodily prowess. On the whole they prove delusive +trophies to English youth, choking off higher ambitions +and satisfying young men with a physical fitness +which cannot last. Petersfield was really supreme +of this type, brave, unscrupulous, thick-skinned and +self-centred. He was the finest kick at football in +the school or any school. I can still see the ball +darting more than bouncing from his toe like a billiard +ball from the cue, or describing long parabolas across +the playing field like one of those drawings which +illustrate the curve and velocity of cannon balls. +And his pride and self-conceit! Well, it was our +fault, for we worshipped as much as we disliked him. +I think we feared him as well. He had such a relentless +way of hurling others out of his path. He insisted +on being first choice always. He had to be captain. +He had to be winner. He had to be the record maker. +Being second was poisonous to him. He could not +stand being honourably beaten. He was a fine winner +but a bad loser.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_181">[Pg 181]</span></p> + +<p>It was the same in later life. He was a fine billiard +player, but, being once defeated in a passing game at +the club, he put down his cue and never played again. +Defeat, however honourable, was the only thing that +appeared to hurt him. To the racket and bruises of +an athletic career he was impervious. Besides, he +gave as good as he took. His curiously ugly face was +attributed to a streak of foreign blood. Certainly he +had a full-blooded Oriental grandmother. Boys of +foreign descent more often showed a taste at school +for pretty clothes and expensive sweets. It was odd +in those days to see one, captain of an English school +Eleven charging and barging, and swearing like any +muscular Christian. Of course there was plenty of +English blood on his father’s side, and it was only +while he was a small youth that he was chaffed about +the colour of his Asiatic relations with that considerate +tact which the English schoolboy has made his +own. He soon could look after himself, and played +cricket as well as football for the school. The mixture +of blood made him strong as a mongrel and his endless +conceit made him courageous. He was steeled, not +unnerved, by the presence of a large crowd, and could +be depended upon to make runs on a bad pitch. But +he was always disliked.</p> + +<p>Between Petersfield and Edward there had been a +feud as fags when they first came to school, and it had +always rankled. As soon as Petersfield found his +level he had tried to bully Edward, and I remember +the day when Edward decided to stand him no longer. +He found himself cornered in another boy’s room, and +seeing Petersfield descending upon him he snatched a +knife from the table, and thrust it with a boy’s frenzy +into his enemy. There was a lot of blood and a serious +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_182">[Pg 182]</span>row. Luckily Petersfield was tough and no artery +was severed. The parents of both boys were summoned +by the Headmaster, and it was wisely decided to hush +everything up. For the rest of their school life they +were often athletic rivals, but they managed to keep +out of each other’s way. They both reached the +Eleven eventually, and whatever ill-humour remained +was discharged on the football field. Petersfield left +all his contemporaries behind, and was regarded as +the best kick the school had ever produced, which set +his selfishness and self-conceit running into a settled +mould.</p> + +<p>The privileges and good things of the English +aristocratic life were abundantly his. The combination +of wealth from abroad, title from home, and +athletic prowess at school opened every club and +country house to Petersfield. He went wherever he +wished, and nine mothers out of ten encouraged their +daughters to follow and flatter him without thinking +whether he was likely to make an ideal husband, or +perhaps because English mothers seem to believe that +the ideal husband is the third stage of the idolised +schoolboy who has become an idle bachelor.</p> + +<p>Petersfield and Edward used to meet again in after +life during the hunting season. In face of the solemn +realities connected with the pursuit of foxes they +could well afford to forget their disagreements at +school. Edward used to hunt regularly, for in those +days hunting was not out of the reach and pocket of +those English country families for whom the sport had +been divinely designed. The time had not yet come +for the sport to become the monied luxury of townsmen +rather than the occupation of squires, when men +of wealth would command the hunts their fortunes +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_183">[Pg 183]</span>supported, and when their lack of horsemanship and +speed in the field would be met by a supply of well-aniseeded +foxes and even three-padded Reynards, +amputated for the benefit of sporting stalwarts who +had paid to be in at the death. The King of Sports +would have to be brought within range of the Kings +of Commerce and Stock-broking. In the greater days +of fox-hunting, Petersfield and Edward both rode in +the first flight. Hunting was a serious matter in +Leicestershire then, and it was a joy to behold how +the hard-riding squires and gentlemen jockeys kept +the after-Christmas crowd at a polite distance by +forcing a tempestuous pace over the oxers and leaving +the colliding Cockneys to drift into the distance. On +such occasions there arose a closer understanding +between Edward and Petersfield. They were both +well mounted, and had no quarrel in the open. Indeed, +by this time they must have forgotten the old +rivalry at school. But it had left an impression on +my mind, and, remembering how Petersfield had been +able to snatch prize after prize in front of Edward’s +nose, I would have been well satisfied to see him forfeit +one of the more substantial gains in life to my +friend.</p> + +<p>There came a splendid season with record runs +interspersed through the finest of hunting weather. +The Leicestershire colonies settled down to their +Elysian fields with no cloud on the horizon except the +prospect of having to find a new Master for one of the +best-known packs. Fortunately neither Petersfield +nor Edward had any ambition that way, otherwise I +would have been really grieved had Petersfield snatched +the Mastership to himself. For any such public and +honourable post I considered that Edward had far +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_184">[Pg 184]</span>higher qualifications. His temper was more even, +and he often thought of others besides himself.</p> + +<p>When the time came for the renewal of their rivalry +I noticed with interest and relief that it was over a +woman that they were stirred, first vaguely and +hesitatingly, and at last very relentlessly. Nevertheless +the fair sex lead to far less unpleasantness in +England than what are called sporting disputes. An +Englishman who is kept out of some great sporting +position or done out of his place in a team <ins id='cor_184' title='Original: or'>of</ins> eleven +will harbour vendetta all his life. But for a jilting +fiancée or a forsaking wife he will find a kind of bored +consolation elsewhere. The arrows of love are fortunately +blunted by the northern climate.</p> + +<p>England is a man’s country not a woman’s. Affairs +of honour, if they arise, rise in the realm of sport, not +of gallantry. Cheating at cards, accusations of foul +play, even labelling a man a dangerous shot, will set +men fiercely apart, and will blind accuser and accused +to the consequences. But as a rule men do not fight +duels over women or lose their heads merely because +they have lost their hearts. There are always as +many mermaids in the sea as ever emerged from its +waves. It was unfortunate and unnecessary, therefore, +that Petersfield and Edward should have discovered +that the one and only girl for them resided +in the same person. Trouble stared them in the face +the moment Kathleen FitzClare arrived to stay at +the same hunting lodge where they were guests. But +her charms are no part of my story or at least any +detailed description of them. Their effect certainly +is. They seemed to affect Petersfield and Edward +both with the same deadly fascination, for they both +began to court her in the intervals of pursuing the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_185">[Pg 185]</span>fox. I was thrown constantly with all three, and +found myself something of a neutral pacemaker for +Edward, with an inclination to ride off Petersfield if I +could. But the game was so obviously one where the +third man cannot interfere. The contest was as keen +as could be expected among men whose first thoughts +lay with hunting all the time. The game went to +Petersfield.</p> + +<p>Though I think on a desert island or on a social +level Kathleen would have chosen Edward for the +amiabilities which the other never had, Petersfield +could urge a number of qualities in his cause, which +counted high in the England of those days. A prospective +Peerage still argued nobility and probably +gentle blood. His wealth was based on land reinforced +by a fortune abroad. He was unpopular, but +his position was strong, and he could stroll into Parliament +or a first-rate club, or most country houses, +with very little preliminaries.</p> + +<p>He was still pushing for prizes and generally picking +them up whether he had to make an exertion or not. +Perhaps he won them too easily, for he never had to +give that concentration of purpose and pain by which +alone the greatest trophies are won. He had distanced +us all at school without taking the trouble to train +himself, and in later life it was the same. Of him it was +said that he could have played cricket for England +and won the Grand National. He had the calibre +for both but not the self-denial. He took his sport +for his personal pride and pleasure and not for its own +reward. It was his pleasure to keep his strong body +magnificently fit, but he had no use for asceticism or +reducing his weight or the toils of first class cricket +and steeplechasing. And his pride was sufficiently +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_186">[Pg 186]</span>served by the ease with which he could hold his own +among the amateurs of his time. Nor was he the +sort to love a woman with the bloodless devotion +of a Harry Esmond. When he saw an easy and +pleasurable chance to make love he took it. Edward +became deeply in love with Kathleen, but Petersfield +forced the pace and in the end he took her away. +The day came when Edward realised that it was all +up. We were coming up the stairs when we caught +sight of Petersfield and Kathleen on the higher landing +together. He was leaning backward and she seemed +almost to be dragged forward by the eddy of his lips. +I swore softly, but Edward turned a little pale and +said nothing. Petersfield looked rather like one of +those Satyrs that are so often depicted on classical +altars. Well it made me hot and Edward cold, poor +fellow! I do not suppose Petersfield was ever +particularly passionate, but as she turned round I +could see the glint of his teeth as he drew his mouth +across her shoulders.... Their engagement was +announced soon after.... At the wedding a curious +incident happened. Edward crept into the church +at the last moment, and, as luck would have it, ran +into the bride. Without a word but with a face +like marble she broke her wedding bouquet and +handed one half to Edward. Nobody but myself +saw the incident.</p> + +<p>Edward seemed quite crushed for a long time after +she married Petersfield, but his early training had +prepared him for being knocked out from the same +quarter. He never mentioned it to me then or +afterwards. As for Kathleen—for all that the world +knew, it was a happy marriage. Her relatives were +wildly pleased and marriages are made to please +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_187">[Pg 187]</span>relatives. She kept her end up and always showed +herself well groomed and proud when she appeared +in public, and perky and pleasant in the private +houses she visited. Her behaviour showed the normal +attitude with which women equally conceal the +most fantastic tragedies or some secret happiness. +You never can know by their conduct whether women +have cancer or a lover. The same intangible veil +conceals the most terrible secrets within. A man will +make a hullabulloo over either, and tell all his friends +in the Club sooner or later. Men are fools. Women +will talk about everything that concerns the secrets +of others, but their own they keep more often +than people know. Kathleen kept hers and no one was +a penny the wiser. But the marriage did not last. +Neither women nor horses ever lasted Petersfield +long. He was always passing restlessly on his way +to try another. But there was no scandal or divorce +in Kathleen’s case. In fact nobody thought anything +was amiss until she was found dead one morning, +and the Coroner stated at somewhat embarrassing +length his reasons for supposing that she had taken +an overdose of sleeping draught accidentally!</p> + +<p>She had been out hunting the day before, and +Edward told me that he had had a long talk with +her. They had always remained close friends and +met more and more gladly. This occasion had been +Edward’s last memory of her, and they had met at +the covertside and ridden into a corner field together. +She had talked to Edward with more than her usual +gay manner, with a real tenderness in fact, as though +she were going for a far journey and they were not +likely to meet again that season and for longer. She +had shewn herself more interested in Edward than +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_188">[Pg 188]</span>in the hounds, and had insisted on his wheeling his +horse round and round behind the covert. He could +not remember that she had told him anything +important, certainly nothing to illuminate the dark +tragedy of the morning after, but her manner had +impressed him deeply. She seemed to be prescient +of a coming disaster and unwilling for him to leave +her side. She had kept him there, he could not +tell whether it was ten minutes or an hour, but the +hunt had meantime disappeared. Then with a +handshake and allowing him to kiss her hand she had +ridden home leaving him an imperishable souvenir. +Of course he never saw her again, but, what was so +curious, he could not recall a word that she had said. +He was fortunately able to keep the incident from the +Coroner whose interpretation would almost certainly +have been wrong.</p> + +<p>Edward felt her death terribly and took a good +deal of the widower’s pose and portion upon himself. +Petersfield continued hunting that season as though +nothing had happened, but Edward grew moody and +disappeared. He was always imaginative, and +imaginative people, instead of being bored, brood +and brood, and so a year passed. Petersfield married +again without much ado, but Edward did not think +it was any slight to Kathleen’s memory. Rather +he came to think that, now her husband had remarried, +she was more than ever his own, and the feud between +the two men collapsed into its own ashes.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>After a break of two seasons Edward was hunting +again. Petersfield was now Master of the pack, +but nothing could ever induce the least collision +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_189">[Pg 189]</span>between the two. Edward’s ambitions and desires +had been steadily blunted through life. He had +taken an honourable second so often. There seemed +nothing left for him but to enjoy good health and +a place in the ranks of sport. When they met in the +field, he and Petersfield exchanged cheery greeting. +It was a good season and they had plenty of hunting +matters to discuss. They were having rattling runs +and the Hunt made lively reading in the rather +monotonous chronicle of foxhunting which spoils +a daily column of <i>The Times</i> for the ordinary reader. +Edward distinguished himself riding a young mare +which his father had bred, a nice black satin-coated +creature that made up for her slender shoulders by +the cat-like cleverness with which she took double +fences and complicated obstacles. She became a +familiar beauty spot in the Hunt, and more than one +generous offer was made for her, but Edward enjoyed +her mixture of cunning and staying power which +generally brought him to the front and sometimes +gave him a hard run to himself and the huntsmen. +With all that money could buy him in horseflesh, +Petersfield could never appear on a mount like +Edward’s. One day, returning from the day’s sport, +Edward told me with a quiet bitterness that the +bad blood was beginning to mount once again between +himself and Petersfield. I asked what in Heaven’s +name it could be for? “Over the mare of course. +Petersfield cannot bear being passed when the pace +really begins to tell and I pass him every time. He +has offered me a record price for her.”</p> + +<p>“You refused him, I hope,” I said. “I don’t see +why he should have everything in life.”</p> + +<p>Edward nodded in a queer sort of way as though +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_190">[Pg 190]</span>it was no good. I was with him the next day when +Petersfield swaggered up and congratulated Edward +on his riding during the week. “You won’t let me +double my offer of yesterday?” he laughed. Edward +sat still. Petersfield continued: “You know. +What’s the name of the mare that you ride?” Edward +looked him fair in the face and said “Kathleen!”</p> + +<p>It was the first and only time I saw Petersfield +taken aback. He rode back to his hounds without +saying another word. Then Edward told me why he +had called her by the name of the dead woman he +had loved. It was only a whim brought on by an +accident.</p> + +<p>“The first time I rode her to hounds,” he began, +“she stopped dead in the corner of a field and +would not move away. She whinnied and pawed +the ground not out of fear but as though to attract +my attention. It was no use trying to push, much +less to punish such a willing goer, so I dismounted +and tried to find out what was worrying her. I got +off and looked round. Then I recognised the spot. +It was the corner where I had said good-bye to Kathleen +three years previously. It all came back to me then, +and most curiously I immediately remembered for the +first time what Kathleen had been speaking to me on +that strange and ever-regretted afternoon. It was +about old friends being best and how pleasant it was +to come back to them in after years, and would I +always allow her to feel like that toward me. That +was about all. And the scene dug up the old +impressions in my memory so fresh that I lay my +head across the mare and fairly shook with grief. +I thought she understood almost, and when I mounted +her again she trotted off and we joined the hunt. She +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_191">[Pg 191]</span>galloped like mad and I forgot her shying in the first +field after the exhilaration of that run. She just +showed her heels to the whole field. Though we +often passed that field again, she never stopped or +repeated her action. But what had happened linked +her up in my mind with Kathleen and that is why +I called her by the same name.” So said Edward.</p> + +<p>I saw a good deal of him that season and admired +the perfect partnership established between him +and his mare. It was more like telepathy than +horsemanship. He told me that the mare could +read his thoughts before he passed them to her mouth +or to his heels. She never tired in the field and he +was only afraid she would some day strain herself. +He had entered into the relations that an Arab +bears to his horse. They became inseparable companions. +Not only in the field, but in the stable; +and out of the hunting season, Edward made the +mare the pet of his life. She moved, galloped and +jumped under him with something of the spirit-like +obedience that a medium gives to a strong control. +I don’t think it was out of simple sentiment or in +mockery of the might-have-been that he called her +Kathleen. I had to realise that he really believed +that Kathleen, the dead Kathleen, had found a way +of coming back to him out of the next world. +I thought he might have saved himself his emotions +when he uttered her name in reply to Petersfield, +who, unless he was more thick-skinned than we +thought, must have seen how deep the old sorrow +lay. Anyhow, Edward had taken the idea into his +cranium and as it gave him great consolation it must +be regarded as a good idea. It seemed fantastic +enough that Kathleen, having presumably regretted +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_192">[Pg 192]</span>her marriage in the next world as well as in this, +should have found this rather round-about way of +redeeming her frustrated love for poor Edward. +He, just like a man, was convinced that she had +loved him even when she chose the other man. He +was convinced that he had not lost her after all and +suffered none of that imaginative agony in which +lovers think of the dear unattainable dead as annihilated +in space or crying a ghostly grief in the icy +void. Edward was spared all that, and a good gallop on +the mare ridded him of loneliness and depression of +any kind. In the end he would never let anyone +but himself ride her, and after every ride he rubbed +her down, and fed and watered her. She appreciated +his care and carried him and kept him in the first +flight all the season. They were a real ornament +to the Hunt.</p> + +<p>The bad times came to the old gentry and the +squires. New taxes and old mortgages hit them +harder and harder and numbers fell out of the County +ranks, selling their Halls and Manors to financial +looters and legalised plunderers. The character of +hunting began to alter. Extraordinary people came +a-hunting, packs changed hands and the money-interest +could always be felt, even in the necessity +that arose for artificially slowing the speed of the +foxes. Huntsmen were required to show kills rather +than sport. The bad times hit Edward’s father +rather heavily and he had been unlucky in trying +to recoup his lost income in the Argentine. The +family in consequence suffered not merely decay but +swift and total disaster. Unsuspected debts rose +to the surface and everything saleable had to be sold. +Books followed furniture, and finally went the horses. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_193">[Pg 193]</span>Edward’s father had a certain call on the mare he +had reared, and Kathleen had to be sold with the +rest. If it had not been for his father’s distress, I +think Edward would have preferred to shoot her +there and then. But there was no way of getting +her out of the storm that was engulfing the fortunes +of the house, and she was expected to make the sale +a success. She would attract buyers who might +likely buy the other horses.</p> + +<p>Edward avoided Tattersalls the day of the sale. +I went to watch the bidding. The mare was well +known in the world of horse-buyers and there was +a keen tussle between different hunts to purchase +her. A dealer bought her for four hundred guineas, +a very fine price. Edward went abroad after the +sale to live in the Colonies, where bankrupt men may +live free and ride a horse. I saw him no more.</p> + +<p>I spent that winter hunting, varied with excursions +to races, steeplechasing for choice. Amateur riding +is always more amusing if not such an exact science +as professional work. Towards spring I attended +some point to point racing in the Midlands. There +was a small crowd at either end, and I took up a +position in the middle of the course beside the most +formidable fence. Several of my friends were riding +and Petersfield was a strong favourite. Petersfield +had never chequered my life, but I confess I would +rather have seen him second than have won a good +sum on his win. With my glasses I recognised him +at the start. I watched the starter and the anxious +drop of his flag and the solid burst of horses and +riders opening like a fan and thinning out as each +obstacle brought one of them down. The race became +a string with Petersfield leading. He was riding +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_194">[Pg 194]</span>beautifully and his mount was tossing away the +sods like a runaway ploughing machine. They +splashed through a water obstacle. The race seemed +to me Petersfield’s, as I watched him shoot past and +over the fence at which I was standing. He threw +his mount like a cricket ball at the next fence, when +suddenly the horse doubled itself up and stopped +dead. Petersfield slipped over its head, landed on his +feet and made a desperate effort to remount. The +horse’s front legs danced in the air. Petersfield +jerked down the sinewy snakehead and bundling +the reins into his hand was scrambling back into +the saddle. He had lost the lead but it was exciting +to see if he could still win. There was a chance. +No, there wasn’t! He was ready again, but the +survivors were two fences away. Not till then did +he seat himself squarely and face the jump, but +not a step would his horse take. So far from pricking +his mount to the frenzy of the wind, his spurs seemed +only to transfix it to stone. The race was being +won at the other end. It was won! And Petersfield +threw himself angrily out of the saddle. It must +have been maddening to him.</p> + +<p>He seemed rather puzzled by what had happened. +He walked round to the horse’s head with an ugly +look. If he wanted to punish the animal he had +the brute to himself for they were half hidden behind +the fence.... I turned towards the finish and had +started walking away when I heard a quick, half-human +squeal. I turned round again and realised +to my horror that it was not the horse but Petersfield +who was squealing and for an obvious reason. The +animal had its mouth more than full with Petersfield’s +bull neck. He was down on the grass and she was +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_195">[Pg 195]</span>holding him there. I ran as hard as I could, hurling +my stick at the horse’s sides. But I could not +dislodge the animal until I had snatched and dragged +the reins. With a sickening thrill I saw the heavy +mouth move across his neck and the big row of +foaming teeth.... Good Heavens! He had been +shaken like a rat before I had rescued him. Not +till then did I recognise Edward’s famous mare. +Her eyes were red-hot, and her ears were laid back +like a hare’s crouching in her form. It was the +mare called Kathleen all right!</p> + +<p>I never let Edward know and indeed I never met +him again. Why should I? Men return from the +undiscovered ends of the world and from foreign +countries but not from the Colonies. The Colonies +are the Empire’s blotting paper. They absorb all +the superfluous ink and the mistakes and the blots. +Financial undoing is the most considerable of social +mistakes, and Edward was glad to be absorbed by +the dreary dazzle of Australia. I never saw him +again. Whether the news of Petersfield’s death +ever reached him I do not know. I have no doubt +he would have laid a different interpretation to the +scene at the fence than I did, had he seen or known. +I managed to account for it to my own mind. I don’t +think anything so absurd as that Kathleen, the dead +woman, came back to avenge an unlucky marriage, +or to be near to Edward.... It was all a matter +of the power of thought. Thought when harnessed +to emotion is a soluble output which can penetrate +and influence material or living bodies, not necessarily +human. In concentrated form the emanations of +the past often strike us as ghosts and we generally +feel them more often than we see them. If such +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_196">[Pg 196]</span>an emanation hits a receiving or containing agent, +there is no limit to the tricks it can play, duping +the brain, catching the eye, even causing audibility. +In this case I think Kathleen had decided to kill herself, +and all her personality went out to Edward the +day before, when she made that queer and lingering +farewell. Edward did not catch the tragedy or +meaning of it, but the emotion intended for him +had saturated the spot I believe. He was more +receptive a year later when he came riding to the +same place, but even so the fierce thought and +unconscious exhalation of Kathleen’s dead agony +pervading that corner of earth where they had parted +found its receiver in the sensitive mare he was +riding. Something of her no doubt survived bodily +annihilation, and that shred of unliving, earth-bound +personality as it were impregnated the primitive +instinct of the mare, so that she came to answer +Edward’s craving for Kathleen’s return to him in +any guise or in any shape. The negative and positive +poles were established between man and mare and no +wonder he felt the horrible material reaction of having +to sell her.... But I don’t for a moment think +it was Kathleen. I only suppose that the mare +somehow became mixed up with Edward’s own +feelings and sensation, which would account for the +unpleasantness of that scene that I witnessed by the +fence.... It was really only the memory of those +teeth that gave me such a queer turn.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_197">[Pg 197]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="JOHN_SALTUS"> + JOHN SALTUS + </h2> +</div> + + +<p>I remember meeting John Saltus for the first time +as vividly as any coloured patch in my life. It +was in the middle of Clubland and a day that I +was feeling unusually sore after being blackballed for +the Bachelors’. I was vaguely trying to decide +whether to join the Y.M.C.A. or to chance the ballot +of the Athenæum under a <i>nom de plume</i>. For I had +to have some place in London in which to lunch. My +real name I had disgraced irretrievably, unintentionally +enough, but foolishly beyond belief. I need not recall +that celebrated baccarat case in which I had been +mixed. It was quite enough to keep me out of any +London Club. I had been a fool, and folly, alas, +does not connote innocence.</p> + +<p>It simply made me a pariah in Mayfair. I had +played at a table where a Duchess with thirty thousand +a year had been very rightly fleeced. I enjoyed +watching her being cheated by my best friend. There +was a sudden scene and I was held as an accomplice. +Nothing could be proved, but nothing was ever disproved. +I went sniffing about Belgravia like an hyena +with his teeth drawn. In the suburbs of course I +became rather a lion, and tradesmen’s wives, and +even my own wife’s tradesmen, welcomed me to their +Sunday socials. The hand that was believed to have +cheated at the tables of the great was greeted with +considerable sympathy by the great provision dealers, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_198">[Pg 198]</span>who, I may say, by less dramatic methods extract +even larger sums from the same tables. But every +class admires some vice from which it is circumstantially +free. Possessors of great wealth secretly +admire burglars—an admiration which sometimes +breaks out in mild kleptomania. Atheists cause a +secret fascination to the wives of clergy. Sinners +bow to the innocent. The innocent kneel to sinners. +It is based on the love of opposites. Many a perfect +draughtsman has cherished the ambition to write one +drivelling lyric. Browning said he liked “to know +the butcher paints,” which the Exhibition at the Royal +Academy shows is often the case. Anyhow, as one +who had once cheated by accident at cards, I became +the object of much vicious veneration in Golders +Green.</p> + +<p>In Mayfair I was used to being cut as often as a +pack of cards. Tom Smithson was the only friend +who stuck to me and showed his belief in me by proposing +me every year for the Bachelors’. And this, +I remember so well, was my fourth blackballing and +here was Smithson coming down St. James’s Street +accompanied by a man to me unknown. Smithson +was the queerest fellow. He always claimed to be +the rightful Duke of Northumberland. He said the +Percies had chivied him out.</p> + +<p>Smithson turned sheepish the moment he caught +sight of me, a natural consequence, I supposed, of the +social denigration I had received under his auspices +that morning. I only felt that he owed me the necessary +lunch to cover his humiliation and mine. It was +the least he could do. But after making an obvious +effort to disembarrass himself of his companion he +showed signs of wishing to avoid me. I could not +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_199">[Pg 199]</span>believe I was such a pariah that he would not even +introduce a friend. I felt stirred to force an introduction +for myself, and the casual crowd assisted the +manœuvre, for we were thrown into touch by an eddy +of passers. Even so, he chose to forget our names! +He only placed a hand on each of our shoulders and +murmured: “I am going to leave you two excellent +fellows together without telling you who you are. +You are both well known in your way and you should +have rather an amusing lunch trying to find out who +the other is. I have an engagement myself. I am so +sorry.” And he slipped into White’s with the nervous +superiority of an archangel leaving two imperfect +beings outside the Paradisal fence. I was left alone +with the stranger.</p> + +<p>“Lunch is a good idea, as ideas go,” I ventured +to say, “but unluckily I have no Club as yet.” A +tinge of disappointment crossed his iron-grey face as +he echoed, “Nor have I!” I felt frank and did +not mind telling a stranger, who did not even know +my name, that I had been badly blackballed at the +Bachelors’ that morning. At the word blackball +he turned livid white.</p> + +<p>“I have never been blackballed, I suppose because +nobody has ever dared to propose me for a London +Club,” he stated with a mechanical smile. I then +perceived the good looks under the sullen pitch of +his countenance. I proposed that we should evacuate +the blind rut into which Smithson had thrown us by +quickly disclosing our names and lunching in the first +restaurant. I revealed my humble autonym, for which +he feigned immediate recognition, and, while I was +wondering which of the minors or minims his might +represent in English art or letters, he bespake his +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_200">[Pg 200]</span>nomenclature: “I am John Saltus; you know +Saltus?”</p> + +<p>Hope of lunch compelled me to utter some such +pretended surprise as: “Oh, Saltus? Not John +Saltus? Why, of course. I am so glad to meet you. +So curious, isn’t it, after all these years?” But my +over-ready recognition seemed to pain rather than +please. I had been as polite as I could be under +extempore circumstances, and yet he seemed annoyed. +Did he also prefer to keep his name under a bushel? +Surely he couldn’t be a pariah as well as myself? +“I should like to have honoured myself by giving +you lunch at the Athenæum,” I said, trying to be +more than courteous.</p> + +<p>“At the home of literary discoveries and lost wits?” +he murmured with a ghastly smile. I felt quite +annoyed, for the Athenæum was to me one of the fixed +points in the English world, like <i>Punch</i> or Lord’s +Cricket Ground or our sanitary system, and I could +not brook the scornful.</p> + +<p>“In that case will you partake with me at my +favourite Aerated Bread Shop?” I continued to say. +He bowed, and we walked towards the City. My +favourite shop was empty, except for a mother giving +her schoolboy sons a farewell holiday meal. The +quick lunchers and cheap eaters had gone. It was +late in the afternoon. I was lunching with a cynic, +a not unpleasing form of appetiser.</p> + +<p>With his bitter sauce he irrigated the homely pudding +of life until I half enjoyed his quaint misanthropy. +It was so unusual in an Aerated Bread Shop. The +lady at the next table seemed equally interested and +strained her ears to overhear what he had to say. +The schoolboys gulped as though about to be left +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_201">[Pg 201]</span>stranded on some cakeless shore or some iceless Sahara. +They were in the middle of a second strawberry ice +when their mother caught the eye of John Saltus. +There was a flash of real recognition, and I watched +her rise to her feet, flint-faced, and order the boys to +follow her out of the shop. In vain they protested, +with streaming lips. “Your father would not like +you to eat here; no, not for a moment,” and with +her eyes, half afraid and half horrified, fixed on Saltus +she withdrew her brood. They left their ice unfinished. +She made one jerk with her parasol, as +though she had just found a decayed rat in the soup, +and was gone.</p> + +<p>I am neither curious nor critical. The past cannot +interest me and the future, being only the unborn +past, is even dull to me. As for the present, the evil +of the day is sufficient to the day. Confidences bore +me and I never encourage <i>le récit d’une vie</i>. But this +time I felt that a little explanation was in season. I +was used to being blackballed at the clubs, but, when +it comes to women stamping out of Aerated Bread +Shops rather than allow their children to eat in the +same room, I confess I felt a little annoyed.</p> + +<p>I was wondering which of the seven unforgivable +sins against Society Saltus could have committed. +Had he sinned like me basely at baccarat? Or had +he forged a Lord Chamberlain’s ticket to the Royal +Enclosure at Ascot or gone uninvited to the Gillies’ +Ball at Balmoral? Had the police arrested him +embracing his wife with over fervour amid the moonlit +shadows of Hyde Park? Or, even more iniquitous, +had he affixed the pennant of the Royal Yacht +Squadron to a houseboat on the Upper Thames? I +could not imagine.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_202">[Pg 202]</span></p> + +<p>Well, I never asked, and we walked together that +afternoon as though some subtle bond lay between +us. We were fellow-pariahs and clung to each other. +There are some to whom the joys of ostracism make +their appeal and who even enjoy being seen with the +notorious. But it was a kind of self-protection that +held us together.... That winter I often lunched +with Saltus and enjoyed his company. I came to +appreciate the fine-grained cynicism of his talk, and +I guessed that he liked me because I was neither +curious nor critical. Such friendships can last. All +the same, I could not help observing that his notoriety +was greater than mine, for I often saw men turn +aside from us, or at least Saltus imagined they did, +and his brow puckered like a frill and his long shapely +hand tightened upon mine. It was not one of the +radiant or rhapsodical friendships of my life, but I +felt spellbound at times and all the more attracted to +his company. I felt I knew him well enough to +propose a jaunt in Paris. I knew he went abroad for +his summers, instead of pursuing those very uninteresting +fauna at home, the deer, salmon and grouse. +I felt that Paris was a safe proposal, the great +caravanserai of the uninvited and unwanted and +unmentionable of all nations. To my surprise he bit +his lip and said: “Paris? Not Paris. I can never +return there.” With an apologetical farewell he left +me the next moment.</p> + +<p>Next day I received an invitation to follow him to +his chalet in Switzerland. I never knew he had one, +but the address conveyed meaning to the railway +agent, and a week later I had taken my ticket. +Switzerland seemed an odd place for an Englishman +seeking social concealment. However, I am not curious +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_203">[Pg 203]</span>and my mind was occupied by the decision I had to +make between the firms of Cook or Lunn. Lunn +seemed localised in Switzerland and the name bespoke +avalanches of London Alpinists, but Cook was a +world-fact, one of the Catholicities from which there +is no escape. I was in suspense between Cook the +Guelf and Lunn the Ghibelline, between Capulet Cook +and Montagu Lunn. It was about as considerable a +decision as my mind can attain to.</p> + +<p>Eventually I purchased a ticket at Cook’s and +drifted into a herded party labelled Lunn, at whose +expense I obtained a free transit between two Paris +stations. Saltus had written to me previously from +Germany. I wondered whether he minded my coming +by Paris.... At any rate, the next day I looked +out of the carriage and took my first glimpse of the +Alps. I found them magnificently disappointing. +However, I had not been curious to see them, so I +had no right to be critical.</p> + +<p>The Alps at last, bleak and cloudless. I could but +feebly compare them in my mind to God’s family +pewter and silver stacked in useless and aggravated +confusion along the horizon. Brightly polished and +metallic they glistened in the sun, silver-plated with +the crystallised snow and hall-marked with ancient +volcanic scars. I felt no doubt as to their Maker. +But my mood led me to view them relatively and +from distances in which they grew smaller. My +imagination resolved them to the contours of the +Mountains in the Moon, which hung aloft that night +like a steel mirror parodying the Alps of earth. In +that cosmic illumination which we call moonlight I +imagined the Alps as seen from Saturn or from the +sun, reducing them to mental and relative dust. What +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_204">[Pg 204]</span>interested me most, watching those mountains, was +their human associations and the dim thought that +in crevasses hidden throughout those heights as +remote from man’s eye as the sepulchre of Moses lay +the frost-eaten skeletons of dead mountaineers, all +the lonely legion who had gone up on the hills and +never returned. The great peaks seemed memorable, +glamorous and tragic. Without history until men +travelled and travailed on them, without dramatic +power till men perished in their fastnesses and fissures, +dumb and inane the great hills encumbered the earth.</p> + +<p>Switzerland is Switzerland, and three things in +Switzerland do not stop. Firstly, the wonderfully +made clocks; secondly, the ever-tinkling cattle bells, +and, thirdly, the Tourists, who at certain and fortunate +periods take flight. I arrived in the lull between +summer-climbing and winter-sports while the voice of +the tourist was low in the land. Saltus met me at the +station in the valley and conducted me to the funicular +railway leading to his chalet. We began to move +slowly up the heights. It was like tobogganing uphill +in a kind of collapsed tramcar. We passed through a +mist of bell-music. Upon the cattle of a hundred +hills the little bells jangled and tinkled. If the bells +were intended to trace a lost cow I should imagine +the expedient to be as practical as tying a blue ribbon +round every sheep on the English Downs. But I +dwell on a particular sound which, for me, is always +associated with Saltus.</p> + +<p>At the top of the funicular we dismounted and +began walking through a forest of fir trees, which lost +all charm for me when I read a notice to say that it +was reserved for hotel visitors! and in the wild thickets +Saltus pointed out one of those melancholy timberbuilt +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_205">[Pg 205]</span>depots for consumptives. Farther we met a +fellow-countryman, who turned and, looking at Saltus +with staring hectic eyes, seemed to fly horrorstruck, +as far as I could judge. We were now passing on +footpaths through the forest proper, and in half an +hour we reached his chalet. It was a dark and +dismal den though furnished with modern comforts. +A heavy overhanging drip-board shaded the dark-stained +timber stories from sun or snow. Piles of +books filled the low-ceilinged room amid much mountaineering +gear and instruments that I connected with +astrology—star charts and astrolabes, crystal balls and +the like.</p> + +<p>This was a new side to Saltus’s character, and I +decided that it accounted for the dread which his +neighbour had shown when we passed in the forest, +as well as for the awed demeanour of the two Swiss +servants, who worked in the chalet by day and withdrew +to some Alpine kraal by night. I found a clue +to Saltus, at least to the extent of his misanthropy. +His chalet held no Visitors’ Book, and there appeared +to be no visitor’s room.</p> + +<p>I presumed I was the first visitor to reach his abode, +for a camp bed and blankets were pitched for me in +a corner of the dining-room. I stayed a month with +him without making any attempt to lift the personal +mystery. I discovered that he was wealthy, and a +rich man without friends is a curious phenomenon. +He was also an epicure, for the food and cooking were +excellent. But there was no variety. Certain vegetables +and meats appeared but others never appeared +in the round. Yet Saltus surveyed the menu book +every morning with an eagle eye. However, I settled +down to this solitary form of companionship. Lunn +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_206">[Pg 206]</span>had forgotten me and to Cook I must have been as +one that had gone down into the pit, though never +had I dwelt at a higher elevation in my life. Of his +necromancy Saltus was very open and showed me +many things in old books, but I came to regard it +as a hobby rather than a practice on his part. I could +not feel that his clever cynical mind would waste or +loose itself entirely on such barren investigations. +His servants thought he had attained some proficiency +in the darker arts, for I noticed that whenever he +entered the room they crossed their thumbs in his +direction. I knew what this meant. They feared +him for the evil eye. Did the lady in the Aerated +Bread Shop also fear the evil eye? I wondered to +myself. It was no business of mine whether the ban +upon him was social or supernatural. I would not +ask and I could not blame. He could make me his +revelation when he wished.</p> + +<p>But it was a slight surprise to find that this velvet-dressed +lounger and affecter of the occult was a first-class +mountaineer. I learnt by observation that he +was so keen that he never lost a chance to go out +on a search party. There were plenty of accidents in +his locality. In face of the chalet rose the colossal +cloudpick known as the Spindelhorn, and the ranges of +the Schwindelhorn stretched at our back. More than +once I saw him go out at a night call with the guides +when some party had been reported lost. He seemed +to have a passion for danger and not for fame. Unrecorded +were these heroic climbs, except what he cared +to tell me after he had rested. He told me one day +with visual effect how he had been forced to make a +glissade down a splitting snow-field. For a moment +he had been suspended by the rope over a crevasse, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_207">[Pg 207]</span>but he laughed as though life held far more terrible +situations. It was a ridiculising yet a haunted laugh. +But it was a new rôle for this misanthrope to adopt, +that of a human St. Bernard, for he never took out +his gear except to find the lost. I never knew what +to make of it. His expeditions on the hills always +left him in a strangely exalted condition, and for a +day the cynicism would fall from his real nature like +a bright barren husk. I even imagined him sentimental +within. The snows and storms of the Alps +had no terrors for him; if anything they were a +refreshment to his silent, sullen soul.</p> + +<p>He never left the chalet except to walk in the +woods, and always avoided seeing anybody except +myself and the servants. Yet he had no appearance +of having shrunk into himself or of collapsing into +ignoble obscurity. He kept himself in the most magnificent +strength and fettle, and his agility in drawing +himself over the rocks on the very mild climbs we took +together was little less than caprine. And all the +while his mystery seemed farther away than ever +from solution. This was no broken man, whose +co-operation on a jaunt was half the battle. Why +did he behave as though his presence polluted the +very whiteness of Switzerland? Yet he used to +stand for hours watching the Spindelhorn as though +he were sifting the snows in his inmost soul. I looked +carelessly into his eyes sometimes. They were the +cold green colour of the glaciers. They made me +shiver and desire to ask questions less than ever. +They reminded me of the eyes of a man who had died +long ago. The chalet was comfortable enough to a +bachelor, but it suffered from what I can only describe +as a great spiritual emptiness. Neither good nor evil +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_208">[Pg 208]</span>spirits could find lodging there. It was a sort of +vacuum. When I saw all his necromantic gear, I had a +feeling that, as he had found himself cut by the living, +it was only natural that he should wish to scrape up +acquaintance with the dead. One day he told me +that he had never imagined once in his life that any +survival of the human personality was possible. I +supposed his secret was that, though endowed with +fine faculties, mental and bodily, he had somehow +become dispossessed of his soul, if ever he had one! +I felt as though I was really the only human person +walking about in that house. His body and his mind +were unconnected by the third quantity of soul, which +makes a person. He was a unique figure, a striking +character in his way, almost a personage; but he was +not a real person. He was only a psychical mannequin, +after all! However, I was comfortable and I lived +on with my automaton friend as with a muscular +phantom. I was fond of coining such phrases, but +none of them exactly caught John Saltus.</p> + +<p>I felt that my patronising pity was inadequate to +the power that lay behind his detachment of purpose +and life. He was something more than an Alpine +Diogenes in his tub. He had something of the martyrised +nobility of Prometheus chained to the rocks. +But why he lived on those heights, so lonely and so +unsatisfied, a woman visitor would have gone mad +in a week trying to find out. He was not consumptive. +His mountaineering was occasional. His tastes lay +with civilisation, and eventually I realised that his +astrology was all a blind. The inspiration or fascination +or redemption which he drew from the everlasting +hills eluded me. What possible sin or secret +demanded that he should live in his wooden eyrie, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_209">[Pg 209]</span>issuing forth on rare and dangerous expeditions? +What did he expect the snows of the Schwindelhorn +to wipe away from his past?</p> + +<p>I used to feel that he was a ghostless body, that he +was ever watching those heights for the return of his +soul. They were not unpopulated, those uncanny +crevasses and glaciers. Human beings had been lured +and trapped into their embrace. I could conceive +ghosts among those emerald cracks in the sides of the +lacquered mountain. There, as in a vision, the dead +climbers eternally negotiate the trackless passes, while +the noiseless flick of their shadowy axes moves +upon the face of the ice, and phantom pulls phantom +along the endless rope.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>One day the end came with such an unexpected +explanation. We were watching the fronting heights, +the trillion tonnage of micaed granite, that rises in +sheeted cliffs and light-green landing stages, where +alpine men actually live, and the higher barren +ledges and ragged belts of hirsute fir-trees growing on +the gigantic rock jowls and only waiting for a drift +of snowlike soap and the razorlike effect of an avalanche +to give the illusion of a grandiose operation in Titanic +shaving. And over all rose the snowy peaks, worn +fine by the workings of sun and rain, or tangled and +wounded by the primeval chaos.</p> + +<p>Leaving him, I had turned back to the chalet when +I suddenly heard him cry to himself: “Onions and +veal, onions and veal, there is no peace!” Ridiculous +words they sounded, but from Saltus they came with +all the force and enunciation of Greek tragedy. And +he sighed the words again and again: “No peace, no +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_210">[Pg 210]</span>peace!” While his green eyes still ranged the panorama +of the Alps. I knew not what to think. Had he sent +his soul out into the waste and had it returned empty +to him again? He rejoined me at lunch and showed +himself almost human—not that he was not always +courteous and hospitable and (when he wished) the +fount of good conversation. Whatever his tragedy +was, he had seemingly merged it into nature. Whatever +had been the primitive shades and sensitiveness +of his character, he had reduced himself to the slow +patience of the unemotional. He was the triumph of +undecontrollable control. In a month of close company +those were the only revealing words he had let slip. +And they were the most anguished I had ever heard +drop from a human creature in my life. Otherwise I +could not recollect once seeing him hurried or angry +or grieved. I could not conceive him passing in or +out of love. Swearing or praying, those two easily +reversible processes of approach to the Creator, were +not for him. Fortunately I still remained, on the +whole, neither curious nor critical.</p> + +<p>When he joined me, he told me he had seen an +avalanche on the sides of the Schwindelhorn. Emotion +in his face took the form of chalky solemnity. “I +never watch an avalanche without wishing I were +under it”; and again he said with unusual feeling, +“I believe I could bring myself to pray to be buried +under those moving snows if my prayer could be +heard.” I said I hoped that the avalanche had +brought no accident in its train, and that if he liked +I would go down the funicular to the Club that evening +to find out if it were so. He nodded grateful agreement. +“Yes, do find out. If there has been trouble, I should +like to be out on the Alps to-morrow.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_211">[Pg 211]</span></p> + +<p>I crawled down by the funicular that evening and +found my way to the English Club. The avalanche +had caused some stirring among guides and visitors. +At least one party was known to have been making in +the direction taken by the avalanche. Alpenstocks +were clashing and heavy boots beating upon the +boarding. Anglo-Saxon superiority upon the mountains +was being demonstrated. Casual English voices +could be heard with their peculiarly unhumorous +drawl. I made bold to inquire if this activity had +been caused by rumour of accident. A quiet man +looked up and nodded. Then he said: “You come +from Saltus, don’t you? I have noticed you with +him several times.” I assented. “You live with +him?” I nodded. “You eat with him?” I +nodded. “Then I bet you haven’t smelt an onion +for a twelvemonth,” and he laughed coarsely. “I am +afraid I don’t understand you, sir,” I said. “Then +wait till this search party gets clear. I dare say they +will send for Saltus, if they don’t strike the party +which was due to return last night.” And I waited, +curious perhaps for the first time in my life. The +word “onion” rang like an echo of fatality in my +ears.</p> + +<p>An hour later we were alone in the club-room, and +the other began his yarn. Mercifully it was quickly +told. “So you eat with John Saltus day after day +and your flesh never creeps?” I sat, nodding and +nodding, in a waking trance, but I could not fall +asleep. Like the Ancient Mariner, the other told me +his ghastly tale as follows:</p> + +<p>“I knew John Saltus in Paris when we were both +students. We lived in the same rooms for a time. But +for a year we always fed at a crowded little restaurant +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_212">[Pg 212]</span>in the Latin Quarter. It was very cheap and very +good. The restaurant was kept by an old artist, fallen +on evil days, and his handsome wife. We all admired +and feebly affected Madame. Saltus had a friend who +went further and made love to her. They used to +eat together. One day I saw the old man serving +them both with a livid face. It really seemed a little +hard that they should eat his own food under his nose +and make him wait on them both. Two days later +I arrived late for the evening meal. To my surprise +only Saltus and his friend were sitting there. I joined +them, and Saltus explained: ‘The old man has been +feeling ill. He refused us admission, but we insisted +and tried to put it right. Anyhow, he has closed his +windows and let in no one but us. Madame has not +appeared yet. She must be doing penance in the +kitchen. However, you have missed nothing. The +cooking has been execrable. We have had horrible +horsemeat with onions. Can’t you catch the smell? +You had better go on to another restaurant. They +are too much upset here. Our friend has disorganised +the establishment by his love-making. The wonder +is that he has been served at all. And now Monsieur +has not returned from the kitchen. We had better +pay the bill and go. I will go in and spare him the +trouble of looking upon his rival again.’ All these +words and sentences have remained indelible upon +my mind,” continued my informant.</p> + +<p>“When Saltus came back from the kitchen he was +a changed man. He could not speak, but motioned +us all to follow him. Madame lay dead on the table, +her breasts terribly mangled and her whole body +dissected. Her husband had fled and was picked out +of the Seine the next day. The stove was burning +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_213">[Pg 213]</span>hard and a saucepan of onions was frizzling to a +stinking cinder. No need to discuss or analyse the +menu. Saltus has been that way ever since. He +thinks he has committed some unforgivable sin or +incurred some uncleansable degradation in the sight +of men.”</p> + +<p>I ran out into the moonlit night. It was late, and +I walked about, unable to sleep, and watched the +sunrise redden the snowy veins of the Schwindelhorn +like a pink unguent applied by Dawn to heal the +black bruise of night. I can never forget the first +delicate pink that sprayed or rather perfumed the +mountain until the sun brought a ruddier rush of +light over the mountain-head, and Day succeeded +with all her diamond whiteness. And the stark +beauty of the <ins id='cor_213' title='Original: Spindlehorn'>Spindelhorn</ins> and the Spittlehorn rose +up behind me with a whiteness as of fuller’s earth. +Then I could understand Saltus longing for the untarnished +hills. It was not curious that he should +have drawn himself into the heights that his flesh +might be cleansed by the snow and his bones one +day made one with the unpolluted Alps. But I never +returned to his chalet.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_214">[Pg 214]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="LOADED_DICE"> + LOADED DICE + </h2> +</div> + + +<p>I was recently passing a few days at Monte Carlo, +tempted more by the weather than the spirit of +gambling. I was mooning about in the sunshine, +if I may so describe a very pleasant though unproductive +manner of spending the time. The hot-house plants +and tropical trees which grow out-of-doors in the +Riviera are alone worth the pleasure of the trip. +The principality of Monaco needs no foreign loans to +run its government, for the tax paid by the Casino is +sufficient to balance its expenses. The flowers benefit +by the local affluence, for their beds are as carefully +made as though they were occupying a royal suite, and +they themselves receive as much toilet as ladies of +fashion. Palms, prickly-pear cactus, and all kinds +of thick, watery-fleshed plants thrive in the dry +terraces between the mountains and the Mediterranean +Sea. The top-heavy, gouty, black-fibred palm-trees +give a ludicrous impression of old elephants’ legs +suffering, if such a medical horror is possible, from +the disease called elephantiasis! The fruit of the +prickly-pear looks like lumps of coloured putty temporarily +stuck upon the gawky leathery leaves. Another +amusing plant with stiff spiked leaves a yard long +looks, when it begins to wither, like strips of zebra +hide cut into ribbons. Sun and dew work hand in +hand all winter to make the vegetation as delightful +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_215">[Pg 215]</span>to passing visitors to Monte Carlo as it must be consoling +to constant losers!</p> + +<p>Whether one hazards a stake or not, it is always +interesting to sit outside the Casino and watch the +different types who frequent that most levelling of +institutions. Fortune is the most democratic of +divinities, and often tosses into the lap of the humble +what she has filched from the purse-proud. Great +or small, adventurer or artistocrat, sharp or flat, she +has a levelling effect on them all in time. They are +all at the mercy of her infinite and ironical whimsicality.</p> + +<p>Monte Carlo has this in common with certain other +places in the world, like Charing Cross Station, the +Piazza of St. Peter’s, and Niagara Falls, that the +world, with or without his wife, passes there sooner or +later. If you wait, you will soon run into an acquaintance, +and already you have a curious feeling that +half the people you have ever known have passed that +way. For once I sat waiting an hour without recognising +a face. It was like a long run of the <i>rouge</i> at +the table. The <i>noir</i> seemed more and more certain +to come. The next to pass must be a friend. So it +was, for I recognised the worn, old-fashioned features +before me. But where had I met them previously? +The name came back to me with an effort. I remembered +now. It was an old friend of my father’s, and +we had met in Hyde Park twenty years before, when +I was a boy at Eton. I never forgot the gold sovereign +he gave me to take back to school. I remembered, +too, my father having pointed him out to me as the +greatest gambler of his generation. I vaguely knew +that his whole fortune had disappeared at the tables.</p> + +<p>I was feeling lonely, so I followed him into the +gambling-rooms and claimed acquaintance, which he +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_216">[Pg 216]</span>was polite enough not to refuse. He was not gambling +himself, so he had time to take me round the tables +and explain to me in theory one or two unfailing +systems for breaking the bank. In practice I afterwards +found out, and even suspected at the moment, +they had as often bankrupted the would-be ruptors +of the bank, but he only remembered the one or two +brilliant moments in his career when he had cleared out +a table and left it closed for the day. I found it more +interesting listening to this old-time player than watching +the motley crowd who clutched the gold-spangled +skirts of Fortune as she slipped by, in silences only +broken by the mocking formulas of the croupiers and the +whirring of the fatal ball. At the tables were sitting girls +who had better been playing draughts in their schoolrooms, +and hawk-eyed beldames who seemed ready to +stake the price of their coffins on the winning number. +Only when they won did a muscle relax in their tired +faces. The presiding croupiers were a perpetual lesson +in the art of concealing emotions. But as they were +never allowed to join in a stake, they shovelled the +money like so many beans. What perfect flunkeys +they would have made for the Sphinx! “<i>Messieurs, +faites vos jeux</i>,” sang the croupiers, and a minute later +came the warning signal, “<i>rien ne va plus!</i>” followed +in a few long seconds by the announcement of the +winning number, red or black, odd or even, and the +swift scraping in of the lost stakes. And so it would +be all afternoon and into the night and the next day +again and the day after ... crack! a sudden shot +broke through the great room and everybody who was +not watching a stake rushed into a corner, where some +unknown plunger had just taken the last plunge into +eternity by blowing out his brains. The attendants +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_217">[Pg 217]</span>collected from every corner and formed a hedge round +the dead man. Quickly and soundlessly they began +moving him out by a side-door, while gamblers picking +up their stakes ran to dip a finger in his blood for +luck. In five minutes he had disappeared as though +he had fallen off a liner into a boiling sea. Monte +Carlo cannot afford to have scandals on the premises +any more than any well-established and well-connected +institution, and is generally more successful than others +in concealing them. Blood is soon mopped up, +especially if the passers believe that it is a charmed +fluid. The roulette ball was soon spinning round +again, and the only trace of the tragedy was the +struggle of a dozen gamblers to sit where the suicide +had been sitting all the afternoon. It is a superstition +that the dead gambler’s spirit does not leave +the rooms immediately with death, but remains to +avenge his ill luck on the bank; and against the +unknown forces of the underworld even the bank +cannot win.</p> + +<p>I had had enough of it, and we strolled out on the +terrace, my companion becoming amused to talk to +such a novice in gambling matters as I then was. +From the altitude of twenty years’ experience he +began to give me his views on Luck, which some +call Providence and some the Deuce. “Gambling,” +he said, “is worth while to me whether I win or lose. +When I win I cannot spend my money more pleasurably +than by playing it again till I lose in the end. +The bank must win. Let it!”</p> + +<p>We sat down and looked across the Mediterranean +as the sun slowly sank. The horizontal rays crossed +eighty miles of sea, and for a moment the ghostly +glimmer of Corsica appeared like a mirage and then +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_218">[Pg 218]</span>disappeared under the claret-coloured flood. My companion +talked on: “For me it has always been better +to have played and lost than never to have played at +all. That is even the reason I never married. I felt +I had a perfect right to lose all I had, provided I had +no dependents. I had very few friends either, and +I have managed never to borrow, and I have played +for twenty years. I have nothing on my conscience +or, for the matter of that, on my bank-account now. +I have had my great days and known the ecstasy of +sudden wealth as no gold-digger has ever felt it—thousands +made in one evening. I have taken zero +twice running with a doubled stake. You have no +idea what transcendent bliss that brings a gambler’s +brain. I have done best when I trusted to the inspiration +of the moment. There is luck, and there is bad +luck, but that is really as far as I have ever been able +to get. And luck often comes to those who feel the +fascination of the table least. I have seen a man +casually back the winning number and stroll off +before it was declared. People are always forgetting +their stakes, curiously enough, and there are always +harpies who watch on the chance of claiming them. +The croupier cannot refuse a claim. I do not think +I ever forgot a stake. I can remember all the winning +numbers on my great days still.”</p> + +<p>I asked him what the pleasures of memory meant +to him, and he confessed that they were considerable. +I asked him if he believed in any gambling superstition, +whether he thought sitting round a gambling-table +ever produced any result one could compare with +spiritualism; for instance, the result of touching a +dead gambler’s blood, which we had witnessed an +hour or two before.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_219">[Pg 219]</span></p> + +<p>“No,” he said, “but I have come to the conclusion +that it often makes a difference to the luck at a table +who is sitting at it. Some people cause others to win. +That is how it works out.” I asked him if in all his +experience he could think of an instance when a +psychic influence had been at work. He sat back +thinking. Then he said quietly: “I do not answer +your question. I cannot say yes or no, so I say +nothing.” “Then you must have met something that +was inexplicable,” I pressed. “Perhaps,” he answered; +“but I have never told anybody.” I knew my only +chance of hearing it was to say nothing or lead the +conversation elsewhere, so I just waited. He got up +and began walking again. When we came in front of +the pigeon-shooting green, which juts like a tiny +grass-green arena into the sea, he stopped and pointed +to a corner of the fence. A pigeon popped out of a +trap, took flight, and fell to an invisible gun. Another +flew out, but fell the wrong side of the fence into the +open sea, where fishermen were waiting to retrieve it +from boats. Each marksman was allowed two shots +to bring the pigeon down. It seemed deadly monotonous. +Then my friend spoke: “That is where the +first incident happened.” I knew now I had only to +keep silent to hear what he had to say. “I used to +shoot pigeons a good deal in company with a friend of +mine. When we lost at the tables we often made +good by winning the prize for shooting. I sometimes +won, but my friend never. Whatever he gambled +at he lost, roulette, <i>chemin-de-fer</i>, baccarat, and dice. +He fell into the hands of the sharpers, a gang who +induced him for a long time to believe that he was +winning. Then they played him with loaded dice +and he lost a fortune. One evening I was with him +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_220">[Pg 220]</span>and the dice fell six times the same against him and +every time for double or quits. He challenged the +dice and they agreed to saw the ivory cubes asunder. +A third party was called in and in breathless silence +the dice were broken up. My friend picked up each +piece with a face whiter than ivory himself, but there +was no suspicion of a fraud to be found. If they had +been playing with loaded dice they had substituted +others. Sleight of hand can work wonders. I have +no doubt my friend’s challenge had been perfectly +justified, but he was up against the deliberate wickedness +of this world. For a moment he turned over the +fragments of the dice. The scoundrel who had been +playing with him smiled and murmured: ‘<i>C’est drôle, +pas un grain de plomb</i>’ (‘That’s funny, not a grain of +lead’). My friend put down his bank-book and went +out. That evening he killed himself.</p> + +<p>“After I had seen to his burying I felt miserable and +went for a long trip. When I returned I instinctively +made my way to Monte Carlo. I could not change +my thoughts or get my friend out of my mind, so I +decided to return to the scenes of our long companionship. +I immediately found that my luck had improved +at the tables. Then a very strange thing +happened. I sent for my guns and entered for the +<i>grand prix</i> at pigeon-shooting. I found myself in +winning fettle. You always know at the tables or +on the green if you are in a successful mood. On the +first day I killed fourteen pigeons out of fifteen. The +second day saw me in the running for the championship. +If you miss five birds you have to withdraw +from the shooting, and soon only four guns were left. +In the end two of us were left. We had each shot +twenty-four out of twenty-six. Then the other +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_221">[Pg 221]</span>missed and I only had to kill one bird to win. Seconds +are long on such occasions and my eye was caught by +a little sailing-boat out to sea. I could not get my +eye off it and out flew the pigeon, not like an easy +owl but like a flighting snipe. Ping! I missed my +first shot and he swerved. Then I fired to the other +side. Ping! I thought, in fact I was sure, I had +missed, but no, I had just done the trick. As he flew +over the fence he suddenly shot low as though something +rose in his path, struck the top of the fence, and +fell stone-dead on the right side of the line. I was +heartily congratulated by everyone on my prowess. +I can tell you it was one of the good moments of my +life and as the retriever brought back my last bird +I strolled to the man in charge to see where I had hit +my lucky bird. The dog man was handling the +pigeon all over. I asked him if I hit the head or +the body. He began plucking the feathers. When the +bird was bare he looked up with a perplexed grin and +said: ‘<i>C’est drôle, pas un grain de plomb!</i>’ As soon +as I heard the fatal words I walked away feeling sick. +I did not shoot a pigeon again for many a long day, +not until I was absolutely in want of money. And +for months I tried to get those words out of my head.</p> + +<p>“Years passed, but I never would let my mind +dwell too long on the reason why that last pigeon +could have shied and knocked its brains on the fence +for my special benefit. It was possible that my last +shot passed close overhead and drove it downward +with the shock it caused in the air. I have heard of +duck being killed by the sheer force of a gun’s explosion +without being struck by the pellets. So I attributed +my good fortune to a combination of natural reasons +and my own skill. And the years passed. I went on +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_222">[Pg 222]</span>gambling and gambling, and I must say I had begun +to forget my companion of other days. But one +evening at Monte Carlo sitting at a table I caught +sight of a face opposite which instantly telegraphed +my friend back to me. It was the scoundrel who +had cheated him at dice of all his money and indirectly +of his life. He was obviously down on his luck, +shabbily dressed and playing small stakes with furtive +apprehension. I know that look so well. A man +often has it the first time he throws a stake. He +generally has it when he throws his last. I could +see that he had not recognised me, but to my horror, +when I had a run of luck, he took special notice and +came up to address me. He began talking about a +system of his own in which he suggested that I should +take a share. However, my own was working very +well that day and I played on till I had won five +thousand francs.</p> + +<p>“When I came back to my hotel I was surprised +to be told that a friend of mine was waiting in my +room for me, and even more so to find that this ugly +customer had followed me out of the Casino and +somehow discovered where I was staying, for while +I strolled home he had skipped ahead and imposed on +the concierge with some trumped-up tale. Anyhow, +he had been admitted and was there, staking his life +and liberty on the chance of making me disgorge a +little of my winnings. As he had a revolver pointing +at me from the moment I entered my room, I would +have been inclined to buy him off as cheaply as I +could. But I remembered, what he did not, that +I had a blood feud with him of many years’ standing. +My revolver was in my outside pocket and we fired +about simultaneously. I missed him, shattering the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_223">[Pg 223]</span>window behind, but he hit me in the shoulder. His +pellet ran under my shoulder-blade like a knife. We +stood facing each other and aiming. I was trying to +fire, but something held me like a vice, and I could not. +Every second I expected he would shoot me through +the head. I could see his fingers twitching round the +stock of his gun. But as I covered him I noticed a +horrible look come into his features, and, if I was +held, he was held doubly. Though I had missed him +clean, a look of fear shot through his eyes, not the fear +of a coward or a fool, or even the fear of one man of +another, but the veritable fear of the evil for the Evil +One when he cheats them at the end. He was staring +over my shoulder into the empty bedroom behind me +with glazed eyes and a tremor running through his +body. He never said a word but fell back dead!</p> + +<p>“Just then the concierge and the police threw open +the door and I found myself arrested. I declined to +tell my story except in the presence of a British consul, +and was taken first to a doctor, who found my wound +slight, and then to the guard-house, where I was +detained for the night, but I must confess I never slept +with a lighter conscience. In the morning there was +an inquiry before the authorities and I saw from the +first that I had matters in my own hand. It was +shown that I had left the Casino a winner and my +assailant a heavy loser, that he had made his way +on a false excuse into my room and that I had been +found wounded. There was every suspicion that he +had provoked the quarrel. I was only anxious that +the affair should be taken down in black and white +for my future good name, and I was quite ready to +be accused and saddled with an act of justifiable +manslaughter. The magistrates after consultation +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_224">[Pg 224]</span>with the police said that they would be delighted to +release me, but that they would be much obliged if +for the purposes of their report I would tell them +exactly how I had killed the deceased. I pointed to +my revolver lying on the commissary’s desk. ‘No, +<i>monsieur</i>,’ I was politely told, and they all shook their +heads mysteriously. ‘No, <i>monsieur</i>, you may have +fired, but you must have killed him in some other way.’ +I looked bewildered. Then the commissary went on +in a quiet voice to say that they had found no bullet-hole, +and he ended: ‘<i>C’est drôle, pas un grain de +plomb!</i>’ But, whether from loss of blood or excitement, +I had fainted.”</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_225">[Pg 225]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="AT_THE_HIGH_TABLE"> + AT THE HIGH TABLE + </h2> +</div> + + +<p>The port was passing at the High Table of St. +Zacchaeus’ College in the University of Cambridge, +port not as diners at Claridge’s or the +Ritz know port, but grand old College port that +deceased Bursars, untroubled by wife or work, had +spent time and taste laying down in the College cellars +in the fifties and sixties. Nobody knew how much +of the best survived there, but regularly at the great +College Feasts of St. Zacchaeus, such as his <i>Nativitas</i> or +the anniversary of the Translation of his Relic from +the local Cathedral to the mediæval College founded in +his name, as well as on the day marked curiously in +the Calendar of the late or pseudo-Lincoln Use, “<i>Sanctus +Zacchaeus inter sycamoris</i>,” the best and most wonderful +of ports appeared at the High Table. Each of the older +Dons sipped the cloistered nectar as though it was his +last glass, and guests made gentle inquiry of its +abundancy or likelihood of appearance at the Feasts +of the following year. There was no certainty, but +it was rumoured that a Junior Bursar had boasted—in +his cups—that enough remained to flood the front +court of the College unto one and three-quarter inches +deep. But he was not a mathematician!</p> + +<p>The port was passing and three times the hospitable +Master of St. Zacchaeus’ had filled his glass and mine. +Since the War the College Feasts had been kept very +quietly, and the younger Fellows elected since that +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_226">[Pg 226]</span>sanguine deluge were already rising and asking the +Master’s leave to return to their studies. They were +an entirely new type compared to the mottle-faced +old Dons; less human and far more efficient. The +Master contemplated their departure good-humouredly. +“They are a far harder working lot than we ever +were,” he mentioned, “though they do rather resemble +hair-dressers’ assistants. Praiseworthy young men +and very concentrated in their ways. That young +gentleman who has refused port, was, I believe, once +a Canadian cowboy, but after a distinguished service +in the Army took advantage of the call to ‘Hands +across the Sea’ to study Law with us, and so successfully +that we made him a Fellow. Though he keeps +his hands off the port he is no milkmaid. In fact, I +believe he came to one of his colleagues, who had been +kind and lent him books, and offered to arrange the +disappearance of any person to whom he had most +objection in the University.”</p> + +<p>The Master was in talking mood and several of us +collected round him. “Strange times are upon us, +gentlemen, but no doubt we seemed just as strange to +the generation that went before us. I have lived to +see a race of Undergraduates who do not go to Chapel, +and of Dons who have invested their Fellowships in +wives or motor-cars. I really feel that the Don who +cranks his own car has forded the Rubicon.” And +he laughed pleasantly at his own little joke. We +laughed hugely.</p> + +<p>We sat back against the old red-leathered chairs on +the dais under the solemn dust-laden pictures of the +holy or unholy founders (according as politics or +religion might move the mind of the spectator) and +watched the last flicker of the sunset stir through the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_227">[Pg 227]</span>coloured oriel-window and reflect itself in the great +West window of the Chapel. For modern glass it was +very beautiful. The Chapel was of course mediæval, +but the old stained glass, together with the Relic of +Saint Zacchaeus, had been barbarously destroyed by +the infamous iconoclast Dowsing in the seventeenth +century. But it was piously held that the big sycamore +growing in the Fellows’ Garden had sprung from the +ashes of the saint and it was solemnly watered and +secretly cherished as a rival to Milton’s mulberry and +Newton’s apple tree in neighbouring colleges. With +the era of Gothic revivals and restorations the glass +had been replaced in the mullioned windows. The +West window was certainly very magnificent, but the +choice of subjects had always puzzled me as an Undergraduate. +They seemed such an incongruous selection, +but there they were in their full Munich blazonry! +Like most Undergraduates it had not been for me to +inquire or question. But as the dying light threw +them into rainbow splendour, I ventured to ask the +Master whether the subjects had been chosen by +the Donor or by the College. I always understood the +window had been given by some old retired Fellow +long deceased. For answer the Master merely passed +the port again and asked me whether I had a sufficiently +low opinion of Royal Commissioners, who had +come to harrow his last years upon earth. I replied +that when Commissioners began to inquire into the +finances and statutes of Colleges like St. Zacchaeus I +regarded them as somewhat above the common run +of burglars, but infinitely lower, morally and socially, +than the Familiars of the Inquisition. With which +reply he seemed far from displeased.</p> + +<p>About ten minutes later he gave me a signal proof +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_228">[Pg 228]</span>of his pleasure, for he took up my previous question +concerning the West window and said: “Yes, they +are very curious and unexpected subjects to find in a +College Chapel. It can only be said of them that they +are scriptural. But their display there is not meaningless,” +and he began unweaving one of those curious +stories which lie in the experience or recollection of +the wisest and most venerable of us. Beneath the +outer crust of stratified anecdote and ordinary gossip +there lies some story in almost every man’s life, which +he is generally as reluctant to dispense as a cellarer +his best port. It is often a ghost story, and most men +are unwilling to confess that the inexplicable has ever +crossed their plain path of life. Or, like much in Heaven +and earth, a streak of the so-called indelicate gives it +a taste that is not always agreeable. But in Life and +in Literature, in books sacred or profane, in dealing +with God or with mankind, these matters must be +accepted as an essential part of the Divine dispensation +or of human nature. It is not necessary to make them +seem the sole circumstance or interest of our minds, +but it is difficult to go far in Life or Literature without +realising and if possible understanding them. Sex is +the quintessence of the Body just as ghosts are distillations +of the spirit.</p> + +<p>Wise is the man who without seeking either is +prepared to meet them spadewise, that is to say +knowing how to recognise and describe a spade as a +spade. And the old Master from whom I had never +heard a word touching either the weird or the sexual +side of life began quite simply to talk about both.</p> + +<p>“In the old days, before the last Royal Commission +interfered with the working of University life, I must +admit that a great deal required reform, though +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_229">[Pg 229]</span>reform is one of the words I dislike most in the language. +For instance, this was a College of unmarried men +entirely; and at the time of the Dissolution, for how +else can I describe an era when our Fellows were, not +entirely owing to their own fault, very dissolute, I am +sorry to say that this College provided not a Boathouse +on the River or a Cricket Pavilion nearer home, but +frankly a brothel in Barnwell—for the elder members +of course.”</p> + +<p>The last light of evening sank into the unrecognisable +panes of the Chapel window and the porters were +lighting the gas jets in the Court. The Master’s words +seemed a bitter commentary on the history of this +home of peace and learning and spiritual refreshment. +It seemed incredible that it could have been so, but +in the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries all +things were possible in an English University. I +waited a little expectantly for him to continue. “Men +came up from the great public schools and settled +down upon the bounty of the past. There was little +competition among them either here or in the outside +world. They lived lives of leisure in College like their +relations in family livings and squires’ pews, and both +their minds and bodies went to seed. Occasionally +there was a great flash of scholarship in the void, like +Porson—a rare flash in the Academic pan. For the +most part they turned queer or stagnant or ridiculous. +There was nothing to occupy them. Some sank under +the college wines like a rich-flowing river of Lethe. +Statutes hedged them and custom prescribed them +a rut, which was stupid as well as narrow. But before +they became decayed curios they were men like us all, +and when they came up and settled down to celibacy +without idealism, and study without enthusiasm, and +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_230">[Pg 230]</span>manhood without athletics, well, what could you +expect without a certain amount of moral wreckage? +The College, which always enjoyed a noble income, +allowed them to overstep certain Statutes both human +and divine, and handsomely too. Young and vigorous +men, cut off from life by rule, were, so to speak, +initiated into the mysteries of life by their colleagues. +Frankly our Fellows often lived in sin.</p> + +<p>“It was all very irregular. Of course, it was not +common or general, but no doubt Barnwell had its +convenience in saving us from scandal within the +College. Whether it was regarded as a luxury or a +necessity, the College afforded it. Again I say that +those days were far from being our days. Englishmen +were freer of speech and action then. I appreciate +the great change that has now come for the better. +It is right that Dons should be allowed to marry.”</p> + +<p>Darkness had fallen upon the beautiful pile of +pinnacles and towers outside, and the silver candlesticks +on the High Table threw but a feeble and +ironical little light into the court so lately deluged +with successive hours of sunlight, stark, golden or +rubicund in turn. But the hours of sun and sundial +had passed, and we were sitting into the hours that +are illumined by electric bulbs and counted upon the +mechanical faces of clocks. The Master was trying +to bring himself back into a forgotten era. His +speech flowed precisely. His choice of words did not +fail. He was reckoned an accomplished after-dinner +speaker, and there were few College Halls whose +rafters and gilded lanterns had not rung at some +time to laughter and applause evoked by his rich store +of the academical anecdote.</p> + +<p>He continued: “When the Dons were compelled +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_231">[Pg 231]</span>to be celibate, matters were strangely arranged, as I +say. In those days there came to this College one +of the finest spirits that have ever been cased in a +human body. He was a Greek in body and mind, +and he knew his Greek as few of his generation. He +came here conquering and to conquer. Mentally and +athletically he was capable of anything. But we +did not encourage him. If he wished to read for the +University prizes, well and good. Nobody prevented +him. And if he wished to row in the University boat, +well and good. As a matter of fact he did neither. +Whatever he touched, we saw him take up with +tremendous enthusiasm. And then unfortunately, when +it seemed likely that he would remain as a Fellow with +us and pass permanently into our Society, he was taken +by one of us to this house in Barnwell—not that it +was anything unnatural or strange in those days, nor +do I suppose that it would be unnatural at any time, +but it would be thought nowadays stranger than +fiction.</p> + +<p>“I believe it was his best friend who took him and +introduced and initiated him to those mysteries of +creation with which the Creator invested the human race. +There he made a liaison with a woman who matched +him, not in learning, but certainly in intelligence, and +surpassed him in physical powers. When he returned +to College he was far from quiescent, and related his +adventure rapturously to his friends, concluding with +the mediæval snatch, ‘<i>Mihi est propositum in taberna +mori</i>.’ He said this several times as though he meant +it. He was one of those men who carry out what they +take up with all their might. He threw himself into his +liaison with the energy of one sex and the intensity of +the other. And our College life sped upon its way.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_232">[Pg 232]</span></p> + +<p>“One night at a very late hour the College porter +was roused by the bell at the outside gates, and admitted +a member of the College whom he was too +sleepy himself to identify. But he was sure that +it was the only time the bell was rung after twelve +during that night. Under subsequent question no +member of the College confessed returning late that +night. The College has never been one to retire or +rise early, and that night at two o’clock I crossed the +Court, and I met the man I have been speaking of. +He was walking quietly towards his rooms. His fine +brow and athletic tread stamped the encounter in +my mind. I was not mistaken, and I never doubted +that it was he, and I was afterwards able to swear +that I had seen him at that hour. It was about the +same hour that the porter opened the front gate.</p> + +<p>“The next morning we were informed that our bright +companion was lying dead in Barnwell, and that the +Borough Police were taking possession of his body. +Armed with our special privileges and statutes, several +of us, including the dead man’s friend, made our way +into that suburb which has never ceased to hold sad +associations for me. We identified him lying there +with a rapt and, I thought, slightly mocking expression +on his face. There was a terrible beauty written upon +it, and his friend was deeply affected, for he knelt +down and began praying aloud, at least we imagined +they were prayers he uttered, though from time to +time we overheard like a cruel antiphon the words +‘<i>Mihi est propositum in taberna mori</i>.’ Suddenly +we realised how the dead man’s idle wish had come +true and smitten him to dust.</p> + +<p>“There was no time for weeping and, as we learnt +that, after all, the police had not yet been apprised, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_233">[Pg 233]</span>we decided to cut scandal down in its roots and to +transfer the body in a trusty cab to the College. I +will never forget our solemn progression through the +half-awakening streets of Cambridge with the corpse +sitting between us bolt upright, or our arrival at the +front gate, which as a rule was only swung open for +the Master or the Sovereign—but which was opened +full to admit the cab driven by a discreet cabman. +As soon as we had laid the body in his rooms we +availed ourselves of one of our mediæval privileges +to hold the inquest within our own walls. But the +police heard rumours, or perhaps the five pounds we +gave the discreet cabman led to indiscretions on his +part in a public-house, for the scandalised Borough +endeavoured to lay sacrilegious hands upon the +rights of the College, and demanded the body. Evidence +was given that the deceased had returned to +the College late the previous night, and presumably +had died within academic walls. This, of course, +was the curious part of the story. The porter was +certain that he had heard the bell at two because it +coincided with the striking of the bell in Great +St. Mary’s Church, and also that he had admitted +a tall gentleman whose name he had omitted to take. +There he was at fault. The rest of the College (and +we were very small in numbers then) were prepared +to swear that they were within the walls of the College +before midnight, and finally there was my affirmation +that I actually saw the deceased cross the court that +night. The Magistrates and police were a good deal +troubled, but they had no evidence and only rumours +on the other side. The porter’s evidence carried +the most weight. The word of the Lady Margaret +Professor of Divinity might be doubted and even +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_234">[Pg 234]</span>the oath of the Regius Professor of Law might be found +to be unsound, but the statement of the Head Porter +of St. Zacchaeus stood.</p> + +<p>“We held the inquest in the College precincts, and +had no difficulty in returning a verdict of heart failure, +which was the medical truth. But the wings of +scandal began to beat round our academic calm, +and it was thought better that the friend of the deceased, +who was perhaps answerable for leading +him into temptation in the beginning, should go down +from the University as quickly and as quietly as the +body of his poor friend.... He went, and disappeared. +A quarter of a century later he presented the great +West window to the College as a peace offering to +the living and a secret memorial to the dead. Remembering +the circumstances which I have told +you in outline, and not forgetting the remarkable +vision which I saw in the College court, you may be +able to guess for the first time why the subjects in the +window were chosen.”</p> + +<p>There was a deep silence at the High Table, and +the shadows of fifty years seemed to descend upon +the gas-lit court and to fill the hall even into the recesses +of the great gilded lanterns rising out of the +roof. In the distance the outline of the chapel darkened +the very night, and I was only sorry that I should +have to wait till morning in order to gaze at the +coloured glass in the West window with a thrill and +a wonder that I had never yet thought possible in +contemplating a religious or symbolic object. I could +not help asking the Master whose was the mediæval +mind that had dared choose the subjects. “I chose +them,” he said simply.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_235">[Pg 235]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="A_SAINT"> + A SAINT + </h2> +</div> + + +<p>The first time that I was really impressed by the +possibility of supernatural power working outside +the common or beaten path of materialism +was in a Devon country-house. I always believed +material things or ordinary events could be affected +by the spirit, for instance that it was quite useful +to pray for or against rain, and that a fine afternoon +generally rewarded the Vicar’s prayers before a +Bazaar or School-treat. But that quite extraordinary +things were liable to happen out of the blue because +of unseen and unknown forces used to be beyond my +reasonable expectation. It is not so with me now.</p> + +<p>I was staying in a beautiful but nameless old Manor +House in Devonshire, cut off from road and rail. +The only approach was down a breakneck hill, a kind +of gravelly toboggan run into the smiling valley below. +Coombes of red, red terracotta earth enclosed the +landscape and over the hill-tops floated a glimpse of +distant sea. A Devonshire coombe is a pretty piece +of landscape pretending to be a switchback railway. +It was spring, and spring in Devon gives a springier +feeling than anywhere else in England, whether it is +the beauty of the Devonian maids or the wonderful +red colour of the earth.</p> + +<p>The Manor House was Tudor, dating from the +time when Englishmen took up home, beer and bowls +and gave up Castles, archery and the San Graal. It +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_236">[Pg 236]</span>was built on monastic ground and had passed through +the hands of a succession of families, each of which +had fulfilled the curse attached to Abbey lands by +slowly extinguishing their seed and silver and cellar +through the several and appropriate means of drink, +debauch and lawyers.</p> + +<p>The Manor was inhabited by what are known as +Devon worthies, which means folk who are worthier +of Devon than other folk, or perhaps that Devon +is worthier of them. Every day I wandered out +between showers. As a matter of fact I had hit the +comparative lull between the vernal deluges and the +summer rainy season. It was delicious though wet +work watching the patches of gorse, which clung +like the rags of a golden fleece to the hill-sides, while +the white bloom of the bird-cherry trees lay on the +twig-tops like a late snowstorm that had forgotten +itself and dried instead of melting in the sun. The +harebells ran like blue ink through the wood-bottoms. +An occasional bee-orchis sanguified the hedge, like +a bluebell whose stalk had been soaked and its leaf +spotted with red wine, though from closer it looked like +a purple-hooded cobra in the green grass; and +splotches of delicate primrose never ceased to advertise +the purity and colour of Devonshire cream.</p> + +<p>The house was in the possession of the hereditary +Lord of the Manor, Sir Petronille Pawkins, Bart., a +very robust and pugnacious gentleman with the usual +collateral relationship with Sir Francis Drake, a +violent temper behind his shirt and plenty of good +wine in his cellar. All were in evidence during the +party. His mother, the Dowager Lady Pawkins, had +never been put out to grass, and had subsided into +a rather cheery kind of housekeeper. Certainly she +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_237">[Pg 237]</span>took the place of the pale silent wife everywhere except +in the Oratory. The old lady came of Catholic stock and, +though frankly she had taken to drink, she had not lost +the Faith, which she had handed on to her rowdy son. +The terrible undercurrent and possible moral of this +story will excuse my saying anything so brutal about a +lady who is dead and, I am certain, now with the Blest.</p> + +<p>She lived in the house, rather terrorising the wax-pale +wife. The Dowager had a reputation for enjoying +the cellar as much as her son, so that the two hostesses +were a great contrast. The Dowager was fat, cheerful +and, to my regret, generally tipsy. She had married +the last Baronet as a convent girl and, beyond adding +a modern Chapel and a Catholic heir to the family, +gave no further example of piety. The beautiful +Flemish tapestry in the drawing-room of the adoring +Magi was an heirloom, not an evidence of devotion.</p> + +<p>She was mixing cocktails for the guests before dinner +when I arrived. She explained that this domestic +duty fell to her because the present Lady of the Manor +did not approve of drinking at all, and was always +trying to induce Sir Petronille to take the pledge. +This Sir Petronille declined to do on the curious +grounds that his father had died of drink and that +he owed something to his memory. She too was of +Catholic stock, from some forgotten sanctuary behind +the Fens. She was young and preferred to leave the +brunt of entertainment to her mother-in-law. They +were too unlike for any rivalry to rise between them. +She reminded me of a candle burning away in the +daylight to an unseen flame. Life itself was hardly +apparent in her eyes, which seemed to look backwards +into her inner self and not upon the wicked world +into which she had been given in marriage.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_238">[Pg 238]</span></p> + +<p>The house party was various. As they sat round +the dinner table the first night, I could not help +dividing them into the two categories of Bottles and +Barrels. It is an amusing game to play with oneself +at a dull dinner party. In the first place so many +people are shaped like a Barrel or a Bottle. And so +often the mental contents are similar. Bores are +simply empty barrels, except (what is worse) when they +are overflowing ones. Social bottles seldom run to +more than conversational soda-water. Very rare is +the sparkling vintage, and it is one that needs to be +deftly uncorked. I am afraid the Dowager was a +typical barrel. The human bottles did not strike +me as worth tapping, even Sir Petronille. There were +two talkative Americans who could only have been +tolerated under the rule of Trappists and even then +might have proved unbearable to the Trappists. +They were rather like people who had stepped out +of books with very little to say worth putting back +into books. Their flow of soul was as soda water +without the water. There were some neighbours who +provided the news of Exeter and even from as far as +Torquay, which is the English Deauville, only more +so. And there were a few literary men and a +budding politician from London who talked rubbish. +Naturally we pattered the Metropolitan +movies, a cursory list of which may help to date this +story twenty years hence. We said all there was to +be said about Wembley, about the Labour Parties, +the Opposition Parties and Lady Colefax parties; +about Steve Donoghue’s riding; about the Rodeo +riding; and Lord Dudley’s marriage.</p> + +<p>It was the last party that the unexpected might +be expected to happen. But good port covers much +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_239">[Pg 239]</span>ordinary conversation, whereas <i>vin ordinaire</i> is difficult +to conceal with the brightest chat. We had reached +the stage between the first and second glass of port +when the servants suddenly disappeared apparently +with a scuffle. Our host followed with an oath. Something +had gone wrong below stairs. We would have +carried on polite conversation until relieved, had not +a drift of pungent smoke crossed the doorway. We +left the room and hurried to the staircase in time +to hear an alarm of fire. The customary scenes at an +English country-house fire followed. The unselfish +shifted furniture. The selfish shifted for themselves. +The budding politician assumed a mediæval helmet +and gave loud and continued orders from the stairs +with some such caption in his mind’s eye for the next +day’s <i>Mirror</i> as “Young statesman acts as fireman!” +The men servants stood in different corners of the +library, which was found to be in flames, discharging +Minimax squirts at each other. The chemicals slowly +changed the colour of their livery, but not the stolid +cast of their countenances. The ladies rushed up and +down stairs impaled on the dilemma of saving the +hats in their rooms or leaving their evening wraps in +the hall. The rest of the party brought buckets and +jugs of water which did as much damage to the carpets +as the Minimax to the shelves and curtains. But true +to its classical derivative the Minimax minimised the +maximum of fire. Amid much hissing and smoking +the flame was quenched and the damaged furniture +carried into the garden, to wit: a gutted sofa, two +charred chairs and a stinking carpet. Everybody +congratulated each other on delivery from atrocious +death, a telephone call was sent to the Insurance +Company, and beer was provided for the expected and +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_240">[Pg 240]</span>expectant firemen of the neighbouring Borough, who +arrived in the early morning.</p> + +<p>During the rest of that evening the fire supplied +an agreeably thrilling note to the conversation. The +escape of the party was celebrated with duplication and +even multiplication of the port wine. The Americans +were shocked and then delighted and even unpersuaded +to uphold the reputation of a dry country against the +enticements of a drinking Baronet and a wet spring. +Lady Pawkins was terribly upset, whether by the +fire or the drinking. She hardly appeared at all +during the next three days, leaving the house affairs +almost entirely to her mother-in-law.</p> + +<p>It was remembered that Sir Petronille had only +remarked that the smoke had spoilt the port left on the +table, and that it was a damnable nuisance the fire had +not started a quarter of an hour later. The insurance +agent arrived and a cheque for damages was paid. +All was as it should be. Sir Petronille’s wife looked a +little paler, and nothing happened for three days....</p> + +<p>We were returning to tea in the late afternoon +when we found the servants extinguishing a fire in +an empty bedroom. There was nothing but smoke and +smell left by the time we arrived. It was a horrible +nuisance. Our host’s oaths took the sheepish grins +off the servants’ faces. The insurance agent arrived +again and re-estimated damages. It was curious +that there had been no grate fire in the room, but it +was generously attributed by the agent to forgotten +cigarette ends. Everybody looked at each other +foolishly, and then somebody blurted out that it was +only the ladies who smoked cigarettes. The men +smoked cigars and pipes. The agent bowed and +smiled; “I have no doubt some lady was forgetful,” +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_241">[Pg 241]</span>he suggested. He was anxious to turn the incident +into a good advertisement for the company. “But they +don’t smoke in empty bedrooms!” shouted the Dowager. +The agent bowed again and withdrew with his report. +There was a general laugh, I don’t know why.</p> + +<p>A second fire was excessively unlucky, and the only +consolation which could be offered to the host was +that he had surely exhausted his share of bad luck +for a life-time. That evening the party kept sober +and, when towards ten o’clock the butler entered +and with a very scared face reported that a third +fire had just been extinguished in the Chapel itself, the +party resembled so many aldermen and church-wardens +proceeding to view the site of municipal disaster.</p> + +<p>It turned out to be a slight outbreak and only a +few smouldering hangings had to be removed. It was +promptly attributed to one of the altar candles or to +the blue light which Lady Pawkins kept burning +before the statue of the Lourdes Madonna, now +generally taking the place of the mediæval Mother +and Child in the shrines of the Catholic community. +But it was proved that no candle had been lit since +Mass was said on the previous Sunday, and that only +the supernatural could have caused the hangings to +be ignited from the lamp. Lady Pawkins had been +in the Chapel until just before the dinner gong, so +all scent was once more at fault. There was no scent +in fact except the obvious and unpleasant smell of +burnt cloth.</p> + +<p>Three fires within four days was incomprehensible +indeed. Either it was an amazing coincidence, and +by the law of chances could not possibly recur, or it +was the work of a firebug—more politely called a +pyromaniac. There must be somebody in the house +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_242">[Pg 242]</span>with a Freudian fancy for setting random fire to the +furniture in broad daylight. Even so, it was impossible +to strike a cause. The staff was old and warranted. +Many had been reared under the family they served. +A fire in the Manor House was unheard of. Guests +and servants were anxious equally to prove alibis for +themselves. The odd thing was that nobody had been +alone when any of the fires had started, except Lady +Pawkins praying in the Oratory; and the Oratory fire +occurred while she was out. It was more than +strange. That evening the ladies were as voluble as +the men were thoughtful. The budding politician said +he owed it to his constituents not to expose himself to +suffocation in his bed. The Americans rehearsed endlessly +the great fire in Boston, the greater fire in +Chicago and the greatest of all in San Francisco. And +there was talk of the disaster to the <i>General Slocum</i> +and much other cheerful and appertaining matter.</p> + +<p>Nobody slept that night, and the gentlemen took +turns to patrol the passages. Nothing happened, nor +during the next day, which was a Saturday. There +arrived detectives from one of the great London +agencies, and a Benedictine priest from the neighbouring +monastery, who came regularly to hear the confessions +of the Ladies Pawkins. On this occasion only +the younger of the two was available. I regret to +say that the Dowager had, under the strain of three +fires, become amusingly drunk. I watched the younger +woman pass into the Oratory and kneel, paler-faced +than ever. An hour later the monk passed out of +the house. She had apparently made up for the +absence of other penitents, but what on earth, I +thought, could she have had to tell her confessor? +But, then, there are more things in Heaven and earth +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_243">[Pg 243]</span>than.... Most of her time was spent in the chapel +praying, and the hours spared from her devotions +were lavished on the comfort of her guests. Her +hospitality was humble rather than brilliant. She +was found one morning making her mother-in-law’s +bed, and nobody had any doubt of the unseen hands +that changed and rearranged the flowers in the rooms +every afternoon. She lived in the house, but she +hardly seemed to be of the house party. Yet she was +indefatigable at every meal and in her care for the +guests. For their vinal welfare alone she showed +indifference, if not abhorrence. And, like most model +hostesses, she made no attempt to add to the gaiety +of the party, though she never allowed a trace of +tiredness or boredom to cross her face. But her smile +was worth more than much laughter from the drunken.</p> + +<p>Meantime the sleuth-hounds had arrived—one in the +impenetrable disguise of a valet, who spent long +mornings and discreet evenings brushing the threads +out of our evening trousers. Another was ambushed +as literary adviser to Sir Petronille Pawkins, and it +was given out that the Baronet, who was almost +illiterate, intended editing some chapters of his very +obscure family history. While we ate, they sought +clues and found them not. The sole result of their +search was the finding of a number of private letters +in coat pockets, which letters were surrendered to +those least intended to see them. A number of unpaid +bills, addressed to the Dowager Lady Pawkins, +were handed by mistake to Lady Pawkins. And a +letter from an Inebriates’ Home, directed to Sir +Petronille, gave the Dowager the shock of her life. +She, poor soul, had remained in a very intoxicated +state owing to reaction from the incendiarism. I +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_244">[Pg 244]</span>surprised her one evening mumbling to herself. It +was a long rigmarole about trying to fight it (I presume +she meant the firebug), about her failure and what a +disgrace it was, and finally how good Alice was (Alice +was the daughter-in-law). “She won’t give in. +She’ll beat it,” and the old lady burst into hysterics.</p> + +<p>The local police carried out a portentous investigation +of footprints and thumbmarks to substantiate a +theory of malicious arson from without. The local +constable found and rightly measured the inspector’s +bootmark in the garden clay, and the inspector found +a finger-print on a window-pane a few hours later +which might or might not have been the constable’s. +The clues discovered by means of the house party +would have filled a shelf in the Scotland Yard museum.</p> + +<p>Nevertheless, there were comic variations in the +house-party life, and people became quite amusing +against the tragic background, though a certain amount +of discreet panic took place. Fear of the unknown +hushed the rowdiness of the party. The second fire +had sobered them. After the third few dared to take +their normal rest. It was obvious to material minds +that, if fire could break out on a sofa or among +hangings for no reason during the daytime, it might +do so during the night-time for a better reason. +Nobody cares to be roasted in bed, so we broke the +party into night patrols and relieved one another in +watching the passages and hunting for the most likely +places for the spontaneous combustion to occur which +had been solemnly adduced by one of the theorists. +The leader of each watch was armed with the dinner-gong, +on which he was urged to sound the alarm. +The next night was unquiet. The alarm was given +on two occasions, needlessly. One of the Americans +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_245">[Pg 245]</span>dropped a lighted cigarette into his bed, while trying +to keep awake until his time for watch. He promptly +gave the alarm himself, and the presence of half the +household was required to satisfy his conscience that +by sitting on the sparks he had averted a catastrophe. +The second alarm was caused by the officer of the +early morning watch tripping on the stairs and falling, +gong and all, to the bottom. The next morning the +representative of the Fire Insurance arrived and, after +making investigations on his own account, announced +that the Insurance Company had decided not to renew +the policy as they were convinced that the fires could +not be accidental. He was convinced that fire had +been ignited, especially in the case of the chapel +curtains, by the use of paraffin or petrol. For the rest +of that day everybody searched for combustibles. But +during this time no oil had been permitted in the +house, and even a box of firelighters, thanks to their +specific name, had been buried in the garden.</p> + +<p>There was, of course, nothing to talk about at meals +except these strange happenings. The Devon Worthies +could rake up no analogy except rick-burning, and +were inclined to lay the trouble to gipsies or poachers, +whom they classed with Bolshevists as the enemies of +all mankind. The Americans continued to talk with +consummate fluency about the San Francisco fire, with +variations on the Boston fire and the great Chicago +fire, which was traced to an Irish widow’s cow. The +servants became so alarmed that they would only +work in pairs. Everything was done to facilitate the +work of the detectives. Their finds continued to be +irrelevant, to say the least of it. They discovered a +secret staircase, which had been walled up a century +previously. They also discovered a cupboard full of +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_246">[Pg 246]</span>empty bottles, to which cupboard no member of the +family could or would produce a key. The next +discovery was mine.</p> + +<p>I was sitting in the drawing-room studying the +Literary Supplement to <i>Vogue</i>, when suddenly I saw +the old Flemish tapestry of the Adoration of the +Magi stretched across the wall move! There was no +draught or motion of the air at the time. I thought +it must be an ocular delusion caused by my glasses. +Nobody was pulling or even touching the tapestry. +But the threads in its texture were moving and +wriggling like ashen-coloured worms. The nimbus +above the Virgin’s head was trembling and crackling +and the white elbow of her arm was twisting and +slowly blackening in front of my eyes. It was all +happening in perfect silence and for no apparent +cause. That was the terror of it, and I dragged myself +out of my chair and forced myself to examine the +tapestry closer. The woof was crisping and crumbling +under the action of intense heat, though it was not yet +on actual fire. I stared in a foolish and fascinated sort +of way until the sudden spurt of pungent smell roused +me to what senses were left to me, and I began feebly +sounding the alarm. At this moment Lady Pawkins +came down the stairs and entered the room. When I +pointed out what was happening, she became deathly +white and rang the bell three times, the concerted +signal for a fire in any part of the house. Detectives +and servants arrived almost immediately and quickly +extinguished the sparks running through the threads +of the tapestry before beginning an exhaustive inquiry, +of which I was the chief butt. The tapestry was +handled, fingered and almost dissected. All my words +were taken down, and I was even searched for matches, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_247">[Pg 247]</span>but in vain. I did not describe, a very curious sensation +which had been growing upon me, which was the +ridiculous idea that Lady Pawkins was somehow +responsible for what had happened. The official +theory was that the oriel glass had acted like a magnifying +glass in setting fire to the tapestry.</p> + +<p>After this, the atmosphere in the house became not +only serious but rather strained. It was like living +in a crematorium with no honourable chance of escape, +a crematorium in charge of unseen and probably +insane attendants. Were we the victims of an +abominable practical joke? Or was there an invisible +criminal or an unknown madman amongst the guests? +We had stopped suspecting the wretched servants. +We grew more inclined to look round among ourselves. +Everybody laid what had happened to his +neighbour, but how to associate one iota of proof +with any individual was a hopeless difficulty. In +vain, mental traps were set and the most innocently +seeming inveiglements devised. Nobody gave himself +away by deed or word or thought.</p> + +<p>The atmosphere became quite impossible towards +the end of the week. It was far worse than the presence +of a ghost or a supernatural phenomenon. A +White Lady or an immured nun or chained monk +would have afforded welcome relief. We could have +slept peacefully amid spectral rattles and death-warnings. +But the menace hanging over the house +seemed to combine the terrors of the earthly and the +unearthly. The firebug that flieth by day giveth no +warning, and, whatever was the cause of the incendiarism, +there was no comfort in the night. The +house party continued to its appointed end rather like +a comic funeral, at which the skeleton sat at every +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_248">[Pg 248]</span>feast and lurked in every cupboard. At night the +house was watched by night-watchmen with instructions +to fire upon anybody attempting to fire the +house. And all the while out of doors the beautiful +spring was bursting into moist melody. As for the +landscape, it was red, red earth all the way, with jerks +of blue sea over the hills and far away. The hedges +burst into flowerage. Devon is the only county +rhymed with Heaven, but it has Paradisal parallels.</p> + +<p>It seemed incongruous to see Nature so happy and +busy, spinning the loves of flowers and birds, while +within the walls of the old house the lords of creation +sat in moody and suspicious silence. I must admit +that it was one of the most exciting weeks of my life, +and certainly I would never have missed the experiences: +the uncanny supernatural sensations, the +actual personal knowledge of a fire and the study of +human psychology reacting to strain. On the whole +everybody had improved as human beings. People +ceased to be boring or selfish. Everybody became +anxious to protect or reassure everybody else. The +common fear made us all friends, and we felt we would +have something to talk to each other about, whenever +we met, for the rest of our lives. The only person +who seemed to show not the least change was Lady +Pawkins. Her time-table was totally unaffected by +what had happened. She still rose at an earlier hour +than her servants and prayed in her Oratory. On +Sundays and Feast days she remained praying most +of the day. Even on weekdays she read the whole +Office of the Church to herself. She ordered the meals, +and though she left the entertainment to her cheery +and collapsible mother-in-law, her personality none +the less penetrated the whole house. I was never +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_249">[Pg 249]</span>more conscious of it than at each outbreak of fire. +Guests and detectives seemed to look upon her as a +phantom and of no importance in the search for the +mystery, and yet I reiterate the extraordinary impression +I had received in the subconscious part of +my soul that she was somewhere at the origin of all +this trouble.</p> + +<p>At last Saturday dawned and the visit was over for +guests, who had been struggling between an intense +desire to depart and the thrill of remaining. Most of +them had recovered their balance at the prospect of +going. There were three extra detectives by the end +of the week and the very meals we ate were cooked +under Scotland Yard supervision. The Americans +were drawing plans of the central heating system, +which would be necessary before they paid a second +visit. We had long given up trying to affix the deed +to any particular person. It was all too complicated.</p> + +<p>But two things happened that Saturday morning, +which I have not disclosed until to-day. The Benedictine +chaplain arrived as usual and, after hearing the +news of the week from Sir Petronille, made his way +into the Chapel where he was joined by Lady Pawkins. +As he descended the stairs an hour later, the tension +precipitated us into conversation. He talked about +the untoward occurrences and the ladies of the family +with the simplest gravity. He spoke with the kindest +benevolence and pity of the Dowager: “She put up +such a strong fight. But the holy have no peace in +this house. She is at peace since she ceased struggling +with all her body and soul. Not so Lady Pawkins.” +As he spoke, I had the curious feeling in my mind +that he had no doubt either as to the source of the +fires. When I described the horror of the igniting +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_250">[Pg 250]</span>tapestry to him, he was tremendously interested and +asked me to show him the exact place. The tapestry +had not been put away and still hung in the drawing-room +with an ugly scar upon the Virgin’s arm. He +was really excited beyond measure when he saw the +mark of the flame, and I heard him muttering to +himself: “Poor lady, poor lady! How could she +bear it?” Then he flung himself on his knees and +began to pray. I made allowance for his nerves and +for his deep affection for the Pawkins family and began +re-examining the tapestry. I noticed for the first +time that the fire had been confined to the imagery of +the Blessed Virgin and to her arms alone. The Holy +Child and the Magi had not been touched. Something +in the thread had kept the flame to the same section +of colour in the web. The good monk was very much +moved, and remained some time on his knees. I suppose +he thought that there was something sacrilegious +in even the singeing of the Virgin’s likeness.</p> + +<p>An hour later I went to the Oratory to say good-bye +to Lady Pawkins. She was there immersed in prayer +and it was some time before she noticed me. Rising +from her knees, she came slowly towards me and held +out her right hand with a quiet smile as though to +apologise for all that had happened during my stay. +As she raised her arm I caught sight of her skin under +the hanging sleeve and my eyes froze to it. It was +burnt and charred to the bone! God! I was glad to +get out of that house.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Then I was right, and she was in some mystical and +appalling way at the source of all that had happened; +and the monk knew. Yes! I was sure that he knew, +and now I realised why he had fallen to prayer before +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_251">[Pg 251]</span>the burnt picture of the Virgin in the tapestry. Everything +began to fit itself together in my mind. The +Dowager’s strange words about herself and her +daughter-in-law, coupled with those of the monk—what +was it that they meant? How was it that the +poor drunken Dowager had fought against it with all her +might and soul, but that the evil had been too strong +for her, and why, since she had given up struggling, +had she been at peace? Could it be that though the +old lady had collapsed under demoniacal assault and +let herself take to drink, there was some mystical +and tremendous excuse for her weakness, that in the +atmosphere of that house there was a power which +would not permit people to live quiet, ordinary, sober +lives? That women who married into the family +found themselves attacked by an influence which gave +them no rest, which actually forced holy people into +evil habits? Was I right in guessing that the only +chance a woman had in that house was the overwhelming +and simple practice of mediæval Sanctity, +the gifts of prayer, holiness and atonement carried to +an heroic degree? Such a woman was given the +chance of becoming saintly or sodden—there was no +middle course.</p> + +<p>So I guessed, but I never returned to confirm my +guess. You can only imagine my feelings a year +later when I took up a newspaper and read that the +country residence of Sir Petronille Pawkins had been +burnt to the ground and that everybody had been +saved in the house except Lady Pawkins, who was +believed to have returned to the Chapel to save the +holy vessels. I suppose she would not yield—more +power to her burnt elbows! But she must have gone +to Heaven in a fiery chariot.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_252">[Pg 252]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="CANNES"> + CANNES + </h2> +</div> + + +<p>Recently the most extraordinary and unexpected +adventure has befallen me, which I am +anxious to preserve in the form of a Short +Story.</p> + +<p>It concerns a railway accident which occurred while +I was travelling through France to the Riviera. I +ought to have been on the crashing train and for some +strange reason I was not. The reason is really strange +and remains to this day unexplained. But I have +devised a possible clue to the fantastic or psychical +forces which were in play and which prevented me +being immolated in the catastrophe. There will appear +a climax if I tell my story rightly, but I am still waiting +for the <i>dénouement</i>. Roughly, this is the outline. +I was summoned to an aunt’s sick-bed at Cannes and +had no time to book a berth in advance. I attempted +to travel in the restaurant car of an express. Friends +left me at the station. Witnesses in Paris knew that +I was leaving that night and, if possible, by that train. +They read of the train’s crash in the papers the next +morning. My name was not in the casualty list +simply because I was not travelling in the train. I had +deliberately changed trains for a strange reason.</p> + +<p>This is too bad for a start, for I have been very +carefully trained in the Pelman school of literature, +and have subscribed to an expensive course in the +Finsbury School of Practical Journalism, and have +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_253">[Pg 253]</span>had several Short Stories corrected by a doddering +ex-member of Parliament, by the writer of social +snips in a Methodist weekly, and an utterly futile and +yellowish novelist whose very decadence has decayed. +I should have remembered that it is necessary to +give no hint of a Short Story’s end, if the attention +of trained readers is to be kept, and that the catastrophe +should be concealed till the practised palate of the +epicurean magazine-taster is prepared to assimilate it. +But now I have revealed the whole skeleton outline +of my Story in one nutshell paragraph. It is too +bad, for the whole fact and even the mystery, such +as it is, leaks out of those first sentences, and I shall +have to continue with Pelmanic padding to the obvious +end. However, perhaps I shall get this Story into next +year’s “Collection of the Worst Stories of the Twelve-month,” +which I believe are industrially collected into +an annual by two Chicago professors of belles-lettres +and added to that invaluable transatlantic series +“What Not To Read.”</p> + +<p>But I have a Story to tell, and with the help of +a little volume entitled “Short Story Writing for +Profit,” by Michael Joseph, which has fallen into +my hands, I shall essay to tell it. His entertaining +little plan informs me that the theory of the Short +Story may be likened to the shape of a triangle—a +long base, one long side, and a short drop. I must +keep this in mind, especially as my story conveys an +illusion of the human triangle. Let me at least +preserve that triangular form which is essential to +the modern Short Story.</p> + +<figure class="figcenter illowe6_2500" id="i_253"> + <img class="w100" src="images/i_253.jpg" alt="right-angled triangle"> +</figure> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_254">[Pg 254]</span></p> + +<p>I therefore set out to draw <i>A—C</i>, <i>Base of characters</i>, +as per plan, with <i>A—B</i>, <i>Incidents leading to the +Catastrophe</i>, and <i>C—B</i> the <i>Climax</i>, with <i>B</i> for +<i>Catastrophe</i>. I have a feeling that with such clear +indications I cannot fail. My real difficulty is that +I have to adapt a true story to the Procrustean bed +of fiction. I learn I have got to provide a Title +(done), an Opening (I am opening as I write), the +Body of the Story, and the Catastrophe upon Climax, +and if possible, but this is not essential, a <i>dénouement</i>.</p> + +<p>The Opening is in the Gare de Lyon, which I reach +about half-past seven on a Sunday night on my way +to the Riviera. I am not travelling for pleasure, but +in response to a summons to fetch my dear and +favourite aunt, who has been very fashionably ill at +Cannes in company with some of the best-known +names in English Provincial Society. This year +anybody who counts in Leeds would cease to count +in Leeds had they not been numbered on a Riviera +hotel register. The <i>salons</i> of Liverpool, the wit of +Glasgow, and the beauty of Hull, Halifax and Huddersfield +have been emptied along the Garden of the +Riviera like a rich manure. Even poor old London, +which since the war has been outmonied and outclassed +by the manufacturing cities of the North, +contributed its little quota of idle poor. My dear +aunt went for her health, and I went because I am +in her Will. I had got as far as the Gare de Lyon +in my Story.</p> + +<p>I do not feel like filling out <i>A—C</i> with characterisations +of either my aunt or myself, so I will proceed +to <i>A—B</i> (Incidents leading to the Catastrophe). The +first incident lies in the fact that I can never pass +through the Gare de Lyon without a very vivid +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_255">[Pg 255]</span>thought passing through my mind. Thirty years +ago (this dislocation of time is against all the Short +Story rules, but it is essential), this aunt of mine stood +in the Gare de Lyon and suddenly she saw a man +running across the platform, followed by another. He +had the misfortune to trip and fall, whereupon, to +her horror, the other drew a revolver and shot him +not once, but many times, until the police removed +him and his victim. It was a crime of passion committed +by a jealous husband on his wife’s lover. As +everything had been done on all sides of the triangle, +nobody had anything to say, and the drama was soon +forgotten in the thousand and ten more dramatic +incidents of the Paris phantasmagoria. But my aunt +never forgot, and years later, when I was a small boy +in Paris, she showed me the scene of the murder and +recounted the details. It was the only murder she +had ever seen, and the only one I had heard at +first hand, so it remained in my mind as fresh as +blood. Every time I crossed the Gare de Lyon, +travelling South, it returned to my memory with +renewed force. And though I was in a special hurry, +and in a state of real agitation owing to the telegrams +I had received from Cannes, I halted at the fatal spot +and remembered, as it were throwing myself back +in time and out of circumstantial focus. I enjoyed +the curious feeling that possibly I was the only person +alive who knew exactly what had happened there +on that tragic day. It was part of my personal +tradition.</p> + +<p>This murder is an Incident, not the Catastrophe +in my story, which I am still labouring to tell with +such sanity and sincerity as my reader will allow me. +Friends in Paris sent me in their car to catch the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_256">[Pg 256]</span>8.10 <i>Rapide</i>. I had not reserved a sleeping place +because the train accommodation was filled for weeks +in advance. I gave a voluble porter ten francs, and +explained that it was a case of necessity and that I +must reach Cannes the next day, as my aunt was ill; +that I was prepared to travel in the restaurant car +the whole way, or even in the baggage van. I only +carried hand luggage, and while the porter was making +my arrangements I walked down the platform to +loosen my leg joints before what promised to be a +night of cramp. The porter rejoined me beaming, +and assured me that he had arranged everything by +himself, that my bag was in the restaurant and that +I would find a seat in the corridor, when I suddenly +noticed a passenger on the platform far more hurried +and agitated than I was. She walked up the train, +peering with quick movements of her neck into every +carriage, but in vain. Then she remained standing +at one of the wrought-iron pillars that sustain the +roof, looking like the veritable picture of despair. +The train was late going out (half an hour of delay, +the porter told me), so I felt tempted to walk past +her, and to my surprise found her large, glassy eyes +fixed full upon mine. I continued ten yards and +swung round. She was still there, and her eyes were +still riveting mine. I passed her not twice but +half a dozen times, and each time her eyes fixed, +absorbed, hypnotised and terrified me. They were +not the eyes of a woman, who queries and accosts men +in streets and railway stations, the glittering and +questingly plunderous eyes, nor the brilliantly attractive +orbs of the adventuress. Nor were they the eyes +of the widow and the mourner, those gushing fountains +of violet salts and pathetic brine. Tragic they were +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_257">[Pg 257]</span>and haunting, restless and insatiable, searchful and +despairing. I felt quite unable to take my place in +the train, and continued walking up and down the +platform, and each time I received her eyes full into +mine. It was naturally not for me to speak, but I +gave her every chance, and emboldened by her piercing +glance which shot pity, fear, pain, peril, I bent my +head towards her until our eyes cannot have been +more than six inches apart. Then I heard her saying +simply, “<i>Changez! il faut changer de train. Dites lui +de changer de train.</i>” I was so troubled that I could +make no reply. I passed her once again, and she said +again, “<i>Il faut changer de train.</i>” When I looked +back she had disappeared, and the signal was being +made for the train to start. But her eyes had not +gone out of mine, and I could still know them anywhere +if ever I saw them again. They were wonderful +and wistful eyes, and a little terrible. They never +blinked or flinched or flickered. But what struck me +most, apart from their undeviating stare of agony +and terror, was that they were perfectly dry—the +dry stare of the dead. I felt their presence even more +after their owner had disappeared into the rush and +crush of the station. I no longer felt like a real +person, but as though I were watching myself in a +dream, and I did the absurd sort of things that one +does in dreams. I obeyed her entreaty to change +trains without questioning whether it was intended +for me. I snatched my bag and threw myself upon +my surprised porter. He thought I had decided not +to travel at all, and could not understand me when +I gave him another ten francs and asked him to find +me another train, presumably in the same direction! +There was a slow train in the parallel siding already +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_258">[Pg 258]</span>crowded and almost overfilled. Before he had found +me a fresh seat, the <i>Rapide</i> was passing out of the +station. I turned and watched the slow, soundless +egress of the train I should have occupied. I did +feel a fool, but again the dream-sense overcame me, +and I looked with a curious intense feeling into every +face I could sight in the disappearing carriages. One +man was looking out of the window. Was he the +object of that woman’s wild search and agony? +Another was preparing to undress. Groups were +settling down for the night. The restaurant car was +empty, but the white-capped <i>chef</i> was busy in his +tiny kitchen. It all passed through my sense of +vision like a phantom. The porter touched me on +the shoulder and led me to the slow train. He treated +me as one distracted but harmless. He placed me +in a tight compartment with six others, and committed +me to their charge. I remained sitting bolt upright +for eighteen hours, past Dijon and Lyons; past +Avignon, where the rose of dawn met us; past Arles +to Marseilles, where our engine breasted the breeze +of the Mediterranean and snorted with new breath +into Toulon and along the Amethyst Coast to Cannes.</p> + +<p>At Cannes I felt as though I were awaking from +a dream. I struggled towards the hotel, where my +convalescent aunt had been hanging irresolute between +life and death, and was now sufficiently well to decide +between two exquisite hats—one from Paris and +another bought in Cannes. Fortunately a friend in +need had nursed her through the crisis of pneumonia, +and recovery was now a question of days. It was +Martha MacArthur, one of the world’s delectables. +At my aunt’s bedside I apologised for missing the +<i>Rapide</i> and arriving so late. Martha started. “Missed +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_259">[Pg 259]</span>it? Why, the <i>Rapide</i> crashed last night, with great +loss of life!” As my aunt had just escaped from +the jaws of germigerous death, it was perhaps not +the moment to acquaint her with my even more +astounding survival, but I felt an overwhelming +desire to ask Martha why I was alive. Mr. Joseph, in +his “Short Story Writing for Profit” remarks on +page 118 that “certain names have a strong suggestion +of character about them. Martha suggests the dutiful +housewife; Dolly, Betty or Kitty the rather frivolous +young lady.” According to the rules I should have +never introduced the name of Martha into this Story, +especially as Martha presented the very opposite of +the dutiful housewife as she slung me in her Rolls-Royce +through the narrow streets of Cannes, leaving +perilously minute margins between her wheels and +trembling human obstacles. But Martha is one of +the protected. Her golf is Paradisal, her card play +diabolical—I can speak from experience. On our +way to the Casino at Cannes—which is the great +caravanserai of the loose, losing and lost, I ventured +at last to ask her why I was alive. She took it as a +reflection on her driving! Before I could tell her my +Story, we had entered the great Casino—which seems +built of dissected strata of coloured ice-cream; with +great plate-windows framing pictures of the Mediterranean, +and electric chandeliers hanging over potted +palm trees like bunches of horrible glassy dates—and +under an enormous Chinese black and white lantern +I unfolded my tale. It was so strange, telling a +ghostly yarn in that heated atmosphere to Martha, +who sat like a frond of Swiss edelweiss, cool and white +and natural in that huge orchidaceous hot-house, +where monstrous flowers of the Venus Fly Trap +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_260">[Pg 260]</span>variety swayed to and fro in the scented air, seeking +whom they might conveniently suck—those flowers +to whom champagne and shampoo mean more than +the daily dews and brushing breeze of heaven. For +a moment I imbibed my surroundings. I felt brought +down to the real earth; and a drink-soaked and +perfumed earth. There was nothing ghostly or dreamy +within those walls. I told my weird yarn against a +strongly contrasting background.</p> + +<p>Martha said nothing beyond tossing her multiwaved +head of newly-hatched canary fluff into the +air. I asked her again, at the end as at the beginning +of my Story, why I was alive. Martha accepted and +considered my story. Then she said that I must +have been attuned to see what was probably invisible +to others in the station. Had I ever seen the +face in the vision before? she asked. No! Did it +seek to attract any beside myself? I could not say. +Possibly, in spite of the individual fascination it +concentrated on myself. Did I look for the face on +the train I took? Yes, I searched the train at +Marseilles and again at Cannes, but I had seen nothing. +Martha’s little oval face became Buddhistic with +wisdom, and she said: “There must be a reason. +There must be a hidden law. Rhythm is the secret +law of life. My golf is rhythm. My dancing is +rhythm. That’s why I won’t dance with you. My +card play is rhythm. That’s why you can’t play +with me. My Rolls-Royce is rhythm.” I shivered at +this particular memory. “You must have been in +spirit-rhythm with some soul trying to communicate +with another passenger, perhaps the wife of one of +those killed or injured, or the mother. A psychological +communication cord was pulled. That was all.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_261">[Pg 261]</span></p> + +<p>I felt that I had been very lucky in noticing that +cord being pulled. I grew calmer and less exalted. +The tables in the Casino were filling with visitors. All +the unmentionable and all the most-mentioned people +were crowding and jostling together. An Indian +Prince entered with his white wife, followed by her +white lover, which looked like one of Buchanan’s +artistic “Black and White” Whisky advertisements. +A lady suddenly became lit with the vapours of wine, +and began clapping a broad-backed English Peer +between his startled shoulders. Almost at the next +table to Martha was Monsieur Lazarus (of Paris). It +was almost a Scriptural touch. All the lights of +Leeds and the bloods of Birmingham were marshalling +in that delightful atmosphere where baccarat is not a +sin and Sin itself is but a baccarat. English people +had thrown off their national hypocrisy for once. The +doors revolved, and I noticed Mrs. Grundy herself +enter in company with a courtesan to whom she had +kindly given a lift, and who was gracefully lighting a +cigarette for her in return. They were all there—the +<i>demi-mondaines</i>, the half-world watching for gentlemen +half-seas over to rifle. They were of all sizes, +from the Brighton flapper to the Double Dutch. But +they gave Leeds and Birmingham something appreciable +to see and speak about and even to handle.</p> + +<p>We rose and wandered into the inner gambling +hall, where the tables were arranged according to +prices. At the high table, roped and guarded by +attendants, some of the great intellects of Europe +played baccarat for huge stakes—thousands and tens +of thousands of francs. The shoe of cards was passing. +There was an English Marchioness looking like the +last rose of last summer as the French bank-notes +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_262">[Pg 262]</span>dropped like faded pink petals from her fingers. +There was a gorgeously-dressed pickpocket, who still +spied sentimentally for international service and +patriotically relieved stray Englishmen of their francs. +There was an exiled King playing for his hotel +bill. There was a Bond Street jeweller fleecing the +clients he overcharged at home. There was a green +Egyptian Prince trying furtively to pick up a little +cash with one hand and royal honours with the +other. He was financed by an American Lady who +liked sharing in the pseudo-curtsies he extracted from +the gullible. There was a transatlantic widow in +hooded black, whose face of suppressed fury when she +lost money made the humanitarian glad that there +were no husbands left to her reproach. And there +was a beautiful Italian Countess, whose favours +inclined to the most substantial winner at the tables. +She at least must have had a human heart. But it +takes women with hearts and men with intellect to +play baccarat. One felt sorry that the love and +council-chambers of the world were even temporarily +deprived of so much. The shoe of cards was passing, +and the notes were passing into the maw of the Casino, +the little insatiable slit, which takes a tithe on all +gains and on all losses. I was fascinated watching +the croupiers, men like dead, dissected fish, whisk +the cards and bank-notes about with their long, thin +shovels of pearwood, which moved as quickly as the +dorsal fins of sharks basking on a sea of green baize. +And the evening was passing into night, and night +into dawn.</p> + +<p>Martha continued to explain her Gospel of Rhythm. +Luck at the tables was rhythm, she said, and when +one was out of luck, it meant that one was simply +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_263">[Pg 263]</span>out of tune or accord with some subtlety of rhythm. +My escape from the doomed train had been due to +some rhythm into which I had strayed with the +receptive note uppermost. Luck and rhythm were +the same things. Then she asked me what I had +been thinking of when I came to the Gare de Lyon. +And I suddenly remembered the murder that always +crossed my mind there and there only. I told her +the story of the murder that my aunt had once seen, +and had passed so vividly into my mind. “Exactly,” +said Martha. “That accounts for it all. You must +have seen the wife trying to warn her lover that her +husband was on his tracks, and the astral reflection +of her agony to get him to change trains was projected +into your mind rhythmically.”</p> + +<p>It sounded a good solution. I could imagine it +all: the secret visit and departure; the discovery +by the husband of the hour of the lover’s train; +his pursuit with a revolver, while the agonised wife +made an equally desperate attempt to warn the other +first; her failure to warn her lover; the husband’s +successful search and then the drama of blood. I +suppose I had put myself into the mood to see her +unhappy and disembodied soul, which is for ever +doomed to scour that platform on a vain quest. Her +words had accorded miraculously with my fate. Luck +and rhythm, then, were the same. And that’s my +Story, though I have not kept the rules of short story +telling. What I have written down is true in the +essentials. If you want to know how true it is +exactly, ask Martha MacArthur!</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_264">[Pg 264]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="THE_NECROPHILE"> + THE NECROPHILE + </h2> +</div> + + +<p>The most extraordinary story I ever heard in my +life came from the mouth of a priest. It came +quite unsought, for I was making a silent retreat +in a Carthusian monastery. It was likewise unexpected, +for I had gone to rest, not to rack, my mind. The rule +of Saint Bruno enforces a cessation of sound. And +the Great Silence from vespers to midday had rolled +over the wearied souls in the guest house twice: +silence unbroken save by the solemn and rugged chant +of the monks; real chant and real monks. The +surreptitious aid of organ pipes was unknown in the +Carthusian service. The roaring and wheezing of +compressed air through leaden guts and wooden +tripery, however harmonious and tuneful, had never +been thought necessary in the Carthusian scheme for +bringing Multiplicity back to Unity, Created to their +Creator and contemplatives into that glowing orb of +essential Contemplation which is God. Supremely +and serenely God contemplates, and the holy +contemplatives on earth enter His thoughts and His +contemplation. And they contemplate Him in return. +If it were not so, how else could they endure that +appalling life of solitude, mewed in little prisons, +toiling in lonely workshops and solitary gardens, or, +after rising to chant the sublime office at midnight, +returning to snatch a few hours of slumber, before +dawn recalls them to the choir and the Carthusian +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_265">[Pg 265]</span>Mass. For, steeped in the thirteenth century, they +keep the ceremonies and liturgy of their religion +before it was demediævalised and emasculated by the +Renaissance. So delightfully do the Carthusians +remain in their own century that they still prostrate +themselves flat at the Confiteor, and wear stockings +cut out of two pieces of linen and spliced together! +Knitting-needles would be heresy, and a sewing-machine +modernism! It is so throughout their rules +and customs, which leave them with the proud boast +shared by no other Order. Never reformed because +never deformed. <i>Numquam reformata quia numquam +deformata!</i></p> + +<p>We were a little wearied, for we had been listening +to the great Office of Matins chanted from midnight +until two in the morning. Ensconced in the hanging +gallery, buried behind the huge printed prayer books +of the Carthusian rite, we had sat, letting the rival +delights of slumber and plain-chant dispute for our +senses. At times it was like being carried out to sea +upon successive waves that choked one’s ear-drums. +At another time one felt sinking, sinking into the +dull, matted vibrations that eternally reach the +ocean depths from above. Then the sound had died +down, and each holy father, wearing the ghostly +white shroud in which he will one day be buried, +picked up his lantern and made his way back through +unending cloister to the cell in which he circumvents +death with pious irony. Death and the devil are +put to considerable mock in a Carthusian house. +Death causes no alarm, no terror. All his tricks, all +his stage-effects have been put into daily practice by +the Religious. The utter loneliness that cuts off the +soul from the whole human family, the secretion +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_266">[Pg 266]</span>behind narrow stone walls, the white funeral clothes, +the silence that forbids all the hum and humours and +humdrum of noisy, gossipy human life, reduce Death +himself to parody. And then? And then they see +intellectually, that is to say they contemplate while +yet alive what the dead see to their exquisite joy or +lingering loss.</p> + +<p>The guests were the usual habitants of monastery +guest-houses. A poet, who had failed of attaining +perfect sonnet-form first on cocoa at Oxford, and on +cocaine subsequently in Paris. He was thinking, in +some despair, of joining the Holy Church. An architect +successful enough in his line, and with a rare knowledge +of Gothic, but superficially and glitteringly, +for he was an atheist, and none can have real knowledge +of the Gothic grandeur without acknowledging +the true religion and the true God. God, shall we say? +built the vault of Heaven, and strewed the gargoyles +of the constellations across its symmetry. Mediæval +man built the Gothic Cathedral in reply, and God saw +that it was good. God poised the planets in space to +show what could be done without actually breaking +eggs, and man riposted with the flying buttress, that +marvellous hanging miracle of thrust and strain +riveted into immobility, and man showed God that +he, too, could suspend stone in the void. And again +God perceived, almost to His delighted embarrassment, +that it was good.</p> + +<p>None of us could understand how a Gothic architect +could remain an atheist. Once the Divine in man, +that is to say his art, is realised, it is only a step to +the Divinity. There was also a Monsignor, an Austrian +and a mild-faced mystery. It was not until the end +of the retreat that we learnt a little of his identity. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_267">[Pg 267]</span>We were committed on our honour to silence except +during the hour of recreation, when we moved round +a high-walled garden, wondering desperately what +things were happening on the highway the other +side—that is to say in the world.</p> + +<p>There were monks in the Monastery who had not +seen a newspaper for thirty years, and even happy +ones to whom woman was an extinct animal. A +silent laybrother served our meals with shaven head +and untrimmed beard, looking like the shrouded +figure of Time himself. After each meal I expected +him to leave a running hour glass on the table instead +of the cheese, and point toward it with bony fingers as +though to suggest that the course of our life was also +finished. The strain of silence was having its effect, +and on the last day of the retreat we became more and +more communicative during the hour of recreation.</p> + +<p>I told some very dull and uninspiring tale. I +suffer from normality, and my life is inclined to convention. +The architect, while redoubling his artistic +appreciation of the Carthusian life, repeated his +atheistic ultimates toward life. He gave the rather +absurd reason for his attitude that he had been always +disappointed by women. Who hasn’t, including the +Saints? I could not help retailing him a newspaper +poster I had once read in America which ran: “MAN +TWICE DIVORCED REFUSES TO BELIEVE IN +GOD!” We all laughed, and the Monsignor began +disclosing his past. As we had expected, he had +incurred some kind of disgrace in his own country. +He was not a fallen priest, but a Prelate on the shelf. +It was not owing to any scandal, he explained, and +we believed him, but owing to his intellectual backsliding +that he had missed his ecclesiastical career. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_268">[Pg 268]</span>Modernism had fired him with its bright Will-o’-the-wisp, +and he had not remained unsinged. However, +he had been permitted to retain priestly rank and +dress, and to travel on his own means. He was visiting +the English cathedrals (an American rather than +a Christian form of pilgrimage) and had been so +shocked by their ghastly and sepulchral interiors +that he had fled to the Carthusians as he said to seek +a little oil for his creaking soul. The actual services +he had seen had filled him with depression. As he +expressed it himself they reminded him of the facetiousness +of undertakers! Better he thought that the +cathedrals had been destroyed than made ridiculous. +His was the true Catholic spirit.</p> + +<p>He never forgot the holy office which was his, and +made a serious attempt to supplement the silent +efforts of the Carthusians in converting the architect. +On our last evening of recreation we agreed to make +a concerted assault on our companion. We found +that his atheism was not based on any pose of disbelief, +but on a total inability to understand how a +human body could rise formally and substantially +from the dead. “I don’t see why spirits shouldn’t +survive like sheets of luminous paint, but as for +atoms rearranging their constituency in a human +body it is impossible,” he argued. “Annihilation seems +far more logical and probable, and proper after death.”</p> + +<p>“Nevertheless,” said the Monsignor, “we believe +in the resurrection of the body from the dead.” And +he proceeded to the theories of scholastics. “You +must understand that the body like the soul is created +not generated by the Creator. Creation is a more +perfect and sublimer act than generation. Soul and +body are both called out of the misty void, out of +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_269">[Pg 269]</span>space, out of nothing, and therefore both are capable +of passing into complete abeyance again. The Creator +can uncreate and then recreate. The resurrection of +the body is a form of recreation. But He Himself +will not annihilate an atom of His own work.”</p> + +<p>The architect returned to the charge: “The atoms +of a dead human body pass into other bodies. Whose +body shall they be on the Day of Resurrection?” +The reply was that Unity could bring about Multiplicity, +and just as the multiplication of the loaves +was a scriptural miracle, and the multiplication of the +Host a constant occurrence in missionary history, it +was possible that atoms could be multiplied to serve +their different turns so to speak.</p> + +<p>“Can God unmake? Can He annihilate the dust +He has created?” asked the architect. “No!” said +the Monsignor, for they had settled down to a duel, +“but God is the cause of energy as the sun is of colour, +and as the sun can equally cause colour to rise or fade, +so God can cause energy and existence to come or +collapse out of the atoms. That is death! But the +sun can one day recolour those identical atoms in +other leaves. The atoms can be the same, so that +you really get a resurrection of the body of the leaf. +The human body can be similarly restored.” Somehow +it did not convince.</p> + +<p>“What age will our bodies be when they rise again?” +asked the architect. “We shall be outside of Time +and therefore quite ageless. God is not a source or +a sequence, but the primal power. He is the Motor +causing all motion. Our bodies are emanations from +Him, and He can cause or uncause them voluntarily.”</p> + +<p>The conversation was only prevented from becoming +quarrelsome by the difficulty both combatants +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_270">[Pg 270]</span>felt in wielding metaphysical terms. They disagreed +as to what atoms were, as to whether the +divine power showed itself in a materialistic manipulation +of things or in a kind of cosmic mania. The +architect was at one time willing to admit the personality +of God, but only on the corollary that God +was mad. It explained so much, the crinks in the +universe, the genius of man, the brilliance of the +stars, the comets tearing out of place. The madness +of God was of course a divine madness. “Yes,” said +the Monsignor very solemnly. “Bethlehem was madness, +Nazareth was paranoia, and Calvary delirium.”</p> + +<p>From the metaphysical the discussion became +biological. The architect admitted that fresh bouts +of the life-spirit could reanimate dead matter, but not +the same set of atoms. Once dead, nothing could +revive a dead anatomy. Could the Monsignor record +a single instance except the legendary tale of Lazarus, +who was probably in a state of coma, and whose +personal experiences by some extraordinary oversight +on the part of the Evangelists had been withheld +from the human race?</p> + +<p>The Monsignor became angry and took his challenge. +“I believe it is quite possible,” he said, “for +the life-spirit to be restored to a dead body long after +physical death has occurred. I will tell you a story +for which I have the evidence. I shall make a series of +positive statements and leave it as such. The circumstances +are morbid in the extreme, but you will excuse +my narration of them. I have never breathed this +story before, but I consider that I am justified if I can +at least refute your statement that the dead rise up +never. I say they do. I can give an instance which +was not coma. Life can go, and life can be reinfused.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_271">[Pg 271]</span></p> + +<p>“When I was a young priest in Vienna, before my +rise to favour at Court, I was, in addition to my parish +duties, detailed for work at the Morgue. I waited +there three nights every week to receive the unknown +dead, and to give them the benefit of a religious reception. +Some of the dead were recognised, and a few +were claimed. Relatives were grateful for such +Catholic rites as I could give to those, who had generally +died without Absolution or Sacrament. I loved +saying Mass for the Unknown dead lying in the Morgue, +not knowing their names or their lives. The Church +is the Mother not only of the living, but also of the +dead, and her arms are strong to stretch down even +into the pit. How surprised some of these stray souls +must have been to find the Church, which they had +forgotten on earth, following them with charitable +hands into the other world. I was stationed for two +years at the Morgue.</p> + +<p>“One day the police brought an unclaimed body +and left it upon a marble slab. It was that of a +woman still in her beauty, and not more than thirty +years of age. I could see that she had been a woman +of pleasure, though, as is often the case, the extreme +sadness of her face counteracted the dis-sanctification +of her body. Poor child! The Morgue was seldom +without one of her unclassed class. I could say Mass +for her which I could not for the suicides. The +suicides the Church leaves to God. He alone can say +the Office of the Dead for those who have destroyed +the life which He gave to them, and which He alone +has the right to take.</p> + +<p>“It happened that evening that the Commissioner +of Police brought an anonymous party apparently +of relations to view the tragic human relics in the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_272">[Pg 272]</span>Morgue. One of them appeared to be of rank, for the +Commissioner saluted him at every opportunity. +They remained some time in front of the woman’s +body admiring the great beauty of her features and +inquiring her name. Though the records were examined, +nothing definite could be learned except that +she was a courtesan, who had had the misfortune to +die during an evening party in the house of a gentleman, +who preferred to remain unnamed. His doctor +had brought the body and filled the necessary certificates, +and the great gentleman, at whose expenses +she had perished, had sent a hundred kronen to provide +her funeral. It was understood that she had no +family. In his anxiety to learn her history the distinguished +stranger asked for me to be presented to +him, and I found myself shaking the hand of a Duke, +connected with one of the German Royal Houses. +When I was unable to add to his information, he turned +from me with wandering eyes and an expression +which to me seemed bordering on dementia. Curiously +enough he congratulated me on my good fortune in +being chaplain at the Morgue, but this I took for an +excess of politeness on his part. It was not considered +a very high ecclesiastical position. He was closeted +for some time with the Commissioner and drove away.</p> + +<p>“Later that night I was summoned to attend a +dying man, who died before I could do more than +hear his confession. He was friendless, and his body +was taken to the Morgue. I followed. It was a late +hour, and I decided to finish reading my Breviary +in the Secretary’s room. While seated there, I was +astonished to hear footsteps in the inner hall, where +the unclaimed dead were thrown on marble slabs. +A shadow was cast against the frosted-glass +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_273">[Pg 273]</span>partition, and it was followed by another. I stood +involuntarily in the doorway. To my amazement it +was the Commissioner, who was again taking the +Duke round the grim contents of the room. I could +not help overhearing them, and what I did not overhear +my horrified senses supplied. There are things +that one has read in books about sick souls or demented +bodies, that I had never dreamed of meeting. +How can I explain?</p> + +<p>“To forestall my story, the Duke I could realise +was deeply afflicted mentally, I do not say morally, +for he was not responsible. It was not hereditary +but accidental. I learnt all this some time after. I +must explain that he had had a terrible experience +at marriage. After a passionate and romantic courtship +his young wife had died of heart failure in his +arms a few hours after the ceremony. The marriage +night had become a watch night of the dead, during +which he had passed a ghastly vigil instead of enjoying +an efflorescence of happiness. In answer to his entreaties +he had been left alone with the body of his +wife that night. His groans and prayers were heard +until a late hour....</p> + +<p>“The effect on the unhappy Duke was serious. His +character, hitherto, had been irreproachable, and his +experiences in love matters exceeding slight, considering +the opportunities possible to his rank and fortune. It +was a stroke of incredibly bitter irony, which I should +hesitate to lay at the door of a benevolent Providence, +that his marriage night should have been of such horror. +His bride was buried, but the effect on the white +tablets of his mind was lasting. To a large extent +he became a recluse, avoiding society, and more +especially all the gay world of women and wives and +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_274">[Pg 274]</span>half-women and half-wives, who present such an +alarming phase of modern civilisation. Unfortunately +his loneliness was obsessed by one very gruesome +but innocent form of sentiment. He only fell in love +with the dead, in whom he ocularly memorised the +last vision of his wife. There was no carnal wickedness +on his part, for he showed signs of a diabolical +possession, that is of not being his own possessor, +and of indulging in uncanny and fantastic wishes, +which in his saner moments he would never have +tolerated. His friends proposed that he should be +solemnly exorcised by the Church, but his Confessor +was nervous, and the modern Cardinal Archbishop +would never give his consent to anything so +mediæval. In the Middle Ages of course the most +solemn and terrifying of rites would have been +performed, and I have no doubt that the poor +Duke was actually possessed by an unhappy demon—explain +his malady how you will. He was unable +to resist this terrible instinct, this love of watching +women who were newly dead. I suppose it +could be explained. The supreme anguish and the +supreme joy of his life had come to him on the same +day, and he had mingled them in the one night until +agony and ecstasy, delight and grief, life and death +must have become indistinguishable. But the result +had been distressing in the extreme, and from time to +time the mad Duke emerged from gloomy solitude to +satisfy his widowed eyes. The police had orders, +certainly not to facilitate his sepulchral amours, but +not to prevent him, for the doctors when consulted +agreed that if he were thwarted he would become +dangerous. As it was, he was studiously observant of +the natural rights and feelings of the living, and though +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_275">[Pg 275]</span>when his secret agents heard of the death of a beautiful +woman they instantly visited the next of kin, he never +pressed his suit except with the most pathetic delicacy. +In the cases when through poverty or even through a +curious form of snobbery (for with some folk snobbery +is stronger than reverence or death) he was permitted +to see the corpse, he always insisted on defraying the +eventual expenses of the funeral and, when the relatives +allowed, of appearing at the grave side of the +object of his momentary affection. There is no human +law which forbids a man to love a corpse, provided +the dead body is not desecrated, and receives proper +burial within the number of ordained days. And the +Duke was careful almost to the verge of scruple on +this point. However morbid this habit might be +considered, it was overlooked under two heads. There +was the fact that the Duke’s aberration caused no +unhappiness to anyone except himself, and secondly +that he suffered the most agonising remorse and shame +between each outbreak of his singular passion for still +life. The leading pathologists declared that it was a +very exceptional case.</p> + +<p>“In any case the Duke was not interrupted in his +Platonic love affairs with Hades, though, poor +man, I remember his pathetic grief, which could be +charitably construed into a madman’s ideas of being +faithful to a dead woman.</p> + +<p>“However, I learnt all this long after that evening +which was to have such a curious effect on my subsequent +life, the evening of the Duke’s visit to the +Morgue, a visit as I then imagined out of ordinary +curiosity. As I previously mentioned, I had returned +late that night to dispose of the friendless man, whose +soul I had previously guided as well as I could into the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_276">[Pg 276]</span>shadows of the other world. I was reading the last +words of my Breviary by the flickering gaslight, when +suddenly shadows passed the frosted glass, and to my +horror I heard the Duke making arrangements for the +temporary watching of the beautiful woman I had +already seen him cover with piteous eyes. I gathered +that it was not considered discreet, and would entail +a licence from the police, to remove the body from the +Morgue to his private house. So saying, they both +entered where I was standing. It was one of the +most embarrassing moments of my life. The Duke +turned as pale as one of the marble mortuary slabs, +and the Commissioner actually seized me as though +to prevent my escape. When they realised that I +was a priest, they seemed relieved, for a priest becomes +so used to the seal imposed upon the confessional +that even secrets which come to him in other ways +join that silence of the grave. They both read what +came in my face, and without a word nodded to each +other, and passed on their way. I finished writing the +formularies descriptive of my unknown client, and +left him lying with the others. I noticed that he was +on the next slab to the mysterious woman. It was +beyond human nature for me to refrain from glancing +a second time at her features. They were beautiful +with the pallid unreality of the sculptor’s art. I +have observed that if the sculptor attains the slightest +line of beauty or personality in his art, it is far more +wonderful than the painter’s. It is more difficult to +raise life out of the marble depths than upon the +surface of canvas or paint. But to leave by brush or +chisel any idea of the life that has recently left the +countenance is the most difficult. And this lovely +model from the Divine sculptor conveyed that haunting +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_277">[Pg 277]</span>expression which sometimes the mediæval tombs +possessed, as though life lingered in death. How can +I describe it? If you have ever seen a fort or town +which has been surrendered to the enemy, there is +a moment of tremendous pathos after the flag has +been lowered and the garrison withdrawn, before the +enemy have taken possession. The prize lies like +the body of Patroclus between contending rivals. +So, I may say, lay the body of this beautiful woman, +over whom life and death had contended, and now +that the colours of life had been lowered she lay awaiting +the legions of death and corruption. I turned +away, making the Sign of the Cross, and said the +<i>De Profundis</i> for the absent soul. It was well that it +had passed from its hostel’s desecration. The next +morning the body was gone. And then the weeks +and the months passed.... I was agreeably surprised +that winter to be summoned by my Bishop, +and told that the moment of my promotion had +arrived. I was to be sent to a fashionable parish, +where I would find more leisure to continue my taste +for historical studies, which the Bishop was gracious +enough to say had met his attention when inspecting +the Seminary. He wished me to leave my curacy, +and with it those unhealthy but rather fascinating +duties at the Morgue, while another priest took my +place. I bowed to the Bishop’s decision, and kissed +his ring. As I rose to leave his anticamera he mentioned +without a trace of inner meaning, as though +he were saying the most natural thing in the world, +‘You owe your promotion to the kind offices of the +Duke.’ To my amazement he mentioned the name +of the Duke I had reason to remember under ineffaceable +circumstances. The Bishop looked at me +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_278">[Pg 278]</span>with the gentle wondering look as though to say: +‘Go in peace, my son, your career is made. You know +how to keep secrets. To those who can keep the +secrets of humanity or of the Church all things +will come.’ At least this came into a mind, alert +to guess the reasons of the Duke’s action in my +favour.</p> + +<p>“I found my new position delightful—new interests, +new ecclesiastical visions, new friends. My confessional +was thronged, which is always pleasing to +a young priest. When one becomes older, one’s +professional vanity can be adequately satisfied by +shriving one old washerwoman <i>per diem</i>. One day +the confessional bell rang out of my usual hours. I +descended into the Church and a woman heavily +veiled began telling me the history of her life. As a good +confessor, I forget all she said. It is a blank, but I +can say that the sweat poured down my face before I +left my seat. She joined me in the sacristy as she +wished to speak to me of other matters, and once +outside the sacred seal my memory of course returns. +I recall that she was anxious for me to arrange her +private wedding. She wished to be married at the +dead of night, and my name had been mentioned as +the only one fit and willing to perform the ceremony. +I replied that I could do nothing without my Bishop’s +consent, but that I would take him the particulars +immediately, if she would leave me her name and +address. She replied that that she could not, but +a carriage would come to fetch me that night to +perform the ceremony, which would take place in a +private house. So saying she laid the marriage fees +on the table, and without letting me look through +her veil handed me a letter from her bosom, which +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_279">[Pg 279]</span>she requested me to give the Bishop. Then she +withdrew.</p> + +<p>“That afternoon I called on the Bishop without +giving notice, and to my surprise was admitted immediately. +He listened quietly to my request, which I +never dreamed for a moment he would permit, but I +gave him the lady’s letter. He glanced at the contents +as though he knew it all in advance. Without +a trace of surprise or reflection in his eyes he nodded +and told me to perform the ceremony that night if I +was sent for. I gasped something about papers and +ecclesiastical authorisation. He forestalled me with +a packet of papers, bidding me fill all the particulars +except the names of those about to be married. +He ordered me under severe penalties to bring +back the papers without attempting to read the +signatures. He himself would fill in the names in the +body of the document. I respectfully withdrew, and +waited in my rooms that evening with some of the +trepidation that I can imagine a girl feeling while +waiting for her first romance.</p> + +<p>“After a solitary dinner I waited and waited. I +finished reading my Office for the day, and still sat +waiting. I was too excited to pray, too curious to +meditate, too tired to read any book of piety. I +waited from nine to eleven, and from eleven to half-past +eleven. A bell rang and to my amazement my +friend the Duke was introduced. He explained that +he had come because he was not sure if I would come +on such a wild goose chase, and also because it was +necessary for me to come blindfolded. Under his +guarantee I naturally lent myself to the adventure, +and left the clergy house in a two-horsed carriage +with a tight bandage round my eyes. The Duke never +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_280">[Pg 280]</span>spoke to me, but he helped me very graciously out +of the carriage, and through a courtyard, and up +what seemed a very fine flight of stairs, for I quickly +felt that I was treading marble, not wood.</p> + +<p>“Then my eyes were released and I found myself +standing in a long and richly curtained apartment. +There were two witnesses blindfolded like myself, +standing in front of an altar brought apparently out +of a private chapel. Others there were none except +the Duke and the lady whose confession I had heard +that afternoon. The Duke then asked me to perform +the marriage ceremony between them. I bowed and +took up my place before the altar beside which were +laid the necessary vestments. As in a dream I proceeded +to recite the prayers and perform the gestures +which should symbolise and solderise the mystical +union of two human beings. I had reached the +moment for the Duke to place the ring on the finger +of the bride, when she let slip her veil, and for a minute +I could neither speak nor move. I should have been +prepared, but it had never crossed my mind, not +even as the wildest and maddest possibility. My +friends, the bride whom I was uniting in marriage +with the Duke was the woman whose body I had seen +laid on a marble slab at the Morgue a year previously!</p> + +<p>“She stood there with the same transcendent beauty, +but with the slight flush of life and love recurdling +in her cheeks. This was the woman whom I had +seen among the dead and for whose soul I had said +Mass! The dead shall rise up and praise Thee, +O Lord!</p> + +<p>“Truly I may say that love is stronger than death +and that God had most strangely permitted this woman +to be raised from the dead, by the whim of a madman’s +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_281">[Pg 281]</span>sentiment. Though she had been a sinner she was +found not unworthy of what I account as a miracle. +Like the Prince and the sleeping Beauty in the +Fairy tale the Duke had restored her to life. Their +marriage was naturally morganatic, but as the incident +restored the Duke to his normal senses, it was a +marriage that neither Church nor State cared to +forbid.”</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_282">[Pg 282]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="THE_BEAU_GESTE"> + THE BEAU GESTE + </h2> +</div> + + +<p>The <i>Beau geste</i> is rare enough but not unknown +in English life. Certainly there is no English +paraphrase. “Beautiful gesture” bespeaks the +orator or actor without conveying a certain brilliance, +a sense of the unique and sometimes the sheer +spirituality which is inherent in the <i>Beau geste</i>. +“Noble act” sounds like a subscription to a hospital. +The schoolboy who thought that <i>Beau geste</i> was another +French way of saying <i>Bon mot</i> could not have been +further astray. The <i>Beau geste</i> must be heroically +conceived and, what is harder, artistically expressed!</p> + +<p>The Saints have often shown themselves capable +of the <i>Beau geste</i>, which carried to a sublime degree +in supernatural matters can often be advanced +as a reason for canonisation. An ordinary soul +may cherish the sense of the <i>Beau geste</i> through a +lifetime without finding the occasion. Expression +does require an occasion, a crisis or a crash. Nothing +became King Charles so well in his life as leaving it. +Charles on the scaffold, Sir Philip Sidney at Zutphen +and Byron at Missolonghi, knew how to make the +<i>Beau geste</i> to posterity. There is no life however +spoilt or degraded that cannot be irradiated if not +redeemed by the <i>Beau geste</i> at its close. There +is the <i>Beau geste</i> of the sinner as well as the <i>Beau +geste</i> of the righteous. The Good Samaritan was of +the latter and many a pardoning husband since. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_283">[Pg 283]</span>The <i>Beau geste</i> of the profligate is rarer, but neither +disgrace nor degradation can tarnish the <i>Beau geste</i> +when it is made. The American clergyman, who +was executed for poisoning an unfortunate sweetheart +when he saw the chance of marrying a richer, seemed +beyond the pale. There was possibly nothing he +could do to redeem himself, but with a supreme +effort he succeeded in blinding himself in prison. +“If thine eye offend thee pluck it out.” Well, he +did so, and went not unjustified to the gruesome +chair. Again, the Dutch dancer, whose career of +spycraft was brought to book by the punctuation +of a French firing squad, rose to that occasion. +Dressing herself for execution in a superb opera cloak +she only asked leave to give the signal unblindfolded. +This was granted by the officer on duty. She gave +the signal by lifting her arms and revealing her person +to the bullets. “<i>C’était beau</i>” quoth the Gallic +centurion in charge.</p> + +<p>Men and women are both capable of the <i>Beau geste</i>, +but it takes a woman to appreciate it sometimes, +to accept its shining significance or to bow to its +grim subtlety. A woman’s <i>Beau geste</i> is often lost on +a man’s intelligence but a man’s is never lost on a +woman’s. Even in connubial life the <i>Beau geste</i> +occurs and in the hour of greatest disaster. Couples +are too often coupled like railway carriages on well +worn lines by certificated couplers. They are expected +to roll placidly from Junction to Junction with +occasional rests in the siding. Everything is done +to avoid accidents, but accidents will occur on the +best regulated lines and the collapse, like the start, of +married life can be relieved by a <i>Beau geste</i> embalming +even what may be a broken memory for both. In +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_284">[Pg 284]</span>any case a <i>Beau geste</i> is never lost on a woman. Let +me think of two instances, one at the commencement, +and the other at the end of a married career.</p> + +<p>I remember a young Italian Prince, the future +head of a family, whose veins ran with patrician and +papal blood. At one moment of his life he insisted +on entering a <i>mésalliance</i> by marrying a very beautiful +courtesan, whom many of his friends had known under +attached but detachable circumstances. They were +naturally very distressed when he insisted on crowning +his deep love with marriage. It seemed unnecessary +and suicidal and caused his family the utmost +apprehension. As a matter of fact courtesans who +have made their career and their fortunes may yet +make admirable wives. Everything however was +done in this case to avert the catastrophe. Even the +lady, who loved him with equal nobility of passion, +refused to allow him to sacrifice himself. But her +unselfishness made him more desperate and more +determined to wreck his prospects at her feet. His +friends were equally determined, and in a last effort +to avert the marriage confronted him with legal +proofs that his intended bride had been confined +of an illegitimate child. Of her lovers he was aware, +but this was new to him, and for a moment he was +staggered. Recovering himself, he said, with one +superb gesture of contempt, “Then it was by an +immaculate conception!” and married her the next +day. It was the <i>Beau geste</i> of a great lover and of a +Catholic nobleman. A Protestant bourgeois would +have virtuously slunk out of the affair and left her +to the streets.</p> + +<p>But John Betterman, whose marriage story supplies +me with the second of my instances, was just a +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_285">[Pg 285]</span>well-meaning and wealthy English public-school man, +two generations away from Trade and, if truth be +told, three generations off a butler. There was no +glowing blood in his descent and no noble obligations +held sway in his composition, but when his wife left +him he behaved with real magnanimity. And in +his case the <i>Beau geste</i> repaid him a hundredfold. +Like most of us, he had to pass through the experience +of feminine desertion.</p> + +<p>John Betterman was no lover, and, much as he loved +the affectionate woman who married him for his +well-furnished house in Belgravia, his choice cook, +butler and housekeeper, he could never inspire her +with more than a deep appreciation. Affectionate +appreciation lasted until his wife fell in love with one +of those American officers who caused such havoc +in the Allied ranks. Cornelius Murphy stood about +six foot four and looked a cross between George +Washington and Adonis. He danced like an Archangel +on the tight-rope, and Broadway had taught +him to be a real lover. He was fatal, like all his +type, to the unsophisticated women of Europe. John +Betterman’s wife had dreamed of such a find before +she met him. Once she had found her dream, she +never stopped meeting him. Captain Murphy +received a standing invitation for lunch, dinner and +tea and a sitting invitation for most moments between. +It came under the Hospitality to Allies scheme. After +the Armistice they danced together for six weeks. +The Armistice was not made applicable to the war +of sexes, which raged all the fiercer after the suspension +of masculine hostilities. Man’s earthly warfare was +not intended to be against his own sex. He must +eternally meet the approaches and desertions of the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_286">[Pg 286]</span>beloved enemy, whose adorable artillery has always +included all the refinements of poisoned breath, +scraps of paper and submarine poignarding. The +question was how would John Betterman take it. +Quiet, inoffensive and obedient husbands can be far +more dangerous than the blustering Pasha.</p> + +<p>Cornelius Murphy and Mrs. Betterman withdrew +to a Railway Hotel, from which she telephoned the +first news of her flight to her husband. He took +the parting like a hero. He would cause the necessary +reasons for her to divorce him, and he only asked her +to come and fetch her things the next day and +promised that she would not find him in the house. +He added his word of honour. With a sudden sigh +she hung up the receiver, but grateful that she was +spared pursuit or scenes. “I will go round to-morrow +and fetch my clothes and all I need travelling abroad,” +she said to Murphy. “It is such a relief that he +takes it so kindly. English gentleman, you know.”</p> + +<p>“No, you don’t,” shot Murphy, alert and suspicious, +“No such thing as an English gentleman when it +comes to that. It’s bound to be a trap. You’ll +find lawyers and detectives waiting for you.”</p> + +<p>Immediately she felt stung with a faint pity for +her husband and insisted on obeying his last unselfish +request. “No,” she said firmly, “I know John +Betterman. He would cut off his hand rather than +set a dirty trap. I shall go to-morrow alone.”</p> + +<p>“For God’s sake, you shall not!” shouted Murphy. +She drew herself up and said, “It is the price of my +remaining with you to-night.” He bowed his head +ashamed. “I was afraid some harm might come +to you, darling. If I were your husband and could +trap you I would kill you.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_287">[Pg 287]</span></p> + +<p>The next morning he motored her to her husband’s +house and waited while she collected her luggage. +A letter was waiting for her on the hall table in his +handwriting. She opened and read. A cheque for +ten thousand pounds fell to the floor. There was +no mention of it in the letter, which ran simply:</p> + +<blockquote> + +<p> + <span class="smcap">Dear Julia</span>, +</p> + +<p>I have been a good husband but not good enough +for you. You have been a perfect wife and to you +I assign no fault. If there is something lacking +in your life you must complete yourself elsewhere. +When I come to the end of my life, I shall be as glad +as I am now unhappy that I did not hinder you +mounting a flame, which would bring any other +woman unto earth and ashes but upon which I know +you will rise to the highest heaven. When your +life is complete, perfect and finished, let my love +still lie like a wreath of immortelles at your feet.</p> + +<p class="right"> + <span class="smcap">John.</span> +</p> + +</blockquote> + +<p>She cried a little when she read it. A new kind +of feeling rose in her heart which possibly she could +not explain. It has been said that every man kills +the thing he loves. Perhaps it is sometimes true +that a woman loves the thing she kills. It was her +soul’s response to his <i>Beau geste</i>, the tiniest seed of a +love he had never awakened in their whole married +life.</p> + +<p>Cornelius Murphy was relieved when he saw her +emerge, but he spied her tears in a second. “Is +he there? Did he frighten you?” and he pulled +out his army pistol and dragged her across the +threshold. She did not like his roughness and +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_288">[Pg 288]</span>deliberately backed into the house. Murphy followed. +“Of course he’s not here. I only felt a little sorry +going away, that is all,” she explained. “I guess he +had better not follow us,” said the other and, by +way of a visible hint, he loaded his pistol and left +it in the tray of visitors’ cards. Then they both +went to America.</p> + +<p>When John Betterman returned to his house that +evening it looked as empty as the shell without the +pearl. He gave one glance at the pistol in the hall, +read the name, “Capt. Cornelius Murphy, 105 U.S. +Cavalry,” and gave orders that it was never to be +touched. In the morning he stood staring at that +implement of ruffianism and feeling ironical amusement. +But the impetus of his <i>Beau geste</i> was unabated +and he consulted his lawyers on his wife’s behalf. +They showed the same sleek sympathy which coffin-makers +always extend to their clients and gave him +the necessary instructions how to enable his wife +to divorce him with least expense and most credit +to herself. It was necessary that he should find a +lady who was willing to share the same room (nothing +more, but to be legal hardly less) at an hotel and to +forward the written testimony to the proper quarters.</p> + +<p>That evening, accordingly, John Betterman walked +round and round the purlieus of Victoria Station +until he was accosted by a cheery lady with a head +of red tow, who suggested drinks in Victoria Station. +To this proposition he agreed, and under these amical +surroundings she confided to him that she was locally +known as “Pink Tart” and that she was ready +to pass the evening with bachelors for the sum of +ten shillings sterling. John Betterman offered her +five pounds on condition that she spent the night +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_289">[Pg 289]</span>sitting on one chair, while he sat reading in another, +and that she made no sign of her existence until the +morning. Her name was Susan Honeyman, and she +decidedly wished there were more wealthy lunatics +and less impoverished rakes in the vicinity of Victoria +Station.</p> + +<p>Evidence of this extraordinary evening was duly +furnished to the lawyers of Mrs. Betterman, who +brought proceedings for divorce in the most respectable +fashion, and received a good deal of broadcasted +sympathy from readers of the best read column +in the <i>Daily Press</i>, especially when the flagrant +details of Mr. Betterman’s infidelities were exposed +and even the nickname of Miss Susan Honeyman +was set down in stark print and read eagerly by those +who would never have allowed it to soil their lips.</p> + +<p>John Betterman felt these shameful and painful +details intensely, but he had come to take a strange +and fantastic pleasure in his own sufferings. His +suffering and his shame were for the sake of the woman +he loved. He could ask no more.</p> + +<p>Every night washed he his pillow with his tears and +imagined deeper sufferings and further humiliations +for himself. Toward his wife he felt no resentment +in the least, not even a little. It had all turned and +curdled into a bitter resentment against himself, +bitterer than death. The months passed and his +wife’s divorce was made absolute. He had borne +up his heart while in the twilight stage of “decree +nisi,” but dark finality bowed him to the ground. +All that night he sat wishing to make an end of himself. +At last he felt that death and suicide were too good +for him. He must make himself suffer even more +than he had suffered all those weeks, but how? He +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_290">[Pg 290]</span>felt that no scourging could have hurt him as much +as that undefended divorce trial, the crushing allusions +of the paid lawyers, the scornful comment of the +Judge, and, what cut him like vinegar poured into +a slit spleen, the nickname of the woman with whom +he was proved to have passed the stipulated time of +lust. If it had been a “Green Goddess” or a “Black +Beauty” it would not have looked so ridiculous in +the evening papers, but the fatal synonym of Miss +Susan Honeyman lost him all sympathy even from +himself. He could not help hating himself like Hell.</p> + +<p>The next night the house became more than he +could endure, and he strode into the lamp-speckled +dark. This way and that, like an unimaginative +madman longing by some astounding stroke to trouble +the mocking world, he sought some action that would +help her and hurt himself, even if it were criminal. +He would have gladly gone to prison to explain this +sin of hers. No! by the sweet bones of Christ! +she was sinless and immaculate! But he would +willingly have gone to prison to serve some long +sentence incurred by Murphy so that she might +live happily with him. He would out-Enoch Enoch +Arden in that way. How could he sufficiently lower +and degrade himself to justify her desertion of home +and husband in the face of the world?</p> + +<p>A familiar figure reeled against him near Victoria +Station. “Got any more fivers for sitting up to +watch you read all night?” quoth a coarse but +kindly voice. Why, of course he had, and he laughed +a skeleton laugh as he recognised his old friend, who +had often told her friends the story of her midnight +escapade with a madman and was often reminiscent +of the divorce proceedings in which her name and +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_291">[Pg 291]</span>style had been taken by hired lawyers in vain. “Out +for a lark?” she asked, but John Betterman was in +dead earnest, when he asked her to go even further than +on their former meeting and consent to marry him +at a registry office the next day. Miss Honeyman +would have been really surprised had she not taken +his proposal for a joke. “Why, won’t one night +at the hotel do you again? What do yer want marrying +me at the end of me life?” And she roared with +laughter. Only once before had she been asked in +marriage, and that was by her original seducer, who +had subsequently thrown her on the streets. However, +John Betterman not only treated her to supper but +gave her twenty pounds to pay her arrears of rent and +buy a decent dress to make a proper appearance the +next morning. No wonder that she went her way +rejoicing, astounded at her luck in falling in again +with so profitable a madman. It was in hopes of +another windfall and not of the matrimonial position +that she made her way to the registry the following +day. To her amazement and perhaps a little to his +own, John Betterman awaited her, prim and punctual, +but with a look of insane pride in his face. He took +a perverted pride in the depth of degradation and +misery he found it possible to inflict upon his own +soul. Before noon they were united legally by the +law of England, and by three o’clock Mrs. John +Betterman the second was lying quite drunk under +his dining-room table. It was years since she had +tasted champagne. She had that excuse. She lay +there while John Betterman wrote to his first wife. +He wished to put her into a position from which she +could for ever more look down upon him. He took +no further notice of his second wife. Had an angel +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_292">[Pg 292]</span>from Heaven picked her up and made her drunk +with the wine of celestial grapes she could not have +been enjoying greater bliss. In fact at each interval +of sick gratitude she constantly expressed her opinion +that such was the actual case.</p> + +<p>He looked up when he had finished writing and +at the same moment heard the bell ring. His housekeeper +entered. It was a cable from America sent +by his first wife and it read with tragic simplicity:</p> + +<blockquote> +<p>“All I have done has been a horrible mistake. +I am on the returning boat. Please meet me on +Saturday at Liverpool and forgive your adoring +wife.”</p> +</blockquote> + +<p>He looked up and remained watching Mrs. Betterman +the second slowly drag herself into a chair and fumble +with a cigarette. He twisted the cable into a spill, +touched a red coal and lit her fag. Then he left her +in charge of his housekeeper and went to bed. All +his other servants had given notice and left long ago. +On the whole he decided that it was wisest to keep +her under liquor until Saturday. It was still Tuesday. +When his first wife reached Liverpool a special +messenger awaited her with a sealed letter from +John Betterman announcing his legal marriage with +his second wife and asking her, his first, to accept +the remainder of the fortune at his disposal. He +himself remained in the gutter.</p> + +<p>It was her turn to receive a shock. She sat stunned +in her cabin, unable to go ashore, thinking over the +year. It had been a bitter experience and this was +the knife. Murphy had taken her money and, after +dancing her almost to death in the lowest haunts of +New York, had left her for a professional dancer and +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_293">[Pg 293]</span>disappeared. It was the British Consul who had +advanced the money for her return, and this was her +return. In her misery stood forth the miraculous +white flower of sea-engendered love for her husband. +It seemed inconceivable to her that she had not +loved him before. She only knew that she had +loved him ever since she had hesitated for one fatal +second on his empty threshold. The thought of +his <i>Beau geste</i>, infinitely divisible and intangibly +volatile, had caught in some secret recess of her heart +and flowered during the dismays and miseries of +her American trip. But love, real love, is cheap at +any price. It was a wonderful experience for her to +feel as she did. Though fate had driven her down +a blind alley and the cup she had snatched had been +broken across her bleeding lips, yet here was a cup +more tempting and a more perfect delight. Lust +had carried her across the Atlantic. Love had +accompanied her home. She felt how marvellous it +was to feel as she felt even in her intense suffering. +She had never dreamed it was possible. What tinsel +all dream is to one thread of reality!</p> + +<p>That night John Betterman gave a holiday to his +housekeeper and opened his own door every time +the bell rang. His instinct was right, for the second +ring that he answered was hers. When he opened +she knelt, and he lifted her gently past the threshold +that was once theirs. They looked at each other +and he perceived what certainly he had never seen +in her eyes before. She whispered, asking forgiveness, +and then with the lover’s practical outlook, whether +the coast was clear? Where was the other woman? +He shuddered and pointed upstairs. She insisted +on meeting her successor. He told her that after +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_294">[Pg 294]</span>nine o’clock she was generally insensible to the world +of visitors and motioned her towards her former room. +Feeling it was part of her penance, she followed and +beheld lying across the bed a rather jovial-looking +drab breathing liquor heavily from the gills. It was +an awful moment for her and John Betterman. +Their two faces of agony met and she discerned +from his the reflection of her own great love. And +there lay this wretched creature between them. It +was maddening that they should suddenly love each +other as greatly as they did; maddening, too, that they +had taken the trouble to marry and divorce in the +past. Yet it was maddening in a delicious way that +they had found each other at last. If they had +never divorced they might never have fallen in love +with each other. But they did not try to think. +He picked her up in his arms and the great flash of +immortal love made them one as they stood gazing +at each other in trance. She slipped to his knees.</p> + +<p>There she only petitioned that, as she had forsaken +him as wife, he would not spurn her as mistress. +The connubial chamber was filled but she understood +now why he had filled it with the filth of the street +rather than seek a presentable second hand rosebud. +It was his love for her. She understood the self-torture +he had inflicted upon himself, his refusal to +try and find happiness. She had the woman’s +instinct to realise that this snoring slut symbolised +as great a compliment to herself as though her adoring +lover had committed suicide on his deserted doorstep. +Poor John Betterman had committed worse than +suicide. He had assumed a mental torture that +no Inquisition would have imposed. He had clad +his soul in the most ghastly of public <i>San Benitos</i> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_295">[Pg 295]</span>and made the most piteous <i>auto-da-fé</i> that a despairing +man could make. It all rushed upon her and she only +begged to share in his humiliation. She only asked +to lower herself with him into the gutter. She had +forfeited the position of wife but she prayed to be +allowed to live as his hireling in the mews round the +corner. She was content to live in shame. She +would go on the streets if he would be her lover. +She promised she would never intrude into his house. +He would find her whenever he wished, humbly +waiting upon the hour of his divine visit. He +plucked her from his knees and kissed her ecstatically. +There came an unconscious grunt from their nuptial +bed and its temporary incubus took the occasion to +snort.</p> + +<p>They could not help laughing. They were lovers +and everything turned to amazing happiness or +screaming humour. There could happen nothing +disgusting or distressing to them. The unconscious +second wife was only delightfully ridiculous. The poor +thing on the bed had no soul really, no meaning. +She was just a frightful phantom. The next day +John Betterman took rooms over the mews for his +first wife and their strange <i>ménage</i> took root and +continued, John Betterman keeping this horrible +but harmless creature under his roof, allowing her five +shillings a day for drink, and leaving her entirely to +his housekeeper to prevent scenes in public. Though +she was his legal wife, he had never dreamed of living +with her. She was merely allowed to infest his +house like a tame elemental, smelling as unpleasantly +as they say elementals smell, but far less uncanny. +Instead of casting or buying her out, he simply allowed +her to sink brandy-logged in harbour. He was very +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_296">[Pg 296]</span>kind to her and she could not last very much longer. +After dinner every evening he retired to the mews, +neighbours said to escape the horrors of married life. +On Saturday nights the phantom struggled into +the purlieus of Victoria Station, where she returned +happily to her old life except that she treated any men +she could induce to come with her. If John Betterman’s +brandy hadn’t been so good she would have +sunk underseas long before. She really was living +quite a happy animal life, without care or worry, +comfortably found in bed and board and drink. The +police knew her circumstances and let her alone. +She was cheerfully hail-fellow-well-met with half +the boosers and all the broken men and women of +the locality. Sometimes they bamboozled her of +her money, but she was never blackmailed. The +wretched company she kept contained sinners but +not beasts. She was believed to have a store in her +stocking and found to be very generous. She always +drank to her last penny. And some outcast was always +ready to see her safely home. A year passed....</p> + +<p>She met the beast-type one night, a ruffianly +swashbuckler, who spent his time frightening +prostitutes by pretending to be a detective and +squeezing their hard-earned gains. He had heard +of Mrs. Betterman’s reputed savings and when her +red, frouzled hair was thrust into his shirt one Saturday +night he devised unto himself prompt and easy +plunder. He swore at her foully and she rather +liked him for it. When he had drunk her last penny, +he wanted to take her to her lodging. She brought +him staggering home. John Betterman’s house was +empty and she used her key to open the door. +Without turning on the light, she dragged him upstairs, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_297">[Pg 297]</span>with the promise of a case of whisky under her bed, +which was true enough, though she forgot that the +whisky had been drunk weeks before. When he +found there was no drink, he demanded money, +made avaricious and surprised by the comfort and +richness of her room. He would not take “no” for an +answer, but she was used to dealing with pugnacious +gentlemen, and though it was a long time since she +had had to push one downstairs, she was able to +master her carousing companion. He fell heavily +through the darkness. She judged by his swearing +that he was not seriously hurt. It was a nuisance. +She would have to follow and let him out of the door. +She switched on the lights in the hall. He was +picking himself up. A long, cadaverous looking +fellow with a big nose, who might have been a +cashiered cashier or a Mormon elder in better days, +and a hatchet-shaped cheek, was reeling towards +her. She shoved him against the door, where he +stood at bay begging and then threatening. He +refused to leave the house until she paid him and +began twisting her wrist until the rotten bones cracked. +Furious with pain, she cut his mouth with the wedding-ring +on her free hand, cut him again and again, till +he spluttered blood. It stung him to singular fury +and he looked round for a weapon. By a chance, +that was not so curious, his eye fell on the hall table, +and a clean revolver lying amid the grey visitors’ +cards. His hand closed familiarly upon it and without +hesitation he discharged it into the drunken red halo +beside him. With a heart-rending cry the second +Mrs. Betterman fell into a shrivelled heap, but the +dirty blood which trickled from her mouth and gaping +temple was not as red as her hair. Her slayer stood +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_298">[Pg 298]</span>looking at her sullenly. Then he realised that it was +a good chance to go, and blew the second cartridge +through his throat.</p> + +<p>The police were quickly summoned by the hysterical +housekeeper and spent an hour taking down wholly +unnecessary information, for the ends of Justice +had already been served. There was no thought of +suspecting a third person in the crime as the name +on the revolver corresponded with cards and envelopes +addressed in the dead man’s pocket. Early next +morning, John Betterman came home and was surprised +to find waiting for him a letter from the Coroner.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_299">[Pg 299]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="THE_EVIL_EYE"> + THE EVIL EYE + </h2> +</div> + + +<p>This is a plain tale of that mediæval belief—the +Evil Eye—playing its course in a modern London +suburb. Perhaps it is all nonsense ... +like vampires in Kensington. Anyhow, Peter Joneson +made a mistake in caring to come to Mrs. Guilda +Faning’s flat every day. Mr. John Faning made a +mistake in not caring that he came, and Mrs. Faning +made the mistake of not caring whether her husband +cared or not. None of their feelings then approximated +to definiteness, which was probably a mistake +and in the end a pity. Peter Joneson’s at least tended +towards definiteness and Mrs. Faning was pleased +to accept his definite admiration of her person and +personality.</p> + +<p>Peter Joneson used to come almost every afternoon +and stay as long as he could. If he missed tea at the +flat, he used to write rather a dull letter of apology or +send some smutty flowers bought from the old woman +sitting outside the public-house. He became a +piece of movable furniture in the flat, like an old armchair +for Guilda to rest on mentally or Mr. Faning +to shift sometimes from the room unconsciously. +Peter was punctual at coming and good at going. +But it was all rather hazy. He was like a mouse to +Guilda. Mr. Faning was one of the happily uninspired +men who want nothing in life. Peter, of +course, felt he wanted something. Guilda only wanted +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_300">[Pg 300]</span>to want something. For want of something, she +began to train herself to want Peter. Peter, of course, +wanted her in a comfortable sort of way but without +evil prepense. She never dreamed of hunting Peter, +for she had instinctive woman’s pride, if her suburban +breeding did not allow her good taste. It was enough +that she began to like Peter for the reflex of her liking +to reflect itself fivefold from the lenses of his eyes. +The invisible flash and counterflash did not produce +discordancy but touched the same key, was wafted +on the same plane and formed the same ray. The +attraction between them was complete.</p> + +<p>But she made a mistake in showing him one day +that she loved him, and Peter made the mistake of +showing her husband that he had discovered that +she loved him, and finally Mr. Faning made the mistake +of showing his wife that he had begun to dislike the +man she liked. For, of course, she only liked him +the more. Hitherto, nothing had mattered. Peter +had poised his own mind open and for the first time +felt her emotions moving with his. He had always +been prepared to fall in love. Not she, and she still +hesitated to admit the great and spicy wind that +bloweth from the South, after having been so long +satisfied with the puffs and draughts and teacup-tempests +that make up middle-class temperament +in suburban flats. They had all three agreed in the +wish to live comfortably and quietly. Neighbourly +flirtation had suited both the Fanings, and Peter +had made a well-conducted collusive foil to the +husband. The passion that had suddenly flashed +between him and Guilda was as upsetting to all as +a hawk lighting on a canary cage or a thunderstone +falling into a suburban rockery.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_301">[Pg 301]</span></p> + +<p>Mr. Faning was quite upset, for love had crossed +his wife’s path once before. During courtship he had +had a serious rival whom Guilda had loved to +distraction, and the stronger she had loved the sadder +and sicker the chosen lover had become until he died. +This tale must be told without subterfuge or keeping +back the point. Guilda said he had died of love, +and married her second string. The neighbours +said that Mr. Faning had put weed-killer in his tea. +An old housekeeper with a drop of gipsy blood had +said that Guilda, whether she knew it or not, had the +evil eye and would be the death of any person she +really loved. Mr. Faning, however, married her +and had lived quite happily without a day’s illness +ever since. This Mr. Faning had taken to disprove +the theory thoroughly. Guilda used to laugh a +little when he stated this view. More logically put, +it showed that she did not love her husband or that +the evil eye on her part was mythical. Just an +empty superstition and she had put it quite out of +her mind. Her married life had been quite uneventful +and unsorrowed except for one thing. Whenever +she had trained and come to love a dog, it was run +over or disappeared mysteriously. There was Fido, +crushed by a cart; there was Carlo, who had been +twisted in the spokes of a butcherboy’s bicycle, and +Horatio Bottomley, a magnificent bulldog, whom +she had loved above all her pets individually and +above the whole human race generally. Well, they +had all come to grief and those whose bodies had +been recovered lay in the dank little garden between +the gate and the door of her house.</p> + +<p>And now romance had come with all its light +radiancy of prelude, exciting her mind to an intense +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_302">[Pg 302]</span>pitch of curiosity as to what lay behind the next +turning. She was in no hurry. She still cared for her +husband exactly the same, without loving him. +Peter she loved without really caring for him. She +was still careful of her husband’s throat when he +went out at night, while of Peter’s sore throat she +seemed rather oblivious. Perhaps it made him more +interesting because the sore throat had been developed +in her service. Sensitive to the possibility of romance +in the prosaic and humdrum surroundings of her +home, Guilda felt that Peter’s mechanical arrivals +with teapot and sugar basin must be changed. She +quietly enjoined him to come at a later hour and +never by the front door. He must climb into her +drawing-room by the balcony and wait until she +answered his taps. Somewhat against his will, +Peter had submitted to this daily ordeal until the +servants were as used to one form of entry as the +other, and the policeman standing at the corner +received a hint from Mr. Faning himself that his +friend was not practising to be a burglar. Mr. Faning +had been puzzled by this new departure, or new form +of entry rather, but vaguely supposed it would +satisfy Peter’s absurd affection for his wife.</p> + +<p>It didn’t. Peter left strips of skin on the rusty +iron trellis-work and caught chills on wet draughty +winter evenings. His hacking cough gave Guilda +a sensation she thought she had long ago buried. +And Peter, had he known, had no reason to complain +of his cold, for it heightened Guilda’s love. Attraction +had passed into love with her. It was then that +Mr. Faning became aware, not of Peter’s love, which +mattered nothing to him, but of Guilda’s which he had +never possessed himself. This did seem to matter to +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_303">[Pg 303]</span>him a great deal. It was no use her explaining that +she only made Peter climb in for a joke. Mr. Faning +banned a joke that made himself as ridiculous as +Peter. Peter was told he was a good fellow, but his +visits were limited in future to one a week, and +would she be kind enough to admit him after ringing +at the front door? As for Guilda, he told her that +she was the laughing stock of the parish. Everybody +knew she was pretending to be living in Mayfair and +trying to show the neighbours that she secretly +had a lover. It must stop!</p> + +<p>Guilda’s face crimsoned and her passionate fury +allowed her no retort. She could have reconciled a +jealous outburst from her husband with her romance, +blows even and threats of divorce. But to be called +the joke of the parish was more than she could bear. +When he strode out angrily, she waited for Peter’s +taps impatiently at the drawing-room window. They +came.</p> + +<p>She preferred to be the tragedy of the parish rather +than its joke. It had never occurred to her that +she could be ridiculous. Romance was not ridiculous +and she grated her teeth. There was a strange look +on her face when she opened the glass door behind +the curtains and let Peter come in coughing. Her +eyes looked passionately upon him and a great +tremor shook his lungs. It was some time before +he could recover himself. She stroked his back and +he dropped gratefully into a chair. For the first time +pity passed into her love and love itself became +fused to passion. She told him to follow her to +her room, which Peter had never seen, never even +imagined. It was quite like other bedrooms. That +rather puzzled him, the same sort of furniture. All the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_304">[Pg 304]</span>wooden atmosphere of Maple’s, all the china soul +of Whiteley’s, was there expressed with just the +necessary alleviation of the feminine, the silk stockings +hanging on the chair, the powder-puff and three +dog collars on the dressing-table. He felt deliciously +bewildered and tried to say something. One of her +new garters, bought at a Selfridge sale, was on the +bed. He was sorry it was not on the floor or he would +have picked it up. As it was, he said “<i>Honi soit qui +mal y pense</i>,” as he touched it. At that moment Mr. +Faning came in.</p> + +<p>Guilda had already begun to pour out water into +a basin and, picking a towel off the rack, slipped Peter’s +hands into the warm water. Mr. Faning stood +watching until she had washed them free from the +soot and dried them between the fresh folds of the +clean towel. Then Faning burst out angrily: “I +came back just to see that this joke wouldn’t go too +far, and I find you in my wife’s bedroom! Never +come back into this house again.” He turned to his +wife and re-knifed her with the foolish words “joke +of the whole parish!” She never answered him, but +bowed her head and kissed each of Peter’s hands.... +Peter went out shaking like a reed. When he reached +his own rooms he found himself spitting blood. He +stayed in for several days.</p> + +<p>Peter felt very distracted those days. He made +no effort to communicate with the Fanings. He felt +he had lost a man friend, and the affectionate companionship +of his wife. Companionship he had regarded +as heavenly, but a red-blooded intrigue struck +him with all the discomforts of hell. He sat dimly +facing the prospect of fire. He had been so happy +in his paradisal peace. He had now no choice but to +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_305">[Pg 305]</span>clear out altogether or throw himself beyond the old +relationships of family friend, and consider the Faning +household in the sombre guise of mistress and enemy. +It was appalling to think of, and he spat blood steadily +through a night until his landlady became alarmed +and sent for the doctor. He was found to be quite +ill, and suffering from tuberculosis.</p> + +<p>It was a month before he returned from the hospital. +He had never let Guilda go far from his mind. How +could he? He intended to be faithful to Mr. Faning’s +injunction, and not cross the forbidden threshold.... +But as soon as he was walking about again he made +a point of passing the flat every afternoon on his +return from the office. Always at the same hour, at +the hour of tea, he came, and stood, and went, while +a fragrance as of the delicious teas of the past smote +his memory each time. He knew then how deeply +he was still in love with her. It gave him a queerly +increasing throb each time. His regularity in passing +under the old lodestar was noted by servants, and +brought to Guilda’s notice with the half-humorous +and half-sympathetic understanding which can make +servants and mistresses kin. One evening Guilda +was watching for his passage, and threw him down a +token. It was not a very romantic one, but token +it was.</p> + +<p>Peter was startled to be hit on the shoulder by an +object flying out of the dusk as he stood absorbing +his sip of evening melancholy. He picked it out of +the mud. It was a dog’s collar, which he recognised, +carried home, and considered carefully. He did not +dare to look up. As he had suspected, it was one +of the three dog collars that graced Guilda’s dressing-room. +Apart from a hundred teas and the washing +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_306">[Pg 306]</span>of his hands it was the first present she had ever given +him. He turned it over again and again in his hands, +and then he began turning it in his mind. He could +not be faithless to the token she had given him, even +though it was but a morgan fey beckoning out of the +fog. An unseen light flickered before his closed eyes. +A tremendous sadness passed into his temperament +such as he had never felt before. It left him so uncomfortable +that he tried to find a more ordinary +name for it. He decided that it must be a form of +illness. It was a natural weakness and reaction after +the first days of convalescence. He was coughing +again, but thank God! without spitting blood.</p> + +<p>The dog collar was perplexing. It might be interpreted +in several ways. Firstly, he might be considered +a dog and needing a collar and leash! Secondly, +was he a drawing-room pet once more? Thirdly, she +had once told him how deeply she had loved her dogs. +Could he aspire to a share in the great love she had +had for Fido, or in the holy emotion she once felt for +Horatio Bottomley? He began to question himself +seriously. But it was gratifying to be even noticed +and, though the dog-collar had descended on the +bridge of his nose like a leathery meteorite, it had +already assumed the glamour of daystar in his mind. +It was probably a contemptuous joke on her part, +he told himself, perhaps even an act of hostility from +Mr. Faning. He hated even to think that it might +possibly be a practical joke on the part of a servant. +He remembered the fate of Malvolio and shivered +under the smart of ridicule. Of course there was the +thousand-and-oneth chance, which makes the test +of the lover—the chance that nobody would dream +of following in commerce or in politics, or even in +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_307">[Pg 307]</span>gambling, but the lover follows the thousandth chance. +Deep below the strata of ten respectable generations +there lay some spark of the Restoration in Peter +Joneson, some chip even of some far-off but possibly +prepossessing cavalier, enough to send him that evening +to linger a second time under the Fanings’ flat.</p> + +<p>Half timid he felt, for his body was trembling all +over, but half determined, as though he were fated +to press his suit and be done with it. However, he +took his stand under the flat, and fear was all but +making him move after he had cast one rhapsodical +glance through the fog when he stopped dead still! +He thought he saw Guilda move against the blinds +of her bedroom, and all the pleasant pusslike purring +in his soul became embattled passion. Peter decided +to climb to the top floor of the flat, the floor beyond +the balcony where Guilda slept. Fastening the dog +collar round his wrist, he screwed his shaky clerk’s +hands to the sticking point and crawled up the trellis +work. In two minutes he was gasping on the balcony +and a fine sweat was blinding his eyes. Then he +swung himself on the railing and began pulling his +febrile body up the stone work. He had luckily lost +a good deal of weight lately, but this was offset by loss +of strength. He reached half-way, and felt he could +get no further. The fog thickened, and he waited to +gather his last energy. He would see Guilda. That +he was sure of, and he bargained with his gods that if +he saw her this once he was willing never to see her +again. This once, this once, and his strength swayed +on the tottering side of weakness. He could not tell +whether it was weakness or strength that beat in his +veins. He was not a psychologist or he would have +known that it was neither. However, he hoped it was +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_308">[Pg 308]</span>new strength, and began to drive his nails into the +mortared chinks. He spent whole moments hanging +by his finger-tips. What agony! His grateful palm +closed round a helpful ledge. It was her window-ledge! +And he drew himself up with a last effort. +He was kneeling on the very sill and a warm light was +bathing him, but he had not the necessary last half-ounce +of strength left to raise his arm and tap the old +signal. He sat puffing and sighing until Guilda heard +unusual sounds and not catlike, or, she thought if it +was, it was a very sick cat. She came to the window. +Peter saw her shadow swim into the blind like some +enormous bird, and, like a vulture’s crooked wings, her +long arms, trailing bands of vesture, moving to the +window-bolt and slowly opening it behind the undrawn +blind ... “Peter, I knew it was you. I have been +thinking of you all the evening. I had an idea that +if I thought strongly enough you would come.” Peter +extended his smeared and bleeding hand, on the hilt +of which was fastened her dog collar.</p> + +<p>She laughed as she helped him into the room. It +was the merry laugh of love achieving love.... +The window redescended. In the fog no one had +seen. So Peter Joneson came within sight and touch +of attaining the unattainable. He sank wearily but +dreamily into an arm-chair. Dear, dear Guilda! +She was pouring out the nice warm water again in a +basin and bringing it to him. She was kneeling at his +feet again with a nice crisp towel. He suppressed a +frightful fit of coughing, which would not have chimed +with the delectation of the moment. She had wiped +the soot off his skin, and softened the clotted blood, +and was drying his fingers, when suddenly the fresh +blood began to spurt into the basin. There was quite +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_309">[Pg 309]</span>a nasty cut there. He must have struck a snag of +glass in the mortar. She uttered an exclamation of +grief which pierced his flesh as the glass did not. At +the same moment the inclination to cough became his +imperative and dominant sensation within. He felt +he would burst if he could not shake his lungs into his +throat. But with a stifling exercise of will power +he drove it down his gullet, while Guilda tried to slake +the flow of his blood. It did not seem possible to +stop. She pulled the dog collar tighter and tighter +round his wrist, and still the drops flowed. Peter +watched her as in a kind of delicious nightmare, but +he felt something heavier than iron was sinking on +his chest. He must try and shake it off. Perhaps +it was only a dream. He was awakened from his +dream by a fierce thrill running through his body. +His wide eyes stared at Guilda—stared and stared. +Good God! her hands were laid on his cut. He +could feel her staunching his blood. “Don’t, oh +don’t trouble!” he cried on the top of a heaving crash +in his breaking lungs. “Don’t! don’t! don’t!” +“But I love and adore you, Peter. Can’t you feel +how I love you?” And Peter, in frenzied and +prostrate terror felt his blood surge fiercely, unsatedly, +passionately—and then the crash came. +His body broke asunder, and he slipped from her +with a single gasp. He coughed savagely, and sank +at her feet. He could just clasp them before he +passed into unconsciousness.... She simply stared.</p> + +<p>When he awoke he felt endreamed not with the soft +drowsiness that follows sleep, but startled with the +horrible ticking beat with which one comes out of an +anæsthetic. He tried to remember if he had been +going to have an operation and could not, but there +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_310">[Pg 310]</span>was a doctor standing there, and holding his pulse +with a grey face and a watch. Oh, thank heavens! +It was the watch, and not his heart that was making +that awful tick, tick, tick! Faning was standing +there, which was curious, looking at him with a look +still more curious. And why was he in a strange +bedroom? Then he caught sight of Guilda. She was +carrying a basin across the room full of blood.... +Then he remembered. She had washed his hands, +and his eye followed her gratefully across the room. +But he was growing weaker. Never had he felt so +weak before. He was too exhausted to make sign +or sound. He could hear the doctor talking; “I am +sorry you did not send for me earlier, Mr. Faning, +during the night, for he has been bleeding without +cessation, and he must have been very anæmic before....” +Peter’s eyes strayed to the bijou clock on the +dressing-table. It was eight o’clock! Then he must +have been two hours unconscious. He must have +fainted. Then he noticed that it was daylight. Then +he lay back, and gave up the ghost. Simply died!</p> + +<p>The doctor, as a matter of fact, had been expecting +him to die since six o’clock. He had cut the main +artery in his wrist and had died owing to blood failure +during the night. The doctor sat a little puzzled. +He had seen cases of bleeding to death before, and the +rarer cases of bleeders who are liable to shed blood +at a touch. But this was an accident, and he mentioned +to Mr. Faning that it would involve an inquest. +Faning blanched, for he wisely hated scandal more +than sin, and the idea of a dead body being found in his +wife’s bedroom was a confusing prospect. Coroners +were so unsympathetic in these days. He suggested +it to the doctor, and the doctor agreed that an inquest +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_311">[Pg 311]</span>would be awkward. What was particularly difficult +for him was to explain where the man’s blood had +gone to. There was only a pint or two in the basin +and on the towels, and yet his veins were practically +emptied. It would be a puzzling inquest, and had +better be avoided. Guilda crept to the doorway and +watched her husband and doctor deciding action. +No servant was allowed to pry into her room that +day, and it was given out that Guilda herself was +unwell. She dropped into bed at Faning’s orders, and +lay there half frightened, but weirdly sad and content. +She slept until the evening without thinking +of the corpse her husband had locked into the bathroom. +At tea-time the doctor returned, and, when +no one stood in the street, they pitched the body over +the balcony into the garden where it fell with a sodden +crash. Then they waited and waited, but no policeman +came, no newsboy gave the alarm. Their plan +was imminent and certain of success. The body would +be found cold that night or in the morning by the milkman, +and every policeman on the beat would testify +to the peculiar character of the gentleman and his way +of entering his friends’ houses. It suddenly occurred +to the doctor that something would be missing. “The +blood?” he said: “there is no blood in the garden.” +Fortunately no servant had cleaned the basin, and +the clotted fluid was diluted with hot water and carried +carefully outside into the garden, and splashed about +the crumpled figure under the trellis-work. Softly +it sank into the gritty earth of two dogs’ graves.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_312">[Pg 312]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="THE_WEIRD_GILLY"> + THE WEIRD GILLY + </h2> +</div> + + +<p>Once upon a time—and a long time gone, before +the wind and the rain had come to live in +Ireland—O’Donnell held festival with the fine +gentlemen of Donegal.</p> + +<p>They sat in the house at Ballyshannon which he +had graven of yew and thatched with gulls’ plumes, +and they feasted upon new of all meats, and old of all +liquors. As they drank high and deep, their plaited +hair fell over the wine cups their fathers had taken +out of the graves of the Danes. In face of O’Donnell +himself sat the Joyless Jug. It was called so because +it had been used to fetch water by the patron saint +of all the O’Donnell’s. It never ran dry on O’Donnell’s +table, and this by the marvelling was esteemed a +miracle.</p> + +<p>As the company peered through the lime-white +arches of the hall into O’Donnell’s apple garden, they +saw a strange gilly pricking the sour fruit with a +javelin. O’Donnell sent a Saxon slave to bring him +in. The stranger gave astonishment to them all. He +wore patched hose over his swinging shanks, and a +mantle that would have wrapped a mare and foal was +gathered to his girdle. A naked sword trundled at +his heel-tip, and he carried three charred javelins of +holly. The puddle water splashed out of his deerskin +brogues while his ear-tips peeped through his +mantle hood.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_313">[Pg 313]</span></p> + +<p>“God save you and ripen your apples,” quoth he, and, +as he smacked his lips, the wine leaped in their cups.</p> + +<p>“And who and wherefrom and whither exactly +art thou?” asked O’Donnell.</p> + +<p>“My habits take me to Islay in Scotland one day, +to the Island of Man another, and to Rathlin the +next, for a ranting rambling rover I am.”</p> + +<p>“Your name? and you are welcome,” said +O’Donnell.</p> + +<p>“The Gilly of the Gael.”</p> + +<p>“It is enough; sit where you would drink, and +drink where you sit.”</p> + +<p>“Indeed,” said the Gilly, “I will sit, or I will sit +not, as it pleases me. I would hear music to play the +ache out of my legs and the water out of my shoes.”</p> + +<p>O’Donnell called his harpers to play smooth and +soothing strains out of their live harps. They were +the pride and power of O’Donnell’s entertaining.</p> + +<p>When the gilly had listened a while through his hood, +he spoke to the harps: “I have never heard minstrelsy +the like—not since I heard the musicians of +Beelzebub tinkling iron with their sledgehammers on +the nethermost ground-tier of Hell!”</p> + +<p>He seized a harp himself, and shook the last melody +out of it. Then he played to the gentry of Donegal +and such music that all the women travailing in the +town and the gallants gashed in battle lying within, +were soothed to sleep and stupor.</p> + +<p>“I perceive thou art an harmonious rogue,” said +O’Donnell, and he forgave him the insult he had +delivered upon the harps.</p> + +<p>“One day I am sweet, one day I am bitter,” quoth +the Gilly, “one morning under sun, one evening under +moon, and here one day, and not here the next.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_314">[Pg 314]</span></p> + +<p>O’Donnell saw a source of endless entertainment +for the men of Ulster, and he told off twenty gallow-glasses, +as they valued their straw and ale, to guard the +gates, and he hid twenty horsemen in the apple grove.</p> + +<p>But the Gilly was gilly to no Lord.</p> + +<p>“Watch for me, ride for me,” cried he, “or I am +clean away.” The gallow-glasses sprang to seize him +leaving. But he passed them, and he ran through the +horsemen, spearing their apples as he went. Then +the riders rode each other down in tumult, and the +gallow-glasses fell upon each other’s knives.</p> + +<p>But the Gilly was gone—and he left a herb for their +healing, a little bundle of starwort, with O’Donnell’s +watcher on the hills.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>At that time it chanced that the son of Desmond +had gathered the men of South Munster to proclaim +himself Desmond against his father. Hove the weird +gilly within hearing;</p> + +<p>“God save you, and keep sprigs to your trees!” +he cried entering.</p> + +<p>“And who art thou of all royal rascals and runners?”</p> + +<p>“I am Duartane O’Duartane, runner to the King +of Ireland,” he told him, “and I have run Ireland +from the shelly shore of Sligo to the mud mountains +of Thomond.”</p> + +<p>“Play or be hung,” said Desmond, thinking the +squelch of his brogues was all his music.</p> + +<p>The Gilly would not play, but when they ridiculed +him he caught the harp from a blind harper of Desmond +so swiftly that the harper thought the wind had +taken it. First he made the harp sound, and then to +sing, and at last to speak. The harp said:</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_315">[Pg 315]</span></p> + +<p>“The music is not more lasting than the harp that +begot it, and the sprig is not stronger than the tree +that grew it.”</p> + +<p>“Thou art a traitor to thy clan,” cried the young +Desmond to the harp, and his men-at-arms cut the +harp-strings with their swords. The Gilly slipped aside +and called out: “One day I am sweet, another I am +sour, one day in North Donegal, one day in South +Munster,” and away he vanished like a twang of his +music.</p> + +<p>It happed at the time of the Gilly’s raid and riot +through Ireland that M’Keogh of Leinster, the hereditary +crown-bearer and coroner to the MacMurrough, +lay sick of a bog-palsy in his leg. The twelve royal +physicians of Leinster were gathered about the one +leg, for until he could walk the new MacMurrough +might not come by his crown. To be crowned by a +sick man was against the Brehon law of Ireland.</p> + +<p>Swung the Weird Gilly to sight.</p> + +<p>“Who art thou, watering my garden with thy +brogues?” cried M’Keogh.</p> + +<p>“A medical student picking plants,” answered the +Gilly, “and if you promised to put away all niggardliness, +I would heal the sorriness of your shank.”</p> + +<p>“So be it,” said M’Keogh, and sent his gold robes +to patch beggar’s rags at his gate.</p> + +<p>The Gilly slit a leaf of nightwort with his javelin +and dropped it then and there on M’Keogh’s leg. +With that, M’Keogh’s leg rose under him and started +to run out of the house, and M’Keogh with it, and the +twelve royal leeches of Leinster running after. There +was no catching him till he tired toward evening. +When they brought him back he offered the Gilly his +one daughter for wife.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_316">[Pg 316]</span></p> + +<p>“It is well,” said the Gilly, “be she foul or be +she fair, she shall be mine.”</p> + +<p>That night a banquet was spread with porridge +for plenty and water for wine. But when the guests +were gathered, a servant ran in crying:</p> + +<p>“The foreign physician is over the hills and faster than +a russet hare between a day and a night of March.”</p> + +<p>“We knew he was a false rascal,” declared the +twelve royal doctors of Leinster.</p> + +<p>At this time it chanced that Conor of Connaught +was preparing to avenge a foul insult done upon the +dead and the living of his country. A Connaught +crone had lent a basket to a hag of Munster and had +received neither it nor its eric-price in return. Sped +the Gilly within speech of them. He was crossing the +ridge of Ireland that runs from Dublin to Galway.</p> + +<p>“Who art thou, running with thy ribs wrapt up +in a mantle?” asked Conor.</p> + +<p>“I am the Gruesome Gilly and I run through Ireland +to see good wars and fair fighting, and if you would +have me now I will join gladly.”</p> + +<p>“Will any hiring purchase you?” quoth Conor.</p> + +<p>“Nothing unfair to be done to me,” answered the +Gilly.</p> + +<p>So he marched with the fighting men of Connaught +and of Far-Connaught, till they overstepped the +marches of Munster. Heaven gave them blessing, +boon and victory, for they carried away two spotted +cows from the Hag of Munster, and her one-horned +bull, as a solace for the basket.</p> + +<p>When the men of Munster learnt of the disgrace +befallen them, they marched for half a day and half +a night. But the Gilly kept them at bay with his +javelins in one hand, while he drove along the cattle +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_317">[Pg 317]</span>with the other. He kept running betwixt the prey and +the pursuit till he was past the fords of the Shannon. It +was the greatest cattle-spoil of the time, and gave +hymning to harpers and piping to poets for a spring-tide.</p> + +<p>When they came to Conor’s house, Conor drained +the first flagon of wine and left the Gilly thirsty. +“The drink goes with the deed,” said the Gilly, and, +before the words were with Conor, he had disappeared.</p> + +<p>At the same time, O’Kelly the King of the Kellies was +bidding men to banquet. Came the Gilly within call.</p> + +<p>“Art thou a Kelly of Munster or a Kelly of +Leinster?” was all the O’Kelly would ask a stranger.</p> + +<p>“I am neither, but a good conjurer,” said the +Gilly, “and for five flagons I will prove the goodness +of my art.”</p> + +<p>“Prove,” said O’Kelly, and five hundred Kellies +shouted “Prove!”</p> + +<p>“I will wag one ear, while the other is still,” said +the Gilly, and all the Kellies were silent for it seemed +not easy to be done.</p> + +<p>Then the man of tricks tied one ear with the end of +his mantle and wagged the other. O’Kelly gave him +five flagons full.</p> + +<p>“I will show thee another,” said the Gilly, and +pulling a long thread out of his mantle, he tossed it +in a ball to the clouds. He drew his mantle over the +end of the thread and a hare ran up and away to +the clouds, and then a beagle, and then a dogboy, +and, last of all, a fairy-woman. They listened to the +merry hunting cry, until all had entered the mists. +Then the Gilly reeled down the thread, and there +was the hound picking the hare’s bones and the +dogboy meshed in the hair of the fairy-woman. +O’Kelly called for another trick.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_318">[Pg 318]</span></p> + +<p>“I know only one better,” said the Gilly, and +vanished.</p> + +<p>That day MacMurrough King of Leinster was +banqueting in his house. There were sixteen harpers +playing for him to choose which should be the choice +harper of Leinster.</p> + +<p>“Whence art thou?” asked MacMurrough.</p> + +<p>“One day am I in Islay and another in Man, one +day with the heat and the next with the cold, one +day with Conor and another with Kelly,” answered +the Gilly.</p> + +<p>“How do my harpers harp with those of Conor +and Kelly?” asked the King.</p> + +<p>“There is no music I would compare them with,” +said the Gilly, “except the melodious thunder of the +Porters in the Pit.”</p> + +<p>The King ordered him to be strung forthwith.</p> + +<p>When they had gibbeted him on the crow’s perch, +they returned and met him coming out of the King’s +house. They ran back and found it was the King +himself they had hung, and the Gilly had left a sliver +of batsbane for his anointing before burial.</p> + +<p>That time the Gilly was gone without saying farewell +or fare-ill. Away he vanished with his roguery and +ranting, with his wandering and his wizardry, as all +magicians and artists, that shall be since or ever, +must vanish and leave but a little breath of wonderment +with the folk of the world.</p> + +<br> +<p class="center">OREMUS</p> +<br> +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p class="center"> +JOHN LONG, LTD., PUBLISHERS, LONDON, ENGLAND, 1924</p> +<hr class="tb1"> +<p class="center"><i>Wyman & Sons, Ltd., Printers, London, Reading and Fakenham</i> +</p> +</div> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"><div class="chapter"></div> +<div class="transnote"> + <h2 class="nobreak" id="Transcribers_Note"> + Transcriber’s Note: + </h2> + + + +<p>Obvious errors in punctuation have been silently corrected in this +version, but minor inconsistencies and archaic forms have been retained +as printed.</p> + +<p>The French in the <a href='#baudelaire'>Baudelaire prayer</a> has been silently corrected.</p> + +<p>The following changes have been made:</p> + + +<p>On page 102: <a href='#cor_102'>belives <i>to</i> believes</a></p> + +<p>On page 131: <a href='#cor_131'>work <i>to</i> word</a></p> + +<p>On page 184: <a href='#cor_184'>or <i>to</i> of</a></p> + +<p>On page 213: <a href='#cor_213'>Spindlehorn <i>to</i> Spindelhorn</a></p> + + +<p>New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the +public domain.</p> +</div> +<div style='text-align:center'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 77896 ***</div> +</body> +</html> diff --git a/77896-h/images/colophon.jpg b/77896-h/images/colophon.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..0f694f0 --- /dev/null +++ b/77896-h/images/colophon.jpg diff --git a/77896-h/images/cover.jpg b/77896-h/images/cover.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..c4b4811 --- /dev/null +++ b/77896-h/images/cover.jpg diff --git a/77896-h/images/cross.jpg b/77896-h/images/cross.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..8d813e7 --- /dev/null +++ b/77896-h/images/cross.jpg diff --git a/77896-h/images/i_253.jpg b/77896-h/images/i_253.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..7403973 --- /dev/null +++ b/77896-h/images/i_253.jpg diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6c72794 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This book, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. 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