Twenty-Three Stories by Twenty and Three Authors (2024)

KERFOL

By EDITH WHARTON

From Xingu and Other Stories, by Edith Wharton. Copyright, 1917,by Charles Scribner’s Sons.

1

“You ought to buy it,” said my host; “it’s just the place for asolitary-minded devil like you. And it would be rather worth while toown the most romantic house in Brittany. The present people are deadbroke, and it’s going for a song—you ought to buy it.”

It was not with the least idea of living up to the character my friendLanrivain ascribed to me (as a matter of fact, under my unsociableexterior I have always had secret yearnings for domesticity) that I tookhis hint one autumn afternoon and went to Kerfol. My friend was motoringover to Quimper on business: he dropped me on the way, at a cross-roadon a heath, and said: “First turn to the right and second to the left.Then straight ahead till you see an avenue. If you meet any peasants,don’t ask your way. They don’t understand French, and they would pretendthey did and mix you up. I’ll be back for you here by sunset—and don’tforget the tombs in the chapel.”

I followed Lanrivain’s directions with the hesitation occasioned by theusual difficulty of remembering whether he had said the first turn tothe right and second to the left, or the contrary. If I had met apeasant I should certainly have asked, and probably been sent astray;but I had the desert landscape to myself, and so stumbled on the rightturn and walked across the heath till I came to an avenue. It was sounlike any other avenue I have ever seen that I instantly knew it mustbe the avenue. The grey-trunked trees sprang up straight to a greatheight and then interwove their pale-grey branches in a long tunnelthrough which the autumn light fell faintly. I know most trees by name,but I haven’t to this day been able to decide what those trees were.They had the tall curve of elms, the tenuity of poplars, the ashencolour of olives under a rainy sky; and they stretched ahead of me forhalf a mile or more without a break in their arch. If ever I saw anavenue that unmistakably led to something, it was the avenue at Kerfol.My heart beat a little as I began to walk down it.

Presently the trees ended and I came to a fortified gate in a long wall.Between me and the wall was an open space of grass, with other greyavenues radiating from it. Behind the wall were tall slate roofs mossedwith silver, a chapel belfry, the top of a keep. A moat filled with wildshrubs and brambles surrounded the place; the drawbridge had beenreplaced by a stone arch, and the portcullis by an iron gate. I stoodfor a long time on the hither side of the moat, gazing about me, andletting the influence of the place sink in. I said to myself: “If I waitlong enough, the guardian will turn up and show me the tombs—” and Irather hoped he wouldn’t turn up too soon.

I sat down on a stone and lit a cigarette. As soon as I had done it, itstruck me as a puerile and portentous thing to do, with that great blindhouse looking down at me, and all the empty avenues converging on me. Itmay have been the depth of the silence that made me so conscious of mygesture. The squeak of my match sounded as loud as the scraping of abrake, and I almost fancied I heard it fall when I tossed it onto thegrass. But there was more than that: a sense of irrelevance, oflittleness, of futile bravado, in sitting there puffing mycigarette-smoke into the face of such a past.

I knew nothing of the history of Kerfol—I was new to Brittany, andLanrivain had never mentioned the name to me till the day before—but onecouldn’t as much as glance at that pile without feeling in it a longaccumulation of history. What kind of history I was not prepared toguess: perhaps only that sheer weight of many associated lives anddeaths which gives a majesty to all old houses. But the aspect of Kerfolsuggested something more—a perspective of stern and cruel memoriesstretching away, like its own grey avenues, into a blur of darkness.

Certainly no house had ever more completely and finally broken with thepresent. As it stood there, lifting its proud roofs and gables to thesky, it might have been its own funeral monument. “Tombs in the chapel?The whole place is a tomb!” I reflected. I hoped more and more that theguardian would not come. The details of the place, however striking,would seem trivial compared with its collective impressiveness; and Iwanted only to sit there and be penetrated by the weight of its silence.

“It’s the very place for you!” Lanrivain had said; and I was overcome bythe almost blasphemous frivolity of suggesting to any living being thatKerfol was the place for him. “Is it possible that any one could notsee—?” I wondered. I did not finish the thought: what I meant wasundefinable. I stood up and wandered toward the gate. I was beginning towant to know more; not to see more—I was by now so sure it was not aquestion of seeing—but to feel more: feel all the place had tocommunicate. “But to get in one will have to rout out the keeper,” Ithought reluctantly, and hesitated. Finally I crossed the bridge andtried the iron gate. It yielded, and I walked through the tunnel formedby the thickness of the chemin de ronde. At the farther end, a woodenbarricade had been laid across the entrance, and beyond it was a courtenclosed in noble architecture. The main building faced me; and I nowsaw that one half was a mere ruined front, with gaping windows throughwhich the wild growths of the moat and the trees of the park werevisible. The rest of the house was still in its robust beauty. One endabutted on the round tower, the other on the small traceried chapel, andin an angle of the building stood a graceful well-head crowned withmossy urns. A few roses grew against the walls, and on an upperwindow-sill I remember noticing a pot of fuchsias.

My sense of the pressure of the invisible began to yield to myarchitectural interest. The building was so fine that I felt a desire toexplore it for its own sake. I looked about the court, wondering inwhich corner the guardian lodged. Then I pushed open the barrier andwent in. As I did so, a dog barred my way. He was such a remarkablybeautiful little dog that for a moment he made me forget the splendidplace he was defending. I was not sure of his breed at the time, buthave since learned that it was Chinese, and that he was of a rarevariety called the “Sleeve-dog.” He was very small and golden brown,with large brown eyes and a ruffled throat: he looked like a large tawnychrysanthemum. I said to myself: “These little beasts always snap andscream, and somebody will be out in a minute.”

The little animal stood before me, forbidding, almost menacing; therewas anger in his large brown eyes. But he made no sound, he came nonearer. Instead, as I advanced, he gradually fell back, and I noticedthat another dog, a vague rough brindled thing, had limped up on a lameleg. “There’ll be a hubbub now,” I thought; for at the same moment athird dog, a long-haired white mongrel, slipped out of a doorway andjoined the others. All three stood looking at me with grave eyes; butnot a sound came from them. As I advanced they continued to fall back onmuffled paws, still watching me. “At a given point, they’ll all chargeat my ankles: it’s one of the jokes that dogs who live together put onone,” I thought. I was not alarmed, for they were neither large norformidable. But they let me wander about the court as I pleased,following me at a little distance—always the same distance—and alwayskeeping their eyes on me. Presently I looked across at the ruinedfaçade, and saw that in one of its empty window-frames another dogstood: a white pointer with one brown ear. He was an old grave dog, muchmore experienced than the others; and he seemed to be observing me witha deeper intentness.

“I’ll hear from him,” I said to myself; but he stood in thewindow-frame, against the trees of the park, and continued to watch mewithout moving. I stared back at him for a time, to see if the sensethat he was being watched would not rouse him. Half the width of thecourt lay between us, and we gazed at each other silently across it. Buthe did not stir, and at last I turned away. Behind me I found the restof the pack, with a newcomer added: a small black greyhound with paleagate-coloured eyes. He was shivering a little, and his expression wasmore timid than that of the others. I noticed that he kept a littlebehind them. And still there was not a sound.

I stood there for fully five minutes, the circle about me—waiting, asthey seemed to be waiting. At last I went up to the little golden-browndog and stooped to pat him. As I did so, I heard myself give a nervouslaugh. The little dog did not start, or growl, or take his eyes fromme—he simply slipped back about a yard, and then paused and continued tolook at me. “Oh, hang it!” I exclaimed, and walked across the courttoward the well.

As I advanced, the dogs separated and slid away into different cornersof the court. I examined the urns on the well, tried a locked door ortwo, and looked up and down the dumb façade: then I faced about towardthe chapel. When I turned I perceived that all the dogs had disappearedexcept the old pointer, who still watched me from the window. It wasrather a relief to be rid of that cloud of witnesses; and I began tolook about me for a way to the back of the house. “Perhaps there’ll besomebody in the garden,” I thought. I found a way across the moat,scrambled over a wall smothered in brambles, and got into the garden. Afew lean hydrangeas and geraniums pined in the flower-beds, and theancient house looked down on them indifferently. Its garden side wasplainer and severer than the other: the long granite front, with its fewwindows and steep roof, looked like a fortress-prison. I walked aroundthe farther wing, went up some disjointed steps, and entered the deeptwilight of a narrow and incredibly old box-walk. The walk was just wideenough for one person to slip through, and its branches met overhead. Itwas like the ghost of a box-walk, its lustrous green all turning to theshadowy greyness of the avenues. I walked on and on, the branchesh*tting me in the face and springing back with a dry rattle; and atlength I came out on the grassy top of the chemin de ronde. I walkedalong it to the gate-tower, looking down into the court, which was justbelow me. Not a human being was in sight; and neither were the dogs. Ifound a flight of steps in the thickness of the wall and went down them;and when I emerged again into the court, there stood the circle of dogs,the golden-brown one a little ahead of the others, the black greyhoundshivering in the rear.

“Oh, hang it—you uncomfortable beasts, you!” I exclaimed, my voicestartling me with a sudden echo. The dogs stood motionless, watching me.I knew by this time that they would not try to prevent my approachingthe house, and the knowledge left me free to examine them. I had afeeling that they must be horribly cowed to be so silent and inert. Yetthey did not look hungry or ill-treated. Their coats were smooth andthey were not thin, except the shivering greyhound. It was more as ifthey had lived a long time with people who never spoke to them or lookedat them: as though the silence of the place had gradually benumbed theirbusy, inquisitive natures. And this strange passivity, this almost humanlassitude, seemed to me sadder than the misery of starved and beatenanimals. I should have liked to rouse them for a minute, to coax theminto a game or a scamper; but the longer I looked into their fixed andweary eyes the more preposterous the idea became. With the windows ofthat house looking down on us, how could I have imagined such a thing?The dogs knew better: they knew what the house would tolerate and whatit would not. I even fancied that they knew what was passing through mymind, and pitied me for my frivolity. But even that feeling probablyreached them through a thick fog of listlessness. I had an idea thattheir distance from me was as nothing to my remoteness from them. Theimpression they produced was that of having in common one memory so deepand dark that nothing that had happened since was worth either a growlor a wag.

“I say,” I broke out abruptly, addressing myself to the dumb circle, “doyou know what you look like, the whole lot of you? You look as if you’dseen a ghost—that’s how you look. I wonder if there is a ghost here,and nobody but you left for it to appear to?” The dogs continued to gazeat me without moving....

It was dark when I saw Lanrivain’s motor lamps at the cross-roads—and Iwasn’t exactly sorry to see them. I had the sense of having escaped fromthe loneliest place in the whole world, and of not liking loneliness—tothat degree—as much as I had imagined I should. My friend had broughthis solicitor back from Quimper for the night, and seated beside a fatand affable stranger I felt no inclination to talk of Kerfol....

But that evening, when Lanrivain and the solicitor were closeted in thestudy, Madame de Lanrivain began to question me in the drawing-room.

“Well—are you going to buy Kerfol?” she asked, tilting up her gay chinfrom her embroidery.

“I haven’t decided yet. The fact is, I couldn’t get into the house,” Isaid, as if I had simply postponed my decision, and meant to go back foranother look.

“You couldn’t get in? Why, what happened? The family are mad to sell theplace, and the old guardian has orders——”

“Very likely. But the old guardian wasn’t there.”

“What a pity. He must have gone to market. But his daughter——?”

“There was nobody about. At least I saw no one.”

“How extraordinary! Literally nobody?”

“Nobody but a lot of dogs—a whole pack of them—who seemed to have theplace to themselves.”

Madame de Lanrivain let the embroidery slip to her knees, and folded herhands on it. For several minutes she looked at me thoughtfully.

“A pack of dogs—you saw them?”

“Saw them? I saw nothing else!”

“How many?” She dropped her voice a little. “I’ve always wondered——”

I looked at her with surprise: I had supposed the place to be familiarto her. “Have you never been to Kerfol?” I asked.

“Oh, yes; often. But never on that day.”

“What day?”

“I’d quite forgotten, and so had Hervé, I’m sure. If we’d remembered, wenever should have sent you to-day—but then, after all, one doesn’t halfbelieve that sort of thing, does one?”

“What sort of thing?” I asked, involuntarily sinking my voice to thelevel of hers. Inwardly I was thinking: “I knew there wassomething....”

Madame de Lanrivain cleared her throat and produced a reassuring smile.“Didn’t Hervé tell you the story of Kerfol? An ancestor of his was mixedup in it. You know every Breton house has its ghost-story; and some ofthem are rather unpleasant.”

“Yes—but those dogs?”

“Well, those dogs are the ghosts of Kerfol. At least, the peasants saythere’s one day in the year when a lot of dogs appear there; and thatday the keeper and his daughter go off to Morlaix and get drunk. Thewomen in Brittany drink dreadfully.” She stooped to match a silk; thenshe lifted her charming, inquisitive Parisian face. “Did you reallysee a lot of dogs? There isn’t one at Kerfol,” she said.

2

Lanrivain, the next day, hunted out a shabby calf volume from the backof an upper shelf of his library.

“Yes—here it is. What does it call itself? A History of the Assizes ofthe Duchy of Brittany. Quimper, 1702. The book was written about ahundred years later than the Kerfol affair; but I believe the account istranscribed pretty literally from the judicial records. Anyhow, it’squeer reading. And there’s a Hervé de Lanrivain mixed up in it—notexactly my style, as you’ll see. But then he’s only a collateral. Here,take the book up to bed with you. I don’t exactly remember the details;but after you’ve read it, I’ll bet anything you’ll leave your lightburning all night!”

I left my light burning all night, as he had predicted; but it waschiefly because, till near dawn, I was absorbed in my reading. Theaccount of the trial of Anne de Cornault, wife of the lord of Kerfol,was long and closely printed. It was, as my friend had said, probably analmost literal transcription of what took place in the court-room; andthe trial lasted nearly a month. Besides, the type of the book was verybad....

At first I thought of translating the old record. But it is full ofwearisome repetitions, and the main lines of the story are foreverstraying off into side issues. So I have tried to disentangle it, andgive it here in a simpler form. At times, however, I have reverted tothe text because no other words could have conveyed so exactly the senseof what I felt at Kerfol; and nowhere have I added anything of my own.

3

It was in the year 16— that Yves de Cornault, lord of the domain ofKerfol, went to the pardon of Locronan to perform his religiousduties. He was a rich and powerful noble, then in his sixty-second year,but hale and sturdy, a great horseman and hunter and a pious man. So allhis neighbours attested. In appearance he was short and broad, with aswarthy face, legs slightly bowed from the saddle, a hanging nose andbroad hands with black hairs on them. He had married young and lost hiswife and son soon after, and since then had lived alone at Kerfol. Twicea year he went to Morlaix, where he had a handsome house by the river,and spent a week or ten days there; and occasionally he rode to Renneson business. Witnesses were found to declare that during these absenceshe led a life different from the one he was known to lead at Kerfol,where he busied himself with his estate, attended mass daily, and foundhis only amusem*nt in hunting the wild boar and water-fowl. But theserumours are not particularly relevant, and it is certain that amongpeople of his own class in the neighbourhood he passed for a stern andeven austere man, observant of his religious obligations, and keepingstrictly to himself. There was no talk of any familiarity with the womenon his estate, though at that time the nobility were very free withtheir peasants. Some people said he had never looked at a woman sincehis wife’s death; but such things are hard to prove, and the evidence onthis point was not worth much.

Well, in his sixty-second year, Yves de Cornault went to the pardon atLocronan, and saw there a young lady of Douarnenez, who had ridden overpillion behind her father to do her duty to the saint. Her name was Annede Barrigan, and she came of good old Breton stock, but much less greatand powerful than that of Yves de Cornault; and her father hadsquandered his fortune at cards, and lived almost like a peasant in hislittle granite manor on the moors.... I have said I would add nothing ofmy own to this bald statement of a strange case; but I must interruptmyself here to describe the young lady who rode up to the lych-gate ofLocronan at the very moment when the Baron de Cornault was alsodismounting there. I take my description from a faded drawing in redcrayon, sober and truthful enough to be by a late pupil of the Clouets,which hangs in Lanrivain’s study, and is said to be a portrait of Annede Barrigan. It is unsigned and has no mark of identity but the initialsA. B., and the date 16—, the year after her marriage. It represents ayoung woman with a small oval face, almost pointed, yet wide enough fora full mouth with a tender depression at the corners. The nose is small,and the eyebrows are set rather high, far apart, and as lightlypencilled as the eyebrows in a Chinese painting. The forehead is highand serious, and the hair, which one feels to be fine and thick andfair, is drawn off it and lies close like a cap. The eyes are neitherlarge nor small, hazel probably, with a look at once shy and steady. Apair of beautiful long hands are crossed below the lady’s breast....

The chaplain of Kerfol, and other witnesses, averred that when the Baroncame back from Locronan he jumped from his horse, ordered another to beinstantly saddled, called to a young page to come with him, and rodeaway that same evening to the south. His steward followed the nextmorning with coffers laden on a pair of pack mules. The following weekYves de Cornault rode back to Kerfol, sent for his vassals and tenants,and told them he was to be married at All Saints to Anne de Barrigan ofDouarnenez. And on All Saints’ Day the marriage took place.

As to the next few years, the evidence on both sides seems to show thatthey passed happily for the couple. No one was found to say that Yves deCornault had been unkind to his wife, and it was plain to all that hewas content with his bargain. Indeed, it was admitted by the chaplainand other witnesses for the prosecution that the young lady had asoftening influence on her husband, and that he became less exactingwith his tenants, less harsh to peasants and dependents, and lesssubject to the fits of gloomy silence which had darkened his widowhood.As to his wife, the only grievance her champions could call up in herbehalf was that Kerfol was a lonely place, and that when her husband wasaway on business at Rennes or Morlaix—whither she was never taken—shewas not allowed so much as to walk in the park unaccompanied. But no oneasserted that she was unhappy, though one servant-woman said she hadsurprised her crying, and had heard her say that she was a womanaccursed to have no child, and nothing in life to call her own. But thatwas a natural enough feeling in a wife attached to her husband; andcertainly it must have been a great grief to Yves de Cornault that shebore no son. Yet he never made her feel her childlessness as areproach—she admits this in her evidence—but seemed to try to make herforget it by showering gifts and favours on her. Rich though he was, hehad never been open-handed; but nothing was too fine for his wife, inthe way of silks or gems or linen, or whatever else she fancied. Everywandering merchant was welcome at Kerfol, and when the master was calledaway he never came back without bringing his wife a handsomepresent—something curious and particular—from Morlaix or Rennes orQuimper. One of the waiting-women gave, in cross-examination, aninteresting list of one year’s gifts, which I copy. From Morlaix, acarved ivory junk, with Chinamen at the oars, that a strange sailor hadbrought back as a votive offering for Notre Dame de la Clarté, abovePloumanac’h; from Quimper, an embroidered gown, worked by the nuns ofthe Assumption; from Rennes, a silver rose that opened and showed anamber Virgin with a crown of garnets; from Morlaix, again, a length ofDamascus velvet shot with gold, bought of a Jew from Syria; and forMichaelmas that same year, from Rennes, a necklet or bracelet of roundstones—emeralds and pearls and rubies—strung like beads on a fine goldchain. This was the present that pleased the lady best, the woman said.Later on, as it happened, it was produced at the trial, and appears tohave struck the Judges and the public as a curious and valuable jewel.

The very same winter, the Baron absented himself again, this time as faras Bordeaux, and on his return he brought his wife something even odderand prettier than the bracelet. It was a winter evening when he rode upto Kerfol, and, walking into the hall, found her sitting by the hearth,her chin on her hand, looking into the fire. He carried a velvet box inhis hand and, setting it down, lifted the lid and let out a littlegolden-brown dog.

Anne de Cornault exclaimed with pleasure as the little creature boundedtoward her. “Oh, it looks like a bird or a butterfly!” she cried as shepicked it up; and the dog put its paws on her shoulders and looked ather with eyes “like a Christian’s.” After that she would never have itout of her sight, and petted and talked to it as if it had been achild—as indeed it was the nearest thing to a child she was to know.Yves de Cornault was much pleased with his purchase. The dog had beenbrought to him by a sailor from an East Indian merchantman, and thesailor had bought it of a pilgrim in a bazaar at Jaffa, who had stolenit from a nobleman’s wife in China: a perfectly permissible thing to do,since the pilgrim was a Christian and the nobleman a heathen doomed tohell-fire. Yves de Cornault had paid a long price for the dog, for theywere beginning to be in demand at the French court, and the sailor knewhe had got hold of a good thing; but Anne’s pleasure was so great that,to see her laugh and play with the little animal, her husband woulddoubtless have given twice the sum.

So far all the evidence is at one, and the narrative plain sailing; butnow the steering becomes difficult. I will try to keep as nearly aspossible to Anne’s own statements; though toward the end, poor thing....

Well, to go back. The very year after the little brown dog was broughtto Kerfol, Yves de Cornault, one winter night, was found dead at thehead of a narrow flight of stairs leading down from his wife’s rooms toa door opening on the court. It was his wife who found him and gave thealarm, so distracted, poor wretch, with fear and horror—for his bloodwas all over her—that at first the roused household could not make outwhat she was saying, and thought she had suddenly gone mad. But there,sure enough, at the top of the stairs lay her husband, stone dead, andhead foremost, the blood from his wounds dripping down to the step belowhim. He had been dreadfully scratched and gashed about the face andthroat, as if with curious pointed weapons; and one of his legs had adeep tear in it which had cut an artery, and probably caused his death.But how did he come there, and who had murdered him?

His wife declared that she had been asleep in her bed, and hearing hiscry had rushed out to find him lying on the stairs; but this wasimmediately questioned. In the first place, it was proved that from herroom she could not have heard the struggle on the stairs, owing to thethickness of the walls and the length of the intervening passage; thenit was evident that she had not been in bed and asleep, since she wasdressed when she roused the house, and her bed had not been slept in.Moreover, the door at the bottom of the stairs was ajar, and it wasnoticed by the chaplain (an observant man) that the dress she wore wasstained with blood about the knees, and that there were traces of smallblood-stained hands low down on the staircase walls, so that it wasconjectured that she had really been at the postern-door when herhusband fell and, feeling her way up to him in the darkness on her handsand knees, had been stained by his blood dripping down on her. Of courseit was argued on the other side that the blood-marks on her dress mighthave been caused by her kneeling down by her husband when she rushed outof her room; but there was the open door below, and the fact that thefinger-marks in the staircase all pointed upward.

The accused held to her statement for the first two days, in spite ofits improbability; but on the third day word was brought to her thatHervé de Lanrivain, a young nobleman of the neighbourhood, had beenarrested for complicity in the crime. Two or three witnesses thereuponcame forward to say that it was known throughout the country thatLanrivain had formerly been on good terms with the lady of Cornault; butthat he had been absent from Brittany for over a year, and people hadceased to associate their names. The witnesses who made this statementwere not of a very reputable sort. One was an old herb-gatherersuspected of witchcraft, another a drunken clerk from a neighbouringparish, the third a half-witted shepherd who could be made to sayanything; and it was clear that the prosecution was not satisfied withits case, and would have liked to find more proof of Lanrivain’scomplicity than the statement of the herb-gatherer, who swore to havingseen him climbing the wall of the park on the night of the murder. Oneway of patching out incomplete proofs in those days was to put some sortof pressure, moral or physical, on the accused person. It is not clearwhat pressure was put on Anne de Cornault; but on the third day, whenshe was brought in court, she “appeared weak and wandering,” and afterbeing encouraged to collect herself and speak the truth, on her honourand the wounds of her Blessed Redeemer, she confessed that she had infact gone down the stairs to speak with Hervé de Lanrivain (who deniedeverything), and had been surprised there by the sound of her husband’sfall. That was better; and the prosecution rubbed its hands withsatisfaction. The satisfaction increased when various dependents livingat Kerfol were induced to say—with apparent sincerity—that during theyear or two preceding his death their master had once more grownuncertain and irascible, and subject to the fits of brooding silencewhich his household had learned to dread before his second marriage.This seemed to show that things had not been going well at Kerfol;though no one could be found to say that there had been any signs ofopen disagreement between husband and wife.

Anne de Cornault, when questioned as to her reason for going down atnight to open the door to Hervé de Lanrivain, made an answer which musthave sent a smile around the court. She said it was because she waslonely and wanted to talk with the young man. Was this the only reason?she was asked; and replied: “Yes, by the Cross over your Lordships’heads.” “But why at midnight?” the court asked. “Because I could see himin no other way.” I can see the exchange of glances across the erminecollars under the Crucifix.

Anne de Cornault, further questioned, said that her married life hadbeen extremely lonely: “desolate” was the word she used. It was truethat her husband seldom spoke harshly to her; but there were days whenhe did not speak at all. It was true that he had never struck orthreatened her; but he kept her like a prisoner at Kerfol, and when herode away to Morlaix or Quimper or Rennes he set so close a watch on herthat she could not pick a flower in the garden without having awaiting-woman at her heels. “I am no Queen, to need such honours,” sheonce said to him; and he had answered that a man who has a treasure doesnot leave the key in the lock when he goes out. “Then take me with you,”she urged; but to this he said that towns were pernicious places, andyoung wives better off at their firesides.

“But what did you want to say to Hervé de Lanrivain?” the court asked;and she answered: “To ask him to take me away.”

“Ah—you confess that you went down to him with adulterous thoughts?”

“No.”

“Then why did you want him to take you away?”

“Because I was afraid for my life.”

“Of whom were you afraid?”

“Of my husband.”

“Why were you afraid of your husband?”

“Because he had strangled my little dog.”

Another smile must have passed around the courtroom: in days when anynobleman had a right to hang his peasants—and most of them exercisedit—pinching a pet animal’s wind-pipe was nothing to make a fuss about.

At this point one of the Judges, who appears to have had a certainsympathy for the accused, suggested that she should be allowed toexplain herself in her own way; and she thereupon made the followingstatement.

The first years of her marriage had been lonely; but her husband had notbeen unkind to her. If she had had a child she would not have beenunhappy; but the days were long, and it rained too much.

It was true that her husband, whenever he went away and left her,brought her a handsome present on his return; but this did not make upfor the loneliness. At least nothing had, till he brought her the littlebrown dog from the East: after that she was much less unhappy. Herhusband seemed pleased that she was so fond of the dog; he gave herleave to put her jewelled bracelet around its neck, and keep it alwayswith her.

One day she had fallen asleep in her room, with the dog at her feet, ashis habit was. Her feet were bare and resting on his back. Suddenly shewas waked by her husband: he stood beside her, smiling not unkindly.

“You look like my great-grandmother, Juliane de Cornault, lying in thechapel with her feet on a little dog,” he said.

The analogy sent a chill through her, but she laughed and answered:“Well, when I am dead you must put me beside her, carved in marble, withmy dog at my feet.”

“Oho—we’ll wait and see,” he said, laughing also, but with his blackbrows close together. “The dog is the emblem of fidelity.”

“And do you doubt my right to lie with mine at my feet?”

“When I’m in doubt I find out,” he answered. “I am an old man,” headded, “and people say I make you lead a lonely life. But I swear youshall have your monument if you earn it.”

“And I swear to be faithful,” she returned, “if only for the sake ofhaving my little dog at my feet.”

Not long afterward he went on business to the Quimper Assizes; and whilehe was away his aunt, the widow of a great nobleman of the duchy, cameto spend a night at Kerfol on her way to the pardon of Ste. Barbe. Shewas a woman of piety and consequence, and much respected by Yves deCornault, and when she proposed to Anne to go with her to Ste. Barbe, noone could object, and even the chaplain declared himself in favour ofthe pilgrimage. So Anne set out for Ste. Barbe, and there for the firsttime she talked with Hervé de Lanrivain. He had come once or twice toKerfol with his father, but she had never before exchanged a dozen wordswith him. They did not talk for more than five minutes now: it was underthe chestnuts, as the procession was coming out of the chapel. He said:“I pity you,” and she was surprised, for she had not supposed that anyone thought her an object of pity. He added: “Call for me when you needme,” and she smiled a little, but was glad afterward, and thought oftenof the meeting.

She confessed to having seen him three times afterward: not more. How orwhere she would not say—one had the impression that she feared toimplicate some one. Their meetings had been rare and brief; and at thelast he had told her that he was starting the next day for a foreigncountry, on a mission which was not without peril and might keep him formany months absent. He asked her for a remembrance, and she had none togive him but the collar about the little dog’s neck. She was sorryafterward that she had given it, but he was so unhappy at going that shehad not had the courage to refuse.

Her husband was away at the time. When he returned a few days later hepicked up the animal to pet it, and noticed that its collar was missing.His wife told him that the dog had lost it in the undergrowth of thepark, and that she and her maids had hunted a whole day for it. It wastrue, she explained to the court, that she had made the maids search forthe necklet—they all believed the dog had lost it in the park.

Her husband made no comment, and that evening at supper he was in hisusual mood, between good and bad: you could never tell which. He talkeda good deal, describing what he had seen and done at Rennes; but now andthen he stopped and looked hard at her, and when she went to bed shefound her little dog strangled on her pillow. The little thing was dead,but still warm; she stooped to lift it, and her distress turned tohorror when she discovered that it had been strangled by twisting twiceround its throat the necklet she had given to Lanrivain.

The next morning at dawn she buried the dog in the garden, and hid thenecklet in her breast. She said nothing to her husband, then or later,and he said nothing to her; but that day he had a peasant hanged forstealing a fa*ggot in the park, and the next day he nearly beat to deatha young horse he was breaking.

Winter set in, and the short days passed, and the long nights, one byone; and she heard nothing of Hervé de Lanrivain. It might be that herhusband had killed him; or merely that he had been robbed of thenecklet. Day after day by the hearth among the spinning maids, nightafter night alone on her bed, she wondered and trembled. Sometimes attable her husband looked across at her and smiled; and then she feltsure that Lanrivain was dead. She dared not try to get news of him, forshe was sure her husband would find out if she did: she had an idea thathe could find out anything. Even when a witch-woman who was a notedseer, and could show you the whole world in her crystal, came to thecastle for a night’s shelter, and the maids flocked to her, Anne heldback.

The winter was long and black and rainy. One day, in Yves de Cornault’sabsence, some gypsies came to Kerfol with a troop of performing dogs.Anne bought the smallest and cleverest, a white dog with a feathery coatand one blue and one brown eye. It seemed to have been ill-treated bythe gypsies, and clung to her plaintively when she took it from them.That evening her husband came back, and when she went to bed she foundthe dog strangled on her pillow.

After that she said to herself that she would never have another dog;but one bitter cold evening a poor lean greyhound was found whining atthe castle-gate, and she took him in and forbade the maids to speak ofhim to her husband. She hid him in a room that no one went to, smuggledfood to him from her own plate, made him a warm bed to lie on and pettedhim like a child.

Yves de Cornault came home, and the next day she found the greyhoundstrangled on her pillow. She wept in secret, but said nothing, andresolved that even if she met a dog dying of hunger she would neverbring him into the castle; but one day she found a young sheep-dog, abrindled puppy with good blue eyes, lying with a broken leg in the snowof the park. Yves de Cornault was at Rennes, and she brought the dog in,warmed and fed it, tied up its leg and hid it in the castle till herhusband’s return. The day before, she gave it to a peasant woman wholived a long way off, and paid her handsomely to care for it and saynothing; but that night she heard a whining and scratching at her door,and when she opened it the lame puppy, drenched and shivering, jumped upon her with little sobbing barks. She hid him in her bed, and the nextmorning was about to have him taken back to the peasant woman when sheheard her husband ride into the court. She shut the dog in a chest, andwent down to receive him. An hour or two later, when she returned to herroom, the puppy lay strangled on her pillow....

After that she dared not make a pet of any other dog; and her lonelinessbecame almost unendurable. Sometimes, when she crossed the court of thecastle, and thought no one was looking, she stopped to pat the oldpointer at the gate. But one day as she was caressing him her husbandcame out of the chapel; and the next day the old dog was gone....

This curious narrative was not told in one sitting of the court, orreceived without impatience and incredulous comment. It was plain thatthe Judges were surprised by its puerility, and that it did not help theaccused in the eyes of the public. It was an odd tale, certainly; butwhat did it prove? That Yves de Cornault disliked dogs, and that hiswife, to gratify her own fancy, persistently ignored this dislike. Asfor pleading this trivial disagreement as an excuse for herrelations—whatever their nature—with her supposed accomplice, theargument was so absurd that her own lawyer manifestly regretted havinglet her make use of it, and tried several times to cut short her story.But she went on to the end, with a kind of hypnotised insistence, asthough the scenes she evoked were so real to her that she had forgottenwhere she was and imagined herself to be re-living them.

At length the Judge who had previously shown a certain kindness to hersaid (leaning forward a little, one may suppose, from his row of dozingcolleagues): “Then you would have us believe that you murdered yourhusband because he would not let you keep a pet dog?”

“I did not murder my husband.”

“Who did, then? Hervé de Lanrivain?”

“No.”

“Who then? Can you tell us?”

“Yes, I can tell you. The dogs—” At that point she was carried out ofthe court in a swoon.

It was evident that her lawyer tried to get her to abandon this line ofdefence. Possibly her explanation, whatever it was, had seemedconvincing when she poured it out to him in the heat of their firstprivate colloquy; but now that it was exposed to the cold daylight ofjudicial scrutiny, and the banter of the town, he was thoroughly ashamedof it, and would have sacrificed her without a scruple to save hisprofessional reputation. But the obstinate Judge—who perhaps, after all,was more inquisitive than kindly—evidently wanted to hear the story out,and she was ordered, the next day, to continue her deposition.

She said that after the disappearance of the old watchdog nothingparticular happened for a month or two. Her husband was much as usual:she did not remember any special incident. But one evening a pedlarwoman came to the castle and was selling trinkets to the maids. She hadno heart for trinkets, but she stood looking on while the women madetheir choice. And then, she did not know how, but the pedlar coaxed herinto buying for herself a pear-shaped pomander with a strong scent init—she had once seen something of the kind on a gypsy woman. She had nodesire for the pomander, and did not know why she had bought it. Thepedlar said that whoever wore it had the power to read the future; butshe did not really believe that, or care much either. However, shebought the thing and took it up to her room, where she sat turning itabout in her hand. Then the strange scent attracted her and she began towonder what kind of spice was in the box. She opened it and found a greybean rolled in a strip of paper; and on the paper she saw a sign sheknew, and a message from Hervé de Lanrivain, saying that he was at homeagain and would be at the door in the court that night after the moonhad set....

She burned the paper and sat down to think. It was nightfall, and herhusband was at home.... She had no way of warning Lanrivain, and therewas nothing to do but to wait....

At this point I fancy the drowsy court-room beginning to wake up. Evento the oldest hand on the bench there must have been a certain relish inpicturing the feelings of a woman on receiving such a message atnightfall from a man living twenty miles away, to whom she had no meansof sending a warning....

She was not a clever woman, I imagine; and as the first result of hercogitation she appears to have made the mistake of being, that evening,too kind to her husband. She could not ply him with wine, according tothe traditional expedient, for though he drank heavily at times, he hada strong head; and when he drank beyond its strength it was because hechose to, and not because a woman coaxed him. Not his wife, at anyrate—she was an old story by now. As I read the case, I fancy there wasno feeling for her left in him but the hatred occasioned by his supposeddishonour.

At any rate, she tried to call up her old graces; but early in theevening he complained of pains and fever, and left the hall to go up tothe closet where he sometimes slept. His servant carried him a cup ofhot wine, and brought back word that he was sleeping and not to bedisturbed; and an hour later, when Anne lifted the tapestry and listenedat his door, she heard his loud regular breathing. She thought it mightbe a feint, and stayed a long time barefooted in the passage, her ear tothe crack; but the breathing went on too steadily and naturally to beother than that of a man in a sound sleep. She crept back to her roomreassured, and stood in the window watching the moon set through thetrees of the park. The sky was misty and starless, and after the moonwent down the night was black as pitch. She knew the time had come, andstole along the passage, past her husband’s door—where she stopped againto listen to his breathing—to the top of the stairs. There she paused amoment, and assured herself that no one was following her; then shebegan to go down the stairs in the darkness. They were so steep andwinding that she had to go very slowly, for fear of stumbling. Her onethought was to get the door unbolted, tell Lanrivain to make his escape,and hasten back to her room. She had tried the bolt earlier in theevening, and managed to put a little grease on it; but nevertheless,when she drew it, it gave a squeak ... not loud, but it made her heartstop; and the next minute, overhead, she heard a noise....

“What noise?” the prosecution interposed.

“My husband’s voice calling out my name and cursing me.”

“What did you hear after that?”

“A terrible scream and a fall.”

“Where was Hervé de Lanrivain at this time?”

“He was standing outside in the court. I just made him out in thedarkness. I told him for God’s sake to go, and then I pushed the doorshut.”

“What did you do next?”

“I stood at the foot of the stairs and listened.”

“What did you hear?”

“I heard dogs snarling and panting.” (Visible discouragement of thebench, boredom of the public, and exasperation of the lawyer for thedefence. Dogs again! But the inquisitive Judge insisted.)

“What dogs?”

She bent her head and spoke so low that she had to be told to repeat heranswer: “I don’t know.”

“How do you mean—you don’t know?”

“I don’t know what dogs....”

The Judge again intervened: “Try to tell us exactly what happened. Howlong did you remain at the foot of the stairs?”

“Only a few minutes.”

“And what was going on meanwhile overhead?”

“The dogs kept on snarling and panting. Once or twice he cried out. Ithink he moaned. Then he was quiet.”

“Then what happened?”

“Then I heard a sound like the noise of a pack when the wolf is thrownto them—gulping and lapping.”

(There was a groan of disgust and repulsion through the court, andanother attempted intervention by the distracted lawyer. But theinquisitive Judge was still inquisitive.)

“And all the while you did not go up?”

“Yes—I went up then—to drive them off.”

“The dogs?”

“Yes.”

“Well——?”

“When I got there it was quite dark. I found my husband’s flint andsteel and struck a spark. I saw him lying there. He was dead.”

“And the dogs?”

“The dogs were gone.”

“Gone—where to?”

“I don’t know. There was no way out—and there were no dogs at Kerfol.”

She straightened herself to her full height, threw her arms above herhead, and fell down on the stone floor with a long scream. There was amoment of confusion in the court-room. Some one on the bench was heardto say: “This is clearly a case for the ecclesiastical authorities”—andthe prisoner’s lawyer doubtless jumped at the suggestion.

After this, the trial loses itself in a maze of cross-questioning andsquabbling. Every witness who was called corroborated Anne de Cornault’sstatement that there were no dogs at Kerfol: had been none for severalmonths. The master of the house had taken a dislike to dogs, there wasno denying it. But, on the other hand, at the inquest, there had beenlong and bitter discussions as to the nature of the dead man’s wounds.One of the surgeons called in had spoken of marks that looked likebites. The suggestion of witchcraft was revived, and the opposinglawyers hurled tomes of necromancy at each other.

At last Anne de Cornault was brought back into court—at the instance ofthe same Judge—and asked if she knew where the dogs she spoke of couldhave come from. On the body of her Redeemer she swore that she did not.Then the Judge put his final question: “If the dogs you think you heardhad been known to you, do you think you would have recognized them bytheir barking?”

“Yes.”

“Did you recognize them?”

“Yes.”

“What dogs do you take them to have been?”

“My dead dogs,” she said in a whisper.... She was taken out of court,not to reappear there again. There was some kind of ecclesiasticalinvestigation, and the end of the business was that the Judges disagreedwith each other, and with the ecclesiastical committee, and that Anne deCornault was finally handed over to the keeping of her husband’s family,who shut her up in the keep of Kerfol, where she is said to have diedmany years later, a harmless mad-woman.

So ends her story. As for that of Hervé de Lanrivain, I had only toapply to his collateral descendant for its subsequent details. Theevidence against the young man being insufficient, and his familyinfluence in the duchy considerable, he was set free, and left soonafterward for Paris. He was probably in no mood for a worldly life, andhe appears to have come almost immediately under the influence of thefamous M. Arnauld d’Andilly and the gentlemen of Port Royal. A year ortwo later he was received into their Order, and without achieving anyparticular distinction he followed its good and evil fortunes till hisdeath some twenty years later. Lanrivain showed me a portrait of him bya pupil of Philippe de Champaigne: sad eyes, an impulsive mouth and anarrow brow. Poor Hervé de Lanrivain: it was a grey ending. Yet as Ilooked at his stiff and sallow effigy, in the dark dress of theJansenists, I almost found myself envying his fate. After all, in thecourse of his life two great things had happened to him: he had lovedromantically, and he must have talked with Pascal....

THE CHINK AND THE CHILD

By THOMAS BURKE

From Limehouse Nights, by Thomas Burke. Copyright, 1917, byRobert M. McBride and Company.

It is a tale of love and lovers that they tell in the low-lit Causewaythat slinks from West India Dock Road to the dark waste of watersbeyond. In Pennyfields, too, you may hear it; and I do not doubt that itis told in far-away Tai-Ping, in Singapore, in Tokio, in Shanghai, andthose other gay-lamped haunts of wonder whither the wandering people ofLimehouse go and whence they return so casually. It is a tale for tears,and should you hear it in the lilied tongue of the yellow men, it wouldawaken in you all your pity. In our bald speech it must, unhappily, loseits essential fragrance, that quality that will lift an affair ofsqualor into the loftier spheres of passion and imagination, beauty andsorrow. It will sound unconvincing, a little ... you know ... the kindof thing that is best forgotten. Perhaps....

But listen.

It is Battling Burrows, the lightning welter-weight of Shadwell, the boxo’ tricks, the Tetrarch of the ring, who enters first. Battling Burrows,the pride of Ratcliff, Poplar and Limehouse, and the despair of hismanager and backers. For he loved wine, woman and song; and the boxingworld held that he couldn’t last long on that. There was any amount ofmoney in him for his parasites if only the damned women could be cutout; but again and again would he disappear from his training quarterson the eve of a big fight, to consort with Molly and Dolly, and to drinkother things than barley-water and lemon-juice. Wherefore ChuckLightfoot, his manager, forced him to fight on any and every occasionwhile he was good and a money-maker; for at any moment the collapsemight come, and Chuck would be called upon by his creditors to strip offthat “shirt” which at every contest he laid upon his man.

Battling was of a type that is too common in the eastern districts ofLondon; a type that upsets all accepted classifications. He wouldn’t beclassed. He was a curious mixture of athleticism and degeneracy. Hecould run like a deer, leap like a greyhound, fight like a machine, anddrink like a suction-hose. He was a bully; he had the courage of thehigh hero. He was an open-air sport; he had the vices of a Frenchdecadent.

It was one of his love adventures that properly begins this tale; forthe girl had come to Battling one night with a recital of terriblehappenings; of an angered parent, of a slammed door.... In her arms wasa bundle of white rags. Now Battling, like so many sensualists, was alsoa sentimentalist. He took that bundle of white rags; he paid the girlmoney to get into the country; and the bundle of white rags had existedin and about his domicile in Pekin Street, Limehouse, for some elevenyears. Her position was nondescript; to the casual observer it wouldseem that she was Battling’s relief punch-ball—an unpleasant post forany human creature to occupy, especially if you are a little girl oftwelve, and the place be the one-room household of the lightningwelter-weight. When Battling was cross with his manager ... well, it isindefensible to strike your manager or to throw chairs at him, if he isa good manager; but to use a dogwhip on a small child is permissible andquite as satisfying; at least he found it so. On these occasions, then,when very cross with his sparring partners, or overflushed with victoryand juice of the grape, he would flog Lucy. But he was reputed by theboys to be a good fellow. He only whipped the child when he was drunk;and he was only drunk for eight months of the year.

For just over twelve years this bruised little body had crept aboutPoplar and Limehouse. Always the white face was scarred with red, orblack-furrowed with tears; always in her steps and in her look wasexpectation of dread things. Night after night her sleep was broken bythe cheerful Battling’s brute voice and violent hands; and terrible werethe lessons which life taught her in those few years. Yet, for all thestarved face and the transfixed air, there was a lurking beauty abouther, a something that called you in the soft curve of her cheek thatcried for kisses and was fed with blows, and in the splendidmournfulness that grew in eyes and lips. The brown hair chimed againstthe pale face, like the rounding of a verse. The blue cotton frock andthe broken shoes could not break the loveliness of her slender figure orthe shy grace of her movements as she flitted about the squalid alleysof the docks; though in all that region of wasted life and toil anddecay, there was not one that noticed her, until....

Now there lived in Chinatown, in one lousy room over Mr. Tai Fu’s storein Pennyfields, a wandering yellow man, named Cheng Huan. Cheng Huan wasa poet. He did not realise it. He had never been able to understand whyhe was unpopular; and he died without knowing. But a poet he was, tingedwith the materialism of his race, and in his poor listening heartstrange echoes would awake of which he himself was barely conscious. Heregarded things differently from other sailors; he felt things morepassionately, and things which they felt not at all; so he lived aloneinstead of at one of the lodging-houses. Every evening he would sit athis window and watch the street. Then, a little later, he would take ajolt of opium at the place at the corner of Formosa Street.

He had come to London by devious ways. He had loafed on the Bund atShanghai. The fateful intervention of a crimp had landed him on a boat.He got to Cardiff, and sojourned in its Chinatown; thence to Liverpool,to Glasgow; thence, by a ticket from the Asiatics’ Aid Society, toLimehouse, where he remained for two reasons—because it cost him nothingto live there, and because he was too lazy to find a boat to take himback to Shanghai.

So he would lounge and smoke cheap cigarettes, and sit at his window,from which point he had many times observed the lyrical Lucy. He noticedher casually. Another day, he observed her, not casually. Later, helooked long at her; later still, he began to watch for her and for thatstrangely provocative something about the toss of the head and the hangof the little blue skirt as it coyly kissed her knee.

Then that beauty which all Limehouse had missed smote Cheng. Straight tohis heart it went, and cried itself into his very blood. Thereafter thespirit of poetry broke her blossoms all about his odorous chamber.Nothing was the same. Pennyfields became a happy-lanterned street, andthe monotonous fiddle in the house opposite was the music of hisfathers. Bits of old song floated through his mind: little sweet versesof Le Tai-pih, murmuring of plum blossom, ricefield and stream. Day byday he would moon at his window, or shuffle about the streets, lightingto a flame when Lucy would pass and gravely return his quiet regard; andnight after night, too, he would dream of a pale, lily-lovely child.

And now the Fates moved swiftly various pieces on their sinister board,and all that followed happened with a speed and precision that showeddirection from higher ways.

It was Wednesday night in Limehouse, and for once clear of mist. Out ofthe coloured darkness of the Causeway stole the muffled wail of reedinstruments, and, though every window was closely shuttered, between thejoints shot jets of light and stealthy voices, and you could hear thewhisper of slippered feet, and the stuttering steps of the satyr and thesad*st. It was to the café in the middle of the Causeway, lit by thepallid blue light that is the symbol of China throughout the world, thatCheng Huan came, to take a dish of noodle and some tea. Thence he movedto another house whose stairs ran straight to the street, and abovewhose doorway a lamp glowed like an evil eye. At this establishment hemostly took his pipe of “chandu” and a brief chat with the keeper of thehouse, for, although not popular, and very silent, he liked sometimes tobe in the presence of his compatriots. Like a figure of a shadowgraph heslid through the door and up the stairs.

The chamber he entered was a bit of the Orient squatting at the portalsof the West. It was a well-kept place where one might play a game offan-tan, or take a shot or so of li-un, or purchase other varieties ofOriental delight. It was sunk in a purple dusk, though here and there alantern stung the gloom. Low couches lay around the walls, and strangemen decorated them: Chinese, Japs, Malays, Lascars, with one or twowhite girls; and sleek, noiseless attendants swam from couch to couch.Away in the far corner sprawled a lank figure in brown shirting, itsnerveless fingers curled about the stem of a spent pipe. On one of thelounges a scorbutic nigg*r sat with a Jewess from Shadwell. Squatting ona table in the centre, beneath one of the lanterns, was a musician witha reed, blinking upon the company like a sly cat, and making his melodyof six repeated notes.

The atmosphere churned. The dirt of years, tobacco of many growings,opium, betel nut, and moist flesh allied themselves in one grand assaultagainst the nostrils.

As Cheng brooded on his insect-ridden cushion, of a sudden the lanternabove the musician was caught by the ribbon of his reed. It danced andflung a hazy radiance on a divan in the shadow. He saw—started—halfrose. His heart galloped, and the blood pounded in his quiet veins. Thenhe dropped again,—crouched, and stared.

O lily-flowers and plum blossoms! O silver streams and dim-starredskies! O wine and roses, song and laughter! For there, kneeling on amass of rugs, mazed and big-eyed, but understanding, was Lucy ... hisLucy ... his little maid. Through the dusk she must have felt his intentgaze upon her; for he crouched there, fascinated, staring into the nowobscured corner where she knelt.

But the sickness which momentarily gripped him on finding in this placehis snowy-breasted pearl passed and gave place to great joy. She washere; he would talk with her. Little English he had, but simple words,those with few gutturals, he had managed to pick up; so he rose, themasterful lover, and, with feline movements, crossed the nightmarechamber to claim his own.

If you wonder how Lucy came to be in this bagnio, the explanation issimple. Battling was in training. He had flogged her that day beforestarting work; he had then had a few brandies—not many; some eighteen ornineteen—and had locked the door of his room and taken the key. Lucywas, therefore, homeless, and a girl somewhat older than Lucy, so oldand so wise, as girls are in that region, saw in her a possible sourceof revenue. So there they were, and to them appeared Cheng.

From what horrors he saved her that night cannot be told, for her wayswere too audaciously childish to hold her long from harm in such aplace. What he brought to her was love and death.

For he sat by her. He looked at her—reverently yet passionately. Hetouched her—wistfully yet eagerly. He locked a finger in her wondroushair. She did not start away; she did not tremble. She knew well whatshe had to be afraid of in that place; but she was not afraid of Cheng.She pierced the mephitic gloom and scanned his face. No, she was notafraid. His yellow hands, his yellow face, his smooth black hair ...well, he was the first thing that had ever spoken soft words to her; thefirst thing that had ever laid a hand upon her that was not brutal; thefirst thing that had deferred in manner towards her as though she, too,had a right to live. She knew his words were sweet, though she did notunderstand them. Nor can they be set down. Half that he spoke was invillage Chinese; the rest in a mangling of English which no distortedspelling could possibly reproduce.

But he drew her back against the cushions and asked her name, and shetold him; and he inquired her age, and she told him; and he had then twobeautiful words that came easily to his tongue. He repeated them againand again:

“Lucia ... l’il Lucia.... Twelve.... Twelve.” Musical phrases they were,dropping from his lips, and to the child who heard her name pronouncedso lovingly, they were the lost heights of melody. She clung to him, andhe to her. She held his strong arm in both of hers as they crouched onthe divan, and nestled her cheek against his coat.

Well ... he took her home to his wretched room.

“Li’l Lucia, come-a-home ... Lucia.”

His heart was on fire. As they slipped out of the noisomeness into thenight air and crossed the West India Dock Road into Pennyfields, theypassed unnoticed. It was late, for one thing, and for another ... well,nobody cared particularly. His blood rang with soft music and thesolemnity of drums, for surely he had found now what for many years hehad sought—his world’s one flower. Wanderer he was, from Tuan-tsen toShanghai, Shanghai to Glasgow, Cardiff ... Liverpool ... London. He haddreamed often of the women of his native land; perchance one of themshould be his flower. Women, indeed, there had been. Swatow ... he hadrecollections of certain rose-winged hours in coast cities. At manyplaces to which chance had led him a little bird had perched itself uponhis heart, but so lightly and for so brief a while as hardly to be felt.But now—now he had found her in this alabaster co*ckney child. So that hewas glad and had great joy of himself and the blue and silver night, andthe harsh flares of the Poplar Hippodrome.

You will observe that he had claimed her, but had not asked himselfwhether she were of an age for love. The white perfection of the childhad captivated every sense. It may be that he forgot that he was inLondon and not in Tuan-tsen. It may be that he did not care. Of thatnothing can be told. All that is known is that his love was a pure andholy thing. Of that we may be sure, for his worst enemies have said it.

Slowly, softly they mounted the stairs to his room, and with almost anobeisance he entered and drew her in. A bank of cloud raced to the eastand a full moon thrust a sharp sword of light upon them. Silence layover all Pennyfields. With a bird-like movement, she looked up athim—her face alight, her tiny hands upon his coat—clinging, wondering,trusting. He took her hand and kissed it; repeated the kiss upon hercheek and lip and little bosom, twining his fingers in her hair.Docilely, and echoing the smile of his lemon lips in a way that thrilledhim almost to laughter, she returned his kisses impetuously, gladly.

He clasped the nestling to him. Bruised, tearful, with the love of lifealmost thrashed out of her, she had fluttered to him out of the evilnight.

“O li’l Lucia!” And he put soft hands upon her, and smoothed her andcrooned over her many gracious things in his flowered speech. So theystood in the moonlight, while she told him the story of her father, ofher beatings, and starvings and unhappiness.

“O li’l Lucia.... White Blossom.... Twelve.... Twelve years old!”

As he spoke, the clock above the Milwall Docks shot twelve crashingnotes across the night. When the last echo died, he moved to a cupboard,and from it he drew strange things ... formless masses of blue and gold,magical things of silk, and a vessel that was surely Aladdin’s lamp, anda box of spices. He took these robes, and, with tender, reverentfingers, removed from his White Blossom the besmirched rags that coveredher and robed her again, and led her then to the heap of stuff that washis bed, and bestowed her safely.

For himself, he squatted on the floor before her, holding one grubbylittle hand. There he crouched all night, under the lyric moon,sleepless, watchful; and sweet content was his. He had fallen into anuncomfortable posture, and his muscles ached intolerably. But she slept,and he dared not move nor release her hand lest he should awaken her.Weary and trustful, she slept, knowing that the yellow man was kind andthat she might sleep with no fear of a steel hand smashing the delicatestructure of her dreams.

In the morning, when she awoke, still wearing her blue and yellow silk,she gave a cry of amazement. Cheng had been about. Many times had heglided up and down the two flights of stairs, and now at last his roomwas prepared for his princess. It was swept and garnished, and was anapartment worthy a maid who is loved by a poet-prince. There was a beadcurtain. There were muslins of pink and white. There were four bowls offlowers, clean, clear flowers to gladden the White Blossom and set offher sharp beauty. And there was a bowl of water, and a sweet lotion forthe bruise on her cheek.

When she had risen, her prince ministered to her with rice and egg andtea. Cleansed and robed and calm, she sat before him, perched on the endof many cushions as on a throne, with all the grace of the childprincess in the story. She was a poem. The beauty hidden by neglect andfatigue shone out now more clearly and vividly, and from the headsunning over with curls to the small white feet, now bathed andsandalled, she seemed the living interpretation of a Chinese lyric. Andshe was his; her sweet self and her prattle, and her bird-like ways wereall his own.

Oh, beautifully they loved. For two days he held her. Soft caresses fromhis yellow hands and long, devout kisses were all their demonstration.Each night he would tend her, as might mother to child; and each nighthe watched and sometimes slumbered at the foot of her couch.

But now there were those that ran to Battling at his training quartersacross the river, with the news that his child had gone with a Chink—ayellow man. And Battling was angry. He discovered parental rights. Hediscovered indignation. A yellow man after his kid! He’d learn him.Battling did not like men who were not born in the same great country ashimself. Particularly he disliked yellow men. His birth and education inShadwell had taught him that of all creeping things that creep upon theearth the most insidious is the Oriental in the West. And a yellow manand a child. It was ... as you might say ... so ... kind of ... well,wasn’t it? He bellowed that it was “unnacherel.” The yeller man would gothrough it. Yeller! It was his supreme condemnation, his final epithetfor all conduct of which he disapproved.

There was no doubt that he was extremely annoyed. He went to the BlueLantern, in what was once Ratcliff Highway, and thumped the bar, andmade all his world agree with him. And when they agreed with him he gotangrier still. So that when, a few hours later, he climbed through theropes at the Netherlands to meet Bud Tuffit for ten rounds, it was Bud’sfight all the time, and to that bright boy’s astonishment he was thevictor on points at the end of the ten. Battling slouched out of thering, still more determined to let the Chink have it where the chickenhad the axe. He left the house with two pals and a black man, and anumber of really inspired curses from his manager.

On the evening of the third day, then, Cheng slipped sleepily down thestairs to procure more flowers and more rice. The genial Ho Ling, whokeeps the Canton store, held him in talk some little while, and he wasgone from his room perhaps half-an-hour. Then he glided back, andclimbed with happy feet the forty stairs to his temple of wonder.

With a push of a finger he opened the door, and the blood froze on hischeek, the flowers fell from him. The temple was empty and desolate;White Blossom was gone. The muslin hangings were torn down and trampledunderfoot. The flowers had been flung from their bowls about the floor,and the bowls lay in fifty fragments. The joss was smashed. The cupboardhad been opened. Rice was scattered here and there. The little straightbed had been jumped upon by brute feet. Everything that could be smashedor violated had been so treated, and—horror of all—the blue and yellowsilk robe had been rent in pieces, tied in grotesque knots, and slungderisively about the table legs.

I pray devoutly that you may never suffer what Cheng Huan suffered inthat moment. The pangs of death, with no dying; the sickness of the soulwhich longs to escape and cannot; the imprisoned animal within thebreast which struggles madly for a voice and finds none; all the agoniesof all the ages—the agonies of every abandoned lover and lost woman,past and to come—all these things were his in that moment.

Then he found voice and gave a great cry, and men from below came up tohim; and they told him how the man who boxed had been there with a blackman; how he had torn the robes from his child, and dragged her down thestairs by her hair; and how he had shouted aloud for Cheng and had vowedto return and deal separately with him.

Now a terrible dignity came to Cheng, and the soul of his great fathersswept over him. He closed the door against them, and fell prostrate overwhat had been the resting-place of White Blossom. Those without heardstrange sounds as of an animal in its last pains; and it was even so.Cheng was dying. The sacrament of his high and holy passion had beenprofaned; the last sanctuary of the Oriental—his soul dignity—had beenassaulted. The love robes had been torn to ribbons; the veil of histemple cut down. Life was no longer possible; and life without hislittle lady, his White Blossom, was no longer desirable.

Prostrate he lay for the space of some five minutes. Then, in his faceall the pride of accepted destiny, he arose. He drew together the littlebed. With reverent hands he took the pieces of blue and yellow silk,kissing them and fondling them and placing them about the pillow.Silently he gathered up the flowers, and the broken earthenware, andburnt some prayer papers and prepared himself for death.

Now it is the custom among those of the sect of Cheng that the dyingshall present love-gifts to their enemies; and when he had set all inorder, he gathered his brown canvas coat about him, stole from thehouse, and set out to find Battling Burrows, bearing under the coat hislove-gift to Battling. White Blossom he had no hope of finding. He hadheard of Burrows many times; and he judged that, now that she was takenfrom him, never again would he hold those hands or touch that laughinghair. Nor, if he did, could it change things from what they were.Nothing that was not a dog could live in the face of this sacrilege.

As he came before the house in Pekin Street, where Battling lived, hemurmured gracious prayers. Fortunately, it was a night of thick rivermist, and through the enveloping velvet none could observe or challengehim. The main door was open, as are all doors in this district. Hewrithed across the step, and through to the back room, where again thedoor yielded to a touch.

Darkness. Darkness and silence, and a sense of frightful things. Hepeered through it. Then he fumbled under his jacket—found a match—struckit. An inch of a candle stood on the mantelshelf. He lit it. He lookedaround. No sign of Burrows, but ... Almost before he looked he knew whatawaited him. But the sense of finality had kindly stunned him; he couldsuffer nothing more.

On the table lay a dog-whip. In the corner a belt had been flung. Halfacross the greasy couch lay White Blossom. A few rags of clothing wereabout her pale and slim body; her hair hung limp as her limbs; her eyeswere closed. As Cheng drew nearer and saw the savage red rails that ranacross and across the beloved body, he could not scream—he could notthink. He dropped beside the couch. He laid gentle hands upon her, andcalled soft names. She was warm to the touch. The pulse was still.

Softly, oh, so softly, he bent over the little frame that had enclosedhis friend-spirit, and his light kisses fell all about her. Then, withthe undirected movements of a sleep-walker, he bestowed the ragsdecently about her, clasped her in strong arms, and crept silently intothe night.

From Pekin Street to Pennyfields it is but a turn or two, and again hepassed unobserved as he bore his tired bird back to her nest. He laidher upon the bed, and covered the lily limbs with the blue and yellowsilks and strewed upon her a few of the trampled flowers. Then, withmore kisses and prayers, he crouched beside her.

So, in the ghastly Limehouse morning, they were found—the dead child,and the Chink, kneeling beside her, with a sharp knife gripped in avice-like hand, its blade far between his ribs.

Meantime, having vented his wrath on his prodigal daughter, Battling,still cross, had returned to the Blue Lantern, and there he stayed witha brandy tumbler in his fist, forgetful of an appointment atPremierland, whereby he should have been in the ring at ten o’clocksharp. For the space of an hour Chuck Lightfoot was going blasphemouslyto and fro in Poplar, seeking Battling and not finding him, andmurmuring in tearful tones: “Battling—you dammanblasted Battling—whereare yeh?”

His opponent was in his corner sure enough, but there was no fight. ForBattling lurched from the Blue Lantern to Pekin Street. He lurched intohis happy home, and he cursed Lucy, and called for her. And finding nomatches, he lurched to where he knew the couch should be, and floppedheavily down.

Now it is a peculiarity of the reptile tribe that its members areimpatient of being flopped on without warning. So, when Battlingflopped, eighteen inches of writhing gristle upreared itself on thecouch, and got home on him as Bud Tuffit had done the night before—oneto the ear, one to the throat, and another to the forearm.

Battling went down and out.

And he, too, was found in the morning, with Cheng Huan’s love-giftcoiled about his neck.

THE NOMAD

By ROBERT HICHENS

From Snakebite, by Robert Hichens. Copyright, 1919, by George H.Doran Company.

1

The fate of Madame Lemaire had certainly not been an ordinary one. Shewas French, of Marseilles, as you could tell by her accent, especiallywhen she said “C’est bien!” and had been an extremely coquettish andlively girl, with a strong will of her own and a passionate love ofpleasure and of town life. From her talk when she was seventeen, youwould have gathered that if she ever moved from Marseilles it would beto go to Paris. Nothing else would be good enough for her. She feltherself born to play a part in some great city.

And yet, at the age of forty, here she was in the desert of Sahara,keeping an auberge at El-Kelf under the salt mountain! She sometimeswondered how it had ever come about, when she crossed the court of theinn, round which mules of customers were tethered in open sheds, or whenshe served the rough Algerian wine to farmers from the Tell, or to somedusty commercial traveller from Batna, in the arbour trellised withvines that fronted the desert.

Marie Lemaire, who had been Marie Bretelle, at El-Kelf! Marie Lemaire inthe desert of Sahara attending upon God knows whom: Algerians, Spahis,camel-drivers, gazelle-hunters! No; it was too much!

But if you have a “kink” in you, to what may you not come? MarieBretelle’s “kink” had been an idiotic softness for handsome faces.

She wanted to shine in the world, to cut a dash, to go to Paris; or, ifthat were impossible, to stay in Marseilles married to some rich cityman, and to give parties, and to get gowns from Madame Vannier, of theRue de Cliche, and hats from Trebichot, of the Rue des Colonies, and toattend the theatres, and to be stared at and pointed out on therace-course, and—and, in fact, to be the belle of Marseilles. And hereshe was at El-Kelf and all because of that “kink” in her nature!

Lemaire had had a handsome face and been a fine man, stalwart, bold,muscular, determined. He did not belong to Marseilles, but had comethere to give an acrobatic show in a music-hall; and there MarieBretelle had seen him, dressed in silver-spangled tights, and doingmarvellous feats on three parallel bars. His bare arms had lumps on themlike balls of iron, his fair moustaches were trained into points, hisbold eyes were lit with a fire to fascinate women; and—well, MarieBretelle ran away with him and became Madame Lemaire. And so she came toAlgiers, where Lemaire had an accident while giving his performance. Andthat was the beginning of the Odyssey which had ended at El-Kelf.

“Fool—fool—fool!”

Often she said that to herself, as she went about the inn doing herduties with grains of sand in her hair.

“Fool—fool—fool!”

The word was taken by the wind of the waste and carried away to thedesert.

After his accident Lemaire lost his engagements. Then he lost his looks.He put on flesh. He ceased to train his moustaches into points. Thegreat muscles got soft, were covered with flabby fat. Finally he took todrink. And so they drifted.

To earn some money he became many things—guide, concierge, tout for“La Belle Fatma.” He had impossible professions in Algiers. And Marie?Well, it were best not to scrutinise her life too closely under theburning sun of Africa. Whatever it was, it was not very successful; andthey drifted from Algiers. Where did they go? Where had they not been inthis fiery land? Oran on the Moroccan border had seen them, and themosques of Kairouan, windy Tunis, and rock-bound Constantine, laughingBougie in its wall by the water, Fort National in the Grande Kabyle.They had been everywhere. And at last some wind of the desert had blownthem, like poor grains of desert sand, from the bending palms of Biskrato the mud walls of El-Kelf.

And here—Gold help them!—for ten years they had been keeping the inn,“Au Retour du Desert.”

For ten, long, dry years, and such an inn! Why, at Marseilles they wouldhave called it—well, one cannot tell what they would have called it onthe Cannebiere! But they would have found a name for it, that iscertain.

It stood alone, this inn, quite alone in the desert, which at El-Kelfcircles a small oasis in which there is hidden among fair-sized palms ameagre Arab village. Why the inn should have been built outside of theoasis, away from the village, I cannot tell you. But so it is. It seemsto be disdainful of the earth houses of the Arabs, to be determined tohave nothing to do with them. And yet there is little reason in itsdisdain.

For it, too, is built on sun-dried earth for the most part, and has onlythe ground floor possessed by most of them. It stands facing flat butnot illimitable desert. The road that passes before it winds away toland where there is water; and from the trellised arbour, but far off,one can see in the sunshine the sharp, shrill green of crops, grown bythe Spahis whose tented camp lies to the right of the caravan track thatleads over the Col de Sfa to Biskra.

Far, far along that road one can see from the inn, till its whiteness isas the whiteness of a thread, and any figures travelling upon it areless than little dolls, and even a caravan is but a moving dimnessshrouded in a dimness of dust. But towards evening, when the strangeclearness of Africa becomes almost terribly acute, every speck upon thethread has a meaning to attract the eye, and set the mind at workasking:

“What is this that is coming upon the road? Who is this that travels? Isit a mounted man on his thin horse, with his matchlock pointing to thesky? Or is it a woman hunched upon a trotting donkey? Or a Nomad on hiscamel? Or is it only some poor desert man, half naked in his rags, whotramps on his bare brown feet along sun-baked track, his hood drawnabove his eyes, his knotted club in his hand?”

After ten years Madame Lemaire still asked herself such questions in thearbour of the inn, when business was slack, when her husband was away,or was lying half drunk upon the bed after an extra dose of absinthe,and the one-eyed Arab servant, Hadj, was squatting on his haunches in acorner smoking keef.

Not that the answer mattered at all to her. She expected nothing of theroad that led from the desert. But her mind, stagnant though it hadbecome in the solitude of Africa, had to do something to occupy itself.And so she often stared across the plain, with an aimless “Je medemande” trembling upon her lips, and a hard expression of inquiry inher dark brown eyes, whose lids were seamed with tiny wrinkles. Perhapsyou will wonder why Madame Lemaire, having once had a passionate lovefor pleasure and a strong will of her own, had consented to remain forten years in the solitude of El-Kelf, drudging in a miserable auberge,to which few people, and those but poor ones, ever came.

Circ*mstances and Robert Lemaire had been too much for her. Both hadbeen cruel. She was something of a slave to both. Lemaire was an utterfailure, but there lurked within him still, under the waves of absinthe,traces of the dominating power which had long ago made him a success.

Madame Lemaire had worshipped him once, had adored his strength andbeauty. They were gone now. He was a wreck. But he was a wreck withfierceness in it. And command with him had become a habit. And Africabids one accept. And so Madame Lemaire had stayed for ten long yearsdrudging at the inn beside the salt mountain, and staring down the longwhite road for the something strange and interesting from the desertthat never, never came.

And still Lemaire drank absinthe, and cursed and drowsed. For ten longyears! And still Hadj squatted upon his haunches and drugged himselfwith keef. And still Madame Lemaire stood under the trellised vine, withthe sand-grains in her hair, and gazed and gazed over the plain.

And when a black speck appeared far off upon the whiteness of the track,she watched it till her eyes ached, demanding who, or what, itwas—whether a Spahi on horseback, a woman on her donkey, a Nomad on hiscamel, or some dark and half-naked pedestrian of the sands, thattravelled through the sunset glory towards the lonely inn.

Although Robert Lemaire was a wreck he was not an old man in years, onlyforty-five, and the fine and tonic air of the Sahara preserved fromcomplete destruction. Shaggy and unkept he was, with a heavy bulk ofchest and shoulders, a large, pale face, and the angry and distressedeyes of the absinthe slave. His hands trembled habitually, and on hisbad days fluttered like leaves. But there was still some force in hisprematurely aged body, still some will in his mind. He was a wreck, buthe was the wreck of one who had been really a man and accustomed todominate women. And this he did not forget.

One evening—it was in May, and the long heats of the desert had alreadyset in—Lemaire was away from the auberge, shooting near the saltmountain with an acquaintance, a colonist who had a small farm not farfrom Biskra, and who had come to spend the night at El-Kelf. This manhad a history. He had once been a hotel-keeper, and had reason tosuspect a guest in his hotel of having guilty intercourse with his wife.

One night, having discovered beyond possibility of doubt that hissuspicions were well founded, he waited till the hotel was closed, thenmade his way to his guest’s room, and put three bullets into him as helay asleep in his bed. For this murder, or act of justice, he got onlyten months’ imprisonment. But his business as a hotel-keeper was ruined.So now he was a small farmer. He was also, perhaps, the only real friendLemaire had in Africa, and he came occasionally to spend a night at theRetour du Desert.

Upon this evening of May, Madame Lemaire was alone in the inn with theone-eyed servant Hadj preparing supper for the two sportsmen. The fliesbuzzed about under the dusty leaves of the vine, which were unstirred byany breeze. The crystals upon the flanks of the salt mountain glitteredin the sun that was still fiery, though not far from its declining.

Upon the dry, earthen walls of the inn and over the stones of the courtround which it was built, the lizards crept, or rested with eager,glancing patience, as if alert for further movement, but waiting for asignal. A mule or two stamped in the long stable that was open to thecourt, and a skeleton of a white Kabyle dog slunk to and fro searchingfor scraps with his lips curled back from his pointed teeth.

And Madame Lemaire went slowly about her work with the sand-grains inher hair, and the flies buzzing around her.

Nothing had happened. Nothing ever did happen at El-Kelf. But for somemysterious reason Madame Lemaire suddenly felt to-day that her existencein the desert had become insupportable. It may have been that Africa,gradually draining away the Frenchwoman’s vitality, had on this dayremoved the last little drop of the force that had, till now, enabledher to face her life, however dully, however wearily.

It may have been that there was some peculiar and unusual heaviness inthe air that was generally of a feathery lightness. Or the reason mayhave been mental, and Africa may have drawn from this victim’s nature,on this particular day, a grain, small as a grain of sand, of will-powerthat was absolutely necessary for the keeping of the woman’s staminaupon its feet.

However it was, she felt that she collapsed. She did not cry. She didnot curse. She did not faint, or lie down and stare with desperate eyesat the vacant dying day. She did not neglect her domestic duties, andwas even now tearing, with a flat key, the cover from some tinned vealand ham for the evening’s supper. But something within her had abruptlyraised its voice. She seemed to hear it saying: “I can’t bear any more!”and to know that it spoke the truth. No longer could she bear it: theAfrican sun on the brown-earth walls, the settling of the sand-grains inher hair, the movement of the flies about her face, wrinkled prematurelyby the perpetual dry heat and by the desert winds; the brazen sky aboveher, the iron land beneath, the silence—like the silence that was beforecreation, or the monotonous sounds that broke it; the mule’s stamp onthe stones, the barking of the guard-dogs upon the palm roofs of thedistant houses in the village, the sneering laugh of the jackals bynight, that whining song of Hadj, as he wagged his shaven head over thepipe-bowl into which he pressed the keef that was bringing him tomadness.

She could not bear it any more.

The look in her face scarcely altered. The corners of her mouth, longsince grown grim, did not droop any more than usual. Her thin, hardhands were steady as they did their dreary work. But the woman who hadresisted somehow during ten terrible years of incomparable monotonysuddenly died within Marie Lemaire, and the girl of Marseilles, MarieBretelle, shrieked out in the middle-aged, haggard body.

“This fate was not meant for me. I cannot bear it any more.”

Presently the tin which had held the veal and ham was empty, save forsome bits of opaque jelly that still clung round its edges; and MadameLemaire went over to the dimly burning charcoal with a dirty old pan inher hand.

Marie Bretelle was still shrieking out, but Madame Lemaire must getready the supper for her absinthe-soaked husband, and his friend themurderer from Alfa.

The sportsmen were late in returning, and Madame Lemaire’s task wasfinished before they came. She had nothing more to do, and she came outto the arbour that looked upon the road. Here there was an old tablestained with the lees of wine. About it stood three or four ricketychairs. Madame Lemaire sat down—dropped down, rather—on one of these,laid her arms upon the table, and gazed down the empty road.

“Mon Dieu!” she said to herself. “Mon Dieu!” She beat one hand onthe table and said it aloud.

“Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu!”

She stared up at the vine. The leaves were sandy, and she saw insectsrunning over them. She watched them. What were they doing? What purposecould they have? What purpose could anything have?

Always the hand tapped, tapped upon the table.

And Marseilles! It was still there by the sea, crowded, gay with life.This was the time when the life began to grow turbulent. The cascadeswere roaring under the lifted gardens, where the beasts roamed in theircages. The awnings were out over the cafés in that city of cafés. Shecould almost see the coloured edges of stuff fluttering in the wind thatcame from the arbour and from the Château d’If. There was a sound ofhammering along the sea. They were putting up the bathing sheds for theseason. It would be good to go into the sea. It would cool one.

A beetle dropped from the vine on to the table, close to the beatinghand. Madame Lemaire started violently. She got up, and went to stand inthe entrance of the arbour. Marseilles was gone now. Africa was there.

For ten years she had been looking down the road. She looked down itonce more.

It was the wonderful evening hour when Africa seems to lift itselftoward the light, reluctant to be given to the darkness. Very far onecould see, and with an almost supernatural distinctness. Yet MadameLemaire strained her eyes, as people do at dusk when they strive topierce a veil of gathering darkness.

What was coming along the road?

Her gaze travelled onwards over the hard and barren plain till itreached the green crops, on and on past the tents of the Spahis’encampment, near which rose a trail of smoke into the lucent air;farther still, farther and farther, until the whiteness narrowed towardsthe mountains, and at last was lost to sight.

And this evening, perhaps because she longed so much for something, foranything, there was nothing on the road. It was a white emptiness underthe setting sun.

Then the woman felt frantic, and she beat her hands together, and shecried aloud:

“If the Devil himself would only come along the road and ask me to gofrom this cursed hole of a place, I’d go with him! I’d go! I’d go!”

She repeated it shrilly, making wild gestures with her hands towards thedesert. Her face was twisted awry. She looked just then like a desperatehag of a woman.

But it was the girl of Marseilles who was crying out in her. It wasMarie Bretelle who was demanding the joys she had flung away in heryouth for the sake of a handsome face.

“I’d go! I’d go!”

The shrill cry went up to the setting sun. But no one answered, andnothing darkened the arid whiteness of the road that wound across theplain and passed before the inn-door.

2

Night had fallen when the two sportsmen rode in on mules, tired andhungry. Hadj came from his keef to take the beasts, Madame Lemaire fromher kitchen to ask if there were any birds for her to cook. Her husbandgave her a string of them, and she turned away from him without a word,and went back into the house.

There was nothing odd in this, but something in his wife’s face, seenonly for a moment in the darkness of the court, had startled Lemaire,and he looked after her as if he were inclined to call her back; thensaid to his companion, Jacques Bouvier:

“Did you see Marie?”

“Yes. She looks as if she had just stumbled over a jackal,” and helaughed.

Lemaire stood for a minute where he was. Then he shouted to Hadj:

“Hadj! A—Hadj!”

The one-eyed keef-smoker came.

“Who has been here to-day?”

“No one. A few have passed the door, but no one has entered.”

“Good business!” said Bouvier, shrugging his shoulders.

“Business!” exclaimed Lemaire, with an oath. “It’s a fine business we dohere. Another ten years, and we shan’t have put by ten sous.”

“Perhaps that is why madame has such a face to-night!”

“We’ll see at supper. Now for an absinthe!”

The two men walked stiffly into the inn, put their guns in a corner,went into the arbour that fronted the desert, and sat down by the table.

“Marie!” bawled Lemaire.

He struck his flabby fist down upon the wood.

“Marie, the absinthe!”

Madame Lemaire heard the hoarse shout in the kitchen, and her face wentawry again:

“I’d go! I’d go!”

She hissed it under her breath.

“Sacré nom de Dieu! Marie!”

“V’là!”

“The devil! What a voice!” said Bouvier in the arbour.

Lemaire was half turned in his chair. His hands were slightly shaking,and his large white face, with its angry and distressed eyes, lookedstartled.

“Who was that?” he said, moving in his chair as if he were going to getup.

“Who? Your wife!”

“No, it wasn’t!”

“Well, then——”

At this moment there was a clink and a rattle, and Madame Lemaire cameslowly out from the inn, carrying a tray with an absinthe bottle, abottle of water, and two thick glasses with china saucers. She set itdown between the two men. Her husband stared at her like one who staressuspiciously at a stranger.

“Was that you who called out?” he asked.

“Of course! Who else should it be? Who ever comes here?”

“Madame is a bit sick of El-Kelf,” said Bouvier. “That’s what is thematter.”

Madame Lemaire compressed her lips tightly and said nothing.

Her husband looked more suspicious.

“Why should she be sick of it? She’s done very well with it for tenyears,” he said roughly.

Madame Lemaire turned away and left the arbour. She was wearing slipperswithout heels, and went softly.

The two men sat in silence, looking at each other. A breath of wind, thefirst that had come that day, stole from the desert and rustled theleaves of the vine above their heads. Lemaire stretched out histrembling hand to the absinthe bottle.

“For God’s sake let’s have a drink!” he said. “There’s something aboutmy wife that’s given my blood a turn.”

“Beat her!” said Bouvier, pushing forward his glass. “If you don’t beatthem be sure they’ll betray you.”

His wife’s treachery had set him against all women. Lemaire growledsomething inarticulate. He was thinking of the days in Algiers, of theirstrange and often disgraceful existence there. Bouvier knew nothing ofthat.

“Come on!” he said.

And he lifted his glass of absinthe to his lips.

At supper that night Lemaire perpetually watched his wife. She seemed tobe just as usual. For years there had been a sort of sickly wearinessupon her face. It was there now. For years there had been a dull soundin her voice. He heard it to-night. For years she had had a poorappetite. She ate little at supper, had her habitual manner ofswallowing almost with difficulty. Surely she was just as usual.

And yet she was not—she was not!

After supper the two men returned to the arbour to smoke and drink, andMadame Lemaire remained in the kitchen to clear away and wash up.

“Isn’t there something the matter with my wife?” asked Lemaire, lightinga thin, black cigar, and settling his loose, bulky body in the smallchair, with his fat legs stretched out, and one foot crossed over theother. “Or is it that I’m out of sorts to-night? It seems to me as ifshe were strange.”

Bouvier was a small, pinched man, with a narrow face, evenly red incolour, large ears that stood out from his closely shaven head, andhot-looking, prominent brown eyes.

“Perhaps she’s taken with some Arab,” he said.

“P’f! She’s dropped all that nonsense. The devil! A woman of forty’s anold woman in Africa.”

Bouvier spat.

“Isn’t she?”

“Oh, don’t ask me about women. Young or old, they’re always calling theDevil to their elbow.”

“What for?”

“To put them up to wickedness. Perhaps your wife’s been calling himto-night. You look behind her presently, and you may catch a sight ofhim. He’s always about where women are.”

“Ha, ha, ha!”

Lemaire laughed mirthlessly.

“D’you think he’d show himself to me?”

He emptied his glass. Bouvier suddenly looked terrible—looked like theman who had put three bullets into his sleeping guest.

“How did I know?” he said.

He leaned across the table towards Lemaire.

“How did I know?” he repeated in a low voice.

“What—when your wife——”

“Yes. They didn’t let me see anything. They were too sharp. No; it wasone night I saw him, with his mouth at her ear, coming in behind herthrough the door like a shadow. There!”

He sat back with his hands on his knees. Lemaire stared at him again.

Again the wind rustled furtively through the diseased vine-leaves of thearbour.

“It was then that I got out my revolver and charged it,” continuedBouvier, in a less mysterious voice, as of one returned to practicallife. “For I knew she’d been up to some villainy. Pass the bottle!”...

“Pass the bottle!... Why don’t you pass the bottle?”

“Pardon!”

Lemaire pushed the bottle over to his friend.

“What’s the matter with you to-night?”

“Nothing. You mean to say ... why d’you talk such nonsense? D’you thinkI’m a fool to be taken in by rubbish like that?”

“Well, then, why did you sit just as if you’d seen him?”

“I’m a bit tired to-night, that’s what it is. We went a long way. Thewine’ll pull me together.”

He poured out another glass.

“You don’t mean to say,” he continued, “you believe in the Devil?”

“Don’t you?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Why not! Why should I? Nobody does—me, I mean. That sort of thing isall very well for women.”

Bouvier said nothing, but sat with his arms on the table, staring outtowards the desert. He looked at the empty road just in front of him,let his eyes travel along until it disappeared into the night.

“I say, that sort of thing is all very well for women,” repeatedLemaire.

“I hear you.”

“But I want to know whether you don’t think the same.”

“As you?”

“Yes; to be sure.”

“I might have done once.”

“But you don’t now?”

“There’s a devil in the desert; that’s certain.”

“Why?”

“Because I tell you he came out of the desert to turn my wife wrong.”

“Then you weren’t joking?”

“Not I. It’s as true as that I went and charged my revolver, because Isaw what I told you. Here’s Madame coming out to join us.”

Lemaire shifted heavily and abruptly in his chair.

“Hallo!” he said, in a brutal tone of voice. “What’s up with youto-night?”

As he spoke he stared hard at his wife’s shoulder, just by her ear.

“Nothing. What are you looking at? There isn’t——”

She put up her hand quickly to her shoulder and felt over her dress.

“Ugh!” She shook herself. “I thought you’d seen a scorpion on me.”

Bouvier, whose red face seemed to be deepening in colour under theinfluence of the red Algerian wine, burst out laughing.

“It wasn’t a scorpion he was looking for,” he exclaimed. His thin bodyshook with mirth till his chair creaked under him.

“It wasn’t a scorpion,” he repeated.

“What was it, then?” said Madame Lemaire.

She looked from one man to the other—from the one who was strange in hislaughter, to the other who was even stranger in his gravity.

“What have you been saying about me?” she said, with a flare-up ofsuspicion.

“Well,” said Bouvier, recovering himself a little, “if you must know, wewere talking about the Devil.”

The woman stared and gave the table a shake. Some of her husband’s winewas spilled over it.

“The Devil take you!” he bawled with sudden fury.

“I only wish he would!”

The two men jumped back as if a viper of the sands had suddenly rearedup its thin head between them.

“I only wish he would!”

It was Marie Bretelle who had spoken, the girl of Marseilles, who stilllived in the body of Marie Lemaire. But it was Marie Lemaire from whomthe two men shrank away—Marie Lemaire changed, startling, terrible, herhaggard face furious with expression, her thin hands clutching at theedge of the table, from which the wine-bottle had fallen, to be smashedat their feet.

For a moment there was a dead silence succeeding that second shrill cry.Then Lemaire scrambled up heavily from his chair.

“What do you mean?” he stammered. “What do you mean?”

And then she told him, like a fury, and with the words which had surelybeen accumulating in her mind, like water behind a dam, for ten years.She told him what she had wanted, and what she had had. And when at lastshe had finished telling him, she stood for a minute, making mouths athim in silence, as if she still had something to say, some final word ofsumming up.

“Stop that!”

It was Lemaire who spoke; and as he spoke he thrust out one of hiswhite, shaking hands to cover that nightmare mouth. But she beat hishand down, and screamed, with the gesture.

“And if the Devil himself would come along the road to fetch me fromthis cursed place, I’d go with him! D’you hear? I’d go with him! I’d gowith him!”

When the scream died away, one-eyed Hadj was standing at the entrance tothe arbour. Madame Lemaire felt that he was there, turned round, and sawhim.

“I’d go with him if he was an Arab,” she said, but almost muttering now,for her voice had suddenly failed her, though her passion was stillred-hot. “Even the Arabs—they’re better than you, absinthe-soaked,do-nothing Roumis, who sit and drink, drink——”

Her voice cracked, went into a whisper, disappeared. She thrust out herhand, swept the glasses off the table to follow the bottle, turned, andwent out of the arbour softly on her slippered feet.

And one-eyed Hadj stood there laughing, for he understood French verywell, although he was half mad with keef.

“She’d go with an Arab!” he repeated. “She’d go with an Arab!” And thenhe saw his master.

The two Frenchmen sat staring at one another across the empty tableunder the shivering vine-leaves, which were now stirred continually bythe wind of night. Lemaire’s large face had gone a dusky grey. About hiseyes there was a tinge of something that was almost lead colour. Hisloose mouth had dropped, and the lower lip disclosed his decayed teeth.His hands, laid upon the table as if for support, shook and jumped, werenever still even for a second.

Bouvier was almost purple. Veins stood out about his forehead. The bloodhad gone to his ears and to his eyes. Now he leaned across to Lemaire.

“Beat her!” he said. “Beat her for that! Hadj heard her. If you don’tbeat her, the Arabs——”

But before he had finished the sentence Lemaire had got up, with a wildgesture of his shaking hand, and gone unsteadily into the house.

That night Madame Lemaire suffered at the hands of her husband, whileBouvier and Hadj listened in the darkness of the court.

3

It was drawing towards evening on the following day, and Madame Lemairewas quite alone in the inn. Hadj had gone to the village for some morekeef, and Lemaire and Bouvier had set out together in the morning forBatna.

So she was quite alone. Her face was bruised and discoloured near theright eye. Her head ached. She felt immensely listless. To-day there wasno activity in her misery. It seemed a slow-witted, lethargic thing,undeserving even of respect.

There were no customers. There was nothing to do, absolutely nothing.She went heavily into the arbour, and sank down upon a chair. At firstshe sat upright. But presently she spread her arms out upon the table,and laid her discoloured face on them, and remained so for a long time.

Any traveller, passing by on the road from the desert, would havethought that she was asleep. But she was not asleep. Nor had she sleptall night. It is not easy to sleep after such punishment as she hadreceived.

And no traveller passed by.

The flies, finding that the woman kept quite still, settled upon herface, her hair, her hands, cleaned themselves, stretched their legs andwings, went to and fro busily upon her. She never moved to drive themaway.

She was not thinking just then. She was only feeling—feeling how she wasalone, feeling that this enormous sun-dried land was about her,stretching away to right and left of her, behind her and before, feelingthat in all this enormous, sun-dried land there was nobody who wantedher, nobody thinking of her, nobody coming towards her to take her awayinto a different life, into a life that she could bear.

All this she was dully feeling.

Perfectly still were the diseased vine-leaves above her head, motionlessas she was. On them the insects went to and fro, actively leading theirmysterious lives, as the flies went to and fro on her.

For a long time she remained thus. All the white road was empty beforeher as far as eye could see. No trail of smoke went up by the growingcrops beside the distant tents of the Spahis. It seemed as if man hadabandoned Africa, leaving only one of God’s creatures there, this womanwho leaned across the discoloured table with her bruised face hidden onher arms.

The hour before sunset approached, the miraculous hour of the day, whenAfrica seems to lift itself towards the light that will soon desert it,as if it could not bear to let the glory go, as if it would not consentto be hidden in the night. Upon the salt mountain the crystalsglittered.

The details of the land began to live as they had not lived all day. Thewonderful clearness came, in which all things seem filled withsupernatural meaning. And, even in the dullness of her misery, habittook hold of Madame Lemaire.

She lifted her head from her arms, and she stared down the long whiteroad. Her gaze travelled. It started from the patch of glaring whitebefore the arbour, and it went away like one who goes to a tryst. Itwent down the road, and on, and on. It reached the green of the crops.It passed the Spahis’ tents. It moved towards the distant mountains thathid the plains and the palms of Biskra.

The flies buzzed into the air.

Madame Lemaire had got up from her seat. With her hands laid flat uponthe table she stared at the thread of white that was the limit of hervision. Then she lifted her hands and curved them, and put them aboveher eyes to form a shade. And then she moved and came out to theentrance of the arbour.

She had seen a black speck upon the road.

There was dust around it. As so often before she asked herself thequestion: “Who is it coming towards the inn from the desert?” But to-dayshe asked herself the question as she had never asked it before, with asort of violence, with a passionate eagerness, with a leapingexpectation. And she stepped right out into the road, as if she would goand meet the traveller, would hasten with stretched-out hands as to somewelcome friend.

The sun dropped its burning rays upon her hair, and she realised herfolly, took her hands from her eyes, and laughed to herself. Then shewent back to the arbour and stood by the table waiting. Slowly—veryslowly it seemed to Madame Lemaire—the black speck grew larger on thewhite. But there was very much dust to-day, and always the misty cloudwas round it, stirred up by—was it a camel’s padding feet, or the hoofsof a horse, or—? She could not tell yet, but soon she would be able totell.

Now it was approaching the watered land, was not far from the Spahis’tents. And a great fear came upon her that it might turn aside to them,that it might be perhaps a Spahi riding home from his patrol of thedesert. She felt that she could not bear to be alone any longer; that ifshe could not see and speak to someone before sunset she must go mad.

The traveller passed before the Spahis’ camp without turning aside; andnow the dust was less, and Madame Lemaire could see that it was a Nomadmounted on a camel.

With a smothered exclamation she hurried into the inn. A sudden resolvepossessed her. She would prepare a couscous. And then, if the Nomaddesired to pass on without entering the inn, she would detain him.

She would offer him a couscous for nothing, only she must have company.Whoever the stranger was, however poor, however filthy, ragged, hideous,or even terrible, he must stay a while at the inn, distract her thoughtsfor an instant.

Without that she would go mad.

Quickly she began her preparations. There was time. He could not be herefor twenty minutes yet, and the meal for a couscous was all ready. Shehad only to——

She moved frantically about the kitchen.

Twenty minutes later she heard the peevish roar of a camel from theroad, and ran out to meet the Nomad, carrying the couscous. As she cameinto the arbour she noticed that it was already dark outside.

The night had fallen suddenly.

That night, as Lemaire and Bouvier were nearing the inn, riding slowlyupon their mules, they heard before them in the darkness the angrysnarling of a camel.

Almost immediately it died away.

“Madame has company,” said Bouvier. “There’s a customer at the Retour duDesert.”

“Some damned Arab!” said Lemaire. “Come for a coffee or a couscous. Muchgood that’ll do us!”

They rode on in silence. When they reached the inn, the road before itwas empty.

“Mai foi,” said Bouvier. “Nobody here! The camel was getting up, then,and Madame is alone again.”

“Marie!” called Lemaire. “Marie! The absinthe!”

There was no reply.

“Marie! Nom d’un chien! Marie! The absinthe! Marie!”

He let his heavy body down from the mule.

“Where the devil is she? Marie! Marie!”

He went into the arbour, stumbled over something, and uttered a curse.

In reply to it there was a shrill and prolonged howl from the court.

“What is it? What’s the dog up to?” said Bouvier, whipping out hisrevolver and following Lemaire. “The table knocked over! What’s up?D’you think there’s anything wrong?”

The Kabyle dog howled again, slunk into the arbour from the court, andpressed itself against Lemaire’s legs. He gave it a kick in the ribsthat sent it yelping into the night.

“Marie! Marie!”

There was the anger of alarm in his voice now; but no one answered hiscall.

Walking furtively, the two men passed through the doorway into thekitchen. Lemaire struck a match, lit a candle, took it in his hand, andthey searched the inn, and the court, then returned to the arbour. Inthe arbour, close to the overturned table, they found a broken bowl,with a couscous scattered over the earth beside it. Several vine-leaveswere trodden into the ground near by.

“Someone’s been here,” said Lemaire, staring at Bouvier in thecandlelight, which flickered in his angry and distressed eyes.“Someone’s been. She was bringing him a couscous. See here!”

He pointed with his foot.

Bouvier laughed uneasily.

“Perhaps,” he said—“perhaps it was the Devil come for her. You remember!She said last night, if he came, she’d go with him.”

The candle dropped from Lemaire’s shaking hand.

“Damn you! Why d’you talk like that?” he exclaimed furiously. “She mustbe somewhere about. Let’s have an absinthe. Perhaps she’s gone to thevillage.”

They had an absinthe and searched once more.

Presently Hadj, who was half mad with keef, joined them. The rumour ofwhat was going forward had got about in the village; and other Arabsglided noiselessly through the night to share in the absinthe and thequest, for that night Lemaire forgot to lock up the bottle.

But the hostess of the inn at El-Kelf has not been seen again.

THE CRUCIFIXION OF THE OUTCAST

By W. B. YEATS

From The Secret Rose, by W. B. Yeats. Copyright, 1914, by theMacmillan Company.

A man, with thin brown hair and a pale face, half ran, half walked alongthe road that wound from the south to the Town of the Shelly River. Manycalled him Cumhal, the son of Cormac, and many called him the Swift,Wild Horse; and he was a gleeman, and he wore a short parti-coloureddoublet, and had pointed shoes, and a bulging wallet. Also he was of theblood of the Ernaans, and his birth-place was the Field of Gold; but hiseating and sleeping places were the four provinces of Eri, and hisabiding place was not upon the ridge of the earth. His eyes strayed fromthe Abbey tower of the White Friars and the town battlements to a row ofcrosses which stood out against the sky upon a hill a little to theeastward of the town, and he clenched his fist, and shook it at thecrosses. He knew they were not empty, for the birds were flutteringabout them; and he thought, how, as like as not, just such anothervagabond as himself was hanged on one of them; and he muttered; “If itwere hanging or bow-stringing, or stoning or beheading, it would be badenough. But to have the birds pecking your eyes and the wolves eatingyour feet! I would that the red wind of the Druids had withered in hiscradle the soldier of Dathi, who brought the tree of death out ofbarbarous lands, or that the lightning, when it smote Dathi at the footof the mountain, had smitten him also, or that his grave had been dug bythe green-haired and green-toothed merrows deep at the roots of the deepsea.”

While he spoke, he shivered from head to foot, and the sweat came outupon his face, and he knew not why, for he had looked upon many crosses.He passed over two hills and under the battlemented gate, and then roundby a left-hand way to the door of the Abbey. It was studded with greatnails, and when he knocked at it, he roused the lay brother who was theporter, and of him he asked a place in the guest-house. Then the laybrother took a glowing turf on a shovel, and led the way to a big andnaked outhouse strewn with dirty rushes: and lighted a rush-candle fixedbetween two of the stones of the wall, and set the glowing turf upon thehearth and gave him two unlighted sods and a wisp of straw, and showedhim a blanket hanging from a nail, and a shelf with a loaf of bread anda jug of water, and a tub in a far corner. Then the lay brother left himand went back to his place by the door. And Cumhal the son of Cormacbegan to blow upon the glowing turf, that he might light the two sodsand the wisp of straw; but his blowing profited him nothing, for thesods and the straw were damp. So he took off his pointed shoes, and drewthe tub out of the corner with the thought of washing the dust of thehighway from his feet; but the water was so dirty that he could not seethe bottom. He was very hungry, for he had not eaten all that day; so hedid not waste much anger upon the tub, but took up the black loaf, andbit into it, and then spat out the bite, for the bread was hard andmouldy. Still he did not give way to his wrath, for he had not drunkenthese many hours; having a hope of heath beer or wine at his day’s end,he had left the brooks untasted, to make his supper the more delightful.Now he put the jug to his lips, but he flung it from him straightway,for the water was bitter and ill-smelling. Then he gave the jug a kick,so that it broke against the opposite wall, and he took down the blanketto wrap it about him for the night. But no sooner did he touch it thanit was alive with skipping fleas. At this, beside himself with anger, herushed to the door of the guest-house, but the lay brother, being wellaccustomed to such outcries, had locked it on the outside; so Cumhalemptied the tub and began to beat the door with it, till the lay brothercame to the door, and asked what ailed him, and why he woke him out ofsleep. “What ails me!” shouted Cumhal, “are not the sods as wet as thesands of the Three Headlands? and are not the fleas in the blanket asmany as the waves of the sea and as lively? and is not the bread as hardas the heart of a lay brother who has forgotten God? and is not thewater in the jug as bitter and as ill-smelling as his soul? and is notthe foot-water the colour that shall be upon him when he has beencharred in the Undying Fires?” The lay brother saw that the lock wasfast, and went back to his niche, for he was too sleepy to talk withcomfort. And Cumhal went on beating at the door, and presently he heardthe lay brother’s foot once more, and cried out at him, “O cowardly andtyrannous race of friars, persecutors of the bard and the gleeman,haters of life and joy! O race that does not draw the sword and tell thetruth! O race that melts the bones of the people with cowardice and withdeceit!”

“Gleeman,” said the lay brother, “I also make rhymes; I make many whileI sit in my niche by the door, and I sorrow to hear the bards railingupon the friars. Brother, I would sleep, and therefore I make known toyou that it is the head of the monastery, our gracious Coarb, who ordersall things concerning the lodging of travellers.”

“You may sleep,” said Cumhal, “I will sing a bard’s curse on the Coarb.”And he set the tub outside down under the window, and stood upon it, andbegan to sing in a very loud voice. The singing awoke the Coarb, so thathe sat up in bed and blew a silver whistle until the lay brother came tohim. “I cannot get a wink of sleep with that noise,” said the Coarb.“What is happening?”

“It is a gleeman,” said the lay brother, “who complains of the sods, ofthe bread, of the water in the jug, of the foot-water, and of theblanket. And now he is singing a bard’s curse upon you, O brother Coarb,and upon your father and your mother, and your grandfather and yourgrandmother, and upon all your relations.”

“Is he cursing in rhyme?”

“He is cursing in rhyme, and with two assonances in every line of hiscurse.”

The Coarb pulled his night-cap off and crumpled it in his hands, and thecircular brown patch of hair in the middle of his bald head looked likean island in the midst of a pond, for in Connaught they had not yetabandoned the ancient tonsure for the style then coming into use. “If wedo not somewhat,” he said, “he will teach his curses to the children inthe street, and the girls spinning at the doors, and to the robbers onthe mountain of Gulben.”

“Shall I go then,” said the other, “and give him dry sods, a fresh loaf,clean water in a jug, clean foot-water, and a new blanket, and make himswear by the blessed St. Benignus, and by the sun and moon, that no bondbe lacking, not to tell his rhymes to the children in the street, andthe girls spinning at the doors, and the robbers on the mountain ofGulben?”

“Neither our blessed Patron nor the sun and the moon would avail atall,” said the Coarb: “for to-morrow or the next day the mood to cursewould come upon him, or a pride in those rhymes would move him, and hewould teach his lines to the children, and the girls, and the robbers.Or else he would tell another of his craft how he fared in theguest-house, and he in his turn would begin to curse, and my name wouldwither. For learn there is no steadfastness of purpose upon the roads,but only under roofs, and between four walls. Therefore I bid you go andawaken Brother Kevin, Brother Dove, Brother Little Wolf, Brother BaldPatrick, Brother Bald Brandon, Brother James and Brother Peter. And theyshall take the man, and bind him with ropes, and dip him in the riverthat he may cease to sing. And in the morning, lest this but make himcurse the louder, we will crucify him.”

“The crosses are all full,” said the lay brother.

“Then we must make another cross. If we do not make an end of himanother will, for who can eat and sleep in peace while men like him aregoing about the world? Ill should we stand before blessed St. Benignus,and sour would be his face when he comes to judge us at the Last Day,were we to spare an enemy of his when we had him under our thumb!Brother, the bards and the gleemen are an evil race, ever cursing andever stirring up the people, and immoral and immoderate in all things,and heathen in their hearts, always longing after the Son of Lir, andAngus, and Bridget, and the Dagda, and Dana the Mother, and all thefalse gods of the old days; always making poems in praise of those kingsand queens of the demons, Finvaragh of the Hill in the Plain, and RedAodh of the Hill of the Shee, and Cleena of the Wave, and Eiveen of theGrey Rock, and him they call Don of the Vats of the Sea; and railingagainst God and Christ and the blessed Saints.” While he was speaking hecrossed himself, and when he had finished he drew the night-cap over hisears, to shut out the noise, and closed his eyes, and composed himselfto sleep.

The lay brother found Brother Kevin, Brother Dove, Brother Little Wolf,Brother Bald Patrick, Brother Bald Brandon, Brother James and BrotherPeter sitting up in bed, and he made them get up. Then they boundCumhal, and they dragged him to the river, and they dipped him in at theplace which was afterwards called Buckley’s Ford.

“Gleeman,” said the lay brother, as they led him back to theguest-house, “why do you ever use the wit which God has given you tomake blasphemous and immoral tales and verses? For such is the way ofyour craft. I have, indeed, many such tales and verses well nigh byrote, and so I know that I speak true! And why do you praise with rhymethose demons, Finvaragh, Red Aodh, Cleena, Eiveen and Don? I, too, am aman of great wit and learning, but I ever glorify our gracious Coarb,and Benignus our Patron, and the princes of the province. My soul isdecent and orderly, but yours is like the wind among the salley gardens.I said what I could for you, being also a man of many thoughts, but whocould help such a one as you?”

“My soul, friend,” answered the gleeman, “is indeed like the wind, andit blows me to and fro, and up and down, and puts many things into mymind and out of my mind, and therefore am I called the Swift, WildHorse.” And he spoke no more that night, for his teeth were chatteringwith the cold.

The Coarb and the friars came to him in the morning, and bade him getready to be crucified, and led him out of the guest-house. And while hestill stood upon the step a flock of great grass-barnacles passed highabove him with clanking cries. He lifted his arms to them and said, “Ogreat grass-barnacles, tarry a little, and mayhap my soul will travelwith you to the waste places of the shore and to the ungovernable sea!”At the gate a crowd of beggars gathered about them, being come there tobeg from any traveller or pilgrim who might have spent the night in theguest-house. The Coarb and the friars led the gleeman to a place in thewoods at some distance, where many straight young trees were growing,and they made him cut one down and fashion it to the right length, whilethe beggars stood round them in a ring, talking and gesticulating. TheCoarb then bade him cut off another and shorter piece of wood, and nailit upon the first. So there was his cross for him; and they put it uponhis shoulder, for his crucifixion was to be on the top of the hill wherethe others were. A half-mile on the way he asked them to stop and seehim juggle for them: for he knew, he said, all the tricks of Angus theSubtle-Hearted. The old friars were for pressing on, but the youngfriars would see him: so he did many wonders for them, even to thedrawing of live frogs out of his ears. But after a while they turned onhim, and said his tricks were dull and a shade unholy, and set the crosson his shoulders again. Another half-mile on the way, and he asked themto stop and hear him jest for them, for he knew, he said, all the jestsof Conan the Bald, upon whose back a sheep’s wool grew. And the youngfriars, when they had heard his merry tales, again bade him take up hiscross, for it ill became them to listen to such follies. Anotherhalf-mile on the way, he asked them to stop and hear him sing the storyof White-Breasted Deirdre, and how she endured many sorrows, and how thesons of Usna died to serve her. And the young friars were mad to hearhim, but when he had ended, they grew angry, and beat him for wakingforgotten longings in their hearts. So they set the cross upon his back,and hurried him to the hill.

When he was come to the top, they took the cross from him, and began todig a hole to stand it in, while the beggars gathered round, and talkedamong themselves. “I ask a favour before I die,” says Cumhal.

“We will grant you no more delays,” says the Coarb.

“I ask no more delays, for I have drawn the sword, and told the truth,and lived my vision and am content.”

“Would you then confess?”

“By sun and moon, not I; I ask but to be let eat the food I carry in mywallet. I carry food in my wallet whenever I go upon a journey, but I donot taste of it unless I am well-nigh starved. I have not eaten nowthese two days.”

“You may eat, then,” says the Coarb, and he turned to help the friarsdig the hole.

The gleeman took a loaf and some strips of cold fried bacon out of hiswallet and laid them upon the ground. “I will give a tithe to the poor,”says he, and he cut a tenth part from the loaf and the bacon. “Who amongyou is the poorest?” And thereupon was a great clamour, for the beggarsbegan the history of their sorrows and their poverty, and their yellowfaces swayed like the Shelly River when the floods have filled it withwater from the bogs.

He listened for a little, and, says he, “I am myself the poorest, for Ihave travelled the bare road, and by the glittering footsteps of thesea; and the tattered doublet of parti-coloured cloth upon my back, andthe torn pointed shoes upon my feet have ever irked me, because of thetowered city full of noble raiment which was in my heart. And I havebeen the more alone upon the roads and by the sea, because I heard in myheart the rustling of the rose-bordered dress of her who is more subtlethan Angus, the Subtle-Hearted, and more full of the beauty of laughterthan Conan the Bald, and more full of the wisdom of tears thanWhite-Breasted Deirdre, and more lovely than a bursting dawn to themthat are lost in the darkness. Therefore, I award the tithe to myself;but yet, because I am done with all things, I give it unto you.”

So he flung the bread and the strips of bacon among the beggars, andthey fought with many cries until the last scrap was eaten. Butmeanwhile the friars nailed the gleeman to his cross, and set it uprightin the hole, and shovelled the earth in at the foot, and trampled itlevel and hard. So then they went away, but the beggars stared on,sitting round the cross. But when the sun was sinking, they also got upto go, for the air was getting chilly. And as soon as they had gone alittle way, the wolves, who had been showing themselves on the edge of aneighbouring coppice, came nearer, and the birds wheeled closer andcloser. “Stay, outcasts, yet a little while,” the crucified one calledin a weak voice to the beggars, “and keep the beasts and the birds fromme.” But the beggars were angry because he had called them outcasts, sothey threw stones and mud at him, and went their way. Then the wolvesgathered at the foot of the cross, and the birds lighted all at onceupon his head and arms and shoulders, and began to peck at him, and thewolves began to eat his feet. “Outcasts,” he moaned, “have you alsoturned against the outcast?”

THE DRUMS OF KAIRWAN

By the Marquess CURZON OF KEDLESTON

From Tales of Travel, by The Marquess Curzon of Kedleston.Copyright, 1923, by George H. Doran Company.

When the appointed hour arrived, I presented myself at the mosque, whichis situated outside the city walls of Kairwan, not far from theBab-el-Djuluddin, or Tanners’ Gate. Passing through an open courtyardinto the main building, I was received with a dignified salaam by thesheik, who forthwith led me to a platform or divan at the upper end ofthe central space. This was surmounted by a ribbed and white-washeddome, and was separated from two side aisles by rows of marble columnswith battered capitals, dating from the Empire of Rome. Between thearches of the roof small and feeble lamps—mere lighted wicks floating ondingy oil in cups of coloured glass—ostrich eggs, and gilt balls weresuspended from wooden beams. From the cupola in the centre hung adilapidated chandelier in which flickered a few miserable candles. Inone of the side aisles a plastered tomb was visible behind an ironlattice. The mise en scène was unprepossessing and squalid.

My attention was next turned to the dramatis personae. Upon the floorin the centre beneath the dome sat the musicians, ten or a dozen innumber, cross-legged, the chief presiding upon a stool at the head ofthe circle. I observed no instrument save the darabookah, or earthendrum, and a number of tambours, the skins of which, stretched tightlyacross the frames, gave forth, when struck sharply by the fingers, ahollow and resonant note. The rest of the orchestra was occupied by thechorus. So far no actors were visible. The remainder of the floor, bothunder the dome and in the aisles, was thickly covered with seated andmotionless figures, presenting in the fitful light a weird and fantasticpicture. In all there must have been over a hundred persons, all males,in the mosque.

Presently the sheik gave the signal for commencement, and in a momentburst forth the melancholy chant of the Arab voices and the ceaselessdroning of the drums. The song was not what we should call singing, buta plaintive and quavering wail, pursued in a certain cadence, nowfalling to a moan, now terminating in a shriek, but always pitiful,piercing and inexpressibly sad. The tambours, which were struck like thekeyboard of a piano, by the outstretched fingers of the hand, and,occasionally, when a louder note was required, by the thumb, kept up amonotonous refrain in the background. From time to time, at moments ofgreater stress, they were brandished high in the air and beaten with allthe force of fingers and thumb combined. Then the noise was imperiousand deafening.

Among the singers, one grizzled and bearded veteran, with a strident andnasal intonation, surpassed his fellows. He observed the time withgrotesque reflections of his body; his eyes were fixed and shone withreligious zeal.

The chant proceeded, and the figures of the singers, as they became moreand more excited, rocked to and fro. More people poured in at thedoorway, and the building was now quite full. I began to wonder whetherthe musicians were also to be the performers, or when the latter wouldmake their appearance.

Suddenly a line of four or five Arabs formed itself in front of theentrance on the far side of the orchestra, and exactly opposite thebench on which I was sitting. They joined hands, the right of eachclasped in the left of his neighbour, and began a lurching, swayingmotion with their bodies and feet. At first they appeared simply to bemarking time, first with one foot and then with the other; but themovement was gradually communicated to every member of their bodies; andfrom the crown of the head to the soles of the feet they were presentlykeeping time with the music in convulsive jerks and leaps andundulations, the music itself being regulated by the untiring orchestraof the drums.

This mysterious row of bobbing figures seemed to exercise anirresistible fascination over the spectators. Every moment one or otherof these left his place to join its ranks. They pushed their way intothe middle, severing the chain for an instant, or joined themselves onto the ends. The older men appeared to have a right to the centre, theboys and children—for there were youngsters present not more than sevenor eight years old—were on the wings. Thus the line ever lengthened;originally it consisted of three or four, presently it was ten ortwelve, anon it was twenty-five or thirty, and before theself-torturings commenced there were as many as forty human figuresstretching right across the building, and all rocking backwards andforwards in grim and ungraceful unison, Even the spectators who kepttheir places could not resist the contagion; as they sat there theyunconsciously kept time with their heads and shoulders, and one childswung his little head this way and that with a fury that threatened toseparate it from his body.

Meanwhile, the music had been growing in intensity, the orchestrasharing the excitement, which they communicated. The drummers beat theirtambours with redoubled force, lifting them high above their heads andoccasionally, at some extreme pitch, tossing them aloft and catchingthem again as they fell. Sometimes in the exaltation of frenzy theystarted spasmodically to their feet and then sank back into theiroriginal position. But ever and without a pause continued the insistentaccompaniment of the drums.

And now the oscillating line in front of the doorway for the first timefound utterance. As they leaped high on one foot, alternately kickingout the other, as their heads wagged to and fro and their bodiesquivered with the muscular strain, they cried aloud in praise of Allah.La ilaha ill Allah! (There is no God but Allah)—this was the untiringburden of their strain. And then came Ya Allah! (O God), and sometimesYa Kahhar! (O avenging God), Ya Hakk! (O just God), while each burstof clamorous appeal culminated in an awful shout of Ya Hoo! (O Him).

The rapidity and vehemence of their gesticulations was now appalling;their heads swung backwards and forwards till their foreheads almosttouched their breasts, and their scalps smote against their backs. Sweatpoured from their faces; they panted for breath; and the exclamationsburst from their mouths in a thick and stertorous murmur. Suddenly, andwithout warning, the first phase of the zikr ceased, and the actorsstood gasping, shaking, and dripping with perspiration.

After a few seconds’ respite the performance recommenced, and shortlywaxed more furious than ever. The worshippers seemed to be gifted withan almost superhuman strength and energy. As they flung themselves toand fro, at one moment their upturned faces gleamed with a sickly polishunder the flickering lamps, at the next their turbaned heads all butbrushed the floor. Their eyes started from the sockets; the muscles ontheir necks and the veins on their foreheads stood out like knottedcords. One old man fell out of the ranks, breathless, spent, andfoaming. His place was taken by another, and the tumultuous orgy wenton.

Presently, as the ecstasy approached its height and the fully initiatedbecame melboos or possessed, they broke from the stereotyped litanyinto domoniacal grinning and ferocious and bestial cries. These writhingand contorted objects were no longer rational human beings, but savageanimals, caged brutes howling madly in the delirium of hunger or ofpain. They growled like bears, they barked like jackals, they roaredlike lions, they laughed like hyænas; and ever and anon from theseething rank rose a diabolical shriek, like the scream of a dyinghorse, or the yell of a tortured fiend. And steadily the while in thebackground resounded the implacable reverberation of the drums.

The climax was now reached; the requisite pitch of catalepticinebriation had been obtained, and the rites of Aissa were about tobegin. From the crowd at the door a wild figure broke forth, tore offhis upper clothing till he was naked to the waist, and, throwing awayhis fez, bared a head close-shaven save for one long and dishevelledlock that, springing from the scalp, fell over his forehead like somegrisly and funereal plume. A long knife, somewhat resembling a cutlass,was handed to him by the sheik, who had risen to his feet, and whodirected the phenomena that ensued. Waving it wildly above his head andprotruding the forepart of his figure, the fanatic brought it down blowafter blow against his bared stomach, and drew it savagely to and froagainst the unprotected skin. There showed the marks of a long and lividweal, but no blood spurted from the gash. In the intervals between thestrokes he ran swiftly from one side to the other of the open space,taking long stealthy strides like a panther about to spring, andseemingly so powerless over his own movements that he knocked blindly upagainst those who stood in his way, nearly upsetting them with theviolence of the collision.

The prowess or the piety of this ardent devotee proved extraordinarilycontagious. First one and then another of his brethren caught theafflatus and followed his example. In a few moments every part of themosque was the scene of some novel and horrible rite of self-mutilation,performed by a fresh aspirant to the favour of Allah. Some of thesefeats did not rise above the level of the curious but explicableperformances which are sometimes seen upon English stages; e.g., ofthe men who swallow swords, and carry enormous weights suspended fromtheir jaws; achievements which are in no sense a trick or a deception,but are to be attributed to abnormal physical powers or structuredeveloped by long and often perilous practice. In the Aissaiouiancounterpart of these displays there was nothing specially remarkable,but there were others less commonplace and more difficult ofexplanation.

At length, several long iron spits or prongs were produced anddistributed; these formidable implements were about two and a half feetin length and sharply pointed, and they terminated at the handle in acircular wooden knob about the size of a large orange. There was greatcompetition for these instruments of torture, which were used asfollows: Poising one in the air, an Aissioui would suddenly force thepoint into the flesh of his own shoulder in front just below theshoulder blade. Thus transfixed, and holding the weapon aloft, he strodeswiftly up and down. Suddenly, at a signal, he fell on his knees, stillforcing the point into his body, and keeping the wooden head uppermost.Then there started up another disciple armed with a big wooden mallet,and he, after a few preliminary taps, rising high on tip-toe withuplifted weapon would, with an ear-splitting yell, bring it down withall his force upon the wooden knob, driving the point home through theshoulder of his comrade. Blow succeeded blow, the victim wincing beneaththe stroke, but uttering no sound, and fixing his eyes with a look ofineffable delight upon his torturer, till the point was driven rightthrough the shoulder and projected at the back. Then the patient marchedbackwards and forwards with the air and the gait of a conquering hero.At one moment there were four of these semi-naked maniacs within a yardof my feet, transfixed and trembling, but beatified and triumphant. Amidthe cries and the swelter, there never ceased for one second the sullenand menacing vociferation of the drums.

Another man seized an iron skewer, and, placing the point within hisopen jaws, forced it steadily through his cheek until it protruded acouple of inches on the outside. He barked savagely like a dog, andfoamed at the lips.

Others, afflicted with exquisite spasms of hunger, knelt down before thechief, whimpering like children for food, and turning upon him imploringglances from their glazed and bloodshot eyes. His control over hisfollowing was supreme. Some he gratified, others he forbade. At a touchfrom him, they were silent and relaxed into quiescence. One maddenedwretch who, fancying himself some wild beast, plunged to and fro,roaring horribly, and biting and tearing with his teeth at whomever hemet, was advancing, as I thought, with somewhat truculent intent in mydirection, when he was arrested by his superior and sent back, cringingand cowed.

For those whose ravenous appetites he was content to humour the mostsingular repast was prepared. A plate was brought in, covered with hugejagged pieces of broken glass, as thick as a shattered soda-waterbottle. With greedy chuckles and gurglings of delight, one of the hungryones dashed at it, crammed a handful into his mouth, and crunched it upas though it were some exquisite dainty, a fellow-disciple calmlystroking the exterior of his throat, with intent, I suppose, tolubricate the descent of the unwonted morsels. A little child held up asnake or a sand-worm by the tail, placing the head between his teeth,and gulped it gleefully down. Several acolytes came in, carrying a bigstem of the prickly pear, or fico d’India, whose leaves are as thickas a one-inch plank, and are armed with huge projecting thorns. This wasambrosia to the starving saints. They rushed at it with passionateemulation, tearing at the solid slabs with their teeth, and gnawing andmunching the coarse fibers, regardless of the thorns which pierced theirtongues and cheeks as they swallowed them down.

The most singular feature of all, and the one that almost defies belief,though it is none the less true, was this—that in no case did one dropof blood emerge from scar, or gash, or wound. This fact I observed mostcarefully, the mokaddem standing at my side, and each patient in turncoming to him when his self-imposed torture had been accomplished, andthe cataleptic frenzy had spent its force. It was the chief whocunningly withdrew the blade from cheek or shoulder or body, rubbingover the spot what appeared to me to be the saliva of his own mouth;then he whispered an absolution in the ear of the disciple, and kissedhim on the forehead, whereupon the patient, but a moment before writhingin maniacal transports, retired tranquilly and took his seat upon thefloor. He seemed none the worse for his recent paroxysm, and the woundwas marked only by a livid blotch or a hectic flush.

This was the scene that for more than an hour went on without pause orintermission before my eyes. The building might have been tenanted bythe Harpies or Laestrygones of Homer, or by some inhuman monsters oflegendary myth. Amid the dust and sweat and insufferable heat the nakedbodies of the actors shone with a ghastly pallor and exhaled a sickeningsmell. The atmosphere reeked with heavy and intoxicating fumes. Abovethe despairing chant of the singers rang the frenzied yells of thepossessed, the shrieks of the hammerer, and the inarticulate cries, thesnarling and growling, the bellowing and miauling of the self-imaginedbeasts. And ever behind and through all re-echoed the perpetual andpitiless imprecation of the drums.

As I witnessed the disgusting spectacle and listened to the pandemoniumof sounds, my head swam, my eyes became dim, my senses reeled, and Ibelieved that in a few moments I must have fainted, had not one of myfriends touched me on the shoulder, and, whispering that the mokaddemwas desirous that I should leave, escorted me hurriedly to the door. AsI walked back to my quarters, and long after through the still night,the beat of the tambours continued, and I heard the distant hum ofvoices, broken at intervals by an isolated and piercing cry. Perhaps yetfurther and more revolting orgies were celebrated after I had left. Ihad not seen, as other travellers have done, the chewing and swallowingof red-hot cinders,1 or the harmless handling and walking upon livecoals. I had been spared that which others have described as the climaxof the gluttonous debauch, viz., the introduction of a live sheep,which then and there is savagely torn to pieces and devoured raw bythese unnatural banqueters. But I had seen enough, and as I sank tosleep my agitated fancy pursued a thousand avenues of thought,confounding in one grim medley all the carnivorous horrors of fact andfable and fiction. Loud above the din and discord the tale of the falseprophets of Carmel, awakened by the train of association, rang in myears, till I seemed to hear intoned with remorseless repetition thewords: “They cried aloud and cut themselves after their manner withknives and lancets, till the blood gushed out upon them”; and in theever-receding distance of dreamland, faint and yet fainter, therethrobbed the inexorable and unfaltering delirium of the drums.

A LIFE—A BOWL OF RICE

By L. DE BRA

Bow Sam stood in the doorway by his sugar-cane stand and watched withnarrowed eyes an old man who shuffled uncertainly down the alley towardshim.

“Hoo la ma!” cried Bow Sam, in surprised Cantonese as the old man drewnear. “Hello, there! I scarcely knew you, venerable Fa’ng!”

Fa’ng, the hatchetman, straightened his bent shoulders and looked up.There was a gleam in his deep bronze eyes that was hardly in keepingwith his withered frame.

“Hoo la ma, Bow Sam,” he said, his voice strangely deep and vibrant.

“You have grown very thin,” remarked Bow Sam with friendly interest.

“Hi low; that is true. But why carry around flesh that is not food?”

The sugar-cane vendor eyed the other shrewdly. What was the gossip hehad heard concerning Fa’ng, the famous old hatchetman? Was it not thatthe old man was always hungry? Yes, that was it! Fa’ng, whose long knifeand swift arm had been the most feared thing in all Chinatown, wasstarving—too proud to beg, too honest to steal.

“You have eaten well, venerable Fa’ng?” The inquiry was in a casualtone, respectful.

“Aih, I have eaten well,” replied the old hatchetman, averting hisface.

“How unfortunate for me! I have not yet eaten my rice; for when one mustdine alone, one goes slowly to table. Is it not written that a bowl ofrice shared is doubly enjoyed? Would you not at least have a cup of teawhile I eat my mean fare?”

“I shall be honoured to sip tea with you, estimable Bow Sam,” repliedthe hatchetman with poorly disguised eagerness.

“Then condescend to enter my poor house! Ah, one does not often have thepleasure of your company in these days!”

Bow Sam preceded his guest to the wretched hovel that was the sugar-canevendor’s only home. There he quickly removed all trace of the bowl ofrice he had eaten but a moment before.

“Will you take this poor stool, venerable Fa’ng?” said Bow, setting outthe only stool he possessed, and placing it so that the hatchetman’sback would be to the stove.

Wearily, Fa’ng sat down. Bow put out two small cups, each worn and badlychipped, and filled them with hot tea. Then, while the hatchetman sippedhis tea, Bow uncovered the rice kettle. There was but one bowl of riceleft. Bow Sam had intended to keep it for his evening meal; for until hesold some sugar-cane, he had no way of obtaining more food.

Behind Fa’ng’s back, Bow took two rice bowls and set them on the stove.One bowl he heaped full for the hatchetman. In the other he put anupturned tea bowl and sprinkled over it his last few grains of rice.

“Let us give thanks to the gods of the kitchen that we have food andteeth and appetite,” chuckled Bow Sam, seating himself on a sugar-canebox opposite Fa’ng.

“Well spoken,” returned the old hatchetman, quickly filling his mouthwith the nourishing rice. “Aih, there is much in life to make onecontent.”

With his chop-sticks Bow Sam deftly took up a few grains of rice, takingcare lest he uncover the upturned tea bowl. He was deeply grateful thathe had a few teeth left, that he quite often had enough rice, andsometimes had meat as often as once a month; but to hear the proud oldhatchetman express such sentiments on an empty stomach filled him withadmiration.

“What a virtue to be content with one’s lot!” he exclaimed, refillingthe hatchetman’s tea bowl. “Yet the younger generation are alwaysfretting because they think they have not enough; while, as anyoneknows, they have much more than we who first came to this land of thewhite foreign devil.”

“They are young,” spoke Fa’ng, nodding his head slowly. “For us the dayshave fled, the years have not tarried. And we have learned that if onehas but a bowl of rice for food and a bent arm for pillow, one can becontent.”

“Haie! How can you speak so softly of the younger generation when itis they who have robbed you of your livelihood? I know the gossip. You,the most famous killer in Chinatown, find yourself cast out like aworn-out broom by these young upstarts who have no respect for theirelders. Is it not true?”

With his left hand the old hatchetman made an eloquent gesture,peculiarly Chinese, much as one quickly throws open a fan.

“Of what value are words, my friend? They cannot change that which ischangeless. A word cannot temper the wind, nor a phrase procure food fora hungry stomach.”

“Nevertheless, I do not like such things,” persisted Sam. “I love theold ways. You were an honourable and fearless killer. When you werehired to slay one’s enemy you went boldly to your victim and told himyour business. Then, swiftly, even before the doomed one could open hislips, you struck—cleaned your blade and walked your way.

“The modern killers!” Bow Sam spewed the words out as one does sourrice. “They are too cowardly to use the knife. They hide on roofs, fireon their victims, then throw away their guns and flee like thieves.Aih, what have we come to in these days!

“It was but yesterday after mid-day rice that I had speech with GarLing, a gunman of the Sin Wah tong. He stopped to buy sugar-cane, and Itold him that had I the money I would hire him. There is one of theyounger generation, the pock-marked son of Quong, the dealer in jade,who has greatly wronged me and my honourable family name, and mydistinguished ancestors. As you very well know, one cannot soil one’sown hands with the blood of vengeance. Moreover, I have no weapon, noteven a dull cleaver. Neither can I afford to hire a fighting man.

“I was telling all this to Gar Ling,” went on Bow, straining the lastdrop of tea into Fa’ng’s bowl, “and he told me he would settle myquarrel, but it would cost one thousand dollars. When I told him I hadnot even a thousand copper cash, he became angry and abusive. As hewalked his way, quickly, like a foreign devil, he spat in my directionand called me an unspeakable name.”

“Ts, ts! You should have wrung his neck. Repeat to me his unspeakablewords.”

“He said,” cried Bow Sam, his face twisted in fury, “that I am the sonof a turtle!”

“Aih-yah! How insulting! As anyone knows, in all our language there isno epithet more vile!”

“That is true. But what is even worse, I did not remember until after hehad gone that he had not paid me for the piece of sugar-cane. Such isthe way of the younger generation; and we, who have been long in theland, can do nothing.”

“Yet it is by such things that one learns the lesson of enduringtranquillity,” remarked Fa’ng, smacking his lips and moving back fromthe table.

For about the time, then, that it takes one to make nine bows before thehousehold gods, neither man made speech. Then Fa’ng arose.

“An excellent bowl of rice, my good friend.”

“Aih, it shames me to have to give you such mean fare.”

“And the tea was most fragrant.”

“Ts, it was only the cheapest Black Dragon.”

The two old men went to the door.

“Ho hang la,” said the hatchetman.

“Ho hang la,” echoed the sugar-cane vendor. “I hope you have a safewalk.”

Fa’ng, the hatchetman, made his way down the alley to the rear entranceof a pawnshop. There he spoke a few words with the proprietor.

“I know you are honest, old man,” said the pawnbroker. “But instead ofbringing it back, I hope, for your own sake, you will be able to paywhat you owe me.”

Then from a safe he took a knife with long, slender blade and a handleof ebony in which had been carved an unbelievable number of notches.Fa’ng took the knife, handling it as one does an object of preciousmemories, concealed it beneath his tattered blouse, and went his way.

Near the entrance of a gambling house in Canton Alley the old hatchetmanmet the pock-marked son of Quong, the dealer in jade.

“For the wrong you have done Bow Sam, his family name, and hisdistinguished ancestors,” said Fa’ng quietly; and before the other couldopen his lips the long blade was through his heart.

In front of a cigar store in Shanghai Place, Fa’ng found Gar Ling, thegunman. “I have business of moment with you, Gar Ling,” said thehatchetman. “Come.”

Gar Ling hesitated. He stood in great fear of the old killer, yet hedared not show that fear before his young friends. So with his left handhe gave a peculiar signal. A boy standing near with a basket of licheenuts on his arm turned quickly and followed the two men down the alley.Drawing near his employer, the boy held up the basket as thoughsoliciting the gunman to buy. Gar’s hand darted swiftly into the basket,beneath the lichee nuts, and came out with a heavy automatic pistolwhich he quickly concealed beneath his blouse.

The old hatchetman knew all the tricks of the young gunman, but hepretended he had not seen. As they turned a dark corner, he paused.

“For the insulting words you spoke to Bow Sam,” he said calmly, and thelong blade glided between the gunman’s ribs.

As Fa’ng drew the steel away, Gar Ling staggered, fired once, thencollapsed.

Bow Sam stood in the doorway by his sugar-cane stand and watched withnarrowed eyes an old man who shuffled uncertainly down the alley towardhim.

“Hoo la ma!” he cried, as the old man drew near. “I did not expect tosee you again so soon.”

The old hatchetman did not raise his head nor reply. Staggering, hecrossed the threshold and fell on his face on the littered floor.

With a throaty cry Bow Sam slammed the door shut. He bent over Fa’ng.

“This knife,” said the hatchetman; “take it—to Wong the pawnbroker. Tellhim—all. Worth—more—than I owe.”

“But what’s——”

“For the wrong that the pock-marked one did you, for the insult Gar Lingspoke to you, I slew them,” said Fa’ng, with sudden strength. “My debtis paid. Tsau kom lok.”

“Haie! You did that! Why did you do that? I could never pay you! Andlook! Aih-yah, oh, how piteous! You are dying!”

With awkward fingers, the vendor of sugar-cane tried to staunch the flowof blood where Gar Ling’s bullet had struck with deadly effect.

“Pay me?” breathed Fa’ng the hatchetman. “Did you—not—feed me? Canone—put a value—on food—when the stomach—is empty? Aih, what—mattersit? A life,”—his eyelids fluttered and closed—“a life—a bowl ofrice....”

HODGE

By ELINOR MORDAUNT

People are accustomed to think of Somerset as a country of deep, boskybays, sunny coves, woods, moorlands, but Hemerton was in itselfsufficient to blur this bland illusion. It lay a mile and a half backfrom the sea, counting it all full tide; at low tide the sly, smoothwaters, unbroken by a single rock, slipped away for another mile or moreacross a dreary ooze of black mud.

The village lay pasted flat upon the marsh, with no trees worthy of thename in sight: a few twisted black-thorn bushes, a few split willows,one wreck of a giant blighted ash in the Rectory gardens, and that wasall.

For months on end the place swam in vapours. There were wonderfuleffects of sunrise and sunset, veils of crimson and gold, of every shadeof blue and purple. At times the grey sea-lavender was like silver, thewet, black mud gleaming like dark opals; while at high summer there waspurple willow-strife spilled thick along the ditches, giving the strangeplace a transitory air of warm-blooded life; but for the most part itwas all as aloof and detached as a sleep-walker.

The birds fitted the place as a verger fits his quiet and dusky church:herons and waders of all kinds; wild-crying curlew; and here and there ahawk, hanging motionless high overhead.

There were scarcely fifty houses in Hemerton, and these were all alike,flat and brown and grey; where there had been plaster it was flaked andashen. The very church stooped, as though shamed to a sort ofpoor-relation pose by the immense indifference of the mist-veiledsky—the drooping lids on a scornful face—for even at midday, inmid-summer, the heavens were never quite clear, quite blue, but stillveiled and apart.

The Rectory was a two-storied building, low at that, and patched withdamp: small, with a narrow-chested air, tiny windows, a thin, grudgingdoorway, blistered paint, which gave it a leprous air; and just that onetree, with its pale, curled leaves in summer, its jangling keys inwinter.

It was amazing to find that any creature so warmly vital as the Rector’sdaughter, Rhoda Fane, had been begotten, born, reared in such a place;spent her entire life there, apart from two years of school at Clifton,and six months in Brussels, cut short by her mother’s death.

She was like a beech wood in September: ruddy, crisp, fragrant. Herhair, dark-brown, with copper lights, was so springing with life that itseemed more inclined to grow up than hang down; her face was almostround, her wide, brown eyes frank and eager. She was as good as any manwith her leaping-pole: broad-shouldered, deep-breasted, with a soft,deep contralto voice.

Her only brother, Hector, was four years younger than herself. Funds hadrun low, drained away by their mother’s illness, before it was time forhim to go to school; he was too delicate for the second-best, roughingit among lads of a lower class, and so he was kept at home, taught byhis father: a thin trickle of distilled classics and waveringmathematics; a good deal of history, no geography.

He, in startling contrast to his sister, was a true child of themarshes: thin light hair, vellum-white, peaked face, pale grey eyesbeneath an overhanging brow, large, transparent ears: narrow-chested,long-armed, stooping, so that he seemed almost a hunchback.

In all ways he was the shadow of Rhoda, followed her everywhere; and asthere is no shadow without the sun, so it seemed that he could scarcelyhave existed apart from her. Small as he already was, he almost puledhimself out of life while she was away at school; and after a bare weekfrom home she would get back to find him with the best part of hissubstance peeled from him, white as a willow-wand.

Different as these two were, they were passionately attached to eachother. The Rector was a kind father when he drew himself out of themorass of melancholy and disillusion into which he had fallen since hiswife died, wilting away with damp and discontent, and sheer loathing ofthe soil in which it had been his misfortune to plant her. But still, atthe best, he was a parent, and so apart, while there were no neighbours,no playfellows.

Once or twice Rhoda’s school-friends came to stay at the Rectory, andfor the first day or so it seemed delightful to talk of dress, of agayer world, possible lovers. But after a very little while they beganto pall on her: they understood nothing of what was her one absorbinginterest—the natural life of the place in which she lived: werediscontented, disdainful of the marshland, hated the mud, feared thefogs, shivered in the damp.

Anyhow, the brother and sister were sufficient to each other, for theyshared a never-failing, or even diminishing, interest—and what more canany two people wish for?—a passionate absorption in, a minute knowledgeof, the wild life of the marshland; its legends and folklore; its habitsand calls; the mating seasons and manners of the birds; the place andhabit of every wild flower; the way of the wind with the sky, and allits portents; the changing seasons, seemingly so uneven from year toyear, and yet working out so much the same in the end.

They could not have said how they first came to hear of the Forest: theyhad always talked of it. To Hector, at least, it was so vivid that heseemed to have actually struggled through its immense depths, swung inits hanging creepers, smelt its sickly-sweet orchids, breathed its hot,damp air—so far real to both alike that they would find themselvessaying, “Do you remember?” in speaking of paths that they had nevertraversed.

Provisionally they had fixed their Forest at the Miocene Period. Or,rather, this is what it came to: the boy ceasing to protest against thewinged monsters, the rhinoceros, the long-jawed mastodon whichfascinated the girl’s imagination; though there was one impassionedscene when he flamed out over his clear remembrance of a sabre-toothedtiger, putting all those others—stupid, hulking brutes!—out of court bymany thousands of years.

“They couldn’t have been there, couldn’t—not with us and with ‘It’—I sawit, I tell you—I tell you I saw it!” His pale face flamed, his eyes wereas bright as steel. “The mastodon! That’s nothing—nothing! But thesabre-toothed tiger—I tell you I saw it. What are you grinning atnow?—in our Forest—ours, mind you!—I saw it!”

“Oh, indeed, indeed!” Suddenly, because the day was so hot, because theywere bored, because she was unwittingly impressed, as always, by herbrother’s heat of conviction, Rhoda’s serene temper was gone. “And didyou see yourself? and what were you doing there, may I ask—you! Sillyinfant, don’t you know that there weren’t any men then? Phew! Everyoneknows that—everyone. You and your old tiger!”

There was mockery in her laugh as she took him by the lapels of hiscoat; shook him.

Then, next moment when he turned aside, sullen and pale, his brows in apent-house above his eyes, she was filled with contrition. The rotten,thundery day had set her all on edge; it was a shame to tease him likethis; and, after all, how often had she herself remembered back? Thoughthere was a difference, and she knew it, a sense of fantasy, pretending;while Hector was as jealous of every detail of their Forest as along-banished exile over every cherished memory of his own land.

Though, of course, there were no men contemporary with that wretchedtiger: he knew that; he must know.

Lolling under their one tree, in the steamy, early afternoon, she coaxedhim back to the subject, and was beaten upon it, as the half-heartedalways are.

He was so amazingly clear about the whole thing.... Why, it might havehappened yesterday!

He had been up in the trees, slinking along—not the hunting man, but thehunted—watchful, furtive; a picker-up of what other beasts had slain andtaken their fill of: more watchful than usual because he had alreadycome across a carcass left by the long-toothed terror, all the bloodsucked out of it. Swinging from bough to bough by his hands—which, evenwhen he stood upright, as upright as possible, dangled far below hisknees—he had actually seen it; seen its gleaming tusks, its shiningeyes; seen it, and fled, wild with terror.

Was it likely that he could ever forget it? “It and its beastly teeth!”he added; then fell silent, brooding; while even Rhoda was awed tosilence.

It was that very evening that they found their Forest, or, rather, apart of it. They had gone over to the shore meaning to bathe, but foronce their memories were at fault; and they found that the tide was out,a mere rim of molten lead on the far edge of the horizon.

They were both tired, but they could not rest. They cut inland for abit, then out again; crossing the mudflats until the mud oozed abovetheir boots and drove them back again.

They must have wandered about a long time, for the light—although it didnot actually go—became illusive; the air freshened with that salty scentwhich tells of a flowing tide.

Hector insisted that they ought to wait until it was full in, and havetheir bath by moonlight; but, as Rhoda pointed out, that would mean nosupper, dawdling about for hours. After some time they compromised: theywould go out and meet the tide; see what it was like.

Almost at the water’s edge they found It—their Forest.

There it was, buried like a fly in amber: twisted trunks and boughs,matted creepers, all ash-grey and black.

How far it stretched up and down the shore they could not have said, thetime was too short, the sea too near for any exploration; but not far,they thought, or they must have discovered it before. “Nothing more thana fold out of the world, squeezed up to the surface”; that was what theyagreed upon.

They divided and ran in opposite directions—“Just to try and find out,”as Rhoda said. But after a few yards, a couple of dozen, maybe, theycalled back to each other that they had lost it.

The darkness gathering, the water almost to their feet; they werebitterly disappointed, but anyhow there was to-morrow, many“to-morrows.”

All that evening they talked of nothing else. “It’s been there forthousands and tens of thousands of years! It will be there to-morrow,”they said.

It was towards two o’clock in the morning that Hector, restless withexcitement and fear, padded into his sister’s room; found hersleeping—stupidly sleeping—with the moonlight full upon her, and shookher awake; unreasonably angry, as wakeful people always are with thesleepers.

“Suppose we never find it again! Oh, Rhoda, suppose we never find itagain!”

“Find what?”

“The Forest, you idiot!—our Forest.”

“Hector, don’t be silly. Go back to bed; you’ll get cold. Of coursewe’ll find it.”

“Why of course? I’ve been thinking and thinking and thinking. Therewasn’t a tree or bush or landmark of any sort: we had pottered about allover the shop: supposing we’ve lost it for ever? Oh, supposing, Rhoda,Rhoda! What sillies we were! Why didn’t we stay there, camp opposite ituntil the tide went out? I feel it in my bones—we’ll never find itagain—never—never—never! There might have been skulls, all sorts ofthings—long teeth—tigers’ teeth! And now we’ve lost it. It’s no goodtalking—we’ve lost it; I know we’ve lost it—after all these years! Afterthousands and thousands and thousands of years of remembering!”

The boy’s forehead was glistening with sweat; the tears were runningdown his face, white as bone in the moonlight. Rhoda drew him into herbed, comforted him as best she could, very sleepy, and unperturbed—for,of course, they would find it. How could they help finding it? And aftera while he fell asleep, still moaning and crying, searching for a lostpath through his dreams.

He was right in his foreboding. They did not find it. Perhaps the tidehad been out further than usual: they had walked further than theythought; they had dreamt the whole thing; the light had deceivedthem—impossible to say.

At first, in the broad light of day, even Hector was incredulous oftheir misfortune. Then, as the completeness of their loss grew uponthem, they became desperate—possessed by that terrible restlessness ofthe searcher after lost things. Day after day they would come back fromthe sea worn out, utterly hopeless; declaring that here was the end ofthe whole thing; sick at the very thought of the secret mud, the longblack shore.

They gave it up. They would never go near “the rotten thing” again.

Then, a few hours later, the thought of the freshly-receding tide beganto work like madness in their veins, and they would be out and away.

It was easier for Rhoda; for she was of those who “sleep o’ nights”;easier until she found that her brother slipped off on moonlight nightswhile she slumbered: coming back at all hours, haggard and worn tofainting-point.

He stooped more than ever: his brow was more overhung, furrowed withhorizontal lines. Sometimes, furious with herself for her sleepiness,Rhoda would awake, jump out of bed and run to the window in the freshdawn, to see the boy dragging himself home, old as the ages, his handshanging loose to his knees.

At last the breaking-point came. He was very ill: after a longconvalescence, money was collected from numerous relations, familytreasures were sold, and he was sent away to school.

He came back for his holidays a changed creature, talking of footer,then of cricket; of boys and masters; of school—school—school—nothingbut school; blunt and practical.

But all this was at the front of him, deliberately displayed in theshop-windows.

At the back of him, buried out of sight, there was still the visionaryrememberer. Rhoda, who loved him, realised this.

At first she did not dare to speak of the Forest. Then, trying to get atsomething of the old Hector, she pressed the point; pressed it andpressed it. It was she now who kept on with that eternal, “Don’t youremember?”

The worst of the whole thing was that he did not even pretend to forget.He did worse—he laughed. And in her own pain she now realised how oftenand how deeply she must have hurt him.

“Oh, that rot! What silly idiots we were! Such rot!”

And yet, at the back of him, at the back of his too-direct gaze, hislaughter, there was something. Oh, yes, there was something. She wascertain of that.

Deep, deep, hidden away at the back of him, at the back of that mostimperturbable of all reserves, a boy’s reserve, he remembered, felt ashe had always felt. He shut her out of it, that was all: her—Rhoda.

At the end of a year they ceased to talk of the Forest; all thosefar-back things dropped away from their intercourse. To outward seemingtheir love for the countryside, their strange, unyouthful interest ingeology, the age-buried world, seemed a thing of the past.

Hector had a bicycle now: he was often away for hours at a time. Henever even spoke of where he had been, what he had been doing. It wasalways: “Nowhere in particular; nothing in particular.”

Then, two years later, upon just such a breathless mid-summer day, heburst in upon his sister, his face crimson with excitement.

“I’ve found it! I never gave up—never for a moment! I pretended—Ithought you thought it rot—were drawing me on—but it’s there. We wereright. It’s there—there! Quick! quick! Now the tide’s just almost fullout.... Oh, by Jingo! to think I’ve found it! Rhoda, hurry up—quick!” Hewas dancing with impatience.

“I can ride the bike—you on the step,” breathed Rhoda, and snatched up ahat.

They flew. The village shot past them: the flat country swirled like atop. At last they came to a place where there was a tiny rag of tornhandkerchief tied to a stick stuck upright in the ground. Here they leftthe road, laid the bicycle in a dry ditch, and cut away across themarsh; guided by more signals—scraps of cambric, then paper; towards theend, one every ten yards or less, until Rhoda wondered how in the worldhad the boy curbed himself to such care!

Then—there it was.

They stepped it: just on fifty yards long, indefinitely wide, runningout into little bays, here and there tailing off so that it wasimpossible to discover any definite edge, sinking away out of sight likea dream.

The sun was blazing hot and the top of the mud dry. In places they wentdown upon their hands and knees, peering; but really one saw moststanding a little way off, with one’s head bent, eyeing it sideways.

It was in this way that Rhoda found It—Him!

“Look—look! Oh, I say—there’s something.... A thing—an animal!No—no—a—a——”

“Sabre-toothed tiger!” The boy’s wild shriek of triumph showed how hehad hugged that old conjecture.

He came running, but until he got his head at exactly the same slant ashers he could see nothing, and was furiously petulant.

“Idiot! Silly fool!—nothing but a bough. You——” A lucky angle, and, “Oh,I say, by Jove! I’ve got it now! A man—a man!”

“A monkey—a great ape; there were no men, then, with ‘It.’” There, itseemed, she conceded him his tiger. “A little nearer—now again, there!”

They crept towards it. It was clear enough at a little distance; butnearer, what with the blazing sun and the queer incandescent lights onthe mud, they found difficulty in exactly placing it. At last they hadit, found themselves immediately over it; were able, kneeling side byside, to gaze down at the strange, age-old figure, lying huddledtogether, face forward.

It was not more than a couple of feet down; the semitransparent mud musthave been silting over it for years and years: silted away again throughcenturies. And all for them—just for them. What a thought!

Hector raced off for his bicycle, and so on to the nearest cottage toborrow a spade.

The mental picture of the “man” and the sabre-toothed tiger met andclashed in his brain. If he was so certain of the man he must concedethe tiger, given in to Rhoda and her later period. Unless—unless....Suddenly he clapped his hands to his ears as though someone wereshouting: his eyes closed, shutting out sight and sound. There was atiger, he remembered—of course he remembered! And if he were there,others were there also—not one tiger, not one man, but tigers and men;both, both!

By the time he got back to where he had left his sister, the water wasabove her knees, the tide racing inwards.

They were not going to be done this time, however.

It was five o’clock in the afternoon, and their father was away fromhome. Rhoda went back and ordered the household with as much sobriety aspossible; collected a supply of food and a couple of blankets—they hadcamped out before and there was nothing so very amazing in theirbehaviour—then returned to the shore, the shrine.

Hector was sitting at the edge of the water, staring fixedly, white as asheet.

Rhoda collected driftwood and built a fire; almost fed him, for he tooknothing but what was put into his hand.

“It will still be there, even if we go to sleep,” she said; then,“Anyhow, we’ll watch turn and turn about.”

But it was all of no use. The boy might lie down in his turn, but hestill faced the sea with steady, staring eyes.

Soon after three he woke his sister, shaking her in a frenzy ofimpatience. Oh, these sleepers!

“Sleeping! Sleeping! You great stupid, you! I never! I.... Just look atthe tide—only look!”

The tide was pretty far out, the whole world a mist of pinkish-grey.Step by step they followed the retreating lap of water.

By six o’clock they had the heavy body out, and were dragging it acrossthe rapidly-drying mud.

It was not as big as Hector: five-foot-one at the most, but almostincredibly heavy, with immense rounded shoulders.

By the time they reached the true shore they were done, and flungthemselves down, panting, exhausted. But they could not rest. A fewminutes more and they were up again, turning the creature over, rubbingthe mud away from the hairy body with bunches of grass; parting thelong, matted locks which hung over its lowering face, with the overhungbrow, flat nose, almost non-existent chin. The eyes were shut, but oddlyunsunken: it smelt of marsh slime, of decayed vegetation, but nothingmore.

Hector poked forward a finger to see if he could push up one eyelid, anddrew back sharply.

“Why—hang it all—the thing’s warm!”

“No wonder, with this sun. I’m dripping from head to foot. Hector, wemust go home. Matty will tell; there’ll be the eyes of a row.”

For all her insistence it was another hour before Rhoda could get herbrother away. Again and again he met the returning tide with her hat,bringing it back full of water; washing their find from head to foot,combing its matted hair with a clipped fragment of driftwood. But atlast they dragged it to a dry dyke, covered it with dry yellow grass,and were off, Rhoda on the step this time, Hector draped limply over thehandle of the bicycle.

He slept like a dead thing for the best part of that day. But soon afterthree they were away again: no use for Rhoda to raise objections; theunrest of an intense excitement was in her bones as in his, and he knewit.

It had been a cloudless day, the veil of mist fainter than usual, thesky bluer.

As they left the bicycle and cut across the rough foreshore the sun beatdown upon them with an almost unbearable fierceness. There was a shimmerlike a mirage across the marshes: the sea was the colour of burnt steel.

They dog-trotted half the way, arguing as they ran; Hector, still fixed,pivoting upon his sabre-toothed tiger, and yet insistent that this wasa man—a real man—contemporary with it: the first absolute proof of humanexistence anterior to the First Glacial age.

“An ape—a sort of ape—nearish to a man, but—well, look at his hair.”She’d give him his tiger, but not his man.

“By Gad, you’d grow hair, running wild as he did—a man——”

“Hector, what rot! Why, anyone—anyone could see—” She thought of herfather, the smooth curate, the rubicund farmers.... A man!

“Well, stick to it—stick to it! But I bet you anything—anything....”

Hector’s words were jerked out of him as he padded on:

“We’ll get hundreds and hundreds of pounds for him! Travel—see theworld—go to Java, where that other chap—what’s his name—was found. Why,he’s older than the Heidelberg Johnny—a thousand thousand timesgreat-grandfather to that Pitcairn thing—older—older—oh, older thanany!”

Panting, stumbling, half-blind with exhaustion, the boy was still a goodsix yards in front of his sister as he reached the dry dyke where theyhad left their treasure.

Rhoda saw him stand for a moment, staring, then spin round as though hehad been shot, throwing up his arms with a hoarse scream.

By the time she had her own arms about him, he could only point,trembling from head to foot.

There was nothing there! Torn grass where they had pulled it to rub downtheir find; the very shape of the body distinct upon the sandy,sparsely-covered soil; the stick with the pennant of blue ribbon whichRhoda had taken from her hat to mark the spot.... Nothing more, nothingwhatever.

Up and down the girl ran, circling like a plover, her head bent. It mustbe somewhere, it must—it must!

She glanced at her brother, who stood as though turned to stone: thiswas the sort of thing which sent people mad, killed them—to be sofrightfully disappointed, and yet to stand still, to say nothing.

She caught at his arm and faced him, the tears streaming down hercheeks.

“Oh, my dear, my dear—” she began, then broke off, staring beyond him.

“Why ... why—Hector—I say—” Her voice broke to a whisper: she had afeeling as though she must be taking part in some mad dream. Quiteinconsequently the thought of Balaam came to her. How did Balaam feelwhen the ass spoke to him? As she did—with eye more amazed than any earscould ever be.

“Hector—look.... It—It....”

As her brother still stood speechless, with bent head and ashen face,she dropped to silence: too terrified of It, of her plainly deludedself, of everything on earth, to say more....

One simply could not trust one’s own eyes; that’s what it came to.

Her legs were trembling; she could feel her knees touching each other,cold and clammy.

It would have been impossible to say a word, even if she had dared toreveal her own insanity; she could only pluck the lapels of herbrother’s coat, running her dry tongue along her lips.

Something in her unusual silence must have stirred through the boy’s ownmisery, for after a moment or so he looked up, at first dimly, as thoughscarcely recognising her. Then—slowly realising her intent glance fixedon something beyond his own shoulder, he turned—and saw.

Twenty yards or more off, on a mound of coarse grass and sand just abovethe high-tide mark, “It” was sitting, its long arms wound round itsknees, staring out to sea.

For a moment or so they hung, open-mouthed, wide-eyed.

For the life of her, Rhoda could not have moved a step nearer. Thecreature’s heavy shoulders were rounded, its head thrust forward.Silhouetted against sea and sky, white in contrast to its darkness, ithad the aloofness of incredible age; drawn apart, almost sanctified byits immeasurable remoteness, its detachment from all that meant life tothe men and women of the twentieth century: the web of fanciednecessities, trivial possessions, absorptions.

“There was no sea—of course, there was no sea anywhere near here then!”The boy’s whisper opened an incalculable panorama of world-wide change.

There had been no sea here then; no Bristol Channel, no Irish Sea.Valley and river, that was all!

This alien being who had lived, and more than half-died, in this veryspot, was gazing at something altogether strange: a vast, uneasy sheetof water with but one visible bank; no golden-brown lights, no shadows,no reflections: a strange, restless and indifferent god.

“Well—anyhow.... Oh, blazes! here goes! if—” Young Fane broke off with adecision that cut his doubts, and moved forward.

In a moment the creature was alert, its head flung sideways and up,sniffing the air like a dog.

It half turned, as though to run; then, as the boy stopped short, itpaused.

“Rhoda—get the grub—go quietly—don’t run.... Bread-and-butter—anything!”

They had flung down the frail with the bottle of milk, cake,bread-and-butter that they had brought with them—enough for tea andsupper—heedless in their despair. Rhoda moved a step or two away, pickedup a packet, unfolded it and thrust the food into her brother’shand—cake, a propitiation!

The strange figure, upright—and yet not upright as it is counted inthese days—remained stationary; there was one quick turn of the headfollowing her, then the poise of it showed eyes immovably fixed upon themale.

Hector moved forward very slowly, one smooth step after another. Rhodahad seen him like that with wild birds and rabbits. He wore an old suitof shrunken flannels, faded to a yellowish-grey, which blurred him intothe landscape. Far enough off to catch his outline against the moltenglare of the sea, she noted that his shoulders were almost as bent asthose of that Other.... Other what?—man?—ape? The speculation zigzaggedto and fro like lightning through her mind. She could scarcely breathefor anxiety.

As the boy drew quite near to the dull, brownish figure it jerked itshead uneasily aside—she knew what Hector’s eyes were like, a steady,luminous grey under the bent brows—made a swinging movement with itsarms, half turned; then stopped, stared sideways, crouching, sniffing.

The boy’s arm was held out at its fullest stretch in front of him.Heaven—the old, old gods—only knew upon what beast-torn carrion thecreature had once fed; but it was famished, and some instinct must havetold it that here was food, for it snatched and crammed its mouth.

Hector turned and Rhoda’s heart was in her throat, for there was noknowing what it might not do at that. But as he moved steadily away,without so much as a glance behind him, it hesitated, threw up its hand,as though to strike or throw; then followed.

That was the beginning of it. During those first days it would havefollowed him to the end of the world. Later on, he told himself bitterlythat he had been a fool not to have seen further; gone off anywhere—oh,anywhere, so long as it was far enough—dragging the brute after himwhile his leadership still held.

It was with difficulty that they prevented it from dogging them back tothe Rectory—just imagine it tailing through the village at their heels!But once it understood that it must stay where it was, it sat down on agrassy hummock, crouching with its arms round its knees, one handtightly clenched, its small, light eyes, overhung by that portentousbrow, following them with a look of desolate loneliness.

Again and again the boy and girl glanced back, but it still sat therestaring after them, immovable in the spot which Hector had indicated toit. They had left it all the food they had with them, and one of theblankets which they had been too hot to carry home that morning. As itplainly had not known what to do with the thing, Rhoda, overcome by asort of motherliness, had thrown it over its shoulders. Thus it sat,shrouded like an Arab, its shaggy head cut like a giant burr against thepale primrose sky.

“A beastly shame leaving it alone like that!” They both felt it;scarcely liked to meet each other’s eyes over it. And yet, pity it asthey might, engrossed in it as they were, they couldn’t stay there withit after dark. No reason, no fear—just couldn’t! Why? Oh, well, for allits new-found life, it was as far away as any ghost.

“Poor brute!” said Rhoda.

“Poor chap!” Hector’s under-lip was thrust out, his look aggressive. Butthere was no argument; and when he treated her—“Don’t be silly; ofcourse it’s not a man; any duffer could see that”—with contemptuoussilence, Rhoda knew that he was absolutely fixed in his convictions.

He proved it, too, next morning, leading the creature out into thehalf-dried mud and back again to where his sister sat, following hisapparently aimless movements with puzzled eyes.

“Now, look,” he crowed. “Just you look, Miss Blooming-co*cksure!”

He was right. There was the mark of his own heavy nailed boot, andbeside it the track of other feet; oddly-shaped enough, but with theweight distinctly thrown upon the heel and great-toe, as no beast saveman has ever yet thrown it—that fine developed great-toe, the emblem ofleadership. Hardly a trace of such pressure as the three greater apesshow, all on the outer edge of the foot; not even flat and even as thebaboon throws his.

It was after this that—without another word said—Rhoda, meek for once,followed her brother’s example, and began to speak of the creature as“He.”

They even gave him a name. They called him Hodge; only in fun, and yetwith a feeling that here was one of the first of all countrymen: lesslearned, and yet in some way so much more observant, self-sufficing,than his machine-made successors.

He could run at an almost incredible rate, bent as he was; climb anytree; out-throw either of them, doubling the distance. It was there thatthey got at the meaning of that closed fist; for at least three days hehad never let go of his stone—his one weapon.

“He didn’t trust us.” Rhoda was hurt, her vanity touched; and when theyhad seemed to be making such progress, too!

“Not that—a sort of ingrained habit; the poor devil didn’t feel dressedwithout it,” protested Hector. “Of course he trusts us as much as aperfectly natural creature ever trusts anything or anybody.”

The Rector had gone on a visit to their only relative, an old aunt, whowas dying in as leisurely a fashion as she had lived, and was unable toleave her. A neighbouring curate took that next Sunday’s service.

It had been a Monday when Hector found Hodge, and a very great deal canhappen in that time.

From the first it had seemed clear that nothing in the way ofcommunicating with authorities, experts, could be done until theirfather was there to back them, adding his own testimony. It was no goodjust writing—Hector did, indeed, begin a letter to Sir Ray Lankester,but tore it up, appalled by his own formless, boyish handwriting. “He’dthink we were just getting at him—a couple of silly kids,” was hisreflection.

He knew a lot for his age; was very certain of his own knowledge; feltno personal fear of this wild man of his. But ordinary grown-up people!That was altogether a different matter. And here he touched theprimitive mistrust of all real youth for anything too completelyfinished and sophisticated.

Of course, from the very beginning, there were all sorts of minortroubles with Matty over their continued thefts of food; difficulties inkeeping the creature away from the house and village.

But all that was nothing to what followed.

The first dim, unformulated sense of fear began on the night whenHector, awakened by a loud rustling among the leaves of that one tree,discovered Hodge there, climbing along a bough which ended close againstRhoda’s window.

Rhoda’s, not his—that was the queer part of it!

The boy felt half huffed as he drove him off. But when he came again,some instinct, something far less plain than thought, began to worryhim: something which seemed ludicrous, until it gathered and grew to afeeling of nausea so horrible that the cold sweat pricked out upon hisbreast and forehead.

At the third visit the fear was more defined. But still.... That brute“smitten” with Rhoda! He tried to laugh it off. Anyhow, what did itmatter? And yet.... Hang it all! there was something sickening about itall. It was impossible to sleep at night, listening, always listening.

He was only thirteen. Of course he had heard other chaps talking, but hehad no real idea of the fierce drive of physical desire. And yet it wasplain enough that here was something “beastly” beyond all words.

He told Rhoda to keep her window bolted, and when she protested againstsuch “fugging,” touched on his own fears, tried, awkwardly enough, toexplain without explaining.

“I’m funky about Hodge—he’s taken to following us. He might get in—bagsomething.”

“The darling!” cried Rhoda. “Look here, old chap. I really believe he’sfond of me; fonder of me than of you!”

She persisted in putting it to the test next day; left “Hodge” sittingby her brother, and walked away.

The creature moved his head uneasily from side to side, glanced atHector, and his glance was full of hatred, malevolence; then, scramblingfurtively to his feet, helping himself with his hands, one fisttight-closed, in the old fashion, he passed round the back of the boy,and followed her.

For a minute or two Hector sat hunched together, staring doggedly out tosea. If Rhoda chose to make an ass of herself—well, let her. After all,what could the brute do? She was bigger than he was, had nothing on herworth stealing; nothing of any use to Hodge, anyhow, he told himself.

Then, of a sudden, that half-formulated dread, that sick panic seizedhim afresh. He glanced round; both Hodge and his sister were out ofsight, and he started to run with all his might, shouting.

There was an answering cry from Rhoda, shriller than usual, with a noteof panic in it. This gave him the direction; and, plunging off among agroup of shallow sand-dunes, he found himself almost upon them.

Rhoda was drawn up very straight, laughing nervously, her shouldersback, flushed to the eyes, while Hodge stood close in front of her,gabbling—they had tried him with their own words, but the oddly-angledjaw had seemed to cramp the tongue beyond hope of articulatespeech—gabbling, gesticulating.

“Oh, Hector!” The girl’s cry was full of relief as she swung sidewaystoward him; while Hodge, glancing round, saw him, raised his hand, andthrew.

The stone just grazed the boy’s cheek, drawing a spurt of blood; butthis was enough for Rhoda, who forgot her own panic in a flame ofindignation.

The creature could not have understood a word of what she said: herdenunciation, abuse, “the wigging” she gave him. But her look wasenough, and he shrank aside, shamed as a beaten dog.

They did not bid him good-night. They had taught him to shake hands; butnow that he was in disgrace all that was over, and they turned asidewith the set severity of youth: bent brows and straightened, hardmouths.

Rhoda was the first to relent, half-way home, breaking their silencewith a laugh: “Poor old Hodge! I don’t know why I was so scared—I musthave got him rattled, or he’d never have thrown that stone. Why, it wasalways you he liked best, followed,” she added magnanimously.

And yet she was puzzled, all on edge, as she had never been before. Thelook Hodge had cast at her brother was unmistakable; but why?—why? Whathad changed him? She never even thought of that passion common to manand beast, interwoven with all desire, hatred—the lees of love—jealousy.

All that evening Hector scarcely spoke. He was not so much scared asgravely anxious in a man’s way. If that brute got him with a stone, whatwould happen to Rhoda? Even supposing that there had been anyone toconsult, he could not, for the life of him, have put his fear intowords. So much a man, he was yet too much a boy for that. Terrified ofridicule, incredulity, he hugged his secret, as that strange man-beasthugged his—the highest and lowest—the most primitive and the mostcultured—forever uncommunicative; those in the midway the babblers.

He was so firm in his insistence upon Rhoda changing her room that nightthat she gave way, without argument, overawed by his gravity, by an odd,chill sense of fear which hung about her. “I must have got a cold. I’vea sort of feeling of a goose walking over my grave,” was what she saidlaughingly, half-shamefaced, accustomed as she was to attribute everyfeeling to some natural cause.

That night, soon after midnight, the brute was back in the tree. Hectorheard the rustling, then the spring and swish of a released bough.Before he lay down he had unbolted one of the long bars from theunderneath part of his old-fashioned iron bedstead; and, now taking itin his hand, he ran to Rhoda’s room.

The white-washed walls and ceiling were so flooded with moonlight thatit was almost as light as day.

Hodge was already in the room: the clothes were torn from the bed; thecupboard doors wide open; the whole place littered with feminine attire.

He—It—the impersonal pronoun slid into its place in the boy’s mind, andno words of self-reproach or condemnation could have said more—stood atthe foot of the empty bed, with something white—it might have been achemise—in its hand, held up to its face. Hector could not catch itsexpression, but there was something inexpressibly bestial in thesilhouette of its head, bent, sniffing; he could actually hear thewhistling breath.

He would have given anything if only it had stayed, fought it out then.But it belonged to a state too far away for that—defensive, at timesaggressive, but forever running, hiding, slinking: a thrower from amongthick boughs behind tree-trunks—and in a moment it was out of thewindow, bundling over the sill, so clumsy and yet so amazingly quick.

He could hear the swing of a bough as it caught it. There was a loudrustle of leaves, and a stone hurtled in through the window; but thatwas all.

Hector tidied the room, tossed the scattered garments into the bottom ofthe wardrobe, and re-made the bed in his awkward boy-fashion, movingmechanically, as if in a dream; his hands busied over his petty tasks,his mind engrossed with something so tremendous that he seemed to be twoseparate people, of which the one, the greater, revolved slowly andcertainly in an unalterable orbit, quite apart from his old everydaylife, from that Hector Fane whom he had always known, thought of, spokenof as “myself.”

He went to his own room, put on his collar and coat—for he had lain downupon his bed without undressing, every nerve on edge—laced up his bootswith meticulous care. He was no longer frightened or hurried; he knewexactly what he was going to do, and that alone hung him—moving slowly,surely—as upon a pivot.

The moonlight was so clear that there was no need for a candle, floodingthe stairway, the study with its shabby book-shelves.

Easy enough to take the old shot-gun from the nails over themantelshelf; only last holiday—years and years ago, while he was still achild—he had been allowed to use it for wild-duck shooting—and run hishand along the back of the writing-table drawer in search of those threeor four cartridges which he had seen there a couple of days earlier.

The cartridges in his pocket swung against his hip as he mounted hisbicycle and rode away—guiding himself with one hand, the gun lyingheavily along his left arm; it was like someone nudging, reminding.

The scene was entirely familiar; but what was so strange in himself lentit an air of something new and uncanny. The winding road had a swing,drawing him with it; the mingled mist and moonlight were sentient,watchful, holding their breath.

Once or twice he seemed to catch sight of a low, stooping figure amidthe rough grass and rush-tufted hollows to the left of him; but he couldnot be sure until he reached the very shore, left his bicycle in the oldplace.

Then a stone grazed his shoulder, and there was a blurred scurry ofbrown, from hummock to hummock, low as a hare to the ground.

Once in the open he got a clear sight of Hodge. The far-away tide was onthe flow, but there was still a good half-mile of mud, like lead in thesilvery dawn.

The man-beast bundled down the sandy strip of shore and out on to themud: ungainly, stumbling; the boy behind it—“It.” Hector held to that:the pronoun was altogether reassuring now—something to hold to, hard asa bone in his brain.

On the edge of the tide it tried to turn, double; then paused,fascinated, amazed: numb with fear of the strange level pipe pointing,oddly threatening, the first ray of sunlight running like an arrow ofgold along the top of it.

There was something utterly naïve and piteous in the misplacedcreature’s gesture: the way in which it stood—long arms, short, bandylegs—moving its head uneasily from side to side; bewildered, yetfascinated.

“Poor beggar!” muttered Hector. He could not have said why, but he washorribly sorry, ashamed, saddened.

Years later he thought more clearly—“Poor beggar! After all, what did hewant but life—more life—the complete life of any man—or animal, either,come to that!”

As he pressed his finger to the trigger he saw the rough brown figurethrow up its arms, leap high in the air, and drop.

Something like a red-hot iron burnt up the back of his own neck; hishead throbbed. After all, what did death matter when life was so rotten,so inexplicable? It wasn’t that, only—only.... Well, it was beastly tofeel so tired, so altogether gone to pieces.

With bent head he made his way, ploughing through the mud and sand, backto the shore; sat down rather suddenly, with a feeling as though theground had risen up to meet him, and winding his arms round his knees,stared out to sea; washed through and through, swept by an immense senseof grief, a desperate regret which had nothing whatever to do with hisimmediate action—the death of Hodge.

That was something which had to be gone through with; it wasn’t that—notexactly that.... But, oh, the futility, the waste of ... well, ofeverything!

“Rotten luck!” He shuddered as he dragged himself wearily to his feet.He could not have gone before, not while there was the mud with “that”on it; not even so long as the shining sands were bare. It would haveseemed too hurried, almost indecent. But now that an unbroken,glittering sheet of water lapped the very edge of the shore, the funeralceremony—with all its pomp of sunrise—was over; and, turning aside, hestumbled wearily through the rough grass to the place where he had lefthis bicycle.

HATTERAS

By A. W. MASON

The story was told to me by James Walker in the cabin of a seven-toncutter, one night when we lay anchored in Helford River. It was towardsthe end of September; during this last week the air had grown chillywith the dusk, and the sea when it lost the sun took on a leaden and adreary look. There was no other boat on the wooded creek and the swishof the tide against the planks had a very lonesome sound. All thesecirc*mstances I think provoked Walker to tell the story, but most of allthe lonely swish of the tide against the planks. For it is the story ofa man’s loneliness and the strange ways into which loneliness misled hissoul. However, let the story speak for itself.

Hatteras and Walker had been schoolfellows, though never classmates.Hatteras indeed was the head of the school and prophecy vaguely sketchedout for him a brilliant career in some service of importance. Thedefinite law, however, that the sins of the fathers shall be visitedupon the children overbore this prophecy. Hatteras, the father,disorganized his son’s future by dropping unexpectedly through one ofthe trapways of speculation into the Bankruptcy Court beneath, just twomonths before Hatteras, the son, was to have gone up to Oxford. The ladwas therefore compelled to start life in a stony world with astock-in-trade which consisted of a schoolboy’s command of the classics,a real inborn gift of tongues and the friendship of James Walker.

The last item proved of the most immediate value. For Walker, whosefather was the junior partner in a firm of West African merchants,obtained for Hatteras an employment as the bookkeeper at a branchfactory in the Bight of Benin.

Thus the friends parted. Hatteras went out to West Africa alone, and metwith a strange welcome on the day when he landed. The incident did notcome to Walker’s ears until some time afterwards, nor when he heard ofit did he at once appreciate the effect which it had upon Hatteras. Butchronologically it comes into the story at this point, and so may aswell be immediately told.

There was no settlement very near to the factory. It stood by itself onthe swamps of the Forcados River with the mangrove forest closing inabout it. Accordingly the captain of the steamer just put Hatterasashore in a boat and left him with his traps on the beach. Half-a-dozenKru boys had come down from the factory to receive him, but they couldspeak no English, and Hatteras at this time could speak no Kru. So thatalthough there was no lack of conversation there was not muchinterchange of thought. At last Hatteras pointed to his traps. The Kruboys picked them up and preceded Hatteras to the factory. They mountedthe steps to the verandah on the first floor and laid their loads down.Then they proceeded to further conversation. Hatteras gathered fromtheir excited faces and gestures that they wished to impart information,but he could make neither head nor tail of a word they said, and at lasthe retired from the din of their chatter through the windows of a roomwhich gave on to the verandah, and sat down to wait for his superior,the agent.

It was early in the morning when Hatteras landed and he waited untilmidday patiently. In the afternoon it occurred to him that the agentwould have shown a kindly consideration if he had left a written messageor an intelligible Kru boy to receive him. It is true that the blackscame in at intervals and chattered and gesticulated, but matters werenot thereby appreciably improved. He did not like to go poking about thehouse, so he contemplated the mud banks and the mud river and themangrove forest, and cursed the agent. The country was very quiet. Thereare few things quieter than a West African forest in the daytime. It isobtrusively, emphatically quiet. It does not let you forget howsingularly quiet it is. And towards sundown the quietude began to jar onHatteras’ nerves. He was besides very hungry. To while away the time hetook a stroll round the verandah.

He walked along the side of the houses towards the back, and as heneared the back he heard a humming sound. The further he went the louderit grew. It was something like the hum of a mill, only not so metallicand not so loud; and it came from the rear of the house.

Hatteras turned the corner and what he saw was this—a shuttered windowand a cloud of flies. The flies were not aimlessly swarming outside thewindow; they streamed in through the lattice of the shutters in a busy,practical way; they came in columns from the forest and converged uponthe shutters; and the hum sounded from within the room.

Hatteras looked about for a Kru boy for the sake of company, but at thatmoment there was not one to be seen.

He felt the cold strike at his spine. He went back into the room inwhich he had been sitting. He sat again but he sat shivering. The agenthad left no word for him.... The Kru boys had been anxious toexplain—something. The humming of the flies about that shuttered windowseemed to Hatteras a more explicit language than the Kru boys’chatterings. He penetrated into the interior of the house, and reckonedup the doors. He opened one of them ever so slightly and the buzzingcame through like the hum of a wheel in a factory revolving in thecollar of a strap. He flung the door open and stood upon the threshold.The atmosphere of the room appalled him; he felt the sweat break coldupon his forehead and a deadly sickness in all his body. Then he nervedhimself to enter.

At first he saw little because of the gloom. In a while, however, hemade out a bed stretched along the wall and a thing stretched upon thebed. The thing was more or less shapeless because it was covered with ablack furry sort of rug. Hatteras, however, had little trouble indefining it. He knew now for certain what it was that the Kru boys hadbeen so anxious to explain to him. He approached the bed and bent overit, and as he bent over it the horrible thing occurred which left sovivid an impression on Hatteras. The black furry rug suddenly lifteditself from the bed, beat about Hatteras’ face, and dissolved intoflies. The Kru boys found Hatteras in a dead swoon on the floorhalf-an-hour later, and next day, of course, he was down with the fever.The agent had died of it three days before.

Hatteras recovered from the fever, but not from the impression. It lefthim with a prevailing sense of horror and, at first, with a sense ofdisgust too.

“It’s an obscene country,” he would say. But he stayed in it, for he hadno choice. All the money which he could save went to the support of hisfamily, and for six years the firm he served moved him from district todistrict, from factory to factory.

Now the second item of his stock-in-trade was a gift of tongues, andabout this time it began to bring him profit. Wherever Hatteras wasposted, he managed to pick up a native dialect, and with the dialectinevitably a knowledge of native customs. Dialects are numerous on thewest coast, and at the end of six years Hatteras could speak as many ofthem as some traders could enumerate. Languages ran in his blood; heacquired a reputation for knowledge and was offered service under theNiger Protectorate, so that when, two years later, Walker came out toAfrica to open a new branch factory at a settlement on the Bonny River,he found Hatteras stationed in command there.

Hatteras, in fact, went down to Bonny River town to meet the steamerwhich brought his friend.

“I say, Dick, you look bad,” said Walker.

“People are not, as a rule, offensively robust about these parts.”

“I know that; but you’re the weariest bag of bones I’ve ever seen.”

“Well, look at yourself in a glass a year from now for my double,” saidHatteras, and the pair went up river together.

“Your factory is next to the Residency,” said Hatteras. “There’s acompound to each running down to the river, and there’s a palisadebetween the compounds. I’ve cut a little gate in the palisade as it willshorten the way from one house to the other.”

The wicket gate was frequently used during the next few months—indeedmore frequently than Walker imagined. He was only aware that, when theywere both at home, Hatteras would come through it of an evening andsmoke on his verandah. There he would sit for hours cursing the country,raving about the lights of Piccadilly Circus, and offering his immortalsoul in exchange for a comic opera tune played upon a barrel-organ.Walker possessed a big atlas, and one of Hatteras’ chief diversions wasto trace with his finger a bee-line across the African continent and theBay of Biscay until he reached London.

More rarely Walker would stroll over to the Residency, but he soon cameto notice that Hatteras had a distinct preference for the factory andfor the factory verandah. The reason for the preference puzzled Walkerconsiderably. He drew a quite erroneous conclusion that Hatteras washiding at the Residency—well, someone whom it was prudent, especially inan official, to conceal. He abandoned the conclusion, however, when hediscovered that his friend was in the habit of making solitaryexpeditions. At times Hatteras would be absent for a couple of days, attimes for a week, and, so far as Walker could ascertain, he never somuch as took a servant with him to keep him company. He would simplyannounce at night his intended departure, and in the morning he would begone. Nor on his return did he ever offer to Walker any explanation ofhis journeys. On one occasion, however, Walker broached the subject.Hatteras had come back the night before, and he sat crouched up in adeck chair, looking intently into the darkness of the forest.

“I say,” asked Walker, “isn’t it rather dangerous to go slumming aboutWest Africa alone?”

Hatteras did not reply for a moment. He seemed not to have heard thesuggestion, and when he did speak it was to ask a quite irrelevantquestion.

“Have you ever seen the Horse Guards’ Parade on a dark rainy night?” heasked; but he never moved his head, he never took his eyes from theforest. “The wet level of ground looks just like a lagoon and the archesa Venice palace above it.”

“But look here, Dick!” said Walker, keeping to his subject, “you neverleave word when you are coming back. One never knows that you have comeback until you show yourself the morning after.”

“I think,” said Hatteras slowly, “that the finest sight in the world isto be seen from the bridge in St. James’ Park when there’s a State Ballon at Buckingham Palace and the light from the windows reddens the lakeand the carriages glance about the Mall like fireflies.”

“Even your servants don’t know when you come back,” said Walker.

“Oh,” said Hatteras quietly, “so you have been asking questions of myservants?”

“I had a good reason,” replied Walker. “Your safety”; and with that theconversation dropped.

Walker watched Hatteras. Hatteras watched the forest. A West Africanmangrove forest night is full of the eeriest, queerest sounds that evera man’s ears hearkened to. And the sounds come not so much from thebirds or the soughing of branches; they seem to come from the swamp-lifeunderneath the branches, at the roots of the trees. There’s a ceaselessstir as of a myriad reptiles creeping in the slime. Listen long enoughand you will fancy that you hear the whirr and rush of innumerablecrabs, the flapping of innumerable fish. Now and again a moredistinctive sound emerges from the rest—the croaking of a bull-frog, thewhining cough of a crocodile. At such sounds Hatteras would start up inhis chair and co*ck his head like a dog in a room that hears another dogbarking in the street.

“Doesn’t it sound damned wicked?” he said with a queer smile ofenjoyment.

Walker did not answer. The light from a lamp in the room behind themstruck obliquely upon Hatteras’ face and slanted off from it in anarrowing column until it vanished in a yellow thread among the leavesof the trees. It showed that the same enjoyment which rang in Hatteras’voice was alive upon his face. His eyes, his ears, were alert, and hegently opened and shut his mouth with a little clicking of the teeth. Insome horrible way he seemed to have something in common with, heappeared almost to participate in, the activity of the swamp. Thus hadWalker often seen him sit, but never with the light so clear upon hisface, and the sight gave to him a quite new impression of his friend. Hewondered whether all these months his judgment had been wrong. And outof that wonder a new thought sprang into his mind.

“Dick,” he said, “this house of mine stands between your house and theforest. It stands on the borders of the trees, on the edge of the swamp.Is that why you prefer it to your own?”

Hatteras turned his head quickly towards his companion, almostsuspiciously. Then he looked back into the darkness, and after a littlesaid:

“It’s not only the things you care about, old man, which tug at you;it’s the things you hate as well. I hate this country. I hate thesemiles and miles of mangroves, and yet I am fascinated. I can’t get theforests and the undergrowth and the swamp out of my mind. I dream ofthem at night. I dream that I am sinking into that black oily batter ofmud. Listen,” and he suddenly broke off with his head stretched forward.“Doesn’t it sound wicked?”

“But all this talk about London?” cried Walker.

“Oh, don’t you understand?” interrupted Hatteras roughly. Then hechanged his tone and gave his reason quietly. “One has to struggleagainst a fascination of that sort. It’s devil’s work. So for all I amworth I talk about London.”

“Look here, Dick,” said Walker. “You had better get leave and go back tothe old country for a spell.”

“A very solid piece of advice,” said Hatteras, and he went home to theResidency.

The next morning he had again disappeared. But Walker discovered uponhis table a couple of new volumes, and glanced at the titles. They wereBurton’s account of his pilgrimage to El Medinah and Mecca.

Five nights afterwards Walker was smoking a pipe on the verandah when hefancied that he heard a rubbing, scuffling sound as if someone verycautiously was climbing over the fence of his compound. The moon was lowin the sky and dipping down toward the forest, indeed the rim of ittouched the treetops so that while a full half of the enclosure was litby the yellow light, that half which bordered on the forest was inkyblack in shadow, and it was from the furthest corner of this second halfthat the sound came. Walker leaned forward listening. He heard the soundagain, and a moment after a second sound, which left him in no doubt.For in that dark corner he knew that a number of palisades for repairingthe fence were piled, and the second sound which he heard was a rattleas someone stumbled against them. Walker went inside and fetched arifle.

When he came back he saw a negro creeping across the bright open spacetowards the Residency. Walker hailed to him to stop. Instead the negroran. He ran towards the wicket gate in the palisade. Walker shoutedagain; the figure only ran the faster. He had covered half the distancebefore Walker fired. He clutched his right forearm with his left hand,but he did not stop. Walker fired again, this time at his legs, and theman dropped to the ground. Walker heard his servants stirring as he randown the steps. He crossed quickly to the negro and the negro spoke tohim, but in English, and with the voice of Hatteras.

“For God’s sake keep your servants off!”

Walker ran to the house, met his servants at the foot of the steps andordered them back. He had shot at a monkey he said. Then he returned toHatteras.

“Dicky, are you hurt?” he whispered.

“You hit me each time you fired, but not very badly, I think.”

He bandaged Hatteras’ arm and thigh with strips of his shirt, and waitedby his side until the house was quiet. Then he lifted him and carriedhim across the enclosure to the steps, and up the steps into hisbedroom. It was a long and fatiguing process. For one thing Walker daredmake no noise and must needs tread lightly with his load; for another,the steps were steep and rickety, with a narrow balustrade on each sidewaist-high. It seemed to Walker that the day would dawn before hereached the top. Once or twice Hatteras stirred in his arms, and hefeared the man would die then and there. For all the time his blooddripped and pattered like heavy raindrops on the wooden steps.

Walker laid Hatteras on his bed and examined his wounds. One bullet hadpassed through the fleshy part of the forearm, the other through thefleshy part of his right thigh. But no bones were broken and no arteriescut. Walker lit a fire, baked some plantain leaves, and applied them asa poultice. Then he went out with a pail of water and scrubbed down thesteps. Again he dared not make any noise; and it was close on daybreakbefore he had done. His night’s work, however, was not ended. He hadstill to cleanse the black stain from Hatteras’ skin, and the sun was upbefore he stretched a rug upon the ground and went to sleep with hisback against the door.

“Walker,” Hatteras called out in a loud voice, an hour or so later.

Walker woke up and crossed over to the bed.

“Dicky, I’m frightfully sorry. I couldn’t know it was you.”

“That’s all right, Jim. Don’t you worry about that. What I wanted to saywas that nobody had better know. It wouldn’t do, would it, if it gotabout?”

“Oh, I am not so sure. People would think it a rather creditableproceeding.”

Hatteras shot a puzzled look at his friend. Walker, however, did notnotice it, and continued, “I saw Burton’s account of his pilgrimage inyour room; I might have known that journeys of the kind were just thesort of thing to appeal to you.”

“Oh, yes, that’s it,” said Hatteras, lifting himself up in bed. He spokeeagerly—perhaps a thought too eagerly. “Yes, that’s it. I have alwaysbeen keen on understanding the natives thoroughly. It’s after all noless than one’s duty if one has to rule them, and since I could speaktheir lingo—” he broke off and returned to the subject which hadprompted him to rouse Walker. “But, all the same, it wouldn’t do if thenatives got to know.”

“There’s no difficulty about that,” said Walker. “I’ll give out that youhave come back with the fever and that I am nursing you. Fortunatelythere’s no doctor handy to come making inconvenient examinations.”

Hatteras knew something of surgery, and under his directions Walkerpoulticed and bandaged him until he recovered. The bandaging, however,was amateurish, and, as a result, the muscles contracted in Hatteras’thigh and he limped—ever so slightly, still he limped—he limped to hisdying day. He did not, however, on that account abandon hisexplorations, and more than once Walker, when his lights were out and hewas smoking a pipe on the verandah, would see a black figure with atrailing walk cross his compound and pass stealthily through the wicketin the fence. Walker took occasion to expostulate with his friend.

“It’s too dangerous a game for a man to play for any length of time. Itis doubly dangerous now that you limp. You ought to give it up.”

Hatteras made a strange reply.

“I’ll try to,” he said.

Walker pondered over the words for some time. He set them side by sidein his thoughts with that confession which Hatteras had made to him oneevening. He asked himself whether, after all, Hatteras’ explanation ofhis conduct was sincere, whether it was really a desire to know thenative thoroughly which prompted those mysterious expeditions, and thenhe remembered that he himself had first suggested the explanation toHatteras. Walker began to feel uneasy—more than uneasy, actually afraidon his friend’s account. Hatteras had acknowledged that the countryfascinated him, and fascinated him through its hideous side. Was thismasquerading as a black man a further proof of the fascination? Was it,as it were, a step downwards towards a closer association? Walker soughtto laugh the notion from his mind, but it returned and returned, andhere and there an incident occurred to give it strength and colour.

For instance, on one occasion after Hatteras had been three weeksabsent, Walker sauntered over to the Residency towards four o’clock inthe afternoon. Hatteras was trying cases in the Court-house, whichformed the ground floor of the Residency. Walker stepped into the room.It was packed with a naked throng of blacks, and the heat wasoverpowering. At the end of the hall sat Hatteras. His worn face shoneout amongst the black heads about him white and waxy like a gardenia.

Walker, however, thinking that the Court would rise, determined to waitfor a little. But, at the last moment, a negro was put up to answer to acharge of participation in fetish rites. The case seemed sufficientlyclear from the outset, but somehow Hatteras delayed its conclusion.There was evidence and unrebutted evidence of the usual details—humansacrifice, mutilations, and the like, but Hatteras pressed for more. Hesat until it was dusk, and then had candles brought into theCourt-house. He seemed indeed not so much to be investigating thenegro’s guilt as to be adding to his own knowledge of fetishceremonials. And Walker could not but perceive that he took more than amerely scientific pleasure in the increase of his knowledge. His faceappeared to smooth out, his eyes became quick, interested, almostexcited; and Walker again had the queer impression that Hatteras was inspirit participating in the loathsome ceremonies, and participating withan intense enjoyment. In the end the negro was convicted and the Courtrose. But he might have been convicted a good three hours before. Walkerwent home shaking his head. He seemed to be watching a man deliberatelydivesting himself of his humanity. It seemed as though the white man wasambitious to decline into the black. Hatteras was growing into anuncanny creature. His friend began to foresee a time when he should holdhim in loathing and horror. And the next morning helped to confirm himin that forecast.

For Walker had to make an early start down river for Bonny town, and ashe stood on the landing-stage Hatteras came down to him from theResidency.

“You heard that negro tried yesterday?” he asked with an assumption ofcarelessness.

“Yes, and condemned. What of him?”

“He escaped last night. It’s a bad business, isn’t it?”

Walker nodded in reply and his boat pushed off. But it stuck in his mindfor the greater part of that day that the prison adjoined theCourt-house and so formed part of the ground floor of the Residency. HadHatteras connived at his escape? Had the judge secretly set free theprisoner whom he had publicly condemned?

The question troubled Walker considerably during his month of absence,and stood in the way of his business. He learned for the first time howmuch he loved his friend, and how eagerly he watched for that friend’sadvancement. Each day added to his load of anxiety. He dreamedcontinually of a black-painted man slipping among the tree-boles nearerand nearer, towards the red glare of a fire in some open space secureamongst the swamps, where hideous mysteries had their celebration. Hecut short his business and hurried back from Bonny. He crossed at onceto the Residency and found his friend in a great turmoil of affairs.

“Jim,” said Hatteras, starting up, “I’ve got a year’s leave; I’m goinghome.”

“Dicky!” cried Walker, and he nearly wrung Hatteras’ hand from his arm.“That’s grand news.”

“Yes, old man, I thought you would be glad; I sail in a fortnight.” Andhe did.

For the first month Walker was glad. A year’s leave would make a new manof Dick Hatteras, he thought, or at all events restore the old man, saneand sound, as he had been before he came to the West African coast.During the second month Walker began to feel lonely. In the third hebought a banjo and learnt it during the fourth and fifth. During thesixth he began to say to himself, “What a time poor Dick must have hadall those years with these cursed forests about him. I don’t wonder—Idon’t wonder.” He turned disconsolately to his banjo and played for therest of the year—all through the wet season while the rain came down ina steady roar and only the curlews cried—until Hatteras returned. Hereturned at the top of his spirits and health. Of course he washall-marked West African, but no man gets rid of that stamp. Moreoverthere was more than health in his expression. There was a new look ofpride in his eyes, and when he spoke of a bachelor it was in terms ofsympathetic pity.

“Jim,” said he, after five minutes of restraint, “I am engaged to bemarried.”

Jim danced round him in delight. “What an ass I have been,” he thought;“why didn’t I think of that cure myself?” And he asked, “When is it tobe?”

“In eight months. You’ll come home and see me through.”

Walker agreed and for eight months listened to praises of the lady.There were no more solitary expeditions. In fact, Hatteras seemedabsorbed in the diurnal discovery of new perfections in his future wife.

“Yes, she seems a nice girl,” Walker commented. He found her upon hisarrival in England more human than Hatteras’ conversation had led him toexpect, and she proved to him that she was a nice girl. For she listenedfor hours to his lectures on the proper way to treat Dick without theslightest irritation and with only a faintly visible amusem*nt. Besidesshe insisted on returning with her husband to Bonny River, which was asufficiently courageous thing to undertake.

For a year in spite of the climate the couple were commonplace andhappy. For a year Walker clucked about them like a hen after itschickens, and slept the sleep of the untroubled. Then he returned toEngland and from that time made only occasional journeys to West Africa.Thus for a while he almost lost sight of Hatteras, and consequentlystill slept the sleep of the untroubled. One morning, however, hearrived unexpectedly at the settlement and at once called on Hatteras.He did not wait to be announced, but ran up the steps outside the houseand into the dining-room. He found Mrs. Hatteras crying. She dried hereyes, welcomed Walker, and said that she was sorry, but her husband wasaway.

Walker started, looked at her eyes, and asked hesitatingly whether hecould help. Mrs. Hatteras replied with an ill-assumed surprise that shedid not understand. Walker suggested that there was trouble. Mrs.Hatteras denied the truth of the suggestion. Walker pressed the pointand Mrs. Hatteras yielded so far as to assert that there was no troublein which Hatteras was concerned. Walker hardly thought it the occasionfor a parade of manners, and insisted on pointing out that his knowledgeof her husband was intimate and dated from his schooldays. ThereforeMrs. Hatteras gave way.

“Dick goes away alone,” she said. “He stains his skin and goes away atnight. He tells me that he must, that it’s the only way by which he canknow the natives, and that so it’s a sort of duty. He says the blacktells nothing of himself to the white man—never. You must go amongstthem if you are to know them. So he goes, and I never know when he willcome back. I never know whether he will come back.”

“But he has done that sort of thing on and off for years, and he hasalways come back,” replied Walker.

“Yes, but one day he will not.”

Walker comforted her as well as he could, praised Hatteras for hisconduct, though his heart was hot against him, spoke of risks that everyman must run who serves the Empire. “Never a lotus closes, you know,” hequoted, and went back to the factory with the consciousness that he hadbeen telling lies.

It was a sense of duty that prompted Hatteras, of that Walker assuredhimself he was certain, and he waited—he waited from darkness todaybreak in his compound, for three successive nights.

On the fourth he heard the scuffling sound at the corner of the fence.The night was black as the inside of a coffin. Half a regiment of menmight have passed him and he not have seen them. Accordingly he walkedcautiously to the palisade which separated the enclosure of theResidency from his own, felt along it until he reached the little gateand stationed himself in front of it. In a few moments he thought thathe heard a man breathing, but whether to the right or the left he couldnot tell; and then a groping hand lightly touched his face and drew awayagain. Walker said nothing, but held his breath and did not move. Thehand was stretched out again. This time it touched his breast and movedacross it until it felt a button of Walker’s coat. Then it was snatchedaway, and Walker heard a gasping indraw of the breath and afterwards asound as of a man turning in a flurry. Walker sprang forward and caughta naked shoulder with one hand, a naked arm with the other.

“Wait a bit, Dick Hatteras,” he said.

There was a low cry, and then a husky voice addressed him respectfullyas “Daddy” in trade-English.

“That won’t do, Dick,” said Walker.

The voice babbled more trade-English.

“If you’re not Dick Hatteras,” continued Walker, tightening his grasp,“you’ve no manner of right here. I’ll give you till I count ten, andthen I shall shoot.”

Walker counted up to nine aloud and then——

“Jim,” said Hatteras in his natural voice.

“That’s better,” said Walker. “Let’s go in and talk.”

He went up the steps and lighted the lamp. Hatteras followed him and thetwo men faced one another. For a little while neither of them spoke.Walker was repeating to himself that this man with the black skin, nakedexcept for a dirty loincloth and a few feathers on his head, was a whiteman married to a white wife who was sleeping—nay, more likely crying—notthirty yards away.

Hatteras began to mumble out his usual explanation of duty and the restof it.

“That won’t wash,” interrupted Walker. “What is it? A woman?”

“Good Heaven, no!” cried Hatteras suddenly. It was plain that thatexplanation was at all events untrue. “Jim, I’ve a good mind to tell youall about it.”

“You have got to,” said Walker. He stood between Hatteras and the steps.

“I told you how this country fascinated me in spite of myself,” hebegan.

“But I thought,” interrupted Walker, “that you had got over thatsince—why, man, you are married,” and he came across to Hatteras andshook him by the shoulder. “Don’t you understand? You have a wife!”

“I know,” said Hatteras. “But there are things deeper at the heart of methan the love of woman, and one of these things is the love of horror. Itell you, it bites as nothing else does in the world. It’s likeabsinthe, that turns you sick at the beginning and that you can’t dowithout once you have got the taste of it. Do you remember my firstlanding? It made me sick enough at the beginning, you know. But now——”He sat down in a chair and drew it close to Walker. His voice dropped toa passionate whisper, he locked and unlocked his fingers with feverishmovements, and his eyes shifted and glittered in an unnaturalexcitement.

“It’s like going down to hell and coming up again and wanting to go downagain. Oh, you’d want to go down again. You’d find the whole earth pale.You’d count the days until you went down again. Do you remember Orpheus?I think he looked back, not to see if Eurydice was coming after him, butbecause he knew it was the last glimpse he would get of hell.” At thathe broke off and began to chant in a crazy voice, wagging his head andswaying his body to the rhythm of the lines—

Quum subita incautum dementia cepit amantem
Ignoscenda quidem scirent si ignoscere manes;
Restitit Eurydicenque suam jam luce sub ipsa
Immemor heu! victusque animi respexit.

“Oh, stop that!” cried Walker, and Hatteras laughed. “For God’s sake,stop it!”

For the words brought back to him in a flash the vision of a classroomwith its chipped desks ranged against the varnished walls, the droningsound of the form-master’s voice, and the swish of lilac bushes againstthe lower window panes on summer afternoons. Then he said, “Oh, go on,and let’s have done with it.”

Hatteras took up his tale again, and it seemed to Walker that the manbreathed the very miasma of the swamp and infected the room with it. Hespoke of leopard societies, murder clubs, human sacrifices. He hadwitnessed them at the beginning, he had taken his share in them at thelast. He told the whole story without shame, with indeed a glowingenjoyment. He spared Walker no details. He related them in theirloathsome completeness until Walker felt stunned and sick. “Stop,” hesaid again, “stop! That’s enough.”

Hatteras, however, continued. He appeared to have forgotten Walker’spresence. He told the story to himself, for his own amusem*nt, as achild will, and here and there he laughed, and the mere sound of hislaughter was inhuman. He only came to a stop when he saw Walker hold outto him a co*cked and loaded revolver.

“Well?” he asked. “Well?”

Walker still offered him the revolver.

“There are cases, I think, which neither God’s law nor man’s law seemsto have provided for. There’s your wife, you see, to be considered. Ifyou don’t take it I shall shoot you myself now, here, and mark you Ishall shoot you for the sake of a boy I loved at school in the oldcountry.”

Hatteras took the revolver in silence, laid it on the table, fingered itfor a little.

“My wife must never know,” he said.

“There’s the pistol. Outside’s the swamp. The swamp will tell no tales,nor shall I. Your wife need never know.”

Hatteras picked up the pistol and stood up.

“Good-bye, Jim,” he said, and half pushed out his hand. Walker shook hishead, and Hatteras went out on the verandah and down the steps.

Walker heard him climb over the fence and then followed as far as theverandah. In the still night the rustle and swish of the undergrowthcame quite clearly to his ears. The sound ceased, and a few minutesafterwards the muffled crack of a pistol-shot broke the silence like thetap of a hammer. The swamp, as Walker prophesied, told no tales. Mrs.Hatteras gave the one explanation of her husband’s disappearance thatshe knew, and returned broken-hearted to England. There was some loudtalk about the self-sacrificing energy which makes the English adominant race, and there you might think is the end of the story.

But some years later Walker went trudging up the Ogowe River in CongoFrançais. He travelled as far as Woermann’s factory in Njob Island, and,having transacted his business there, pushed up stream in the hope ofopening the upper reaches for trade purposes. He travelled for a hundredand fifty miles in a little sternwheel steamer. At that point hestretched an awning over a whale-boat, embarked himself, his banjo andeight blacks from the steamer, and rowed for another fifty miles. Therehe ran the boat’s nose into a clay cliff close to a Fan village, andwent ashore to negotiate with the chief.

There was a slip of forest between the village and the river banks, andwhile Walker was still dodging the palm creepers which tapestried it heheard a noise of lamentation. The noise came from the village, and wasgeneral enough to assure him that a chief was dead. It rose in a chorusof discordant howls, low in note and very long drawn out—wordless,something like the howls of an animal in pain, and yet human by reasonof their infinite melancholy.

Walker pushed forward, came out upon a hillock fronting the palisadewhich closed the entrance to the single street of huts, and passed downinto the village. It seemed as though he had been expected. For fromevery hut the Fans rushed out towards him, the men dressed in theirfilthiest rags, the women with their faces chalked and their headsshaved. They stopped, however, on seeing a white man, and Walker knewenough of their tongue to ascertain that they looked for the coming ofthe witch-doctor. The chief, it appeared, had died a natural death, andsince the event is of sufficiently rare occurrence in the Fan country,it had promptly been attributed to witchcraft, and the witch-doctor hadbeen sent for to discover the criminal. The village was consequently ina lively state of apprehension, for the end of those who bewitch chiefsto death is not easy. The Fans, however, politely invited Walker toinspect the corpse. It lay in a dark hut, packed with the corpse’srelations, who were shouting to it at the top of their voices on theoff-chance that its spirit might think better of its conduct and returnto the body. They explained to Walker that they had tried all the usualvarieties of persuasion. They had put red pepper into the chief’s eyeswhile he was dying; they had propped open his mouth with a stick; theyhad burned fibres of the oil-nut under his nose. In fact they had madehis death as uncomfortable as possible, but none the less he had died.

The witch-doctor arrived on the heels of the explanation, and Walker,since he was powerless to interfere, thought it wise to retire for atime. He went back to the hillock on the edge of the trees. Thence helooked across and over the palisade, and had the whole length of thestreet within his view.

The witch-doctor entered in from the opposite end to the beating of manydrums. The first thing Walker noticed was that he wore a square-skirtedeighteenth century coat and a tattered pair of brocaded knee breeches onhis bare legs; the second was that he limped—ever so slightly. Still helimped, and with the right leg. Walker felt a strong desire to see theman’s face, and his heart thumped within him as he came nearer andnearer down the street. But his hair was so matted about his cheeks thatWalker could not distinguish a feature. “If I was only near enough tosee his eyes,” he thought. But he was not near enough, nor would it havebeen prudent for him to have gone nearer.

The witch-doctor commenced the proceedings by ringing a handbell infront of every hut. But that method of detection failed to work. Thebell rang successfully at every door. Walker watched the man’s progress,watched his trailing limb, and began to discover familiarities in hismanner: “Pure fancy,” he argued with himself. “If he had not limped Ishould have noticed nothing.”

Then the doctor took a wicker basket, covered with a rough wooden lid.The Fans gathered in front of him; he repeated their names one after theother, and at each name he lifted the lid. But that plan appeared to beno improvement, for the lid never stuck. It came off readily at eachname. Walker, meanwhile, calculated the distance a man would have tocover who walked across country from Bonny River to the Ogowe, and hereflected with some relief that the chances were several thousand to onethat any man who made the attempt, be he black or white, would be eatenon the way.

The witch-doctor turned back the big square cuffs of his sleeves as aconjurer will do, and again repeated the names. This time, however, ateach name he rubbed the palms of his hands together. Walker was seizedwith a sudden longing to rush down into the village and examine theman’s right forearm for a bullet mark. The longing grew on him. Thewitch-doctor went steadily through the list. Walker rose to his feet andtook a step or two down the hillock, when, of a sudden, at oneparticular name, the doctor’s hands flew apart and waved wildly abouthim. A single cry from a single voice went up out of the group of Fans.The group fell back and left one man standing alone. He made no defence,no resistance. Two men came forward and bound his hands and his feet andhis body with tie-tie. Then they carried him within a hut.

“That’s sheer murder,” thought Walker. He could not rescue the victim,he knew. But he could get a nearer view of the witch-doctor. Already theman was packing up his paraphernalia. Walker stepped back among thetrees, and running with all his speed, made the circuit of the village.He reached the further end of the street just as the witch-doctor walkedout into the open.

Walker ran forward a yard or so until he, too, stood plain to see on thelevel ground. The witch-doctor did see him and stopped. He stopped onlyfor a moment and gazed earnestly in Walker’s direction. Then he went onagain towards his own hut in the forest.

Walker made no attempt to follow him. “He has seen me,” he thought. “Ifhe knows me he will come down to the river bank to-night.” Consequently,he made the black rowers camp a couple of hundred yards down stream. Hehimself remained alone in his canoe.

The night fell noiseless and black, and the enclosing forest made it yetblacker. A few stars burned in the strip of sky above his head. Thosestars and the glimmering of the clay bank to which the boat was mooredwere the only light which Walker had. It was as dark as that night whenWalker waited for Hatteras at the wicket gate.

He placed his gun and a pouch of cartridges on one side, an unlightedlantern on the other, and then he took up his banjo, and again hewaited. He waited for a couple of hours, until a light crackle as oftwigs snapping came to him out of the forest. Walker struck a chord onhis banjo, and played a hymn tune. He played, “Abide with me,” thinkingthat some picture of a home, of a Sunday evening in England’s summertime, perhaps of a group of girls singing about a piano, might flashinto the darkened mind of the man upon the bank, and draw him as withcords. The music went tinkling up and down the river, but no one spoke,no one moved upon the bank. So Walker changed the tune, and played amelody of the barrel organs and Piccadilly Circus. He had not playedmore than a dozen bars, before he heard a sob from the bank, and thenthe sound of something sliding down the clay. The next instant, a figureshone black against the clay. The boat lurched under the weight of afoot upon the gunwale, and a man plumped down in front of Walker.

“Well, what is it?” asked Walker, as he laid down his banjo and felt fora match in his pocket.

It seemed as though the words roused the man to a perception that he hadmade a mistake. He said as much hurriedly in trade-English, and sprangup as though he would leap from the boat. Walker caught hold of hisankle.

“No, you don’t,” said he; “you must have meant to visit me. This isn’tHenley,” and he jerked the man back into the bottom of the boat.

The man explained that he had paid a visit out of the purestfriendliness.

“You’re the witch-doctor, I suppose,” said Walker.

The other replied that he was, and proceeded to state that he waswilling to give information about much that made white men curious. Hewould explain why it was of singular advantage to possess a white man’seyeball, and how very advisable it was to kill anyone you caught makingItung. The danger of passing near a cotton tree which had red earth atthe roots provided a subject which no prudent man should disregard; andTando, with his driver ants, was worth conciliating. The witch-doctorwas prepared to explain to Walker how to conciliate Tando. Walkerreplied that it was very kind of the witch-doctor, but Tando did notreally worry him. He was, in fact, very much more worried by aninability to understand how a native so high up the Ogowe River hadlearned to speak trade-English.

The witch-doctor waved the question aside, and remarked that Walker musthave enemies. “puss*n bad too much,” he called them. “puss*n woh-woh.Berrah well! Ah send grand krau-krau and dem puss*n die one time.”

Walker could not recollect for the moment any “puss*n” whom he wished todie one time, whether from grand krau-krau or any other disease. “Wait abit,” he continued, “there is one man—Dick Hatteras!” and he struck thematch suddenly. The witch-doctor started forward as though to put itout.

Walker, however, had the door of the lantern open. He set the match tothe wick of the candle, and closed the door fast. The witch-doctor drewback. Walker lifted the lantern and threw the light on his face. Thewitch-doctor buried his face in his hands, and supported his elbows onhis knees. Immediately Walker darted forward a hand, seized the loosesleeve of the witch-doctor’s coat, and slipped it back along his arm tothe elbow. It was the sleeve of the right arm, and there on the fleshypart of the forearm was the scar of a bullet.

“Yes,” said Walker. “By God, it is Dick Hatteras!”

“Well?” cried Hatteras, taking his hands from his face. “What the devilmade you tum-tum ‘Tommy Atkins’ on the banjo? Damn you!”

“Dick, I saw you this afternoon.”

“I know, I know. Why on earth didn’t you kill me that night in yourcompound?”

“I mean to make up for that mistake to-night!”

Walker took his rifle on to his knee. Hatteras saw the movement, leanedforward quickly, snatched up the rifle, snatched up the cartridges,thrust a couple of cartridges into the breech, and handed the loadedrifle back to his old friend.

“That’s right,” he said. “I remember. ‘There are some cases neitherGod’s law nor man’s law has quite made provision for.’” And then hestopped, with his finger on his lip. “Listen!” he said.

From the depths of the forest there came faintly, very sweetly the soundof church-bells ringing—a peal of bells ringing at midnight in the heartof West Africa. Walker was startled. The sound seemed fairy work, sofaint, so sweet was it.

“It’s no fancy, Jim,” said Hatteras, “I hear them every night, and atmatins and vespers. There was a Jesuit monastery here two hundred yearsago. The bells remain, and some of the clothes.” He touched his coat ashe spoke. “The Fans still ring the bells from habit. Just think of it!Every morning, every evening, every midnight, I hear those bells. Theytalk to me of little churches perched on hillsides in the old country,of hawthorn lanes, and women—English women. English girls—thousands ofmiles away, going along them to church. God help me! Jim, have you gotan English pipe?”

“Yes; an English briarwood and some bird’s-eye.”

Walker handed Hatteras his briarwood and his pouch of tobacco. Hatterasfilled the pipe, lit it at the lantern, and sucked at it avidly for amoment. Then he gave a sigh and drew in the smoke more slowly and yetmore slowly.

“My wife?” he asked at last, in a low voice.

“She is in England. She thinks you dead.”

Hatteras nodded.

“There’s a jar of Scotch whisky in the locker behind you,” said Walker.

Hatteras turned round, lifted out the jar and a couple of tin cups. Hepoured whisky into each and handed one to Walker.

“No, thanks,” said Walker. “I don’t think I will.”

Hatteras looked at his companion for an instant. Then he emptieddeliberately both cups over the side of the boat. Next he took the pipefrom his lips. The tobacco was not half consumed. He poised the pipe fora little in his hand. Then he blew into the bowl and watched the dullred glow kindle into sparks of flame as he blew. Very slowly he tappedthe bowl against the thwart of the boat until the burning tobacco fellwith a hiss into the water. He laid the pipe gently down and stood up.

“So long, old man,” he said, and sprang out on the clay. Walker turnedthe lantern until the light made a disc upon the bank.

“Good-bye, Jim,” said Hatteras, and he climbed up the bank until hestood in the light of the lantern. Twice Walker raised the rifle to hisshoulder, twice he lowered it. Then he remembered that Hatteras and hehad been at school together.

“Good-bye, Dicky,” he cried, and fired. Hatteras tumbled down to theboat-side. The blacks down river were roused by the shot. Walker shoutedto them to stay where they were, and as soon as their camp was quiet hestepped ashore. He filled up the whisky jar with water, tied it toHatteras’ feet, shook his hand, and pushed the body into the river. Thenext morning he started back to Fernan Vaz.

THE RANSOM

By CUTLIFFE HYNE

Methuen wriggled himself into a corner of the hut, rested his shouldersagainst the adobe wall, and made himself as comfortable as theraw-hide thongs with which he was tied up would permit. “Well, Calvert,”said he, “I hope you quite realise what an extremely ugly hole we’rein?”

“Garcia will hang the pair of us before sunset,” I replied, “and that’sa certainty. My only wonder is we haven’t been strung up before this.”

“You think a rope and a tree’s a sure thing, do you? I wish I couldcomfort myself with that idea. I wouldn’t mind a simple gentlemanly doseof hanging. But there are more things in heaven and earth, Calvert——” Hebroke off and whistled drearily.

I moistened my dry, cracked lips, and asked him huskily what he meant.

“Torture, old man. That’s what we’re being saved for, I’m very muchafraid. A Peruvian guerilla is never a gentle-minded animal at the bestof times, and Garcia is noted as being the most vindictive brute to befound between the Andes and the Pacific. Then if you’ll kindly rememberhow you and I have harried him, and shot down his men, and cut off hissupplies, and made his life a torment and a thing of tremors for thelast four weeks, you’ll see he had got a big bill against us. If he’dhated us less, he’d have had us shot at sight when we were caught; as itis, I’m afraid he felt that a couple of bullets in hot blood wouldn’tpay off the score.”

“If he thinks the matter over calmly, he’ll not very well avoid seeingthat if he wipes us out there’ll be reprisals to be looked for.”

“And a fat lot,” replied Methuen grimly, “he’ll care for the chance ofthose. If we are put out of the way, he knows quite well that there areno two other men in the Chilian Service who can keep him on the trot aswe have done. No, sir. We can’t scare Garcia with that yarn. You thinkthat because we’re alive still there’s hope. Well, I’ve sufficient faithin my theory for this: If anyone offered me a shot through the head now,I’d accept it, and risk the chance.”

“You take the gloomy view. Now the man’s face is not altogether cruel.There’s humour in it.”

“Then probably he’ll show his funniness when he takes it out of us,”Methuen retorted. “Remember that punishment in the ‘Mikado’? That had‘something humorous’ in it. Boiling oil, if I don’t forget.”

Involuntarily I shuddered, and the raw-hide ropes cut deeper into mywrists and limbs. I had no great dread of being killed in the ordinaryway, or I should not have entered the Chilian Army in the middle of ahot war; and I was prepared to risk the ordinary woundings of action inreturn for the excitements of the fight. But to be caught, and held ahelpless prisoner, and be deliberately tortured to death by everycruelty this malignant fiend, Garcia, could devise, was a possibility Ihad not counted on before. In fact, as the Peruvians had repeatedlygiven out that they would offer no quarter to us English in the ChilianService, we had all of us naturally resolved to die fighting rather thanbe taken. And, indeed, this desperate feeling paid very well, since ontwo separate occasions when Methuen and myself had been cornered withsmall bodies of men, and would have surrendered if we could have beenguaranteed our lives, we went at them each time so furiously that oneach occasion we broke through and escaped. But one thinks nothing ofthe chances of death and maiming at those times. There is a glow withinone’s ribs which scares away all trace of fear.

“I suppose there’s no chance of rescue?” I said.

“None whatever,” said Methuen, with a little sigh. “Think it over,Calvert. We start out from the hacienda with an escort of five men,sing out our adios, and ride away to enjoy a ten days’ leave in themountains. The troops are left to recruit; for ten days they can drop usout of mind. Within twelve hours of our leaving them, Garcia cleverlyambushes us in a cañon where not three people pass in a year. The poorbeggars who form our escort are all gastados.”

“Yes, but are you sure of that?” I interrupted. “I saw them all drop offtheir horses when we were fired upon, but that doesn’t prove they weredead. Some might have been merely wounded, and when the coast cleared,it is just possible they crawled back to our post with the news. Still,I own it’s a small chance.”

“And you may divest yourself of even that thin rag of hope. Whilst youwere being slung senseless across a horse, I saw that man without theears go round with a machete, and—well, when the brute had done, therewas no doubt about the poor fellows being as dead as lumps of mud. Ah,and talk of the devil——”

The earless man swung into the hut.

“Buenas, Señores,” said he mockingly. “You will have the honour now ofbeing tried, and I’m sure I hope you will be pleased with the result.”

“I suppose we shall find that out later,” said Methuen with a yawn; “butanyway, I don’t think much of your hospitality. A cup of wine now afterthat ugly ride we’ve had to-day would come in very handy, or even a nipof aguardiente would be better than nothing.”

“I fancy it might be a waste of good liquor,” was the answer; “but youmust ask Garcia. He will see to your needs.”

A guard of twelve ragged fellows, armed with carbine and machete, hadfollowed the earless man into the hut, and two of them, whilst hetalked, had removed the seizings from our knees and ankles. They helpedus to our feet, and we walked with them into the dazzling sunshineoutside.

“I’ll trouble some of you for my hat,” said Methuen, when the glarefirst blazed down on him; and then, as no one took any notice of therequest, he lurched against the earless man with a sudden swerve, andknocked his sombrero on to the brown baked turf. “Well, I’ll have yours,you flea-ridden ladron,” said he; “it’s better than nothing at all.Pick up the foul thing, and shake it, and put it on my head.”

The guerilla bared his teeth like an animal, and drew a pistol. Ithought he would have shot my comrade out of hand, and by his look Icould see that Methuen expected it. Indeed, he had deliberately invitedthe man to that end. But, either because the nearness of Garcia and fearof his discipline stayed him, or through thought of a finer vengeancewhich was to come, the earless man contented himself by dealing abattery of kicks and oaths, and bidding our guards to ward us morecarefully.

In this way, then, we walked along a path between two fields of vines,and passed down the straggling street of the village which the guerillashad occupied, and brought up in a little plaza which faced thewhite-walled chapel. In the turret a bell was tolling dolefully withslow strokes, and as the sound came to me through the heated air, it didnot require much imagination to frame it into an omen. In the centre ofthe plaza was a vast magnolia tree, filled with scented wax-likeflowers, and splashed with cones of coral-pink.

We drew up before the piazza of the principal house. Seated under itsshade in a split-cane rocker, Garcia awaited us, a small, meagre, darkman, with glittering teeth, and fingers lemon-coloured from cigarettejuice.

He stared at us and spat; and the trial, such as it was, began.

I must confess that the proceedings astonished me. Animus therecertainly was; the guerillas as a whole were disposed to give us shortshrift; but their chief insisted on at least some parade of justice. Theindictment was set forward against us: We had shot, hanged, and harried,and in fact used all the harshness of war. Had we been Chilians in theChilian Service, this might have been pardonable; but we were aliensfrom across the sea; mere freebooters, fighting, not for a country, buteach for his own hand; and as such we were beyond the pale of militarycourtesy. We had earned a punishment. Had we any word to speak why thisshould not be given?

Garcia looked towards us expectantly, and then set himself to roll afresh cigarette.

I shrugged my shoulders. It seemed useless to say anything.

Methuen said: “Look here, sir! You’ve got us, there is no mistake aboutthat. It seems to me you’ve two courses before you, and they are these:Either, you can kill us, more or less barbarously, in which case youwill raise a most pestilential hunt at your heels; or, you can put us upto ransom. Now neither Calvert here, nor myself, are rich men; but ifyou choose to let us go with sound skins, we’re prepared to pay tenthousand Chilian dollars apiece for our passports. Now, does that strikeyou?”

Garcia finished rolling his cigarette, and lit it with care. He inhaleda deep breath of smoke.

“Señor,” he said (the words coming out from between his white teeth withlittle puffs of vapour), “you do not appear to understand. You fight asa soldier of fortune, and I am merely in arms as a patriot. I am nohuckster to traffic men’s lives for money, nor am I a timorous fool tobe scared into robbing a culprit of his just dues.”

“Very well, then,” said Methuen, “murder the pair of us.”

Garcia smiled unpleasantly. “You may be a very brave man,” said he, “butyou are not a judicious one. To a judge less just than myself thisinsolence might have added something to your punishment; but as it is Ishall overlook what you have said, and only impose the penalty I haddetermined upon before you spoke.”

He lifted his thin yellow fingers, and drew a fresh breath of smoke.Then he waved the cigarette towards the magnolia tree in the centre ofthe plaza. “You see that bough which juts out towards the chapel?”

“It’s made for a gallows,” said Methuen.

“Precisely,” said the guerilla, “and it will be used as one inside tenminutes. I shall string one of you up by the neck, to dangle therebetween heaven and earth. The other man shall have a rifle andcartridges, and if, standing where he does now, he can cut with a bulletthe rope with which his friend is hanged, then you shall both go free.”

“I hear you say it,” said Methuen. “In other words you condemn one of usto be strangled slowly without chance of reprieve. But what guaranteehave we that you will not slit the second man’s throat after you havehad your sport out of him?”

Garcia sprang to his feet with a stamp of passion, and the chair rolledover backwards. “You foul adventurer!” he cried. “You paid man-killer!”and then he broke off with a bitter “Pah!” and folded his arms, and fora minute held silence till he got his tongue in hand again. “Señor,” hesaid coldly, “my country’s wrongs may break my heart, but they can nevermake me break my word. I may be a hunted guerilla, but I still remain agentleman.”

“I beg your pardon,” said Methuen.

“We will now,” continued Garcia icily, “find out which of you two willplay which part. Afterwards I will add another condition which may lendmore skill to what follows. I will not coerce you. Kindly choose betweenyourselves which of you will hang and which will shoot.”

My comrade shrugged his shoulders. “I like you, Calvert, old man,” saidhe, “but I’m not prepared to dance on nothing for you.”

“It would be simplest to toss for exit,” I said.

“Precisely; but, my dear fellow, I have both hands trussed up, and nocoin.”

“Pray let me assist you,” said Garcia. “Señor Calvert, may I trouble youfor an expression of opinion?”

He leant over the edge of the piazza, and span a dollar into the air.I watched it with a thumping heart, and when for an instant it paused, adazzling splash of brightness against the red-tiled roof, I cried:“Heads!”

The coin fell with a faint thud in the dust a yard from my feet.

“Well?” said Methuen.

“I congratulate you, old fellow. I swing.”

He frowned and made no reply. Garcia’s voice broke the silence.“Bueno, Señor Methuen,” he said. “I advise you to shoot straight, oryou will not get home even now. You remember I said there was stillanother condition. Well, here you are: you must cut your friend downwith a bullet before he is quite dead, or I’ll string you up besidehim.”

Methuen let up a short laugh. “Remember what I said about that fellow in‘the Mikado,’ Calvert? You see where the ‘humour’ comes in? We’ve hadthat coin spun for nothing. You and I must change positions.”

“Not at all. I take what I’ve earned.”

“But I say yes. It works this way: I took it that the man who washanging stood a delicate chance anyway, and I didn’t feel generousenough to risk it. But now the Señor here has put in the extra clause,the situation is changed altogether. You aren’t a brilliant shot, oldman, but you may be able to cut me down with a bullet if you rememberwhat you’re firing for, and shoot extra straight. But it’s a certainthing that I couldn’t do it if I blazed away till Doomsday. The utmost Icould manage would be to fluke a pellet into your worthy self. So yousee I must wear the hemp, and you must apply your shoulder to the riflebutt. Laugh, you fool,” he added in English. “Grin, and say somethingfunny, or these brutes will think we care for them.”

But I was incapable of further speech. I could have gibed at theprospect of being hanged myself, but the horror of this other ordealturned me sick and dumb. And at what followed I looked on mutely.

There was a well at one side of the plaza, and the earless man went androbbed the windlass of its rope. With clumsy landsman’s fingers heformed a noose, took it to the great magnolia tree, and threw the looseend over the projecting branch. The bell of the little white chapelopposite went on tolling gravely, and they marched my friend up to hisfate over the sun-baked dust. They passed a thong round his ankles; theearless man fitted the noose to his throat; a dozen of the guerillaswith shouts and laughter laid hold of the hauling part of the line; andthen a voice from behind fell upon my ear. Garcia was speaking to me.With a strain I dragged my eyes away from the glare of the plaza, andlistened. He was smiling wickedly.

“——, and so your pluck has oozed away?” he was saying, as the cigarettesmoke billowed up from between the white walls of his teeth. “Well, ofcourse, if you do not care for the game, you can throw up your hand atonce. You’ve only to say the word, and you can be dangling on that boughthere inside a couple of minutes. It’s quite strong enough to carry morefruit than it will bear just now. But it’s rather hard on your friendnot to try——”

My wits came to me again. “You dolt!” I cried; “how can I shoot with myarms trussed up like this? If the whole thing is not a mockery, cut meadrift and give me a rifle.”

He beckoned to one of his men, and the fellow came up and cut off thelashings from my wrists and elbows; and then, with a sour smile, hemotioned to some of the others, who drew near and held their weapons atthe ready. “I dare wager, Señor Calvert,” he said, “that if you’d me fora mark you would not score a miss. So I wish to insure that you do notshoot in this direction.” He raised his voice, and shouted across thebaking sunlight: “Quite ready here, amigos. So up with the target.”

Now up to this point I am free to own that since our capture I had cut apretty poor figure. I had not whined, but at the same time I had notseen my way to put on Methuen’s outward show of careless brazen courage.But when I watched the guerillas tighten on the rope and sway him uptill his stretched-out feet swung a couple of hand-spans above theground, then my coolness returned to me, and my nerves set like iciclesin their sockets. He was sixty yards away, and at that distance, thewell-rope dwindled to the bigness of a shoemaker’s thread. Moreover, theupper two-thirds of it was almost invisible, because it hung before abackground of shadows. But the eighteen inches above my poor friend’shead stood out clear and distinct against the white walls of the chapelbeyond, and as it swayed to pulsing of the body beneath, it burnt itselfupon my eyesight till all the rest of the world was blotted out in a redhaze. I never knew before how thoroughly a man could concentratehimself.

They handed me the rifle, loaded and co*cked. It was a single-shotWinchester, and I found out afterwards, though I did not know it then,that either through fiendish wish to further hamper my aim, or throughpure forgetfulness, they had left the sights co*cked up at three hundredyards. But that did not matter; the elevation was a detail of minorimport; and besides, I was handling the weapon as a game shot fires,with head up, and eyes glued on the mark, and rifle-barrel following theeyes by instinct alone. You must remember that I had no stationary markto aim at. My poor comrade was writhing and swaying at the end of histether, and the well-rope swung hither and thither like some contortedpendulum.

Once I fired, twice I fired, six times, ten times, and still the roperemained uncut, and the bullets rattled harmlessly against the whitewalls of the chapel beyond. With the eleventh shot came the tinkle ofbroken glass, and the bell, after a couple of hurried nervous clangs,ceased tolling altogether. With the thirteenth shot a shout went up fromthe watching crowd. I had stranded the rope, and the body which dangledbeneath the magnolia tree began slowly to gyrate.

Then came a halt in the firing. I handed the Winchester back to thefellow who was reloading, but somehow or other the exploded cartridgehad jammed in the breach. I danced and raged before him in my passion ofhurry, and the cruel brutes round yelled in ecstasies of merriment. OnlyGarcia did not laugh. He re-rolled a fresh cigarette, with his thinyellow fingers, and leisurely rocked himself in the split-cane chair.The man could not have been more unmoved if he had been overlooking aperformance of Shakespeare.

At last I tore the Winchester from the hands of the fellow who wasfumbling with it, and clawed at the jammed cartridge myself, breaking mynails and smearing the breech-lock with blood. If it had been weldedinto one solid piece, it could scarcely have been firmer. But the thrillof the moment gave my hands the strength of pincers. The brass casemoved from side to side; it began to crumple; and I drew it forth andhurled it from me, a mere ball of shapeless, twisted metal. Then one ofthe laughing brutes gave me another cartridge, and once more Ishouldered the loaded weapon.

The mark was easier now. The struggles of my poor friend had almostceased, and though the well-rope still swayed, its movements werecomparatively rhythmical, and to be counted upon. I snapped down thesights, put the butt-plate to my shoulder, and cuddled the stock with mycheek. Here for the first time was a chance of something steadier than asnap-shot.

I pressed home the trigger as the well-rope reached one extremity of itsswing. Again a few loose ends sprang from the rope, and again the bodybegan slowly to gyrate. But was it Methuen I was firing to save, or wasI merely wasting shot to cut down a mass of cold dead clay?

I think that more agony was compressed for me into a few minutes thenthan most men meet with in a lifetime. Even the onlooking guerillas wereso stirred that for the first time their gibing ceased, and two of themof their own accord handed me cartridges. I slipped one home and closedthe breech-lock. The perspiration was running in a stream from my chin.Again I fired. Again the well-rope was snipped, and I could see theloosened strands ripple out as a snake unwraps itself from a branch.

One more shot. God in heaven, I missed! Why was I made to be a murdererlike this?

Garcia’s voice came to me coldly. “Your last chance, Señor. I can bekept waiting here no longer. And I think you are wasting time. Yourfriend seems to have quitted us already.”

Another cartridge. I sank to one knee and rested my left elbow on theother. The plaza was hung in breathless silence. Every eye was strainedto see the outcome of the shot. The men might be inhuman in theircruelty, but they were human enough in their curiosity.

The body span to one end of its swing: I held my fire. It swung back,and the rifle muzzle followed. Like some mournful pendulum it passedthrough the air, and then a glow of certainty filled me like a drink. Iknew I could not miss that time; and I fired; and the body, in a limpand shapeless heap, fell to the ground.

With a cry I threw the rifle from me and raced across the sunlit dust.Not an arm was stretched out to stop me. Only when I had reached myfriend and loosened that horrible ligature from his neck, did I hearvoices clamouring over my fate.

“And now this other Inglese, your excellency,” the earless man said.“Shall we shoot him from here, or shall we string him up in the other’splace?”

But the answer was not what the fellow expected. Garcia replied to himin a shriek of passion. “You foul, slaughtering brute,” he cried,“another offer like that and I’ll pistol you where you stand. You heardme pass my word: do you dream that I could break it? They have had theirpunishment, and if we see one another again, the meeting will be none ofmy looking for. We leave this puebla in five minutes. See to yourduties. Go.”

The words came to me dully through the heated air. I was almost mad withthe thought that my friend was dead, and that the fault was mine,mine, mine alone!

I listened for his breaths; they did not come. I felt for a heart-throb;there was not so much as a flutter. His neck was seared by a ghastlyring. His face was livid. And yet I would not admit even then that hewas dead. With a cry I seized his arms, and moved them first above hishead till he looked like a man about to dive, and then clapped themagainst his sides, repeating this an infinite number of times, prayingthat the airs I drew through his lungs might blow against somesmouldering spark of humanity, and kindle it once more into life.

The perspiration rolled from me; my mouth was as a sandpit; the heavyscent of the magnolia blossoms above sickened me with its strength; thesight departed from my eyes. I could see nothing beyond a small circleof the hot dust around, which waved and danced in the sunlight, and thelittle green lizards which came and looked at me curiously, and forgotthat I was human.

And then, of a sudden, my comrade gave a sob, and his chest began toheave of itself without my laborious aid. And after that for a while Iknew very little more. The sun-baked dust danced more wildly in thesunshine, the lizards changed to darker colours, the light went out, andwhen next I came to my senses Methuen was sitting up with one handclutching at his throat, looking at me wildly.

“What has happened?” he gasped. “I thought I was dead, and Garcia hadhanged me. Garcia——No one is here. The puebla seems deserted. Calvert,tell me.”

“They have gone,” I said. “We are alive. We will get away from here assoon as you can walk.”

He rose to his feet, swaying. “I can walk now. But what about you?”

“I am an old man,” I said, “wearily old. In the last two hours I havegrown a hundred years. But I think I can walk also. Yes, look, I amstrong. Lean on my arm. Do you see that broken window in the chapel?When I fired through that, the bell stopped tolling.”

“Let us go inside the chapel for a minute before we leave the village,”said Methuen. “We have had a very narrow escape, old man. I—I—feelthankful.”

There was a faint smell of incense inside that little white-walledchapel. The odour of it lingers by me still.

THE OTHER TWIN

By EDWIN PUGH

It was the hour of siesta. Santa Plaza lay blistering, sweltering, inthe white-hot glare of the noontide sun. The dust lay thick on the roadsand terraces, the copings and the roofs of the houses, like untroddensnow. The sea shone like a shield of brass reflecting a brassy sky.There was not the least sign of movement anywhere.

Then Franker, the Englishman, came limping along the Lido, sat down inthe shadow of the old sea-wall, and examined with grave solicitude aswollen and blistered foot swathed in filthy, blood-stained rags.

This Franker had once been a well-known figure in all the ports of thosefar-off southern seas. It was whispered that in the long ago he had beena gentleman. Now he was just the sport of circ*mstance, a jack of alltrades, so long as they were indifferent honest; sailorman, stock-rider,storekeeper, croupier, crimp, anything that happened along in his hourof need. But lately he had disappeared from his old haunts, and it wasunlikely that any of his old acquaintances would have recognised in thatragged and gaunt, unwashed and black-bearded wastrel on the beach thespruce adventurer of former days.

He had the look of a hunted creature. There was fear in his eyes. Evenas he sat there nursing his aching foot, parched and hungry, haggard andweary, his head was perpetually turning from side to side, and ever andagain he looked over his shoulder, to left and right, as if he were indread expectation that at any moment some enemy might creep upon himunawares. And, indeed, he was in parlous case. For he had killed a man,not in itself an exceptional incident of course—only in this instancethe man was one of twins, and the other twin had vowed a vendettaagainst him.

These twins were named Bibi and Bobo, and the extraordinary likenessbetween them was accentuated by their habit of always dressing alike,talking alike, thinking alike. There were some who said that they coulddistinguish one twin from the other, but these were foolish,vainglorious men. The thing was manifestly impossible. Even Franker didnot know whether it was Bibi or Bobo he had killed.

It happened in a gambling den in Suranim, up country. They were playingthe childish game of boule, and some silly dispute had arisen. Frankerhad lost his temper, and knocked one of the twins down. For once in away the other twin had not been present, or most assuredly Franker wouldhave been chived in the back before he could turn round. As it was, hesaw his fallen adversary rise slowly, slowly draw a red smear across hisface with the back of his hand, and then quicken on a sudden into anticactivity. There was the flash of a knife. Franker dodged. The other menstood back to watch the fun—not to see fair play. Fair play was a jewelof little value in the estimation of that crew. A moment Frankerhesitated, then whipped out his gun and fired point-blank at the twin.He dropped dead. Before the smoke had cleared away or the echoes of thereport had subsided into stillness, Franker had left the gambling-houseand was running for his life into the wilderness.

There, for three days, he lost himself. That was his idea: to losehimself. He wanted to be lost, utterly lost to the world. For he knewthat so long as the other twin lived his own chances of living werereduced to the last recurring decimal. Bibi or Bobo—whichever itwas—would never rest until he had wrought vengeance on his brother’smurderer. Though it wasn’t a murder, of course, but a duel in which eachhad taken the same risk of death. If Franker had not killed Bibi orBobo, Bibi or Bobo would have killed him. He wished he knew which of thetwins it was he had killed. So idiotic not to know. So confusing. Itmade your head ache, wondering. And in your sleep you dreamed ofhorrible, two-headed monsters coming at you crabwise, with arms and legsall round them.

On the third day of his sojourn in the wilderness the other twin hadvery nearly caught him napping. He had sunk down exhausted in a sandyhollow fringed with palms, and for a moment closed his eyes. And in thatmoment the redness of his lowered eyelids had been suddenly clouded by ashadow. In an instant he was on his feet, wide awake again. And therewas the figure of the other twin in the act of flinging itself upon him.He fired an aimless shot at that black apparition, then bolted.

And all that day and all that night he had wound and wound an intortedcourse through virgin forest, hoping thus to shake off his pursuer. Andall that day and all that night he had known that his pursuer followedhim, shadowed him, stalked him, with a merciless delight in thatpersecution born of an insatiate hate.

Next day Franker, having doubled on his tracks, found himself on aquayside, and had shipped as a forecastle hand on an old iron hookerbound for the Caribs with a mixed cargo. He never knew or cared whatthat mixed cargo consisted of. He was too busy sleeping, when he wasn’ttoo sore from being kicked into wakefulness, to bother about trivialdetails. He could have left the ship at the first of the Caribs, but anisland is a prison, and his yearning was for wide free spaces where aman can at least get a run for his money. So he had returned on thehooker, and had been paid off with the lurid compliments of the purser,and was once more adrift.

But the story of his wanderings and adventures over the greater part ofthe southern hemisphere would fill many books. Months passed, a yearpassed, two years, and all the while Franker was dogged by the avenger.Ever and again, just when he thought that he had at last shaken off thatdeadly pursuit, the other twin turned up again. And gradually it wasborne in upon him that the other twin might have killed him long sincehad he wished. He had had numberless opportunities, and had not takenthem. This puzzled Franker a bit, and then he hit upon the truth. Thereis more joy in the hunting than in the killing. There is more cat-likesatisfaction in the slow torture of its victim than in the crunching upof its dead bones. He began to think of the other twin as a cat-likecreature, exercising a cruelty of the mind far more subtle and devilishthan any mere crude cruelty of tooth and claw. When the avenger tired ofthe sport, then he would strike. And not till then. Meanwhile, Frankerwas condemned to a daily round of unremitting vigilance, ceaselesswatchfulness, unending apprehension.

He had been a big man, strong and fearless, with bold eyes and the voiceof a bull. Now he had become a shuffling, whimpering, trembling thing ofnerves and tears, who dared look no one in the face lest it should bethe face of his enemy. In the old days, with no other resources than hishealth and vigour, bodily and mental, he had used to take chances withan overbearing recklessness, and thrust and curse his way through themob of other roustabouts like unto himself, with whom he had fought forthe means of existence. And he had been—he realised that now—quite happythen. There were times when he told himself that he would stand fastagainst his pursuer, force him into the open, then turn upon him andrend him, and so make an end of this long-drawn-out agony. But when themoment came his wits fled, he was distraught and afraid, he could thinkonly of flight.

It was now a full fortnight since he had seen Bibi—or Bobo. But therehad been other fortnights during which he had not seen him. And always,inevitably, he had reappeared. So would he reappear again.

Franker gazed out from the shadow of the old seawall across theglittering, limitless sea, and wished that he might drown himself in itsdepths. But he was not yet quite mad enough for that. Though life hadbecome as a nightmare to him, and death as the awakening to the cool,calm peace of dawn; though life offered nothing but torment, and deathoffered surcease of pain, he still clung to life. It was in the natureof his being to cling to life. He was not of the stuff that gives in.

But if only he could rest awhile! If only he could lie still in somesheltered place, safe from his enemy, and thus regain his old controlover his faculties, recuperate his strength!

At the western end of the Lido, where the coast swept in a wide curve tothe lighthouse and the harbour, there was a long white wall. And as heremembered what that wall enclosed, what it signified, Franker had aninspiration. His face was suddenly irradiated. He laughed aloud. What afool!—God in Heaven!—what a fool he had been not to think of thatbefore! He rose on tremulous legs and began to shamble along the beachtowards that far-off haven of refuge.

The prison official, in his gaudy livery of gold and scarlet and hisimmense co*cked hat, conducted him to the chief inspector’s office.

“Yes?”

Franker desired to be sworn. He had a crime to confess: it had troubledhis conscience for years.

“Yes?”

An affair of opium smuggling, ship’s papers forged, and customs burked.It was a true story enough, only Franker himself had not been implicatedin it. The police had been so long on the track of that crime they hadgiven it up as hopeless. And now here there was the chief criminal, afine fat bird, dropping into the net of his own free will. The chiefinspector rubbed his dry palms together as he thought of the lusciousreport he would send to the magistracy.

Then he committed Franker to the custody of another prison official,less gaudy than the first, and Franker was led away to the cell.

This was a big, bare, barn-like place of stone, that sometimes containedas many as twenty prisoners huddled indiscriminately together. But justnow crime was slack. Franker had the whole cell to himself.

As the gaoler slammed the door on him he fell on his knees with aweeping face, and offered up thanks for this blessed refuge, this safeharbour of retreat from his relentless enemy, this sanctuary. Here, atlast, he was free from the fear of pursuit. Here, during the year or twoof his imprisonment, he could rest and sleep, rest his mind and find hissleep that sweet relief from the tortures of the last two years whichwould gradually restore him again to health and sanity.

Even as he prayed he toppled down face forward and lay there quitestill, breathing softly, evenly, in peaceful slumber.

The light was fading, there was a red stain of sunset on the wall whenhe awoke. It was a rattling and clanging of bolts and chains that hadroused him. He sat up, blinking stupidly, at first not knowing where hewas. Then, as he remembered, he shed tears of joy again, and clasped hishands together in an access of delight.

The sounds drew nearer. The heavy, barred door of the prison chamber wasflung open. He saw the burly figure of a gaoler over-shadowing anothersmaller figure that seemed to be precipitated from behind into the mistyvastness of the cell. It fell head-long at Franker’s feet, and lay therestirring feebly like a wounded beetle.

Franker watched his writhings ... and a slow, cold horror grew upon him.

His fellow-prisoner raised himself on all fours, then sat up andsquatted there, cross-legged, like a Chinese bonze.

It was Bibi—or Bobo.

Franker uttered a cry.

“And hast thou found me, O mine enemy!”

The other twin had leapt to his feet. He shrank back, crouching,snarling, spitting like a cat. The moment for the happy dispatch wascome at last. He drew his knife and fingered its keen blade lovingly,then came mincing on tiptoe towards Franker.

As Franker’s hands closed round his throat he drove the blade deep intoFranker’s breast.

THE NARROW WAY

By R. ELLIS ROBERTS

1

At his confirmation he had annoyed the Bishop of London (at that time itwas Frederick Temple) by insisting on taking the additional names ofAlfonso Mary Alexander. He had surprised him by the resolute manner inwhich he had answered his questions about the origin of taking names atconfirmation; and enraged him by his explanation that he desired to becalled Alexander in memory of that great Pope, the Lord Alexander VI,who had put the whole Christian world under an obligation by hisdiscovery of the devotion of the Angelus. “This devotion,” the boymurmured to the astounded Bishop, “as your Lordship no doubt knows, hasbeen from eternity the privilege of the Holy Angels, and was notentrusted to men until the proximity of the horrible heresies of theGerman reformation rendered the patronage of Mary necessary for theprotection of her son.” The Bishop’s chaplain had tried to prevent FrankLascelles’ indiscretion; but Temple’s abrupt gesture had hindered hisefforts. When Lascelles finished the Bishop gazed at him in silence fora minute.

“Well, I hope you’ll live to grow out of this foolery. But you know yourrights and you shall have ’em.”

Temple, was, as his old foes had discovered years before, eminentlyjust.

More than twenty years had passed since that confirmation. Frank AlfonsoMary Alexander Lascelles had gone to Oxford and to Ely, and had beenordained to a small country parish in that diocese. After two years ofhis curacy, an injudicious layman presented him to the living of S. Unyand S. Petroc in the north of Cornwall. He had been there now for overnineteen years. When he had come he found his church empty; now it wasfull. It was full of children and boys. Occasionally a few mothers, and,when he was sober, the village drunkard, and, when she was penitent, theprostitute from the Church Town, came to Mass as well; but generally theChurch of S. Uny, down by the beach, was filled only by children andboys.

This result Frank Lascelles had been long in attaining. The parish heserved was predominantly Methodist. He had found a congregation ofthree—the publican, the ostler of the hotel, and an old maiden lady whorang the bell, and called herself the pew-opener. Lascelles soon shockedthe respectability of the publican and the Protestantism of the ostler:but the old lady remained faithful to him. She did not stir when he hadthe three-decker cut down, and a new altar reared at the East end. Sheseemed to welcome the great images, Our Lady of the ImmaculateConception, The Sacred Heart, S. Joseph and S. Anthony which Lascellesput up in his church. She did not care whether he said Mass in Latin orEnglish; and incense and holy water both left her tranquil. It wasotherwise with the village. Though the Methodists never entered thechurch, except for a wedding or a funeral, they thought they had a rightto control its services and its priest. There were stormy Eastervestries; there was a Protestant churchwarden. One horrible day thefishermen broke into the church and took out the images and threw themdown the cliff: by next week new ones were in their places. Lascelleswas boycotted by his parishioners, except a few would-be bold spirits;and was outlawed, in the genial English way, by his Bishop; but he stuckat his job, went on saying offices to an empty church, and singing Massto his pew-opener and an occasional visitor. Then after five years or sothe change began.

It was not along the usual lines of such changes. Generally priests ofLascelles’ religion are eager, masculine people who soon win over themore turbulent elements in the parish, and put them, too, in search ofthe great adventure of Christianity. But Lascelles, though he had grownup, still remained the boy who had chosen Liguori and Alexander for hispatrons. He was obsessed with the reality of the spiritual world, ofgood and evil. His pillow was wet with the tears he shed for the sins ofhis parish. He was horrified at the evil of the world, and yetconstitutionally unable to defy it in any active way. He had only onestrong human affection—and that was a great love for children.

At first this was not reciprocated. His odd figure, his shuffling walk,his stoop and his occasional outbursts of anger produced ridicule andfear rather than love. Then one child somehow found how large the heartof him was; and then another, and then another. He had won the children.But this would have availed him little had it not been for the arrivalat S. Uny of the Rev. Paul Trengrowse. Mr. Trengrowse came to ministerto the Primitives about three years after Lascelles’ appointment to theparish. He was young, keen, and sincere. He had not been long in thevillage when the leading members of his congregation told him of thesins of the parish priest, and horrors of the parish church. Trengrowseprayed for light. He disliked interfering with the affairs of an alienchurch; but, if half he was told was true, Lascelles must be fought. Sohe paid a visit to the church, which was always open, and was dulydistressed at the idols he saw there.

As he was gazing at the smirking fatuity of S. Anthony, he heard afootstep. It was Lascelles who was coming from the sacristy to thealtar. Fortunately, before he began Mass, Lascelles looked down thechurch and saw “a congregation.” So he said Mass in English.

Now Trengrowse was no ordinary minister. He was a man of personalholiness, and of real devotion; and that in his spirit which was sincereand mystical recognised in the Popish-seeming priest, muttering hisMass, a kindred soul. Lascelles’ absorption in his work, his grave, yetjoyful solemnity, his keen sense of the other world made an immenseeffect on Trengrowse. The Mass proceeded, and when Trengrowse heard“Therefore with Angels and Archangels and all the Company of Heaven,” hefelt that he had had the answer to his prayer. This man was a Christian,however erroneous he might be in details.

So the next Sunday the Primitives who were hoping for a strong sermonagainst the Scarlet Woman, were disagreeably surprised. “Mr. Lascellesmay be wrong. I think he is wrong, sadly wrong, in many things; but hedu love the Lord, and he du worship Him. And, brethren, no man callsJesus Lord save by the Holy Ghost. Let us pray for Mr. Lascelles and thechurch people of S. Uny; and that we may all be led along the narrow wayto everlasting life.”

Had Trengrowse been a man of less character he might have failed in hisdefence of Lascelles. But he was an acceptable preacher, and a man whoseplain love of his religion it was impossible to doubt. So, first withgrumbling, later with a ready acquiescence, the villagers of S. Unyfollowed his lead.

The result was odd. Lascelles attracted the children more and more; andhis services attracted them. This worried Trengrowse not a little; butwhen one of his congregation said scornfully, “Those bit games to thechurch be only fit for babes,” he looked gravely at him and replied,“Ah! Eli, but the book says ‘Unless ye become as little children.’” Thissilenced Eli, but it did not silence Trengrowse’s own heart. How was itLascelles could do anything with children, a good deal with boys up tofifteen or so, and nothing with men and women, and little with girls?Lascelles’ own explanation was simple. His Bishop would not confirm hischildren until they were thirteen. Lascelles presented them year afteryear when they were six or seven. He preached an amazing sermon on thethree great aids to the Devil in the parish of S. Uny—and the threeheads of his sermon were: Lust, Hypocrisy and the Lord Bishop. The morerespectable of the neighbouring clergy were furious, but the Bishop, whowas a simple, humble-minded man (quite unlike to the ex-head-master whohad inducted Lascelles), refused to take any notice of the attack; butalso refused to relax his rule about the age of confirmation candidates.The Archdeacon told Lascelles that his parish was the plague-spot of thediocese, and Lascelles retorted that in a mass of corruption any sign ofhealth looks ominous and unusual. But, although he kept up a brave frontto the disapprovers, his failure with his people galled him. He wouldnot have minded if they had still been actively hostile. But that hadlong ceased. They were now fond of their priest. They liked and sharedin his notoriety. They supported him against the officials; and when amalicious Protestant from London attempted to stir up a revolt againstLascelles, he was promptly put into the harbour; and Trengrowse starteda petition to the Bishop, expressing the affection “all we, whetherchurch people or Methodists, feel for Mr. Lascelles.”

Lascelles’ philosophy refused to permit him to see in his failureevidences of his incapacity for his work. He had the proud humility ofthe perfect priest. Regarding himself as a mere channel for divinegrace, he forgot that his personality was so distinctive that itaffected the way in which grace reached his people. Once an old friendhad tried to make him see this; but the task was hopeless.

“My dear fellow,” said Lascelles, “I don’t see what you mean. All theywant is the Gospel. And that I give them. I say Mass for them. I willhear their confessions. I instruct them. I lead their devotions. Allbeside is mere human embellishment. No doubt a more competent man wouldbe more pleasing to them, but he could not do more than give them theGospel, could he?”

On All Souls’ Day, 1912, Lascelles was depressed. Early that morning hehad gone up to the cemetery, and said a Requiem in the little chapel.Then there had been the early Mass at 8.30 in church. The church hadbeen full. Not only were all his children there, but there were a goodmany fathers and mothers: for the services on the day of the deadappealed to a deep human instinct with a power which not even Lascellescould spoil. The Dies Iræ, sung in Latin, had sounded oddly from acongregation so predominantly childish: and Lascelles had preached ashort sermon on the “Significance of Death.”

“We exaggerate the importance of death. It is to us death matters, notto the dead. For them it is a release, for us it is a warning. Death ofthe body is only a symbol. It is death of the soul we must fear. Believeme, it would be worth while for every one of you in this church to die,if by dying, you could bring a soul to Jesus. God knows, I would die foryou, if that would bring you. There are those here to-day—you,Penberthy, and you, Trevose—who have not been to Mass since you wereboys. Make a new resolution to-day, and ask the Holy Souls to help youkeep it. Come to your duties, and return to your church.”

Lascelles felt at the time that his appeal lacked force. He knew thatafter Mass, Penberthy would say to Trevose:

“Bootivul service, bean’t it, Tom?”

“Iss—it be that. I du like it for once or twice. But for usual give methe chapel. It be more nat’ral like.”

“Iss—it be. Poor Mr. Lascelles, I did think he would have a slap at us.”

“Iss—it be his way. My gosh! I don’t mind.”

So Lascelles was depressed. He sat among his books, reading a Renascencetreatise on “Death.” He thought a great deal about death. Sometimes hefeared it horribly. It seemed the great enemy of faith. It was sodisconcerting a thing, so heartless, so unregarding. At other times hefelt defiant. But never did he reach the spirit of S. Francis aboutdeath. He was too remote from natural life and the events of animalbirth and death to understand death as an ordinary thing, something notless usual than the sunset.

“It may be”—he read, “that there be more deaths than one. For it isevident that some are so hardened in sin that the death of the bodycomes long after the man has been really dead. Such men are commonly gayand cheerful: for with the death of their soul, has died all godly fear,all apprehension of judgment, all hope of salvation. They become but asbrutes. Wherefore the church has always held that heretics, if they beobstinate and beyond recall, may be handed over to the secular arm forthe death of the body. It should not trouble us that they displayordinary human virtues: for these be common in the unregenerate, and arebut devices of the devil who would persuade men that religion mattersnaught. They are his children, and may be lawfully treated as such byany godly prince. The church herself kills not: though the Lord Pope,being a Temporal King, has the power of the sword, and may exercise thesame.”

Lascelles put the book down and stared at the fire. The words roused atrain of thought that almost frightened him. But he was not the man todismiss any idea because it was terrifying. He believed in giving thedevil his due, and always insisted that all temptations should be metboldly, not evaded. He left his chair, and knelt at his prie-dieu,looking at the wounds of the great Crucifix which hung above it.

Half an hour later he rose with a look of resolution on his face.

2

The first case of the plague, as the villagers insisted on calling it,happened just before Epiphany. It attacked Penberthy, who had never beenill before; and in four days he was dead. His disease puzzled the doctorfrom the market-town, but he put it down as a curious case of infantileparalysis. His colleague from Truro, whom he consulted after the thirdcase had occurred, insisted that the symptoms did not disclose anythingmore definite than shock following on status lymphaticus. The mostserious thing was, however, not their incapacity to name, but theirinability to cure the mysterious disease, which was spreading in S. Uny.Except for a general weariness, a disinclination to move, and a curious“wambling in the innards,” there were no definite symptoms at all to goon. After the second case they had an inquest, but it yielded no resultsat all, and Dr. Marlowe began to talk of getting an expert from London.

It was not until February, however, that anyone came. Then by afortunate chance Sir Joshua Tomlinson came down to S. Ives for aholiday. The “plague” at S. Uny had got into the London paper. There hadbeen ten deaths, and two women, the first to be attacked, were lyingseriously ill. Dr. Marlowe called on Sir Joshua, and the great physiciansaid he would come over and see the patients. Marlowe was glad thatchance had sent him a great general physician rather than a surgeon or aspecialist. Although he was willing to defy any specialist to find hispet disease in the mysterious sickness that had killed the tenfishermen, he was relieved that no specialist was to be given theopportunity.

“You see, Lascelles,” he said to the priest, “it’s not as if we were inthe fifteenth century. We may be in theology, but I’m hanged if we arein medicine. These men are dying like savages: but the savage makes uphis mind he has got to die, and dies through sheer hysteria. Thesefellows want to live. They lust for life.”

“You are right, Marlowe. Their desire for life is a lust. It is scarcelydecent in a Christian to cling so to this existence. But there—it’s notmy business to judge. You know, Marlowe, I have sometimes thought thislast month that this mysterious disease is a judgment on S. Uny. It isGod’s hand held out over our village. Let us pray for those who aredead, and those who are dying, and most of all, dear God, for those whoare not yet to die.”

Marlowe, though friendly with Lascelles, was more than a little afraidof him. The vicar had worked like two men during this distress. He hadnursed the sick, he had consoled the mourners, he had said Masses andhad a service of general humiliation. Somehow he had identified himselfwith his parish to a degree he had never reached before, and S. Uny wasgrateful to him. But the little doctor was rather afraid. Lascelles wasstrained and odd in manner. He spent too long a time in prayer, and notlong enough at meals or in bed.

“No, Lascelles. I don’t agree with you there. Oh! I’m a good Catholic, Ihope, and I know God could intervene; but I don’t see why He should.”

“No: you don’t see why. No one does, Marlowe, until He speaks, and thenthey are forced to.”

On the Saturday Sir Joshua came over, he saw Mrs. Pentreath and Mrs.Wichelo, and he shook his head over both of them. He asked themquestions about their diet, and about their way of living, while Marlowestood by, silent and impatient. Then, he said a few kindly, cheerfulwords, and left them in the big room, which the vicar had had fitted upas a hospital ward; for Marlowe thought the cases were better isolated.

“Well, sir, what do you think?”

“What sort of a man is your vicar? He seems liked.”

“Yes—he is. He’s an odd chap—a bit mad, I think. A very keen Catholic,and very depressed at his failure to keep the people.”

“Ah! they don’t go to church.”

“Well they do now. They have done since this damned illness. He’s beenawfully good to them. And the children have always gone.”

“It’s a funny thing, Dr. Marlowe, that no child has been ill.”

“Isn’t it? That’s what I say to young Jones of Truro. He will insist onhis shock theory, following on status lymphaticus. I keep on pointingout to him that most of the patients are men who have had shocks everyweek of their lives since they were twelve. They’d have all been deadlong since.”

“Yes. I am sure Jones is wrong. But I don’t know what this disease is,Dr. Marlowe. I suspect, but I don’t know.”

“Here is the vicar coming, Sir Joshua. Shall I introduce you?”

“Please do.”

Lascelles was walking rapidly towards them. He looked ill but eager. Hiseyes were full of a fanatic pleasure, a kind of holy rapture thatappeared to make him even taller than he actually was. He acknowledgedthe introduction with a bow, and would have passed on, but Sir Joshuastopped him with a question.

“You have come from your sick people, Mr. Lascelles?”

“Yes. They are no longer sick. I was just in time to hear theirconfessions and give them the viaticum.”

“Good God!” Sir Joshua was evidently shocked. “It’s not ten minutessince we left them.”

“No? The end has always been very sudden, hasn’t it, Marlowe?”

“Yes. But this is quicker than usual. Do you think, Sir Joshua”—and helowered his voice—“a post-mortem?”

“No. It would be useless. At least it would be no help to me. By theway, Marlowe, how have you entered the cause of death?”

“Well, sir—I’ve frankly put ‘Heart failure, cause unknown.’ There seemedto be nothing between that and ‘Act of God.’”

“Ah! Marlowe, that’s what you should have put,” intervened Lascelles.“It is the hand of God—the hand of God.” Then, with a bow to Sir Joshua,he hurried away.

“So your vicar thinks it is the hand of God! He may be right. God worksthrough human agents. He is an interesting man, Dr. Marlowe.”

“Yes: he is. But this trouble has worried him frightfully. I’m rathernervous for him. Have you got any theory, sir? You talked of suspicion.”

“Well, Dr. Marlowe, I’ll tell you what I think. Your patients have beenmurdered.”

Marlowe looked at the great physician, as if he was afraid for hissanity.

“No, Dr. Marlowe, I’m not mad, though I have no proof of my assertion.All I ask is this, that I may be allowed to see the next patient withinat least half an hour of the beginning of the illness. By the way, canthey give me a bed here, do you think? Where do you put up?”

“Oh! I’m staying at the vicar’s. I expect he’d be charmed to have you.”

“No. I don’t think I will stay with Father Lascelles. I would rathernot. I’ll find a room somewhere. I think there will be another caseto-morrow night.”

3

That Sunday morning Lascelles preached on the “Hand of Judgment.” Thechurch was packed. Trengrowse had his service at nine and brought allhis congregation to the Mass at eleven. Lascelles seemed wonderfullybetter. His eye was clearer, his step gayer and his whole figure morebuoyant. His tone as he gave out his text was exultant.

“They pierced his hands.

“The symbolism of the Divine Body is strangely arresting. The Jewsthought of God as an eye watching, caring for them from heaven. WeChristians watch God—here in the Tabernacle, or in the arms of Mary. Hiscare for us we typify by his Hand—the Hand we pierced. This last monthGod has been with us very wonderfully. He is always with us in the HolySacrament: but lately he has been with us in the Sacrament of Death. HisHand of Judgment has been over, and under us; it has clasped us—and someof us it has not let go.

“Our natural feeling is one of fear. We are not used to such immediatehandling as this of our God’s. We have most of us tried to applyreligion to our life, now we have to try and apply our life to religion.God will have us think of nothing but Him, speak to none save Him, hopefor none save Him. His Hand is still with us. It will bear yet more awayfrom S. Uny before we learn our lesson. Let me help you to learn thatlesson right. Let us all take care that we renew our trust in God, thatwe recognise His Hand, that we answer His Love.”

Sir Joshua had listened attentively to Lascelles’ sermon. He seemedvaguely disappointed, and he was unwilling to discuss it with Marloweafterwards. There was no doubt that Lascelles’ almost fatalist attitude,while it annoyed the doctor, had a strange welcome from the villagers.They turned in a child-like way to the words of this man who spoke asone who knew the ways and the meaning of the Almighty. Never hadLascelles so much real devotion from his people as he secured during the“plague.” It was not that they shared his feeling of completeabandonment to the Will of God; but the fact that he had such a feelingmade their fate seem more tolerable.

On Sunday evening there was a new case, as Sir Joshua had expected. Thedisease attacked Mrs. Bodilly, the wife of the chief grocer in S. Uny.Marlowe was summoned immediately, but he found Sir Joshua already at thepoor woman’s bedside.

She was frankly terrified; in this her case differed from previous ones,in which the sufferers, though generally resentful, had been not theleast afraid. Mrs. Bodilly had been at Mass that morning. She had gotback and prepared the dinner. At tea-time she had “felt queer,” butafter tea she was better. Then, as she was getting ready to go to thespecial service of Exposition, she fell down and had to be carried up toher room by her husband and sons.

She was, unlike most of the tradesmen’s wives, a nominal church woman,but she had never been confirmed and rarely went to church. The fit ofexternal piety roused in her by the “plague” was frankly based onnervous alarm. She felt that God was taking it out of S. Uny in thisway; and she was anxious to escape.

Her illness found her divided between anger and fear. She was angry thather efforts to placate Divine wrath had not been more successful—she wasterrified of dying, terrified still more of death as a punishment. Inthe most desolate way she sought reassurances from Marlowe and SirJoshua; but neither could give her any certain consolation. The diseasepresented no different aspects. It indeed presented no aspect at all,except extreme weakness, astonishing slowness of the pulse, andirregular beating of the heart. Although Sir Joshua was there withinfive minutes of the seizure, he admitted to Marlowe that he coulddiscover nothing of what he suspected.

“I’ll be frank, Dr. Marlowe, I suspected poison. I still suspect it. Ibelieve all these people have been poisoned in an extremely subtle wayby a man so fanatical as to be almost mad. But I can find no trace ofthe poison. In this case, I will, if you will permit me, conduct apost-mortem, but I expect I shall fail. If I do, I must take my ownline, if you wish me to help you.”

“Really, Sir Joshua, you talk more like a detective than a physician.”

“This is a detective’s business, Dr. Marlowe. I wish it were not.”

Before they left Lascelles arrived. He had been summoned by Mr. Bodilly,and he came prepared to give Mrs. Bodilly the last rites. As the boywith the light and the bell approached the stairs, Sir Joshua whisperedto Marlowe:

“Your vicar seems very certain of her death.”

Marlowe shrugged his shoulders. “We haven’t saved a case, you know.”

The post-mortem yielded no result. That evening Marlowe dined with SirJoshua at the village inn, and after dinner the great physician told himof his suspicions. Marlowe listened at first angrily, then with anincredulous horror.

“It can’t be. The man lives for his parish, I tell you. Why, he woulddie for it.”

“Yes: I believe he would. Had I found what I looked for, he certainlywould.”

“But, my dear sir, there isn’t a trace of any known drug. There’s notrace of anything.”

“No. I had expected to find—but never mind. I have a great deal ofexperience, Dr. Marlowe, and I am convinced that your vicar has beenmurdering his parishioners. And to-night I am coming to tell him so. Iwill walk home with you. You may be present or not, as you please.”

4

Lascelles looked up a little wearily when Sir Joshua had finishedspeaking.

“Is that all?”

Marlowe intervened.

“Look here, old man—I only came because—you’ll forgive me, Sir Joshua—Ididn’t want you to be alone under this monstrous, this fantasticaccusation of Sir Joshua’s. You’ve only got to contradict him, and we’llgo.”

Lascelles looked gratefully at his friend.

“Thank you, Marlowe. But Sir Joshua is right in telling me hissuspicions. You have finished, Sir Joshua?”

“Yes. I should like your explanation if you have one, or your admissionof my charge, and your promise that this—this—plague shall cease.”

“You use strange words, sir, for a man who has no evidence for what hesays.”

“Yes,” ejacul*ted Marlowe, “yes, by Jove, you do——”

“Please, Marlowe. You will not be content with having relieved yourmind, Sir Joshua. You wish me to answer you?”

“I do. I require it.”

“You know, sir, you great doctors have one failing. It is one priestshave, too. You cannot avoid talking to me as if I were your patient—amental, a nervous case. You can’t help believing that your firm tone,your almost—may I say it—discourteous manner will impress me. Well, itdoesn’t.”

Sir Joshua got red. Lascelles’ words too entirely diagnosed his method.He was annoyed that he should seem so transparent to a man whom heregarded as at least half-crazy.

“I beg your pardon. There is something in what you say. Men in allprofessions have their—ah! tricks.”

“Thank you.”

Lascelles got up and stood by the fireplace looking down on his visitor.In the last month he had changed. He seemed bigger and moremasculine—more as if he now had personal responsibilities; he lookedless of an official, more of a man. He spoke rather slowly.

“You have accused me of murder, Sir Joshua. You ask me to admit mycrime, and to promise to cease. Well, I expected your visit. I have longbeen familiar with your Treatise on Renascence Toxicology; it is ascomplete as any published book. And I am glad you and Marlowe cameto-night. I have my answer ready. I admit nothing, and I promisenothing.”

Sir Joshua looked with a puzzled air at the priest. For a moment hisaccusation seemed a monstrous thing to himself. Then his common sensesurged back.

“Father Lascelles, your answer does not satisfy me. I must take othersteps.”

“They will not lead anywhere, Sir Joshua. If you find no evidence, noother man can. You say my poor people were poisoned. Well, find thepoison. Ah—you know you cannot. It is foolish to threaten me. But I willtell you what I had determined to tell Marlowe to-night. First, I do notexpect there will be any more deaths from this plague for a long time.

“Secondly, I have a confession to make. Last All Hallows I wasdepressed. The work here has not gone as it should. I had the children,but not their parents. I thought much of Death and the Departed at thatseason of all the dead—and at last I prayed to God that if nothing elsewould move these people, He would send Death. Send Death mysterious andas a judgment. Death has come, and my people have learnt their lesson.All of those who died were reconciled to Holy Church before death. Ofthose who remain nearly all have adhered to the Church. This afternoonMr. Trengrowse came and asked to be prepared for Confirmation——”

“Trengrowse, the minister——” cried Marlowe.

“And this evening I had notice that all who are competent intend to maketheir Communion next Sunday. This parish has been won for God, SirJoshua, and at the cost of thirteen deaths. Isn’t it worth it?”

“Father Lascelles, I cannot regard you as sane. You are not onlypractically admitting your crime, you are disclosing your motives.”

“I beg your pardon, I admit nothing. I acknowledge I prayed to God tovisit this people, if necessary, by His secret Death. That is not acrime. Next Sunday I shall tell my people.”

“And have you prayed that the deaths shall cease?” asked Sir Joshuaironically.

“I was doing so when you entered,” replied Lascelles quietly.

“Good God, man, your hypocrisy sickens me. You prate of God’sintervention, and all the time you’ve been sending man after man todeath by some foul poison of your own.”

“Sir Joshua—do you believe God commonly works without humanintervention?”

“Bah! That is sophistry.”

“You condemn the machinery of justice, the compromise of war, our humanevasion of rope and guillotine?”

“Surely, Marlowe,” exclaimed Sir Joshua, “you can’t sit and listenquietly to this damnable nonsense?”

Marlowe had been sitting dazed, looking at Lascelles as if he werefascinated. He replied in a remote voice.

“I don’t know. I’m wondering”—he gave a nervous laugh—“wondering ifLascelles is a saint or a devil.”

Lascelles went on imperturbably.

“You don’t answer me. You can’t. Why should you think I, an anointedpriest, am less fit to be the doorkeeper of death than Lord JusticeOmmaney? At least I use no case-law. I am the slave of no precedent. Iknow my people. I know them individually. I love them as persons. And aspersons I judge them.”

The tall figure of the man seemed to glow. His face was lit with anunnatural beauty as he stood looking down on the other two, and daredthem to answer him.

Sir Joshua rose. He had lost his somewhat pompous judicial air. He wasdeeply, humanly moved; and he spoke with an anxiety far more impressivethan his previous authoritative tone.

“Father Lascelles, I have nothing more to say. I believe you have done avery horrible, a very wicked thing. I have heard how you would defendyourself if you were legally brought to book for such an offence. Yourdefence has, as you are aware, no legal force. I think it has no moralforce. You are deceiving yourself strangely. One day you will have agreat loneliness of heart. You will realise how terrible aresponsibility you have taken. Without the sanction of society, withoutthe approval of your church, you have decided, alone, the fate of yourfellow-creatures. I am sorry for you. Good-night.”

The light left Lascelles’ face. He looked suddenly ill and careworn.Then with a high, frantic gesture he flung his hand towards theCrucifix.

“He, too—He, too—was made sin.”

DAVY JONES’S GIFT

By JOHN MASEFIELD

From A Tarpaulin Muster, by John Masefield, by permission ofDodd, Mead and Company.

“Once upon a time,” said the sailor, “the Devil and Davy Jones came toCardiff, to the place called Tiger Bay. They put up at Tony Adam’s, notfar from Pier Head, at the corner of Sunday Lane. And all the time theystayed there, they used to be going to the rum-shop, where they sat at atable, smoking their cigars, and dicing each other for differentpersons’ souls. Now you must know that the Devil gets landsmen, and DavyJones gets sailor-folk; and they get tired of having always the same, sothen they dice each other for some of another sort.

“One time they were in a place in Mary Street, having some burnt brandy,and playing red and black for the people passing. And while they werelooking out on the street and turning the cards, they saw all the peopleon the sidewalk breaking their necks to get into the gutter. And theysaw all the shop-people running out and kowtowing, and all the cartspulling up, and all the police saluting. ‘Here comes a big nob,’ saidDavy Jones. ‘Yes,’ said the Devil; ‘it’s the Bishop that’s stopping withthe Mayor.’ ‘Red or black?’ said Davy Jones, picking up a card. ‘I don’tplay for bishops,’ said the Devil. ‘I respect the cloth,’ he said. ‘Comeon, man,’ said Davy Jones. ‘I’d give an admiral to have a bishop. Comeon, now; make your game. Red or black?’ ‘Well, I say red,’ said theDevil. ‘It’s the ace of clubs,’ said Davy Jones; ‘I win; and it’s thefirst bishop ever I had in my life.’ The Devil was mighty angry atthat—at losing a bishop. ‘I’ll not play any more,’ he said; ‘I’m offhome. Some people gets too good cards for me. There was some queershuffling when that pack was cut, that’s my belief.’

“‘Ah, stay and be friends, man,’ said Davy Jones. ‘Look at what’s comingdown the street. I’ll give you that for nothing.’

“Now, coming down the street there was a reefer—one of those apprenticefellows. And he was brass-bound fit to play music. He stood about sixfeet, and there were bright brass buttons down his jacket, and on hiscollar, and on his sleeves. His cap had a big gold badge, with ahouse-flag in seven different colours in the middle of it, and a goldchain cable of a chinstay twisted round it. He was wearing his cap onthree hairs, and he was walking on both the sidewalks and all the road.His trousers were cut like wind-sails round his ankles. He had a fathom*of red silk tie rolling out over his chest. He’d a cigarette in atwisted clay holder a foot and a half long. He was chewing tobacco overhis shoulders as he walked. He’d a bottle of rum-hot in one hand, a bagof jam tarts in the other, and his pockets were full of love-lettersfrom every port between Rio and Callao, round by the East.

“‘You mean to say you’ll give me that?’ said the Devil. ‘I will,’ saidDavy Jones, ‘and a beauty he is. I never see a finer.’ ‘He is, indeed, abeauty,’ said the Devil. ‘I take back what I said about the cards. I’msorry I spoke crusty. What’s the matter with some burnt brandy?’ ‘Burntbrandy be it,’ said Davy Jones. So then they rang the bell, and ordereda new jug and clean glasses.

“Now the Devil was so proud of what Davy Jones had given him, hecouldn’t keep away from him. He used to hang about the East Bute Docks,under the red-brick clock-tower, looking at the barque the young manworked aboard. Bill Harker his name was. He was in the West Coastbarque, the Coronel, loading fuel for Hilo. So at last, when theCoronel was sailing, the Devil shipped himself aboard her, as one ofthe crowd in the fo’c’sle, and away they went down the Channel. At firsthe was very happy, for Bill Harker was in the same watch, and the twowould yarn together. And though he was wise when he shipped, Bill Harkertaught him a lot. There was a lot of things Bill Harker knew about. Butwhen they were off the River Plate, they got caught in a pampero, and itblew very hard, and a big green sea began to run. The Coronel was awet ship, and for three days you could stand upon her poop, and lookforward and see nothing but a smother of foam from the break of the poopto the jib-boom. The crew had to roost on the poop. The fo’c’sle wasflooded out. So while they were like this the flying jib worked loose.‘The jib will be gone in a half a tick,’ said the mate. ‘Out there, oneof you, and make it fast, before it blows away.’ But the boom wasdipping under every minute, and the waist was four feet deep, and greenwater came aboard all along her length. So none of the crowd would goforward. Then Bill Harker shambled out, and away he went forward, withthe green seas smashing over him, and he lay out along the jib-boom andmade the sail fast, and jolly nearly drowned he was. ‘That’s a bravelad, that Bill Harker,’ said the Devil. ‘Ah, come off,’ said thesailors. ‘Them reefers, they haven’t got souls to be saved.’ It was thatthat set the Devil thinking.

“By and by they came up with the Horn; and if it had blown off thePlate, it now blew off the roof. Talk about wind and weather. They gotthem both for shore aboard the Coronel. And it blew all the sails offher, and she rolled all her masts out, and the seas made a breach of herbulwarks, and the ice knocked a hole in her bows. So watch and watchthey pumped the old Coronel, and the leak gained steadily, and theywere hove to under a weather cloth, five and a half degrees to the southof anything. And while they were like this, just about giving up hope,the old man sent the watch below, and told them they could startprayers. So the Devil crept on to the top of the half-deck, to lookthrough the scuttle, to see what the reefers were doing, and what kindof prayers Bill Harker was putting up. And he saw them all sitting roundthe table, under the lamp, with Bill Harker at the head. And each ofthem had a hand of cards, and a length of knotted rope-yarn, and theywere playing able-whackets. Each man in turn put down a card, and sworea new blasphemy, and if his swear didn’t come as he played the card,then all the others hit him with their teasers. But they never once hada chance to hit Bill Harker. ‘I think they were right about his soul,’said the Devil. And he sighed, like he was sad.

“Shortly after the Coronel went down, and all hands drowned in her,saving only Bill Harker and the Devil. They came up out of thesmothering green seas, and saw the stars blinking in the sky, and heardthe wind howling like a pack of dogs. They managed to get aboard theCoronel’s hen-house, which had come adrift, and floated. The fowlswere all drowned inside, so they lived on drowned hens. As for drink,they had to do without for there was none. When they got thirsty theysplashed their faces with salt water; but they were so cold they didn’tfeel thirst very bad. They drifted three days and three nights, tilltheir skins were all cracked and salt-caked. And all the Devil thoughtof was whether Bill Harker had a soul. And Bill kept telling the Devilwhat a thundering big feed they would have as soon as they fetched toport, and how good a rum-hot would be, with a lump of sugar and a bit oflemon peel.

“And at last the old hen-house came bump on to Terra del Fuego, andthere were some natives cooking rabbits. So the Devil and Bill made araid of the whole jing bang, and ate till they were tired. Then they hada drink out of a brook, and a warm by the fire, and a pleasant sleep.‘Now,’ said the Devil, ‘I will see if he’s got a soul. I’ll see if hegive thanks.’ So after an hour or two Bill took a turn up and down andcame to the Devil. ‘It’s mighty dull on this forgotten continent,’ hesaid. ‘Have you got a ha’penny?’ ‘No,’ said the Devil. ‘What in joy d’yewant with a ha’penny?’ ‘I might have played you pitch and toss,’ saidBill. ‘I give you up,’ said the Devil; ‘you’ve no more soul than theinner part of an empty barrel.’ And with that the Devil vanished in aflame of sulphur.

“Bill stretched himself, and put another shrub on the fire. He picked upa few round shells, and began a game of knucklebones.”

THE CALL OF THE HAND

(A Story of the Balkans)

By LOUIS GOLDING

1

No one knew what sin Nikolai Kupreloff had committed to bring on hishead so terrible a penalty. Year after year his wife and he had prayedfor a child, to their ikons in the tiny basilica in the wood, and whenhis wife gave birth at last, it was neither a child nor children. Shehad given birth to two little boys, perfectly made, exquisitelyproportioned, but there was a deadly thing had befallen them ... thetiny right hand of the one was inexorably seized by the left hand of theother.

The little woodcutter’s cottage of Nikolai lay deeply hidden in thegreat pine woods of Lower Serbia, miles from his nearest neighbour. Yeteven in that wild country the fame of the intertwined children travelledfar, and the wise old women from those parts came to see if herbs orchanting or any of their dark gifts might be of the least avail. Theywere no more useful than a real doctor who had studied at Belgrade, waspractising at Monastir, and was stimulated to great interest by theaccount of these strange children. The case defied all the arts of blackor white magic, and the interest of the episode flickered and died down.

So it was that Nikolai reconciled himself to the inevitable, and as theboys grew older he would cross himself devoutly and say: “Thank God, itmight have been a thousand times worse!” They were lads of extraordinarybeauty. Peter and Ivan he called them, Ivan being the lad who held soirrevocably the wrist of his brother within his fingers. In appearancethey were identical—the light, tough hair and the laughing blue eyes ofthe Serbian Slav, sturdy, well-knit limbs, and a sterling robustness ofphysique. It was only their parents and themselves who knew that betweenthem there was one slight but unmistakable mark of distinction—below theknuckle of Ivan’s thumb was marked dully a little red arrow. In fact, astranger might not have known that this abnormal bond existed betweenthe two brothers as he saw them swinging along under the pines. “What aloving little pair!” he would exclaim, as he heard them laugh andchatter in complete harmony, and look into each other’s eyes with theunderstanding born of flawless love.

When they were about fifteen years old their mother died, and the fatherNikolai began more and more to remain behind in his cottage attending tothe frugal needs of the little family, while Peter and Ivan, as theyears went on, grew even more skilful in the art of woodcutting; forPeter wielding the axe in his left hand, Ivan in his right, achievedsuch a fine reciprocity of movement, that Nikolai would laugh in hisgreat yellow beard and mutter: “Truly the ways of God are inscrutable,for even out of their calamity has He made a great blessing!” Thepassing of time only knit closer their perfect intimacy, so that theyalmost did not notice when their father Nikolai sickened and died. Nowthey were left to their cottage and their woodcutting and their completelove, the whole being crowned by the splendid physique of youngforesters at twenty-one; so that life, it seemed, had nothing in storefor them but long years of undivided love and content.

Yet even into their seclusion rumours came of the great world beyond.Now and again they would catch glimpses of the marvels of Salonika inthe eyes of travelled men. They would hear of a city where lovely women,infinitely more beautiful than the queen of the tousled gypsies whoflickered from time to time along the forest paths, sang upon stages ofgolden wood, in gardens full of hanging lights. They would hear of thesea and glowing ships, and men who spoke low musical languages utteredin countries beyond the sea.

So it was the brothers determined to leave their woodcutting behind themfor a season and adventure forth into the world of ships and songs andlovely women.

2

To Peter and Ivan Salonika was a revelation of wonders they barelythought actual. From a little room in the street of Johann Tschimiskithey saw the multicoloured tides of cosmopolitan humanity sweeping downfrom Egnatia Street, down Venizelos Street to the Place de la Concorde.They would walk along the quay-side past the great hotels to the Jardinsde la Tour Blanche, and were sent into an ecstasy of delight by thechic little women who smiled archly at these two fair-headed lads fromthe up-country, who walked along hand clasped in wrist in so naïve andrustic a manner. Yet when they entered the Théatre des Variétés at theWhite Tower it seemed to them that the very portals of heaven had openedwide. They would return in a daze of delight to their room and recountwith an almost religious fervour the beauties and enchantments of theshow. Each little Spanish or French girl who came to do her song orminuet had seemed to them more enchanting than the last. Never a cloudof disagreement came between them. There was a perfect coincidence intheir tastes, and never, they felt, had their love for each other beenso sympathetic and complete as it was now.

The brothers had no large sum of money at their disposal. The time oftheir holiday was drawing to a close. One evening they turned up at thetheatre for the last time, their nerves keyed up to a pitch of delightedimpatience, the more tense as the brothers knew that the next day wouldsee them on the arduous road back to their Serbian forest. Turn followedturn with alluring consequence. Then at one stage the music ceased forsome moments and there was an atmosphere of expectance in the air. Itwas then that a simple and delightful English girl came half-shyly fromthe wings. There was nothing flamboyant in her appearance or her manner.Yet at once she seemed to seize the house with the graceful and reticentwinsomeness of her song. So she sang her song through, a dainty littleballad of old-world gardens and fragrant flowers and love unto death.Peter felt the fingers of Ivan tighten round his wrist. He himself hadbeen so stirred to his depths by the gentle grace of the girl that itwas with a slight feeling of resentment he realised that Ivan had beenexperiencing once again an identical emotion. As he involuntarily movedaway his arm Ivan uttered a slight cry of impatience. He turned roundand looked into Peter’s eyes and found them aflame with a light deeperthan mere appreciation. Peter was aware of his brother’s glance andlooked at Ivan in return to find his face flushed almost as if he werehalf-drunk.

That night for the first time in their history there occurred a slightbickering between the two. No mention of the little English actresspassed between them, but each of them determined that some day, when hisbrother’s interest had died away, he should broach the subject and thepossibility of a rediscovery of the English actress at Salonika.

Next day they entrained for Monastir, and a few days later saw theminstalled once again in their father’s cottage in the wood.

3

In proportion as the fortunes of the Kupreloff brothers increased,something that had once existed between them receded further away. Theperfection of their old intimacy became a memory of the past. No longerdid the most minute physical or spiritual experience of the one becomeautomatically part of his brother’s consciousness. So that now for thefirst time their indissoluble partnership became more and more galling.

There was no doubt of it. Everything dated from that last night atSalonika, when the English girl appeared on the stage. They would stilloccasionally revive something of the old fervour as they discussed fromtime to time their impressions of the unforgettable holiday. Yet never aword passed between them concerning the unconscious girl who hadcaptured both their hearts. At night they would lie awake, each thinkingthat the other was asleep. Bitterly, definitely, they would confess totheir own deep hearts: “She is mine, she is mine; I am hers for ever.”And yet to each their love seemed hopeless beyond recall. There was thedouble sting that each of them loved the girl with an intensity reservedhitherto for his brother; but, if possible, more fatal was thedespairing conviction that no girl could ever love the one of twobrothers to whom the other would remain physically attached till deathcarried them both away. As the months passed by the friction betweenthem increased. They were now in a position to buy land and a littlelivestock. But if Peter insisted upon keeping pigs, in the fashion ofthe majority of Serbians, Ivan would insist upon cattle. If Peter feltthat he had done enough woodcutting for the day, Ivan felt that the daywas only just beginning.

One night in late autumn Peter lay tossing very heavily in his sleep.Ivan lay awake, thinking, thinking for ever of the girl, his whole heartfull of rancour against the brother who must for ever prevent theconsummation of his love. Heavily, wearily, Peter heaved on the bed.Outside the wind was howling. The dreariness of the wind seemed to enterPeter’s heart. “My little girl,” he murmured, “my little girl! Whenshall we meet, my little girl? Never, never, never!” Ivan’s foreheadcontracted with hate. He was filled suddenly with a tremendous loathingof his brother. “Never, never, never!” moaned Peter. Suddenly, obeying afrantic impulse, Ivan pulled with all his strength away from hisbrother’s wrist to which Fate had so viciously fastened him. With agreat scream of pain Peter half leapt from the bed.

“What’s this? What do you mean?” he shouted, his voice thick with painand sleep. “Nothing! Nothing! I couldn’t help it! I was dreaming!”replied Ivan savagely, and the brothers settled down again for thenight.

Night after night the same thing happened. Peter would murmur for everin his sleep, “My little girl, when shall we meet? Never, never, never!”Ivan would lie awake, hatred surging violently through his whole body,till his eyes would see nothing but flames in the darkness of theirlog-built room; and the sound of the branches in the forest would beginto mutter and moan: “Have done with it, Ivan, have done with it! She iswaiting for you, waiting, always waiting. Have done with it! Have donewith him—with him—with him!”

One desolate night towards mid-winter the room was full of the miserablesleep-cries of Peter. Outside thunder ripped among the clouds. A fingerof lightning came suddenly through the windows and pointed with agesture of flame towards the open breast of Peter. A sudden and terriblethought flooded into Ivan’s soul! Whatever there was of human kindnessand brother-love seemed in one sinister moment to be washed away frombefore the onset of the flood. All the branches upon all the treesshrieked across the night. “We shall be quiet, you shall have rest. Sheshall be yours. Have done with him, have done with him!”

A great calm settled down upon Ivan’s soul—the issue was decided, theissue which had been hovering for so long in his subconsciousness wasdecided at last. There was nothing left to do. The mere deed was themere snapping of a thread. With his eyes wide open, a terrible silencelaying upon his soul, he stared into the night, waiting, waiting for thedawn.

Dawn came at last. The brothers washed and took food. There was a longway to go, far off into the woods. There was almost a tenderness inIvan’s attitude towards Peter. What mattered now? The issue was decided;the gods had taken the thing out of his hands. With their axes swingingthey made their way into the woods, through a day sharp with frost. Atlast they arrived at the clearing where they were to continue theirtree-felling. A brazier stood waiting there, and before work startedthey lit a fire in preparation for the midday meal. Then they picked uptheir axes and set to. Lustily their strokes rang through the wood.Chime rang upon chime. It was strenuous work, the work of men withstrong muscles and keen eyes.

The morning went by steadily. There was no hate in Ivan’s soul—only adeadly patience. He knew the moment would come. He knew when the momentcame that he would act. For a few minutes they stopped and wiped theirforeheads. Peter opened his shirt wide and exposed his breast to Ivan.The quick vision presented itself of Peter heaving darkly in their bed,the sudden finger of lightning, the naked breast.

“Come!” said Ivan thickly, “let us begin!”

They both took up their positions against a tree. Peter with the axe inhis left hand struck against the tree. Ivan, quick as the lightningwhich last night had shown him his way, whirled his axe round, away fromthe tree, and the sharp edge went cracking through Peter’s ribs, deepbeyond the heart. A great fountain of blood spurted into the air. Along, feeble moan left Peter’s lips. Deeper than the axe had cut, hiseyes looked sorrowfully into the soul of Ivan. His weight tottered andIvan felt himself following to the ground. There was not a moment tolose. Again the axe whirled through the air. With the whole of a strongman’s strength the axe came down upon his own wrist, and down fell thebody of Peter with the hand of his brother indissoluble in death roundhis wrist, as it had been indissoluble in life.

The thing he had brought about was too monstrous for Ivan at that momentto understand. It was only the little things that his ear and eyeseized—the frightened screech of a bird in a tree, the sullen shining ofthe little red arrow in the thumb of his own severed hand.

Ivan felt the blood streaming from the stump of his forearm. He knewthat if he did not reassert complete mastery over himself he would bleedto death. All would be vain—the call of the far girl, the murder, thelast look in Peter’s eyes. He staggered over to the brazier and plungedhis forearm for one swift instant into the embers. Then darknessoverwhelmed him and he fell backward into unutterable night.

4

It was easy enough to explain. Not the least suspicion attached itselfto Ivan. People came from remote cabins and farms to sympathise with thebereaved brother. What was more likely in the world than that Ivan’s axeshould slide from a knot in the tree and come crashing against Peter,who, even if he could see the axe coming, could not by any human meanshave disengaged himself from his brother. “I always thought somethinglike this would happen,” people muttered wisely to each other, and shooktheir heads and crossed their breasts.

Of course they all understood how Ivan could no longer remain in thecottage consecrated by memories of his brother. So Ivan sold hisaccumulation of timber and his land and what little stock the brothershad bought, and it was not many weeks after his forearm was healed thatthe jangling train from Monastir was bearing him through the Macedonianhills upon his quest for the English girl at Salonika.

In Salonika she was nowhere to be found. Forlornly he went frommusic-hall to music-hall, but she was gone. He haunted even the caféschantants along Egnatia Street, even the degenerate brasseries on theMonastir Road, where the red-costumed women stood upon improvisedplatforms and sang to tipsy crowds with the accompaniment of feebleviolins. But there was no trace of her in the whole city. From thedirector at the White Tower he learned that perhaps she had proceeded toConstantinople, perhaps she had returned to Athens, whence the Europeanartistes generally came to Salonika on their round of the greaterLevantine towns.

With all the fervour and idealism of a mediæval knight Ivan stepped uponthe deck of a Messageries Maritimes boat returning to Marseilles by wayof the Piræus. When the electric train from the harbour landed him atthe station in Athens a mystic conviction filled him that here in thiscity, some day, the English girl would be revealed to him. Ambitiouslyhe first tried the great Opéra, but she was not there. The weekslengthened into months and failure followed failure, but the mysteriousforeknowledge of his race held up his weary spirits and bade him putaside despair.

When at last she appeared upon the stage of one of the lessermusic-halls, it was with no great start of surprise or welcome that herecognised her arrival. It was as if a mother or a sister had slippedback into the place from which for some reason she had been absent. Herfeatures had become engraved upon every curve of his brain. She cameupon the stage and filled his life again as naturally as day fills theplace of night. Life became for him a thing of meaning and splendour. Herealised that at last Life was to begin.

He knew little of the half-measures and half-advances of Westerncivilisation. He lost no time in appearing before the girl. After only afew words of difficult apology, with a voice of low and subdued passionhe told her a fragment or two of his tale. It was a broken French thathe talked—the French of which his mother long ago had taught her boysthe few phrases she knew, and which his experiences in Salonika andAthens during the last few months had greatly improved.

The large grey eyes of the English girl opened wide in wonder as shelistened, fascinated, to the stammering avowals of this tall strangerfrom a shadowy land. Half in fright she drew back against the wall ofher wretched little dressing-room, but, even so soon she realised thatthe destiny was overwhelming her which was to bring an end to herwanderings. She consented shyly to his suggestion that she should seehim for a little while next night, and it was with a thrill of delightand fear she saw his great figure waiting for her at the gate of theMuseum, as the purple Athenian dusk came wandering down from theAcropolis and cast velvet glooms among the pillars of Pentelican marble.

For years since her mother had died and her father had become aconfirmed drunkard, it was a very lonely life that Mary Weston had led.She had no great talent, and she had drifted from theatre to theatreupon the Continent, for to her England was a place of no kindlymemories. Ivan Kupreloff began to mean for her what her mother had meantbefore she died and her father before he had taken to drink.

A few months had passed only. There was no escape from Ivan. There wasnothing importunate about him, but he was irresistible. He was Life.Proudly he realised that he had conquered her. To world’s end and Time’send she was his own.

They were married at length. Athens and all the cities she had known,the Serbian wood and the murdered brother—these passed utterly fromtheir souls in the strong kiss which united them for all days.

5

Yet not for ever was the memory of his dead life to vanish from theheart of Ivan. Even during the times of his most passionate love forMary there began to invade him moments of bitter memory and regret.There was something which prevented the entire fusion with Mary towardswhich he yearned and ached. It was something deep in his soul. It wassomething which gnawed at his forearm, bit with teeth of contrition atthe place where the axe had fallen and severed the hand from the wrist.

He tried to put all this futility from him. He would seize Mary moreclosely, look desperately into her eyes, and in the perfume of her lipsand hair seek anodyne. Between them there was a sufficient store ofmoney, small though it was, to allow them a few months of liberty,undisturbed by any thought of the future. They wandered lazily aboutGreece for a little time, finding in the Greek day and the immemorialhills a perfect setting for their love.

And yet ever more insistently came to him the call of the hand—the handwhich had been his own and not his own, the hand which had united in sounique an embrace his brother with himself.

Again at night voices tormented him. Again, when winds were about, theycalled with living words: “The hand! The hand! It is calling you,calling! Answer! He wants you! Peter!” wailed the wind. “Peter! Peter!”

Lines began to draw across his forehead. With anxiety Mary saw shadowsgrowing under his eyes, and in his eyes a hunger which grew more andmore forlorn. “What is it, love?” she would murmur. “You’ve not sleptwell!”

“Nothing at all, love, nothing! All’s well!” he would reply, trying witha kiss to forget the wind and the hand and the call.

“There’s something you’re longing for. Tell me, Ivan. Let me help you.You must.”

“Nothing, Mary. I’ve got you. There’s nothing else in the world.” Butthe call of the hand did not abate. “Peter!” the winds wailed, “Peter!He wants you! Answer!”

The urgency of the call grew more imperious. He was sickening andgrowing weak. There was a hot torpidity in the dry Greek noon whichshrivelled his veins. He would drag his coat down from his neck and lifthis head and try to breathe the deep breath he had known in his Serbianwood. But there was no spaciousness, no great draughts of cool air inthe wind, only voices: “Peter! Peter! Peter!”

“We must go somewhere. We must go away,” said Mary. “We must go toAthens and see a doctor, Ivan. I’m afraid!”

“Not Athens! No!” he replied with a shudder, his temples contracting asbefore the hot blast from an oven. Those dry marble spaces! The dustypepper-trees! The sweating crowds in the shops, swallowing sweet cakeslike swine swallowing husks in a sty! Athens became a nightmare.

He was lying awake one night, the body of Mary curled beside him, herhair floating vaguely on the pillow in the half-light of the moon. Shestirred in her sleep, and her little white hand unconsciously sought hiswrist and fastened tightly round it. That moment bridged the buriedtime. Unescapably Mary had brought back to him the sensation of Peterlying in the grasp of his own hand. Never before was the call of thehand so imperious. Never so clearly did the wind exclaim, “Peter! Hewants you! Answer!”

An irresistible love for his murdered brother overwhelmed him. He raisedhimself from his bed and lifted helplessly his lopped arm into thewhispering room. “Coming, my brother, I am coming! Wait! Peter!” hemoaned, and the wind replied: “Peter! Peter!”

He lay back in bed. He realised that the strongest claim in the worldupon him was the call of the hand. As for Mary—she was nothing differentfrom himself. For her as for him the call of the hand camedictatorially. In each other they were one, but without the hand theirunity was uncompleted. The call of the hand must be obeyed. To-morrowthey must leave Greece behind. To-morrow to Serbia, to-morrow theresponse to the hand.

Mary was not surprised when Ivan without warning explained that alltheir plans were altered. She was used to his unaccountable whims, thesudden mystic impulses of his Slavonic soul.

They packed up the few things which were all the impediment theypossessed, and next day saw them well started on their way to Monastir,carefully skirting Athens. Arrived at Monastir, a few days elapsedbefore they appeared at the remote wood where Ivan was born. The cottagebuilt by Ivan Kupreloff was not yet occupied. The strange character ofits former inhabitants combined with the terrible nature of Peter’sdeath had succeeded in keeping it empty! They obtained permission fromits owner to occupy the cottage, and with a great sigh of content Ivanflung open the door where he and his brother had passed so frequently informer days.

In a little time Mary had made of the house such a palace of delight asit had not been since Ivan’s mother was dead. Happily, Ivan took inlarge draughts of the Serbian pineland air, filling his lungs. Happily,with Mary beside him on the bed where he and Peter had lain entwined,the dark drowsy nights melted into dawn. He made his reply to the callof the hand. Only faintly, if at all, the wind or the branches whispered“Peter! Peter!” Peter seemed to be happy at last. The severed handseemed at last to be tranquil round the wrist of the murdered brother.Then the winds died away, and there was no sound of “Peter!”; onlyfitfully a swaying of twigs and a rustle of pine-needles.

So it seemed. Till summer drooped her drowsing hair. Summer becamewrinkled and old. Summer went and the swift autumn came. The daysshortened into the rigours of winter, the days ever contracted towardsthe anniversary of that red day when the axe was lifted and Peter fell.Never a moment did it occur to Ivan that now when the fatal day wasapproaching he might leave behind him his Serbian wood. He knew that,more tightly than ever during his living days, the wrist of Peter laywithin his own hand, tight, unescapable. Mary and he lay under the thumbof that severed hand wherefrom the red arrow glowed when the night wasdark and the woodfire threw leaping shadows over the log-walls. Therewas no gainsaying the call of the hand till the end of days. Ivan knewthat never again would he leave behind his Serbian wood.

Came the night which was the anniversary of that dead, unburyable nightwhen Peter’s doom had been sealed. Again there was the rumbling ofthunder, there were evil flashes of lightning that ran among the clouds.Never with so firm an embrace had Mary been clasped within his arms.Nothing in the world was so strong as his love for Mary. They hadresponded to the call of the hand. There was no further claim upon them.Ivan kissed her sleeping eyes and was lulled in the music of herbreathing. A drowsiness came over him, and for a time he slid intosleep.

In his sleep something tightened round him, something growing so tightthat it forced through the barriers of his sleep. Vaguely, faintly ahalf-consciousness came back to him. He was not awake. He was notasleep. He was in a borderland where the other world is not dead andthis world is half-alive. Tighter grew the thing which pressed againsthis sleep. It was round his wrist, it was round the wrist wheresomething had once come crashing down. What was it? What was it had comecrashing down? An axe it was that had come crashing down. It was thehand of Mary growing tighter round his wrist. No, it could not be thehand of Mary. Mary had fallen from his arms. Mary was turned away fromhim. He could see her hands pale where she had lifted them in sleepabove her head. It was not the hand of Mary growing tighter round hiswrist. But it was a hand. No doubt of that. It was a hand. With a dullglow of flame a little red arrow gleamed like embers below the thumb ofthe hand. Where had he seen that arrow? Where and when? When his handhad fallen away from him, lopped at the wrist. It was the dead handwhich was not dead. It was his own hand. It was the hand with the redarrow which had held Peter so tightly. It was the dead hand which wasalive, the living hand which had arisen from the dead. Tighter round hiswrist grew the pressure of the severed hand. The hand was tired ofcalling. The hand had come. There was no gainsaying the hand. So tightgrew the clutch of the hand that his whole arm slowly lifted from hisside. Irresistibly the shoulder followed the rising arm. There was nogainsaying the hand. Neither awake nor asleep, neither living nor dead,he followed the hand, he rose from the bed where Mary lay, sleepingsundered from him, his no more. Mary was alive. He was neither livingnor dead. The door of the room was opened wide. Closed doors were nobarrier against the hand which had arisen from the grave. Slowly, withsteady feet, with wide, filmy eyes, Ivan passed through the door. Slowlythrough the outer door, slowly into the sound of thunder, into the gleamof lightning and the voices of winds moaning unceasingly, “Peter! Peter!He is calling you! Ivan! Peter is calling you! Follow!” and ever againunceasingly, “Peter! Peter!”

Tighter than the bonds of ice or granite hills, tight only as the bondof death, the arisen hand held the lopped wrist, drew the slow body ofIvan through the haunted night far into the wood, far through thetalking trees, far to the place of that tree which had not been cutdown, to the place where an axe had fallen through bones and flesh,where Peter had fallen, where Peter lay buried, not deep down; wherePeter lay buried under twigs and loose earth.

Tightly round the wrist of the man neither alive nor dead clutched theresurrected hand. Nearer and nearer to the shallow grave the hand pulleddown the body of Ivan. Methodically, steadily, working with no pause,the free hand of Ivan moved the twigs and the loose earth—methodically,with no pause, until at last the body of Peter lay revealed; notrecognisable, dissolute beneath the change through which all men shallpass, recognisable only to those filmy eyes of Ivan, to that questinghungry soul of Ivan which had come to claim its own. Closer and closerto the dead brother the severed hand drew the body of Ivan down; soclose, so close, until at last the hand clutched again and for ever thatwrist to which Fate had fastened it long years ago. Alongside of hisdead brother, quietly, with those eyes which neither saw nor did notsee, Ivan lay down full length. Gradually the severed hand, the handwhich had arisen from the dead to claim him, because the dead brothercalled and the severed hand called for its own, gradually the handslipped from the lopped wrist; the wrist and the arm became one. Thehand of Ivan had brought Ivan to his own. Indissolubly, Peter and Ivanlay joined together. But the death which lay cold in the heart and bodyof Peter passed from the clutched wrist, passed into the hand whichclutched it, passed along the arm which had been severed once, and alongIvan’s shoulder, until it made his eyes unseeing discs and of his heartcold stone which could beat no more.

As the grey light of dawn came emptily down the Serbian woods, the twobrothers lay immortally one again, like the two babies the gods hadgiven Nikolai Kupreloff upon a long-vanished night.

THE SENTIMENTAL MORTGAGE

By ARTHUR LYNCH

“I can account for the man,” said Carstairs, “but what I am curiousabout is the feelings of the girl. He blew out his brains in herpresence, and he did it immediately after she had told him to be gone.Dramatic of him. He did it for love of her—a warm passion. I supposethat that would be the deepest idea in her mind.”

“He was a man of his word, at any rate,” said Miss Landells, “for of allthe heroes who are eternally swearing they could die for a smile and allthe rest of it, hardly one would wet his boots unless he thought hecould gain something by it.... I dare say she had begun by despisinghim, and when he blew out his brains felt some respect for him. Probablyif he were alive again, though, she would act in the same way.”

“I think I could put a harder case,” said the Colonel, “one where a mansacrificed more——”

“Sacrificed more?”

“Yes; a man might easily blow out his brains in a burst of rage ordisappointment, but that proves little. Blantyre, the man of whom I wasthinking, did more, and the girl—Miss Trafford—had therefore to dealwith a more complex problem.”

With a warning that we might think the story gruesome, the Colonel toldit.

To understand the circ*mstances it is necessary to know something ofBlantyre’s character. When I knew him first he had the rank of Captain.I being second lieutenant and our relations not being very familiar, Ionly knew him from what might be called an outsider’s point of view. Ihardly think, however, that anyone knew him much better. That will giveyou a hint—he was a reserved man. Yet he had a fund of high-spirits;also a witty manner, which was at times playful and yet sometimesbitter.

He was an unusually handsome man. Above average height, slender butwell-made and active, he had regular features, dark complexion andblack, blue-black hair. It was said that he had a dash of the“tar-brush”—Indian, you know—and this fact, trivial as it may appear,had, I believe, a powerful influence on his life. I know as a fact, thathe became more reserved after a rather unpleasant occurrence, when anill-bred young spark, losing his temper in an argument, called him aDago.

Blantyre was always a serious sort of chap. He wrote for the UnitedService Review and the Engineering Magazine, and other technicaljournals, partly of course for the interest he took in that sort ofthing, but also because he was not well-off. That too was his reason fortaking as little part as possible in dances, picnics and the otherlittle flutters by which we amused ourselves. He seemed, in fact, rathera fish out of water, and I used to wonder why he remained in theService; but he was not only of an energetic and resolute habit of mind,but also intensely ambitious.

He had the misfortune to fall in love with the prettiest, the mostspoilt and, I believe, the most selfish, minx in England. The word“brilliancy” was always on her lips, and she thought of nothing butpleasure and excitement. She was then about twenty.

Imagine her reception of him when, carried off his feet, he proposed toher. She laughed in his face and, I am told, asked him if he were “anIndian Nabob”!

She probably only meant that the man who married her must be able togive her the sort of life to which she was accustomed; and had notrealized—she took it all so lightly and really cared for Blantyre solittle—what the phrase might mean to him. His poverty and his supposedorigin—no words could have cut more deeply.

That very night, he set the wheels in motion and shortly after wastransferred to the Indian battalion. For the next seven years he put inas much fighting on the frontiers as was humanly possible. He seemed theveriest glutton for danger, never spared himself, and yet people said hefought without enthusiasm or any warmth of blood. Oh, I grant you aqueer chap!

At first his men rather disliked him, but in time they became impressedby his courage and dash, and they soon grew to rely on his steady, hisinexorable justice. He was never a popular man, too stiff and tooreserved, but his men would have followed him to certain death. Theycalled him “The Sabre Prince.”

After seven years Blantyre was back amongst us, but by that time he hadrisen to be Colonel, and his reputation was unique. He was then aboutthirty-five, still, you see, a young man, and quite naturally Londonwent mad over him. He became the lion that particular season.

But India had left her marks on him. He had returned minus his rightarm, and the once blue-black hair was grey. However, he was still ashandsome as ever and had the air of a man who has seen and dealt withmatters of importance. In other words he was distingué. Also he wasstill in love with Miss Trafford.

Nor had time and experience and that unique reputation of his failed oftheir effect on her. As often happens to a woman of her type she hadfailed to bring off a match commensurate with her ambitions, and attwenty-seven was still unmarried.

The news of their engagement set everybody gossipping. His infatuationwas recalled, and it was said she had refused a great alliance in orderto wait for him. The story even got into the newspapers.

I was not a little pleased, I can tell you, to hear that they were to bemarried. She was still wonderfully pretty and, rumour said, less vainand spoilt. It might be that she would settle down and make him a goodwife. Anyway he wanted her, he had wanted her for a long time, and hewas going to get what he wanted. Blantyre himself wrote to tell me, andI think the next few weeks were the happiest of his life.

Judge then, of my surprise—sorrow, too—to learn one day, and again fromBlantyre himself that the marriage was off, that he had resigned hiscommission and got an engineering job abroad.

Of course I hurried to see him. He was much as usual, cool, collected,finely-tempered. In fact when I entered he looked up with a smile—and Ihad always thought his smile lighting up that austere face peculiarlywinning.

It appeared that it was he who had broken off their engagement, and thematter can be put in a nutshell—he had found her out. Mercenary motives,no real affection—also, while he himself had grown and developed, shehad remained the social butterfly.

He told me—what I had not known—the story of his rejection seven yearspreviously. He had believed he was not worthy of her, and he had gone toIndia to fight his way up to her standard. When he came back he hadbelieved her story, believed she had waited....

Then he had heard things. People talk, you know. I don’t know that hebelieved what he was told, but what wrung him to the very vitals wasthat he should have loved so deeply something that was—well, a poorthing, unworthy.

Miss Trafford was in no temper to be jilted. She even went the length ofputting the case into her lawyer’s hands for breach of promise.

“Before I leave England,” he said, “I mean as far as I can to satisfyjustice. The law, I suppose, could not get more from me than I possess,and everything I have, I mean to give her. It was she who sent me toIndia, and I will strip myself for her of everything I gained there.Will you take my medals?” and he offered me a little mahogany,gold-ornamented box. “Keep them as a memento. I do not want them. I—Ifeel I may have won them fighting against my own people.”

In his words was a something of grief and even shame. I felt I waslooking at a man who regretted what could not be helped, who wouldregret it for the remainder of his days.

“There is only now my property in Devonshire. That I have made over toMiss Trafford. The deeds are in this box. The property is a small onebut it has now no encumbrances. I have been able to clear offeverything; except—” he said musingly—“except something she may or maynot regard as a detriment—it is a sort of Sentimental Mortgage.”

“A skeleton in the cupboard?” said I, thinking of some ghost story, orcreepy legend, or the like.

“Precisely. You have hit it. A skeleton in the cupboard.”

“But, but,” said I, trying to bring him back to the business side of thematter, “this is not justice, justice to yourself.”

“When all is said and done,” he returned quietly, “you will recognisethat justice—inexorable justice. Money, position, even reputation arenothing to me now.... No, I am not going to kill myself. I have accepteda post in an enterprise which, if successful, will make a more enduringmark, bring me greater wealth, perhaps even fame, than those frontierexploits of mine.”

I was relieved to hear of his fresh interests.

“I am undertaking the survey of a line to open up the hinterlands ofArgentine. If that be successful, I shall hope to superintend the work.If I do not succeed—well, at any rate I shall have made a beginning, andmy successor may find encouragement in the spirit in which I have ledthe way. But I am dreaming ... I wish you to take this box containingthe deeds, and present it to her—if you will do me that last favour.”

I promised.

I brought the box to her and presented it with ceremony. She was alwayscharming. She begged me to wait while she opened it.

When I spoke of the “skeleton in the cupboard” I had little guessed howstartlingly true the words must have sounded. It was her fault thatBlantyre had gone to India, and with the gift lay the rebuke, for theskeleton grasped the deeds.

“The skeleton, Colonel?”

“Yes, the skeleton of his right hand.”

CAPTAIN SHARKEY

HOW THE GOVERNOR OF SAINT KITT’S CAME HOME

By A. CONAN DOYLE

When the great wars of the Spanish Succession had been brought to an endby the Treaty of Utrecht, the vast number of privateers which had beenfitted out by the contending parties found their occupation gone. Sometook to the more peaceful but less lucrative ways of ordinary commerce,others were absorbed into the fishing-fleets, and a few of the morereckless hoisted the Jolly Rodger at the mizzen and the bloody flag atthe main, declaring a private war upon their own account against thewhole human race.

With mixed crews, recruited from every nation, they scoured the seas,disappearing occasionally to careen in some lonely inlet, or putting infor a debauch at some outlying port, where they dazzled the inhabitantsby their lavishness and horrified them by their brutalities.

On the Coromandel Coast, at Madagascar, in the African waters, and aboveall in the West Indian and American seas, the pirates were a constantmenace. With an insolent luxury they would regulate their depredationsby the comfort of the seasons, harrying New England in the summer anddropping south again to the tropical islands in the winter.

They were the more to be dreaded because they had none of thatdiscipline and restraint which made their predecessors, the Buccaneers,both formidable and respectable. These Ishmaels of the sea rendered anaccount to no man, and treated their prisoners according to the drunkenwhim of the moment. Flashes of grotesque generosity alternated withlonger stretches of inconceivable ferocity, and the skipper who fellinto their hands might find himself dismissed with his cargo, afterserving as boon companion in some hideous debauch, or might sit at hiscabin table with his own nose and his lips served up with pepper andsalt in front of him. It took a stout seaman in those days to ply hiscalling in the Caribbean Gulf.

Such a man was Captain John Scarrow, of the ship Morning Star, and yethe breathed a long sigh of relief when he heard the splash of thefalling anchor and swung at his moorings within a hundred yards of theguns of the citadel of Basseterre. St. Kitt’s was his final port ofcall, and early next morning his bowsprit would be pointed for OldEngland. He had had enough of those robber-haunted seas. Ever since hehad left Maracaibo upon the Main, with his full lading of sugar and redpepper, he had winced at every topsail which glimmered over the violetedge of the tropical sea. He had coasted up the Windward Islands,touching here and there, and assailed continually by stories of villainyand outrage.

Captain Sharkey, of the 20-gun pirate barque Happy Delivery, hadpassed down the coast, and had littered it with gutted vessels and withmurdered men. Dreadful anecdotes were current of his grim pleasantriesand of his inflexible ferocity. From the Bahamas to the Main hiscoal-black barque, with the ambiguous name, had been freighted withdeath and many things which are worse than death. So nervous was CaptainScarrow, with his new full-rigged ship and her full and valuable lading,that he struck out to the west as far as Bird’s Island to be out of theusual track of commerce. And yet even in those solitary waters he hadbeen unable to shake off sinister traces of Captain Sharkey.

One morning they had raised a single skiff adrift upon the face of theocean. Its only occupant was a delirious seaman, who yelled hoarsely asthey hoisted him aboard, and showed a dried-up tongue like a black andwrinkled fungus at the back of his mouth. Water and nursing soontransformed him into the strongest and smartest sailor on the ship. Hewas from Marblehead, in New England, it seemed, and was the solesurvivor of a schooner which had been scuttled by the dreadful Sharkey.

For a week Hiram Evanson, for that was his name, had been adrift beneatha tropical sun. Sharkey had ordered the mangled remains of his latecaptain to be thrown into the boat, “as provisions for the voyage,” butthe seaman had at once committed them to the deep, lest the temptationshould be more than he could bear. He had lived upon his own huge frameuntil, at the last moment, the Morning Star had found him in thatmadness which is the precursor of such a death. It was no bad find forCaptain Scarrow, for, with a short-handed crew, such a seaman as thisbig New Englander was a prize worth having. He vowed that he was theonly man whom Captain Sharkey had ever placed under an obligation.

Now that they lay under the guns of Basseterre, all danger from thepirate was at an end, and yet the thought of him lay heavily upon theseaman’s mind as he watched the agent’s boat shooting out from thecustom-house quay.

“I’ll lay you a wager, Morgan,” said he to the first mate, “that theagent will speak of Sharkey in the first hundred words that pass hislips.”

“Well, captain, I’ll have you a silver dollar, and chance it,” said therough old Bristol man beside him.

The negro rowers shot the boat alongside, and the linen-clad steersmansprang up the ladder.

“Welcome, Captain Scarrow!” he cried. “Have you heard about Sharkey?”

The captain grinned at the mate.

“What devilry has he been up to now?” he asked.

“Devilry! You’ve not heard, then! Why, we’ve got him safe under lock andkey here at Basseterre. He was tried last Wednesday, and he is to behanged to-morrow morning.”

Captain and mate gave a shout of joy, which an instant later was takenup by the crew. Discipline was forgotten as they scrambled up throughthe break of the poop to hear the news. The New Englander was in thefront of them with a radiant face turned up to heaven, for he came ofthe Puritan stock.

“Sharkey to be hanged!” he cried. “You don’t know, Master Agent, if theylack a hangman, do you?”

“Stand back!” cried the mate, whose outraged sense of discipline waseven stronger than his interest at the news. “I’ll pay that dollar,Captain Scarrow, with the lightest heart that ever I paid a wager yet.How came the villain to be taken?”

“Why, as to that, he became more than his own comrades could abide, andthey took such a horror of him that they would not have him on the ship.So they marooned him upon the Little Mangles to the south of theMysteriosa Bank, and there he was found by a Portobello trader, whobrought him in. There was talk of sending him to Jamaica to be tried,but our good little governor, Sir Charles Ewan, would not hear of it.‘He’s my meat,’ said he, ‘and I claim the cooking of it.’ If you canstay till to-morrow morning at ten, you’ll see the point swinging.”

“I wish I could,” said the captain wistfully, “but I am sadly behindtime now. I should start with the evening tide.”

“That you can’t do,” said the agent with decision. “The Governor isgoing back with you.”

“The Governor!”

“Yes. He’s had a dispatch from Government to return without delay. Thefly-boat that brought it has gone on to Virginia. So Sir Charles hasbeen waiting for you, as I told him you were due before the rains.”

“Well, well!” cried the captain, in some perplexity, “I’m a plainseaman, and I don’t know much of governors and baronets and their ways.I don’t remember that I ever so much as spoke to one. But if it’s inKing George’s service, and he asks a cast in the Morning Star as faras London, I’ll do what I can for him. There’s my own cabin he can haveand welcome. As to the cooking, it’s lobscouse and salmagundy six daysin the week; but he can bring his own cook aboard with him if he thinksour galley too rough for his taste.”

“You need not trouble your mind, Captain Scarrow,” said the agent. “SirCharles is in weak health just now, only clear of a quartan ague, and itis likely he will keep his cabin most of the voyage. Dr. Larousse saidthat he would have sunk had the hanging of Sharkey not put fresh life inhim. He has a great spirit in him, though, you must not blame him if heis somewhat short in his speech.”

“He may say what he likes and do what he likes so long as he does notcome athwart my hawse when I am working the ship,” said the captain. “Heis Governor of St. Kitt’s, but I am Governor of the Morning Star. And,by his leave, I must weigh with the first tide, for I owe a duty to myemployer, just as he does to King George.”

“He can scarce be ready to-night, for he has many things to set in orderbefore he leaves.”

“The early morning tide, then.”

“Very good. I shall send his things aboard to-night, and he will followthem to-morrow early if I can prevail upon him to leave St. Kitt’swithout seeing Sharkey do the rogue’s hornpipe. His own orders wereinstant, so it may be that he will come at once. It is likely that Dr.Larousse may attend him upon the journey.”

Left to themselves, the captain and mate made the best preparationswhich they could for their illustrious passenger. The largest cabin wasturned out and adorned in his honour, and orders were given by whichbarrels of fruit and some cases of wine should be brought off to varythe plain food of an ocean-going trader. In the evening the Governor’sbaggage began to arrive—great ironbound ant-proof trunks, and officialtin packing-cases, with other strange-shaped packages, which suggestedthe co*cked hat or sword within. And then there came a note, with aheraldic device upon the big red seal, to say that Sir Charles Ewan madehis compliments to Captain Scarrow, and that he hoped to be with him inthe morning as early as his duties and his infirmities would permit.

He was as good as his word, for the first grey of dawn had hardly begunto deepen into pink when he was brought alongside, and climbed with somedifficulty up the ladder. The captain had heard the Governor was aneccentric, but he was hardly prepared for the curious figure who camelimping feebly down his quarter-deck, his steps supported by a thickbamboo cane. He wore a Ramillies wig, all twisted into little tails likea poodle’s coat, and cut so low across the brow that the large greenglasses which covered his eyes looked as if they were hung from it. Afierce beak of a nose, very long and very thin, cut the air in front ofhim. His ague had caused him to swathe his throat and chin with a broadlinen cravat, and he wore a loose damask powdering-gown secured by acord round the waist. As he advanced he carried his masterful nose highin the air, but his head turned slowly from side to side in the helplessmanner of the purblind, and he called in a high, querulous voice for thecaptain.

“You have my things?” he asked.

“Yes, Sir Charles.”

“Have you wine aboard?”

“I have ordered five cases, sir”

“And tobacco?”

“There is a keg of Trinidad.”

“You play a hand of piquet?”

“Passably well, sir.”

“Then up anchor, and to sea!”

There was a fresh westerly wind, so by the time the sun was fairlythrough the morning haze, the ship was hull down from the islands. Thedecrepit Governor still limped the deck, with one guiding hand upon thequarter-rail.

“You are on Government service now, captain,” said he. “They arecounting the days till I come to Westminster, I promise you. Have youall that she will carry?”

“Every inch, Sir Charles.”

“Keep her so if you blow the sails out of her. I fear, Captain Scarrow,that you will find a blind and broken man a poor companion for yourvoyage.”

“I am honoured in enjoying your Excellency’s society,” said the captain.“But I am sorry that your eyes should be so afflicted.”

“Yes, indeed. It is the cursed glare of the sun on the white streets ofBasseterre which has gone far to burn them out.”

“I had heard also that you had been plagued by a quartan ague.”

“Yes; I have had a pyrexy, which has reduced me much.”

“We had set aside a cabin for your surgeon.”

“Ah, the rascal! There was no budging him, for he has a snug businessamongst the merchants. But hark!”

He raised his ring-covered hand in the air. From far astern there camethe low deep thunder of cannon.

“It is from the island!” cried the captain in astonishment. “Can it be asignal for us to put back?”

The Governor laughed.

“You have heard that Sharkey, the pirate, is to be hanged this morning.I ordered the batteries to salute when the rascal was kicking his last,so that I might know of it out at sea. There’s an end of Sharkey!”

“There’s an end of Sharkey!” cried the captain; and the crew took up thecry as they gathered in little knots upon the deck and stared back atthe low, purple line of the vanishing land.

It was a cheering omen for their start across the Western Ocean, and theinvalid Governor found himself a popular man on board, for it wasgenerally understood that but for his insistence upon an immediate trialand sentence, the villain might have played upon some more venal judgeand so escaped. At dinner that day Sir Charles gave many anecdotes ofthe deceased pirate; and so affable was he, and so skilful in adaptinghis conversation to men of lower degree, that captain, mate, andGovernor smoked their long pipes and drank their claret as three goodcomrades should.

“And what figure did Sharkey cut in the dock?” asked the captain.

“He is a man of some presence,” said the Governor.

“I had always understood that he was an ugly, sneering devil,” remarkedthe mate.

“Well, I dare say he could look ugly upon occasions,” said the Governor.

“I have heard a New Bedford whaleman say that he could not forget hiseyes,” said Captain Scarrow. “They were of the lightest filmy blue, withred-rimmed lids. Was that not so, Sir Charles?”

“Alas, my own eyes will not permit me to know much of those of others!But I remember now that the Adjutant-General said that he had such aneye as you describe, and added that the jury were so foolish as to bevisibly discomposed when it was turned upon them. It is well for themthat he is dead, for he was a man who would never forget an injury, andif he had laid hands upon any one of them he would have stuffed him withstraw and hung him for a figure-head.”

The idea seemed to amuse the Governor, for he broke suddenly into ahigh, neighing laugh, and the two seamen laughed also, but not soheartily, for they remembered that Sharkey was not the last pirate whosailed the western seas, and that as grotesque a fate might come to betheir own. Another bottle was broached to drink for a pleasant voyage,and the Governor would drink just one other on top of it, so that theseamen were glad at last to stagger off—the one to his watch and theother to his bunk. But when after his four hours’ spell the mate camedown again, he was amazed to see the Governor in his Ramillies wig, hisglasses, and his powdering-gown still seated sedately at the lonelytable with his reeking pipe and six black bottles by his side.

“I have drunk with the Governor of St. Kitt’s when he was sick,” saidhe, “and God forbid that I should ever try to keep pace with him when heis well.”

The voyage of the Morning Star was a successful one, and in aboutthree weeks she was at the mouth of the British Channel. From the firstday the infirm Governor had begun to recover his strength, and beforethey were half-way across the Atlantic he was, save only for his eyes,as well as any man upon the ship. Those who uphold the nourishingqualities of wine might point to him in triumph, for never a nightpassed that he did not repeat the performance of his first one. And yethe would be out upon deck in the early morning as fresh and brisk as thebest of them, peering about with his weak eyes, and asking questionsabout the sail and the rigging, for he was anxious to learn the ways ofthe sea. And he made up for the deficiency of his eyes by obtainingleave from the captain that the New England seaman—he who had been castaway in the boat—should lead him about, and above all that he should sitbeside him when he played cards and count the number of the pips, forunaided he could not tell the king from the knave.

It was natural that this Evanson should do the Governor willing service,since the one was the victim of the vile Sharkey, and the other was hisavenger. One could see that it was a pleasure to the big American tolend his arm to the invalid, and at night he would stand with allrespect behind his chair in the cabin and lay his great stub-nailedfore-finger upon the card which he should play. Between them there waslittle in the pockets either of Captain Scarrow or of Morgan, the firstmate, by the time they sighted the Lizard.

And it was not long before they found that all they had heard of thehigh temper of Sir Charles Ewan fell short of the mark. At a sign ofopposition or a word of argument his chin would shoot out from hiscravat, his masterful nose would be co*cked at a higher and more insolentangle, and his bamboo cane would whistle up over his shoulder. Hecracked it once over the head of the carpenter when the man hadaccidentally jostled him upon the deck. Once, too, when there was somegrumbling and talk of mutiny over the state of the provisions, he was ofopinion that they should not wait for the dogs to rise, but that theyshould march forward and set upon them until they had trounced thedevilment out of them. “Give me a knife and a bucket!” he cried with anoath, and could hardly be withheld from setting forth alone to deal withthe spokesman of the seamen.

Captain Scarrow had to remind him that though he might be onlyanswerable to himself at St. Kitt’s, killing became murder upon the highseas. In politics he was, as became his official position, a stout propof the House of Hanover, and he swore in his cups that he had never meta Jacobite without pistolling him where he stood. Yet for all hisvapouring and his violence he was so good a companion, with such astream of strange anecdote and reminiscence, that Scarrow and Morgan hadnever known a voyage pass so pleasantly.

And then at length came the last day, when, after passing the island,they had struck land again at the high white cliffs at Beachy Head. Asevening fell the ship lay rolling in an oily calm, a league off fromWinchelsea, with the long dark snout of Dungeness jutting out in frontof her. Next morning they would pick up their pilot at the Foreland, andSir Charles might meet the king’s ministers at Westminster before theevening. The boatswain had the watch, and the three friends were met fora last turn of cards in the cabin, the faithful American still servingas eyes to the Governor. There was a good stake upon the table, for thesailors had tried on this last night to win their losses back from theirpassenger. Suddenly he threw all his cards down, and swept all the moneyinto his long-flapped silken waistcoat.

“The game’s mine!” said he.

“Heh, Sir Charles, not so fast!” cried Captain Scarrow; “you have notplayed out the hand, and we are not the losers.”

“Sink you for a liar!” said the Governor. “I tell you that I haveplayed out the hand, and that you are a loser.” He whipped off his wigand his glasses as he spoke, and there was a high, bald forehead, and apair of shifty blue eyes with the red rims of a bull terrier.

“Good God!” cried the mate. “It’s Sharkey!”

The two sailors sprang from their seats, but the big American castawayhad put his huge back against the cabin door, and he held a pistol ineach of his hands. The passenger had also laid a pistol upon thescattered cards in front of him, and he burst into his high, neighinglaugh.

“Captain Sharkey is the name, gentlemen,” said he, “and this is RoaringNed Galloway, the quartermaster of the Happy Delivery. We made it hot,and so they marooned us: me on a dry Tortuga cay, and him in an oarlessboat. You dogs—you poor, fond, water-hearted dogs—we hold you at the endof our pistols!”

“You may shoot, or you may not!” cried Scarrow, striking his hand uponthe breast of his frieze jacket. “If it’s my last breath, Sharkey, Itell you that you are a bloody rogue and miscreant, with a halter andhell-fire in store for you!”

“There’s a man of spirit, and one of my own kidney, and he’s going tomake a pretty death of it!” cried Sharkey. “There’s no one aft save theman at the wheel, so you may keep your breath, for you’ll need it soon.Is the dinghy astern, Ned?”

“Ay, ay, captain!”

“And the other boats scuttled?”

“I bored them all in three places.”

“Then we shall have to leave you, Captain Scarrow. You look as if youhadn’t quite got your bearings yet. Is there anything you’d like to askme?”

“I believe you’re the devil himself!” cried the captain. “Where is theGovernor of St. Kitt’s?”

“When last I saw him his Excellency was in bed with his throat cut. WhenI broke prison I learnt from my friends—for Captain Sharkey has thosewho love him in every port—that the Governor was starting for Europeunder a master who had never seen him. I climbed his verandah and I paidhim the little debt that I owed him. Then I came aboard you with such ofhis things as I had need of, and a pair of glasses to hide thesetell-tale eyes of mine, and I have ruffled it as a Governor should. Now,Ned, you can get to work upon them.”

“Help! Help! Watch ahoy!” yelled the mate; but the butt of the pirate’spistol crashed down on his head, and he dropped like a pithed ox.Scarrow rushed for the door, but the sentinel clapped his hand over hismouth, and threw his other arm round his waist.

“No use, Master Scarrow,” said Sharkey. “Let us see you go down on yourknees and beg for your life.”

“I’ll see you—” cried Scarrow, shaking his mouth clear.

“Twist his arm round, Ned. Now will you?”

“No; not if you twist it off.”

“Put an inch of your knife into him.”

“You may put six inches, and then I won’t.”

“Sink me, but I like his spirit!” cried Sharkey. “Put your knife in yourpocket, Ned. You’ve saved your skin, Scarrow, and it’s a pity so stout aman should not take to the only trade where a pretty fellow can pick upa living. You must be born for no common death, Scarrow, since you havelain at my mercy and lived to tell the story. Tie him up, Ned.”

“To the stove, captain?”

“Tut, tut! there’s a fire in the stove. None of your rover tricks, NedGalloway, unless they are called for, or I’ll let you know which one ofus two is captain and which is quartermaster. Make him fast to thetable.”

“Nay, I thought you meant to roast him!” said the quartermaster. “Yousurely do not mean to let him go?”

“If you and I were marooned on a Bahama cay, Ned Galloway, it is stillfor me to command and for you to obey. Sink you for a villain, do youdare to question my orders?”

“Nay, nay, Captain Sharkey, not so hot, sir!” said the quartermaster,and, lifting Scarrow like a child, he laid him on the table. With thequick dexterity of a seaman, he tied his spreadeagled hands and feetwith a rope which was passed underneath, and gagged him securely withthe long cravat which used to adorn the chin of the Governor of St.Kitt’s.

“Now, Captain Scarrow, we must take our leave of you,” said the pirate.“If I had half a dozen of my brisk boys at my heels I should have hadyour cargo and your ship, but Roaring Ned could not find a foremast handwith the spirit of a mouse. I see there are some small craft about, andwe shall get one of them. When Captain Sharkey has a boat he can get asmack, when he has a smack he can get a brig, when he has a brig he canget a barque, and when he has a barque he’ll soon have a full-riggedship of his own—so make haste into London town, or I may be coming back,after all, for the Morning Star.”

Captain Scarrow heard the key turn in the lock as they left the cabin.Then, as he strained at his bonds, he heard their footsteps pass up thecompanion and along the quarter-deck to where the dinghy hung in thestern. Then, still struggling and writhing, he heard the creak of thefalls and the splash of the boat in the water. In a mad fury he tore anddragged at his ropes, until at last, with flayed wrists and ankles, herolled from the table, sprang over the dead mate, kicked his way throughthe closed door, and rushed hatless on to the deck.

“Ahoy! Peterson, Armitage, Wilson!” he screamed. “Cutlasses and pistols!Clear away the long-boat! Clear away the gig! Sharkey, the pirate, is inyonder dinghy. Whistle up the larboard watch, bo’sun, and tumble intothe boats all hands.”

Down splashed the long-boat and down splashed the gig, but in an instantthe coxswains and crews were swarming up the falls on to the deck oncemore.

“The boats are scuttled!” they cried. “They are leaking like a sieve.”

The captain gave a bitter curse. He had been beaten and outwitted atevery point. Above was a cloudless, starlit sky, with neither wind northe promise of it. The sails flapped idly in the moonlight. Far away laya fishing-smack, with the men clustering over their net.

Close to them was the little dinghy, dipping and lifting over theshining swell.

“They are dead men!” cried the captain. “A shout all together, boys, towarn them of their danger.”

But it was too late.

At that very moment the dinghy shot into the shadow of the fishing-boat.There were two rapid pistol-shots, a scream, and then anotherpistol-shot, followed by silence. The clustering fishermen haddisappeared. And then, suddenly, as the first puffs of a land-breezecame out from the Sussex shore, the boom swung out, the mainsail filled,and the little craft crept out with her nose to the Atlantic.

VIOLENCE

By ALGERNON BLACKWOOD

From Ten Minute Stories, by Algernon Blackwood, by permission ofE. P. Dutton and Company.

“But what seems so odd to me, so horribly pathetic, is that such peopledon’t resist,” said Leidall, suddenly entering the conversation. Theintensity of his tone startled everybody; it was so passionate, yet witha beseeching touch that made the women feel uncomfortable a little. “Asa rule, I’m told, they submit willingly, almost as though——”

He hesitated, grew confused, and dropped his glance to the floor; and asmartly-dressed woman, eager to be heard, seized the opening. “Oh, comenow,” she laughed; “one always hears of a man being put into a straitwaistcoat. I’m sure he doesn’t slip it on as if he were going to adance!” And she looked flippantly at Leidall, whose casual manners sheresented. “People are put under restraint. It’s not in human nature toaccept it—healthy human nature, that is?” But for some reason no onetook her question up. “That is so, I believe, yes,” a polite voicemurmured, while the group at tea in the Dover Street Club turned withone accord to Leidall as to one whose interesting sentence stillremained unfinished. He had hardly spoken before, and a silent man isever credited with wisdom.

“As though—you were just saying, Mr. Leidall?” a quiet little man in adark corner helped him.

“As though, I meant, a man in that condition of mind is not insane allthrough,” Leidall continued stammeringly; “but that some wise portion ofhim watches the proceeding with gratitude, and welcomes the protectionagainst himself. It seems awfully pathetic. Still”—again hesitating andfumbling in his speech—“er—it seems queer to me that he should yieldquietly to enforced restraint—the waistcoat, handcuffs, and the rest.”He looked round hurriedly, half suspiciously, at the faces in thecircle, then dropped his eyes again to the floor. He sighed, leaningback in his chair. “I cannot understand it,” he added, as no one spoke,but in a very low voice, and almost to himself. “One would expect themto struggle furiously.”

Someone had mentioned that remarkable book, The Mind that FoundItself, and the conversation had slipped into this serious vein. Thewomen did not like it. What kept it alive was the fact that the silentLeidall, with his handsome, melancholy face, had suddenly wakened intospeech, and that the little man opposite to him, half invisible in hisdark corner, was assistant to one of London’s great hypnotic doctors,who could, an he would, tell interesting and terrible things. No onecared to ask the direct question, but all hoped for revelations,possibly about people they actually knew. It was a very ordinarytea-party indeed. And this little man now spoke, though hardly in thedesired vein. He addressed his remarks to Leidall across thedisappointed lady.

“I think, probably, your explanation is the true one,” he said gently,“for madness in its commoner forms is merely want of proportion; themind gets out of right and proper relations with its environment. Themajority of madmen are mad on one thing only, while the rest of them isas sane as myself—or you.”

The words fell into the silence. Leidall bowed his agreement, saying noactual word. The ladies fidgeted. Someone made a jocular remark to theeffect that most of the world was mad anyhow, and the conversationshifted with relief into a lighter vein—the scandal in the family of apolitician. Everybody talked at once. Cigarettes were lit. The cornersoon became excited and even uproarious. The tea-party was a greatsuccess, and the offended lady, no longer ignored, led all theskirmishes—towards herself. She was in her element. Only Leidall and thelittle invisible man in the corner took small part in it; and presently,seizing the opportunity when some new arrivals joined the group, Leidallrose to say his adieux, and slipped away, his departure scarcelynoticed. Dr. Hanco*ck followed him a minute later. The two men met in thehall; Leidall already had his hat and coat on. “I’m going West, Mr.Leidall. If that’s your way too, and you feel inclined for the walk, wemight go together.” Leidall turned with a start. His glance took in theother with avidity—a keenly-searching, hungry glance. He hesitated foran imperceptible moment, then made a movement towards him, halfinviting, while a curious shadow dropped across his face and vanished.It was both pathetic and terrible. The lips trembled. He seemed to say,“God bless you; do come with me!” But no words were audible.

“It’s a pleasant evening for a walk,” added Dr. Hanco*ck gently; “cleanand dry under foot for a change. I’ll get my hat and join you in asecond.” And there was a hint, the merest flavour, of authority in hisvoice.

That touch of authority was his mistake. Instantly Leidall’s hesitationpassed. “I’m sorry,” he said abruptly, “but I’m afraid I must take ataxi. I have an appointment at the Club, and I’m late already.” “Oh, Isee,” the other replied, with a kindly smile; “then I mustn’t keep you.But if you ever have a free evening, won’t you look me up, or come anddine? You’ll find my telephone number in the book. I should like to talkwith you about—those things we mentioned at tea.” Leidall thanked himpolitely and went out. The memory of the little man’s kindly sympathyand understanding eyes went with him.

“Who was that man?” someone asked, the moment Leidall had left thetea-table. “Surely he’s not the Leidall who wrote that awful book someyears ago?”

“Yes—the Gulf of Darkness. Did you read it?”

They discussed it and its author for five minutes, deciding by a largemajority that it was the book of a madman. Silent, rude men like thatalways had a screw loose somewhere, they agreed. Silence was invariablymorbid.

“And did you notice Dr. Hanco*ck? He never took his eyes off him. That’swhy he followed him out like that. I wonder if he thought anything!”

“I know Hanco*ck well,” said the lady of the wounded vanity. “I’ll askhim and find out.” They chattered on, somebody mentioned a risquéplay, the talk switched into other fields, and in due course thetea-party came to an end.

And Leidall, meanwhile, made his way towards the Park on foot, for hehad not taken a taxi after all. The suggestion of the other man,perhaps, had worked upon him. He was very open to suggestion. With handsdeep in his overcoat pockets, and head sunk forward between hisshoulders, he walked briskly, entering the Park at one of the smallergates. He made his way across the wet turf, avoiding the paths andpeople. The February sky was shining in the west; beautiful cloudsfloated over the houses; they looked like the shore-line of some radiantstrand his childhood once had known. He sighed; thought dived andsearched within; self-analysis, that old, implacable demon, lifted itsvoice; introspection took the reins again as usual. There seemed astrain upon the mind he could not dispel. Thought circled poignantly. Heknew it was unhealthy, morbid, a sign of those many years of difficultyand stress that had marked him so deeply, but for the life of him hecould not escape from the hideous spell that held him. The same oldthoughts bored their way into his mind like burning wires, tracing thesame unanswerable questions. From this torture, waking or sleeping,there was no escape. Had a companion been with him it might have beendifferent. If, for instance, Dr. Hanco*ck——

He was angry with himself for having refused—furious; it was that vile,false pride his long loneliness had fostered. The man was sympathetic tohim, friendly, marvellously understanding; he could have talked freelywith him, and found relief. His intuition had picked out the littledoctor as a man in ten thousand. Why had he so curtly declined hisgentle invitation? Dr. Hanco*ck knew; he guessed his awful secret. Buthow? In what had he betrayed himself?

The weary self-questioning began again, till he sighed and groaned fromsheer exhaustion. He must find people, companionship, someone to talkto. The Club—it crossed his tortured mind for a second—was impossible;there was a conspiracy among the members against him. He had left hisusual haunts everywhere for the same reason—his restaurants where he hadhis lonely meals; his music-hall, where he tried sometimes to forgethimself; his favourite walks, where the very policeman knew and eyedhim. And, coming to the bridge across the Serpentine just then, hepaused and leaned over the edge, watching a bubble rise to the surface.

“I suppose there are fish in the Serpentine?” he said to a man a fewfeet away.

They talked a moment—the other was evidently a clerk on his way home,and then the stranger edged off and continued his walk, looking backonce or twice at the sad-faced man who had addressed him. “It’sridiculous, that with all our science we can’t live under water as thefish do,” reflected Leidall, and moved on round the other bank of thewater, where he watched a flight of duck whirl down from the darkeningair and settle with a long, mournful splash beside the bushy island. “Orthat, for all our pride of mechanism in a mechanical age, we cannotreally fly.” But these attempts to escape from self were never verysuccessful. Another part of him looked on and mocked. He returned everto the endless introspection of self-analysis, and in the deepest momentof it—ran into a big, motionless figure that blocked his way. It was thePark policeman, the one who had always eyed him. He sheered off suddenlytowards the trees, while the man, recognising him, touched his caprespectfully. “It’s a pleasant evening, sir; turned quite mild again.”Leidall mumbled some reply or other, and hurried on to hide himselfamong the shadows of the trees. The policeman stood and watched him,till the darkness swallowed him. “He knows too!” groaned the wretchedman. And every bench was occupied; every face turned to watch him; therewere even figures behind the trees. He dared not go into the street, forthe very taxi-drivers were against him. If he gave an address, he wouldnot be driven to it; the man would know, and take him elsewhere. Andsomething in his heart, sick with anguish, weary with the endlessbattle, suddenly yielded.

“There are fish in the Serpentine,” he remembered the stranger hadsaid. “And,” he added to himself, with a wave of delicious comfort,“they lead secret, hidden lives that no one can disturb.” His mindcleared surprisingly. In the water he could find peace and rest andhealing. Good Lord! How easy it all was! Yet he had never thought of itbefore. He turned sharply to retrace his steps, but in that very secondthe clouds descended upon his thought again, his mind darkened, hehesitated. Could he get out again when he had had enough? Would he riseto the surface? A battle began over these questions. He ran quickly,then stood still again to think the matter out. Darkness shrouded him.He heard the wind rush laughing through the trees. The picture of thewhirring duck flashed back a moment, and he decided that the best waywas by air, and not by water. He would fly into the place of rest, notsink or merely float; and he remembered the view from his bedroomwindow, high over old smoky London town, with a drop of eighty feet onto the pavements. Yes, that was the best way. He waited a moment, tryingto think it all out clearly, but one moment the fish had it, and thenext the birds. It was really impossible to decide. Was there no one whocould help him, no one in all this enormous town who was sufficiently onhis side to advise him on the point? Some clear-headed, experienced,kindly man?

And the face of Dr. Hanco*ck flashed before his vision. He saw the gentleeyes and sympathetic smile, remembered the soothing voice and the offerof companionship he had refused. Of course, there was one seriousdrawback: Hanco*ck knew. But he was far too tactful, too sweet and gooda man to let that influence his judgment, or to betray in any way at allthat he did know.

Leidall found it in him to decide. Facing the entire hostile world, hehailed a taxi from the nearest gate upon the street, looked up theaddress in a chemist’s telephone book, and reached the door in acondition of delight and relief. Yes, Dr. Hanco*ck was at home. Leidallsent his name in. A few minutes later the two men were chattingpleasantly together, almost like old friends, so keen was the littleman’s intuitive sympathy and tact. Only Hanco*ck, patient listener thoughhe proved to be, was uncommonly full of words. Leidall explained thematter very clearly. “Now, what is your decision, Dr. Hanco*ck? Is it tobe the way of the fish or the way of the duck?” And, while Hanco*ck beganhis answer with slow, well-chosen words, a new idea, better than either,leaped with a flash into his listener’s mind. It was an inspiration. Forwhere could he find a better hiding-place from all his troubles thanHanco*ck himself? The man was kindly; he surely would not object. Leidallthis time would not hesitate a second. He was tall and broad; Hanco*ckwas small; yet he was sure there would be room. He sprang upon him likea wild animal. He felt the warm, thin throat yield and bend between hisgreat hands ... then darkness, peace and rest, a nothingness that surelywas the oblivion he had so long prayed for. He had accomplished hisdesire. He had secreted himself forever from persecution—inside thekindliest little man he had ever met—inside Hanco*ck....

He opened his eyes and looked about him into a room he did not know. Thewalls were soft and dimly coloured. It was very silent. Cushions wereeverywhere. Peaceful it was, and out of the world. Overhead was askylight, and one window, opposite the door, was heavily barred.Delicious! No one could get in. He was sitting in a deep and comfortablechair. He felt rested and happy. There was a click, and he saw a tinywindow in the door drop down, as though worked by a sliding panel. Thenthe door opened noiselessly, and in came a little man with smiling faceand soft brown eyes—Dr. Hanco*ck.

Leidall’s first feeling was amazement. “Then I didn’t get into himproperly after all! Or I’ve slipped out again, perhaps! The dear, goodfellow!” And he rose to greet him. He put his hand out, and found thatthe other came with it in some inexplicable fashion. Movement wascramped. “Ah, then I’ve had a stroke,” he thought, as Hanco*ck pressedhim, ever so gently, back into the big chair. “Do not get up,” he saidsoothingly but with authority; “sit where you are and rest. You musttake it very easy for a bit; like all clever men who have overworked——”

“I’ll get in the moment he turns,” thought Leidall. “I did it badlybefore. It must be through the back of his head, of course, where thespine runs up into the brain,” and he waited till Hanco*ck should turn.But Hanco*ck never turned. He kept his face towards him all the time,while he chatted, moving gradually nearer to the door. On Leidall’s facewas the smile of an innocent child, but there lay a hideous cunningbehind that smile, and the eyes were terrible.

“Are those bars firm and strong,” asked Leidall, “so that no one can getin?” He pointed craftily, and the doctor, caught for a second unawares,turned his head. That instant Leidall was upon him with a roar, thensank back powerless into the chair, unable to move his arms more than afew inches in any direction. Hanco*ck stepped up quietly and made himcomfortable again with cushions.

And something in Leidall’s soul turned round and looked another way. Hismind became clear as daylight for a moment. The effort perhaps hadcaused the sudden change from darkness to great light. A memory rushedover him. “Good God!” he cried. “I am violent. I was going to do you aninjury—you who are so sweet and good to me!” He trembled dreadfully, andburst into tears. “For the sake of Heaven,” he implored, looking up,ashamed and keenly penitent, “put me under restraint. Fasten my handsbefore I try it again.” He held both hands out willingly, beseechingly,then looked down, following the direction of the other’s kind browneyes. His wrists, he saw, already wore steel handcuffs, and a straitwaistcoat was across his chest and arms and shoulders.

THE REWARD OF ENTERPRISE

By WARD MUIR

This is how it happened [said my friend Harborough].

I’m a novelist, as you know, but if I hadn’t had to take to writing I’dhave been a rolling stone by profession and by inclination. In my morephilosophic moods I perceive that, really, it was sheer luck ... thisoccurrence about which you’ve asked me to tell you. I should never havemade a success of any other trade but authorship. I’d have starved;instead I’m rather well off, as things go. But still——

You understand I was by way of being a bit venturesome, as a young man.I did a certain amount of journalism, from time to time, but my secrethopes were set on all that is implied in that specious phrase, “seeingthe world.” I wanted to see the world.

Keeping this object in view I shipped on a tramp steamer, with whosecaptain I had struck up an acquaintanceship. Nominally I was the purser,actually I was the Captain’s guest. Cargo boats such as the S.S.Peterhof do not employ a purser.

No need to narrate the history of that voyage nor dwell upon the trivialparticulars of our life on board. Suffice it to say that in mid-Atlanticour engines had a break-down. The Peterhof came to a standstill.

If it has ever happened to you during a big voyage you will know thatthere is something portentous about the cessation of a steamer’smachinery in mid-ocean. To be becalmed on a sailing ship may be boring:to be becalmed—if such an expression can be used—on a steamer is almosttoo queer to be boring. Day and night the engines have throbbed untiltheir throbbing has penetrated into your very marrow, and when thethrobbing abruptly dies you are sensible of a shock. When the Peterhofhalted I ran up on deck as speedily as though we had had a collision. Isaw, all round, nothing but sea, sea, sea, and it was far more amazingthan if I had beheld an island or an iceberg or a raft of shipwreckedmariners, or any of the other picturesque phenomena which my fertilefancy had hastened to invent as an explanation for our stoppage.

The Peterhof’s engines were antiquated, break-downs had occurredbefore, and our two engineers, I learnt, would be able to effect arepair. Twenty-four hours’ labour would set us going again—it turned outto be only a slightly over-optimistic prophecy—and meanwhile, we werefree to admire, as best we might, the somewhat monotonous beauties ofthe Atlantic.

There was not a breath of wind; the sun blazed from a cloudless sky; aslong as the Peterhof had been in motion we had considered thetemperature fairly cool, but now that her motion was arrested the heatbecame very noticeable. The sea was, in a sense, absolutely smooth; butit* smoothness did not imply flatness, any more than the smoothness of acarpet’s pile implies flatness if the carpet is being shaken. On thecontrary, the Peterhof was rolling upon the undulations of a heavyground-swell. The surface of that ground-swell was without a wrinkle,polished and glossy like lacquer; but its hills and its dales weregigantically high and deep; far higher and far deeper than I hadrealised until the engines relinquished their task of propelling usathwart them. Now, lying helpless upon the water, we swooped up to aglazed summit, swooped down to the bottom of a satiny gulf, swooped upagain and down again, in a splendid, even oscillation—and (this was whatseemed so extraordinary to a landsman)—in absolute silence. It wasuncanny. Those fabulous billows never broke. There was not even a hissof foam against the side of the steamer. The Peterhof just tobogganneddown one stupendous gradient and up the next as though she had beensliding on oil.

The thing fascinated me. I stood by the rail, revelling in thisprodigous sea-saw, and only gradually did it dawn upon me that we werenot really rushing down one slant and up the next, we were only beinglifted up and down vertically.

This discovery sounds foolish, but I can’t tell you how it excited me. Igot an empty biscuit tin from the steward and threw it into the sea, asfar as I could, and then watched it floating. You’d have said that thatbiscuit tin would have been drawn away by the strength of the swell, orelse dashed against the Peterhof’s side; instead it simply sat thereat exactly the spot where it had fallen; and an hour after I had thrownit into the water it had shifted, perhaps, only six or eight inchesnearer the steamer.

A project was forming in my mind. I looked at the water. It was apeculiar, vitreous green, closer under the steamer, was transparent tothe depth of many feet. Beneath my shoe-soles the poop was hot; overside, the sea looked inexpressibly inviting. And on a sudden I turned tothe drowsing Captain and exclaimed: “I want to bathe.”

“To bathe?” The Captain gazed at me.

“Why not?”

The Captain yawned out some lethargic suggestion to the effect that tobathe would be dangerous because of the depth—as though I’d be more aptto drown in three miles of water than in three fathoms.

Seafaring people are odd in that way—I don’t mean in their ignorance ofswimming, though, to be sure, the average sailor is seldom a swimmer.They’re so—how shall I express it?—so unenterprising. In the midst ofadventure and romance they are stirred by no recognition either of theadventures or the romantic.

I was a city-bred youngster, who had never been out of hail of thehomeland before, and I possessed more enterprise in my little fingerthan that far-travelled Captain had in the whole of his weather-worn,hulking lump of a carcass. I wanted to bathe. I wanted to bathe in themid-Atlantic. I had learnt to bathe in the public swimming-bath near myold school, and now I wanted to try a swimming-bath three miles deep andtilting continuously at an angle of I don’t know how many degrees. Thenotion was gorgeous.

“I can swim,” I said. “You needn’t be afraid.”

“But the waves’ll sweep you away.”

“There aren’t any waves. Watch this biscuit tin. The top of theAtlantic, at this moment, is like a string which is being twanged. Thevibrations are a hundred yards across, or more, and they look as thoughthey were travelling along the string; I suppose they are travellingalong the string; but a fly sitting on the string doesn’t travel alongwith the vibrations, it only travels up and down. If I go in to bathe Ishan’t be swept away.”

The Captain hadn’t thought of it in that light. He tried to argue—but mybiscuit tin answered his argument. And eventually he allowed me to havethe ladder lowered; I stripped, descended the ladder, and launchedmyself into the sea.

I struck out, to get clear of the ship, then ceased swimming and lookedaround me. The sea was coldish, but not unendurable—and anyhow I was toomuch in love with my situation to bother about that. Behind me thePeterhof towered, like a cliff; I had never realised, before, how biga five-thousand-ton vessel looks from the water. At her rail I could seea cluster of the crew, watching me; the Captain on the poop. Fromsomewhere in the interior of the ship came the sound of hammering—theengineers at work—and I noticed that this sound reached me more clearlynow than when I was on board.

But if the Peterhof appeared strange, from the water, how muchstranger was the view in the opposite direction! Or rather, the absenceof view!

The ground-swell had looked formidable when I was on the Peterhof’sdeck; here its aspect was terrific. The crystalline slope in which I wascradled seemed to reach the sky; yet, without having climbed it, Iimmediately found myself, instead of looking up the slope, looking downit—down an oblique abyss of gleaming profundity. I seemed to fall andfall and fall; nevertheless, there was no spasm of nausea; although Iwas falling I was supported, sensuously, in my fall ... and I neverreached the finish of the fall; it merged, imperceptibly, into anascent; and a moment later I was surveying a fresh trough of glassiness,or else gazing audaciously downward, downward on to the deck of thePeterhof.

It was overwhelming. Never in all my life have I attained to a rapturecomparable with that bathe in mid-Atlantic. I knew, even at the time,that it would be unforgettable. I had aspired to be able to say that Ihad swum in water three miles deep ... oh, never mind what vain boast Ihad promised myself. Boasting was forgotten. I was experiencing. I wassurrendered to an ecstasy, an enchantment, a glee, beyond expressiongrandiose and delicious. I lolled in the pellucid water, not troublingto swim. I let myself go, in those dizzy soarings and sinkings; Iabandoned myself to this vast and beautiful force; I felt at onceinfinitely little and infinitely great.

The whole adventure was half terrifying and half ... well, comfortable.Perched on the crown of one of those flawless ridges I felt, as Itoppled over, that I must either be smashed to pieces at the end of theplunge or engulfed in some horrid undertow. But I knew that nothing ofthe sort would happen. Quietly I paddled with my arms and feet; almostcontemptuously I gave myself to the puissant and colossal rhythm whichswayed me as high as a cathedral at every swing and then gently rockedme down as deep as a valley. I tell you, the sensation was sublime ...and I hadn’t even got my hair wet!

I remembered, in the middle of my bliss, this perfectly incongruous factthat I hadn’t got my hair wet, and I prepared to “duck.” But at thatmoment I heard a shout from the deck of the Peterhof.

I turned in the water, and saw that the Captain was gesticulating to me,but I couldn’t hear what he was saying. The crew were shouting also, andone of them had got a coil of rope over his arm and seemed to be makingready to throw it. What did they mean?

Stupidly, in the tingling ardour and gusto of my enjoyment, I didn’tmake out, for a minute, what they were driving at; it occurred to methat they had taken it into their heads that because I wasn’t swimming Ihad got cramp. I signalled cheerily to them, to reassure them; but theydid not cease shouting ... and then, as I turned again, a little, in thewater, I knew....

Near the skyline rim of the superb mountain-range upon which I wascommencing to rise I saw, shadowy in the translucent green, anunmistakable shape—the shape of a great fish: a shark. Its fin cut thesurface like a knife. For one instant I stared, and in that instant Iobserved, with a vivid clearness, all manner of minute details—theburnished sheen on the water, the glistening tautness of its loftyskyline, the sapphire blue of the sky itself, and, most lucidly of all,the silhouette of the shark. Every movement of the shark was now plainto me; and it was moving, there was no doubt of it: a trail of bubblesstreamed from its flank and a tiny streak of froth fluttered behind thefin. The shark was not passive, in the element, as I was; it was monarchof the waves, it could drive through them with the precision of atorpedo. I had invaded a realm which I had no business to invade ... andits guardian was come to punish me.

An astonishingly coherent train of reflections such as these whirledround my brain. They must have occupied a fraction of a second. I knowthat, at all events, I struck out for the Peterhof without anyapparent pause. My arms and legs worked frantically; I swum as I hadnever swum before. I hurled myself through the water.

Fortunately I had gone only a very short distance from the foot of thesteamer’s ladder. It seemed remote enough, though, I can tell you! Myeyes were bursting out of their sockets, but I could dimly see theCaptain leaning on the rail and shouting, and some of the men runningdown the ladder to receive me. Then the rope was flung. It splashedacross me. I grasped it. I dug my nails into it. I clung to it with agrip so fierce that I felt as though I was crushing it. Simultaneouslythe men at the other end of the rope began pulling, and I was jerkedthrough the water in a lather of spray which swirled round my shoulders.My arms and head were above the water, I was being dragged so fast upthe steamer’s side. I could still see the Captain, vaguely, confusedly.His mouth was open, his hands were waving. But I wasn’t interested inhim, I was only interested in what was pursuing behind me. Gad! That wasan awful moment. I dream of it, sometimes, even now: the disgusting,obscene terror of that dash for safety ... and I wake sweating with thehorror of it.

Harborough paused.

“And how did your adventure end?” I asked.

“I don’t know. I lost consciousness. But I kept tight on to the rope.They hauled me on board ... they told me afterwards that I hadn’t evengot my hair wet ... but ...” he hesitated.

“I’d had my experience—a never-to-be-forgotten experience. Dash it!” helaughed. “It was almost worth it, I swear ... and I’m making money, now,as a novelist, whereas if I’d continued my life of rolling stone I’dcertainly have arrived in prison or the poorhouse. Yes, I suppose thatevery disaster has its compensations.

“But I confess I didn’t think so when I awoke on board the Peterhof—wewere plug-plugging onwards again by that time—and found that I’d gotonly one leg.”

GREAR’S DAM

By MORLEY ROBERTS

There was dust everywhere; it was a red-hot world of dust. It lay uponthe roads where the labouring wheel tracks marked them out; but thewhole long plain was dust as well. Neither grass nor any green thingshowed, and dead, dry salt-bush, eaten by the sheep till it looked likebroken peasticks, was dust colour to the dancing horizon of that worldof thirst. For seven months and a week, by Wilson’s almanac, there hadbeen no rain, and what dew had fallen the hot air drank when the fiercesun rose. And now not even the little fenced garden at Warribah showedany sign of verdure. Water was precious, and each day the north winddrank the water-holes drier and drier yet.

But, though the world of desolate Warribah was brown, in the roots ofgrass and the mere sticks of salt-bush was sufficient nourishment tokeep life in the sheep who moved across the burnt paddocks of thestation; what they needed, and what they began to suffer for was water,and the cloudless sky, luminous and terrible, bent over their world andbreathed fire upon them. The wind out of the Austral tropics was asfierce as a blowpipe flame, or so it seemed. Hope and prosperity meltedunder it, and the home at Warribah dissolved.

“I shall go mad,” said Wilson. And having said it, he sent his wife awayto the south. He could not keep a cheerful face before her; it waseasier to lie upon paper, easier to drift into silence that was notdisturbed by her tears. He was a lonely man again, as lonely as when hehad first fought with the bush, and conquered a space for himself whereno water ran.

And now the conquered territory that he had hoped to keep for the usesof civilisation called in the sun and the north wind, and there was agreat fight in progress between man and nature. As he walked over whathe had won, or as he galloped, the caked and cracked earth fell intopowder, and rose choking and impalpable, as fine as flour. The gaunt,spare box trees of the plains were powdered with its red-white film;their dry verdure was obscured. The dust was mud upon his lips, mud uponhis cheeks as he sweated ice, to think the day was coming when therecould be no hope for him and no help.

“How long now?” he asked himself.

And all about the plains rose columns of dust as the uneasy, fretfulsheep, to whom his men doled water, moved up the wind seeking more.

“After ten years—this,” said Wilson, and he laughed. But those who heardhim laugh shivered, and contracted their brows. For he was a hardworker, and had slaved for this—for bankruptcy, a sky of brass.

“The boss is crazy,” said the men at the hut.

An immense, intolerable sense of pity for the sheep possessed him. Hehad no children, and the land he held had been as a child to him. Nowthe plains he had delighted in were become ingrate. They refused himhelp. The sheep were his children and his delight. He knew thousands ofthem by sight, for he had the shepherd’s eye. There was a characterabout the Warribah sheep that he had bestowed by his care and by hischoice. He had fenced them in against straying; had chased the cowardlydingo and had slain him; he had rejoiced in the grass and the whiteningcotton-bush, and the succulence of thick-fleshed salt-bush. How often hehad ridden out and watched the sheep graze; it was a happy world whenthe rains in their due season ceased, and the time for shearing came. Itwas a riotous pleasure to hear the click of the shears. How the whiteinner fleece gleamed and fell over, and parted and showed its wovenbeauty! The movements of the shearers, and the sound of them, and thesound of the pent or loosened sheep wove itself into a kind of fabric;in the loom of time and the due sweet season pleasure grew, and success,and the joy of well-doing.

And now there was death in the air and in the north wind. And behind itruin. There his ten thousand children would perish off the face of theinexorable earth and be no more than white bones lying heaped against anorthern fence where no water was. He laughed a thin, crackling laugh,and walked to and fro in front of his lonely house.

“The boss is crazy,” his men had said. Now in the hot and idle noon theysat in the southward shadow of the crackling hut and watched him. Theold cook, a blear-eyed outcast thrown up by the seas upon the coast ofAustralia, broke suddenly into a drivelling yarn.

“I knew it worse nor this—hell’s flames never beat it, on the Bogan thatyear——”

He mumbled on.

“So they died, and the horses, too. Oh, it was cruel, cruel. And Webbercut his throat from ear to ear, cut his crazy ’ead ’arf off.”

“What of your paddock, Jim?” asked Hill, the old hand of Warribah. Theyoung boundary rider spat drily.

“The jumbucks is suckin’ mud. The water stinks of yolk. You can smell ita mile off. Ter-morrer I’ll have to fetch ’em in.”

The black and red ants ran riot in the hut and outside of it. The insectworld flourished and abounded. But for all their bronze there was apallid look about the men. Nature was no friend of theirs; they lookedout on fire and blinding light.

“I never knowed it worse.”

But old Blear Eyes had.

“So he blew his brains out.”

“Oh, dry up,” said Hill, but the cook murmured of ancient disasters onthe Darling and the Macquarie.

“Did you die of thirst, you old croaker, and jump up to choke us?”

And still Wilson wandered to and fro in the sunlight, though the sky wasinexorable.

“He’ll be shakin’ his fist at it yet,” said the cook, “and when a mandoes that he never comes to no good. It’s all up with them as shakes afist at ’eaven. I’ve seen it myself. Now it was in ’79 that Jones ofQuandong Flats went mad. He shook ’is fist at the sky. I seen him, andthe next morning ’e was ravin’ ’orrid, as though the ’orrors of drinkwas on ’im. And well I knowed ’em then.”

The boss came towards them through the hot sand, and he leant in theshade against the pole on which the men’s saddles hung. The men lookeddowncast and half-ashamed. Sydney Jim lost all his flashness and moveduneasily. And the old cook shambled into his kitchen and fell to workupon his bread.

“There’s little water in the Ten-Mile Tank, Jim?”

“They was suckin’ mud this morning, sir,” said Jim.

Wilson tugged at his grizzled beard and pulled his sunburnt hat over hiseyes.

“We should have put down wells,” said Hill.

Wilson broke into sudden blasphemy, and checked it with a kind of gasp,as though he felt that madness lay just beyond the limits of hisself-control.

“So we should,” he said; “so we should.”

And he walked away.

“You took that cursin’ very quiet,” said Jim. And there was something inHill’s eye that made him flinch.

“Oh, well,” he said apologetically, and Hill glared at him. The heat wasin more than one.

“My son,” said Hill, “I’ve half a mind——”

And then he rose and followed Wilson. He caught him up and talked hardtill Wilson shook his head and went inside and slammed the door.

“He should make it up with Grear, and if Grear let him down on to theriver he might save some.”

For Warribah was in the back-blocks, and Grear held all the riverfrontage for twenty miles.

“But they hate each other, and Wilson ain’t the man to crawl,” saidHill. “He’s a good sort. I’ll go myself.”

He went back to the hut and, taking his saddle and bridle, walked to thehorse paddock, which seemed as barren as a stockyard. He caught hishorse, that was standing at the gate and looking wistfully towards thestable as if he knew that good feed was there.

“Come,” said Hill, and he rode south through the pine scrub towardsGrear’s. He came to the station as the sun went down, and when he askedfor the boss Grear came out.

“Oh you!” he said roughly. “And what d’ye want?”

He was a long, thin man with a cold eye and thin lips, and as he lookedat him Hill felt that it was a foolish errand he had come on. The manwas worse than he had imagined. It seemed that Wilson was right. To askGrear for anything was to invite insult. And though Hill had come twentymiles to ask he turned away.

“I haven’t seen you for nigh on a year,” said he, “and now I’ve seenyou, why, I shan’t weep if I never see you again.”

He got upon his horse solemnly and turned away, leaving Grear with anopen mouth.

“I was a fool to come,” said Hill, as he ploughed his way among thesandhills. “He used to reckon that all the back-blocks was his, andWilson took ’em up. Grear don’t forgive.”

The night had come upon the land, but there was no remission of the hotnorth wind. The heated earth radiated heat still, while in the clearobscure of the heavens the stars glittered like sharp points of steel.They stabbed Hill’s very heart as he rode and looked into the rainlessdepths of heaven. For the sky was no overarching dome at that season. Itwas an awful emptiness without form; it was space itself, unmitigatedand terrible, and heaven’s lamps were near and far and farther still,while black, starless spaces showed like unfathomable patches in asilent sea.

“Good God!” said Hill, and fear got hold of him suddenly. He roused hishorse to a canter for the sake of the noise of the motion. The skyappalled him, and a peculiar sense of reversion took him. He was hungover depths, and seemed to cling to the suspended earth.

“I’m crazy myself,” said Hill, with a quiver in his voice. And his veryvoice broke the silence like a pistol shot. It made him start until heheard a sheep’s faint baa in the distance. And then a mopoke called itsmate in the trees by an old dry creek. Hill pulled up.

“But it ain’t a creek after all,” he said to himself. “It’s a Billabong,but it’s twenty years since water came out of the Lachlan so far asWarribah, and Grear put a dam there fifteen years ago. Ah! if the riveronly rose up, and came down roarin’. But it won’t; it won’t.”

As he dreamed of the river, now like a low water-hole with never acurrent in it, Wilson, at home, lay in an uneasy sleep. He, too,dreamed, and dreamed of rain, and he woke himself shouting, “Rain!” andin his confusion called “Mary” to his wife five hundred miles away.

“Oh God! I dreamt it again,” he said. “I dreamed of rain in our oldplace east, and the river came down with thunder and floods, and theland grew green in an hour—green, green!”

He fell asleep again, and when he woke at dawn he was oddly cheerful.Perhaps the rest from anxiety in that happy dream had taken part of thestrain from his weary mind.

“I do feel as if it had rained somewhere,” he said; “and if the weatheronly breaks anywhere we may have it here.”

“Don’t you think it cooler?” he said to Hill next morning. But the skywas brass and the sun white hot.

That evening a man riding through to Conoble from Condobolin told himthat he had heard it had rained east of Forbes. And another man whocamped at the Ten-Mile Clump said he knew there had been a greatthunderstorm to the east.

“I dreamed it, so I did!” cried Wilson; “and the Lachlan’s coming down.”

His jaw fell even as he spoke. What use was the Lachlan to him out inthe beyond, when Grear’s lay between? He had no river frontage. Grearhad it all.

In such a country, in spite of its apparent desolation, news travelsfast. They heard that the Lachlan, so quiet at Condobolin, was runninghard at Forbes. It was out in the flats, where the felled trees markedthe old mining camp. There had been a storm, a great cloudburst, in itshead waters, and the river grew alive. Wilson saddled up and rode thirtymiles to see it, and came to the gum-lined ditch just in time to hearthe stream awake. It stirred before his eyes, it became turbid, grewgrey, bubbled, moved and ran, with sticks and leaves and branches on itsfull tide.

And still the sky overhead was fire, and the sun a flame. Wilson cursedit, and prayed to the beautiful grey water. Why should not rain comethere? And soon. But as he rode back he came to sheep of his that stoodagainst a fence, and pressed on it, as though water was beyond it. Pitystirred him; he drove them through a gate, and let them suck his lastlow tank.

That night Wilson came to the men’s hut under its pines in the sanddune, and called to Hill.

“Hill, I want to speak to you,” he said, and presently his man came outinto the night. The stars were brilliant. Jupiter was like a littlemoon, and cast faint shadows.

“There’ll be no rain here,” said Wilson. “Were you sleeping? I can’tsleep! Do you hear?”

He waved his hand around the barren horizon.

“I hear,” said Hill.

He heard the sheep.

“You say that old Billabong once came down to Warribah?” asked Wilson.

Hill nodded.

“So they say. But Grear’s dam would stop it.”

“He’s no right to have it there,” said Wilson, savagely. “Look, Hill, Ican’t sleep. I’ll ride out to the dam.”

“I’ll come with you,” said Hill.

“You’re a good sort, Jack,” cried the boss. And they rode togetherthrough the wonderful night, that was so terrible to them, with its hot,dry air out of the oven of the north.

When they came at last to the long, low dam they tied their horses tosaplings, and sat down. Wilson spoke after a quarter of an hour’ssilence.

“It would be hard to lose it after these years,” he said. “And here’sGrear’s dam with a fence atop of it. He’s a hard one, Jack!”

“Ay,” said Hill, “he’s hard.”

And Wilson, who had not really slept for days, lay down upon the earthand dozed, while the star shadows of the gaunt thin boxes moved a foot.In the hollow of the Billabong some dry reeds, like a cane-brake,rustled faintly in the air. The leaves of the trees crackled, andunderneath these sharper sounds was the hum of the insect world. Faraway, on every side, the sheep called uneasily for water. What hadseemed silence grew into a very chorus, organic with the earth. Thehorses champed their bits and pawed the dusty soil; and once onewhinnied, and was answered by a far-off call from Grear’s.

“I wonder what the river’s like,” thought Hill. He pulled out his pipeand lighted it. The flare of the match extinguished the starlight for amoment, and then the darkness melted once more, and he saw each separatetree, each leaf, each reed.

“I wonder.”

For if the river was in high flood, and over the banks, the Billabongmust be full at Grear’s. And suddenly he heard a sound that he knewwell. He laid his hand upon Wilson’s shoulder.

“D’ye hear it, sir? What is it?”

But both knew. Grear’s sheep were moving from east and west towardswater.

“The blackfellows were right,” said Wilson. “The Billabong is comingdown.”

The horses trampled uneasily, and seemed aware of a change. Perhaps theytoo smelt the grey flood as it crawled. And all the air seemed full ofwhispers, loud and louder yet. For even the thinned bush is alive, andholds carnival at midnight and beyond it. A snake crawled by them on thedam, and suddenly being aware of nigh enemies, it slipped away hastily,and hid in the hollow trunk of a fallen dwarf box. The sheep on Warribahgrew more uneasy; he heard a distant baa, and then a nearer cry, and aplaintive chorus came down the dry, hot wind.

“I can’t listen to ’em,” said Wilson. “It makes me mad.”

He rested his head upon his knees, and kept his hands to his ears. Butsuddenly he rose up.

“If the water comes we’ll cut the dam, Hill.”

“I would,” said Hill.

“Go back and fetch Jim, and bring shovels,” said Wilson. “I’ll cut it.If the water comes, I’ve a right to it.”

And Hill rode homeward fast. And as he rode the boss sat still upon thedam, and looked upon the faintly outlined hollow of the ancientwaterway. And again he dozed, and did not see that round the far bend ofthe hollow came a sneaking, quiet band of grey water, like a crawlingsnake. But as he slept the night chorus increased, and away to the souththe full sheep baa’ed with content. The Warribah sheep heard and knew,and moved south through the night: and suddenly ten thousand broke intoa gallop, and stayed in a heap against the fence that topped the dam.Their voices agonised; they woke Wilson suddenly, and he reached out hishand and touched water.

And he heard horses galloping. This was Hill returning.

“Thank God!” said Wilson, and he prayed to Heaven with suddenthankfulness.

But then he started, for the horses came from the south. They came fromGrear’s, and he knew what that meant.

“I’ll do it if I have to kill him,” said Wilson. For behind him thepainful chorus of the sheep was deafening. He saw them packed againstthe bulging wires. His heart bled for them, his children.

And then three horses burst through the thin bush.

“Oh, we’re in time,” said Grear. “I thought as much, but we’re in time.Who’s that?”

“Wilson of Warribah,” said Wilson. “Grear, you will let the waterthrough.”

And Grear laughed.

“To you that sneaked in and took up my back-lots? Oh, it’s likely,likely!”

“But the sheep are dying, Grear.”

“Mine ain’t,” said Grear. “Get over the fence and off my land. I’ll nothave you here.”

And Wilson burst into a passionate appeal that was almost a scream.

“Look here, man, if you are a man. I’ll give you ten per cent of ’em tocut the dam. They’re dying. Oh, my God! hear ’em, Grear; hear ’em! AndI’ve bred ’em. I watched ’em grow. Oh, Grear, I’ll give you half!”

And Grear swore horribly.

“I’ll see them die, and see you get out. I don’t want you here.”

And now in the noise the sheep made it was difficult to hear a manspeak. But the water grew up silently, and spread out, filling thehollow—a grateful and splendid sheet.

“’Tain’t all yours,” screamed Wilson. “The dam’s not legal. You’ve noright to rob me and my sheep.”

“Then go to law, you dog, and have it proved,” said Grear. And as hespoke Hill came galloping, and with him Jim and two other men. And theycarried shovels.

“Look,” said Wilson. “We’re five to you three, you and your men. I meanto have the water.”

“Never!” cried Grear, and getting off his horse he walked up the dam towhere Wilson stood.

“Get over the fence,” he said.

And Wilson leant against the fence and the sheep behind him. He dabbledwith his hand in their wool. Their hot breath fanned him.

“Don’t, Grear, don’t,” he pleaded. “What would you think if I did thesame to you?”

“You can’t,” said Grear, and he laughed. “I’ve the river at my back.”

And Hill with a spade in his hand pressed through the sheep, until hecame to Wilson. He touched the boss’s shoulder, and Wilson calmed as hetook the spade.

“You don’t mean that they’re to die, Grear, do you?” he asked, with acatch in his voice.

“What’s that to me?”

“It’s much to me,” said Wilson. “Oh, Grear, I’d rather be hanged thanlet it be.”

“Would you? Then be hanged, you rat!” said Grear.

And Wilson lifted the spade, and split Grear’s head with it, and the manfell back into the water, and dyed it with his blood. But he was deadbefore he touched the silver grey stream that had slain him.

And Wilson fell to work digging.

“Good God!” said Hill, and the dead squatter’s men cried out.

“Dig, dig,” said Wilson. “Dig! Grear’s got his water. I’ll have mine.”

When the sun rose his sheep were content.

“Now we’ll see what the law says,” cried Wilson. And he rode south tofind the law.

THE KING OF MALEKA

By H. DE VERE STACPOOLE

1

Connart had started in life with a fine, open, believing disposition,and with that disposition for his chief asset he had entered the worldof business. At thirty he had lost nearly everything but his heart, yetit was stolen from him, also, by one Mary Bateman of Boston, aquiet-looking little woman, endowed with common sense, a few thousanddollars and a taste for travel. It was this taste, combined with aslight weakness of the lungs, that induced Connart to go into thePacific trade, also a legacy, from an English relation, amounting tosome two thousand pounds odd, which enabled him to make the new start inbusiness without calling on his wife’s capital.

Dobree of San Francisco gave him the pitch. Connart had the qualities ofhis defects. Men robbed him, but they liked him. Men are queer things.Dobree, in business, was a very tough person indeed, quite without anyfiner feelings, and never giving a cent or a chance away, yet, taking aliking to Connart, he gave him a house, a go-down, and the chance ofsuccess on this Island, by name of Maleka, for nothing.

“I had a station there up to six months ago,” said Dobree, “but I’mgetting rid of my copra interests. You can have the house, charter aschooner and fill up with trade and go down there, it’s a good climateand will suit your wife. You won’t make a fortune, but you won’t dobadly if you stick to your guns and don’t let the Kanakas get theweather gauge on you. There’s only one man there, Seedbaum is his name,he’s a tough customer by all accounts, but there’s copra enough fortwo—I know a schooner you can have, the Golden Gleam; she’s owned byold Tom Bowlby. I’ve got a fellow at a station on Tomasu, that’s ahundred and fifty miles west of Maleka. There’s a cargo waiting shipmentthere. Bowlby can drop you and your stuff at Maleka, then pick up mycargo at the other place. You won’t have your copra ready for somemonths and you can make arrangements with him to come back for it. Youmight make arrangements to work in future with Bowlby, he’s a straightman. You might work with him as partner.”

It was easy to be seen that Dobree was not only giving things away, butgoing out of his course to make things smooth. Connart felt glowinglythankful.

“It’s more than good of you,” said he, “but it seems to me you will loseover this, for a location like that is worth money.”

“So are cigars,” said Dobree, “but if I give a box of cigars to a friendhe doesn’t complain that the gift is worth money. D——n money,” continuedthis money-grubber, “it’s worth nothing but the fun of making it—well,will you take your cigars, or shall I give the box to someone else?”

Connart said no more. In three weeks’ time the Golden Gleam, which waslying at the wharves, had taken her cargo of all the multitudinousthings that go by the name of “trade,” and one bright morning, tackingagainst the wind from the sea, she left the Golden Gate behind her.

Mrs. Connart stood on deck, watching bald Tamalpais across the blue,scudding sea of the wake.

When you go to the Pacific Islands you die to all the things you haveknown, but you are at least sure that you are going to heaven—if youavoid the low islands.

Mrs. Connart knew the first fact. Down below in her cabin she carriedwith her the relics of the life she would no longer lead, down to awell-worn riding habit and a whip that would most likely never touchhorse again, but she was not despondent, quite the reverse.

You may be sea-sick in a Pacific schooner, bucking against the swell andbending to the north-west trades, you may be mutinous, or angry, ortipsy, but despondency, that low fever of cities and civilisation, hasno place out there.

“You ain’t feelin’ the sea, ma’am?” said Captain Bowlby, ranging upalongside of her.

“No,” said she, “I’m a good sailor.”

“I bet you are,” said the captain.

Bowlby had a keen eye for ships and women. He had taken a liking to Mrs.Connart at first sight. She had a steady eye and sure smile that pleasedhim, and some days later, alone with Ambrose the mate, he voiced hisopinions.

“Looks like a mouse, don’t she? Well, there ain’t no mouse about herbarring her look. She’s one of them quiet sorts that’d back-chat acongressman if she was put to it, or take a lion by the tail if it wasmakin’ for one of her kids. I bet she’s rudder and compass both toConnart. She and he fit as if they was welded. Did you ever take noticethat there’s chaps you meet that’re only half men till they get a womanthat fits them clapped on to them? If she don’t fit they go under thefirst beam sea they meet; if she do, weather won’t hurt them.”

Ambrose concurred. He was a concurring individual, with few opinions ofhis own on any matters outside his trade.

“I reckon you’re right,” said he, “though I don’t know much aboutwomen—I never had the time,” he finished, apologetically.

2

They raised Maleka at six o’clock one brilliant morning, and by nine ithad developed before them, mountainous and green, showing, through theglasses, the blowing foliage, torrent traces and the foam on the barrierreef.

To Connart and his wife there seemed something miraculous in theunfolding of this island from the wastes of the blue and desolate sea.They had pictured this new home often in their minds, but they hadpictured nothing like this. It had been waiting for them all theirlives, and it seemed to them now that the souls of all the pleasantplaces they had ever seen or dreamed of were waiting to greet them onthat summer-girdled reef.

As they passed the break and entered the lagoon the true island beach ofblinding white sand showed its curve lipped by the emerald waters, andthrough the foliage came glimpses of the white houses of the littletown.

“Look,” said Mrs. Connart, wide-eyed and drawing deep breaths as if toinhale the strangeness and beauty of the scene before her, “there arepeople on the beach, natives, and look at the canoes.”

“There’s a boat pushing off,” said Connart, “and a big fellow in astriped suit in her.”

“That’s Seedbaum,” said Captain Bowlby; “wonder what he wants, comin’ toinspect—gin, likely.”

The anchor fell, waking the echoes of the woods, and the Golden Gleam,swinging to the tide that was just beginning to steal out of the lagoon,lay with her nose pointing to the beach whilst the boat came alongside,and the man in the striped suit scrambled on board.

He was a big man, with bulging eyes, a shaved head, and feet encased inworn-out tennis shoes. The suit seemed made of flannelette.

Mrs. Connart at first sight took a profound dislike to this individual.

Seedbaum—for Seedbaum it was—saluted Bowlby, gave him good-day, cast hiseye at the strangers and opened up.

“I knew you before you made the anchorage,” said he, “dropped in forwater, I suppose.”

“No, I’ve water enough till I fetch Tomasu,” replied Bowlby, “I’vebrought some trade.”

“Trade,” said Seedbaum, offering a cigar. “Well, I don’t mind takingsome prints and knives off you at a reasonable price. I’m full up withcanned goods and tobacco, still—at a reasonable figure——”

“The trade’s not mine,” said Bowlby, lighting the cigar. “It belongs tothe new trader—that gentleman there, Mr. Connart’s his name, let me makeyou known. Mr. Connart, this is Mr. Seedbaum.”

“Glad to make your acquaintance,” said Connart.

Seedbaum, fingering an unlit cigar, stared at Connart.

“Well, this gets me,” said he. “Why, Dobree cleared his last man out forgood, there’s not business enough in this island for two—that’sflat—what’d he want sending you for?”

“He didn’t send me,” replied Connart.

“Then,” said Seedbaum, “what brought you here, anyway?”

“I think,” said Mrs. Connart, “this ship brought us here—and, excuseme—do you own this island?”

Seedbaum stared at her, then his glance fell before that quiet,unwavering gaze, and he turned to Bowlby.

“Well,” said he, “it’s none of my affair if the whole continent of theStates comes here to find copra—if it’s to be found—but it seems to methis is a pretty dry ship.”

“Come down below,” said Bowlby.

They went below and the pop of a beer-bottle cork followed upon theirdescent.

“Oh, what a creature!” said Mrs. Connart. “George, why is it thathumanity alone produces things like that?”

“I don’t know,” said Connart, “but I wish humanity had not produced ithere.”

Seedbaum came on deck again mollified by beer. Despite the set-down hehad received he nodded to the new-comers as he went over the side, andas they watched him being rowed ashore, Bowlby, leaning on the rail,spat into the water and spoke.

“I didn’t much trouble tellin’ you of that chap on the way out,” saidBowlby. “There’s no use in meetin’ troubles half way, and there’s not anisland in the hull Pacific you won’t find trouble of some sort in. Ifyou go in for Pacific tradin’ there’s two things you have to face,co*ckroaches and men. I’ve kept the old Gleam pretty free of ‘roaches byfumigatin’, but you can’t fumigate islands. If you could I reckon you’dsee more rats with hands and feet takin’ to the water than’s ever beenseen since the Ark discharged cargo. Seedbaum’d be one of them, but youhave his measure now and you’ll know enough to go careful with him.Wiart, the last man that was here, got on all right with him. You see,they were pretty much of a pair, and it’s my belief they were hand inglove, as you might say, but I reckon you won’t have much use for aglove like that. Well, I’ll get you ashore now to see your house andI’ll help to fix it up for you. We’ll begin gettin’ the cargo ashoreto-morrow.”

He ordered a boat to be lowered and they rowed ashore.

Never, not even in dreamland, had Mrs. Connart experienced anything sostrange as that stepping on shore from the bow of the boat run high anddry on the shelving beach, never anything like the touch of land afterthe long, long weeks of seafaring, and the sights, the sounds, theperfumes all new, belonging to a new life to be lived in a new world.

The white houses set in a little garden at the far end of the villagepleased her as much as the place. Her house is almost as much as herhusband to a woman, for, to a woman a house implies so much more than toa man. There are good houses and bad houses, crazy houses exhibiting thefolly of their builders in stucco turrets or mad chimney pots, andstupid houses without character or proper sculleries and sinks. Thehouse at Maleka, though small and possessing few rooms, was cheerful andhad a pleasant personality of its own, but it did not possess a stick offurniture. Mrs. Connart with the prescience of a woman and assisted bythe advice of Bowlby, had brought with them from San Francisco articlesof furniture not to be obtained in the islands, unless at a ruinouscost. Mats, cane chairs and hammocks could be obtained from the natives.All the same, there had been furniture in the house and it was gone.Dobree had given them a list of things and amongst them was an articleon which Mrs. Connart had, woman-like, set her heart. “One red cedarchest, four foot six by three foot,” was its specification.

“But who can have taken them?” said she, as they stood in the emptyfront room, after a tour of inspection. “There was crockery ware,besides, and oh, ever so many things, and Mr. Dobree was so kind. Hewould not take a penny for them. You remember, George, he said: ‘When Igive a friend a box of cigars I don’t take the bands off them, whateveris there you can have’—and now there’s nothing!”

“Maybe the Kanakas have taken them,” said Bowlby.

“Or Seedbaum,” said Connart.

“As like as not,” replied the captain. “He seems to look on the blessedplace as his. He told me down in the cabin he reckoned he was king ofMaleka, and that all the Kanakas jumped to his orders as if he was king.He’s got a clutch on the place, there’s no denying that, and he managesto keep missionaries away somehow or ’nother. I’m afraid you’re going tohave trouble with that chap.”

“I’m not afraid of him,” said Connart. “I’ve got a revolver and can useit if worst comes to the worst.”

“Oh, it’s not revolvers I’m thinkin’ of,” said the captain, “it’strickery; he’d trick the devil out of his hoofs and then make gelatineof them, would Seedbaum; have no trade dealin’s with him; take myadvice, just stick to the Kanakas.”

“Let’s go and ask him, right now, if he knows where the things have goneto,” said Mrs. Connart.

“Well, that’s not a bad idea,” said Bowlby. “He’s sure to lie; anyhow,it’ll clear matters.”

Seedbaum’s house was a substantially built coral-lime-washed building,with a broad verandah in which hung a cage containing a parrot, thegarden was neat and well-tended, and the whole place had an air of quietprosperity, neatness and order, as though the better part of the owner’scharacter were here exhibited for the general view.

Seedbaum was seated on the verandah, reading a San Francisco paperobtained from Bowlby.

Seeing them approach he rose to greet them.

“I’ve come to ask you about the furniture in our house,” said Connart.“There were quite a lot of things left by the last man, and I have alist of them, but everything has gone, been taken away—do you knowanything of the matter?”

“I don’t know anything of what you call furniture,” said the other.“Wiart sold me his sticks when he left for fifty dollars, and a badbargain it was.”

“He sold you them?”

“Yes.”

“But they belonged to Mr. Dobree.”

“Oh, did they; well, Dobree will have to dispute that with Wiart. Wiartsaid they were his.”

“Have you his receipt?”

“Lord, no, there was no receipt in the matter. I handed him over thedollars and he handed me over the rubbish. It was a favour to him.”

“Was there a cedar-wood chest?” asked Mrs. Connart.

“There was. It’s in my house now, there; you can see it through thedoor.”

Through the open door which gave a view of the front room Mrs. Connartsaw the object of her desire. It was a beauty, solid, moth-defying, withbrass corners and brass handles. It was hers by all right, and Seedbaumhad tricked her out of it. She spoke:

“That chest is mine,” said she. “Mr. Dobree gave it to me, it was hisproperty, and Mr. Wiart had no right to sell it.”

“Well,” said Seedbaum, “he sold it, and if there’s any trouble over itit will be between Dobree and Wiart, and Wiart was going to Japan, so hesaid when he left here, so Dobree had better go to Japan and have it outwith him.”

Mrs. Connart turned.

“Come,” said she to the others, “there is no use talking any more tothis person. I will write to Mr. Dobree.”

They turned away and Seedbaum sat down again to read his newspaper.

“That’s what I said,” spoke Bowlby. “Monkey tricks; you see how he’splaced; Wiart’s gone Lord knows where, and Pacific Coast law don’t runhere. The way for you to do is to lay low and fetch him in the eyeunexpected, somehow, though if you take my advice you’ll give him a wideoffing. There’s no use in fightin’ with alligators; better leave thembe. Hullo, what’s that?”

They turned.

Seedbaum had come out of the verandah.

A passing native had drawn his ire for some reason or another, and theredoubtable Seedbaum was storming at him. Then he kicked the native, andthe latter, a big, powerful man, turned and ran.

“The coward!” said Mrs. Connart.

“I expect that chap ain’t a coward,” said Bowlby. “He’s just ’feared ofSeedbaum. I reckon there’re some curious things in nature. I’ve seen awhole ship’s company livin’ in terror of a hazin’ captain. They couldhave hove him overboard and swore he fell over—for the after guard wasas set against him as the fo’c’sle—but they didn’t. Just let themselvesbe driv’ like sheep and kicked like terriers. It’s the same with theKanakas on this island, I expect.”

“He’s got a personal ascendancy over them,” said Connart.

“I reckon he’s got something like that,” said Captain Bowlby.

3

In a week they were settled down, and a few days later, the cargo havingbeen landed and stored, the Golden Gleam took her departure.

They went down to the beach to see her off; they watched her topsailsvanish beyond the reef, and they returned, feeling very much alone inthe world. A good man is warmth and light even to the souls of sinners.Captain Bowlby was illiterate; his language was free; he was not asaint, but he was a good, human man right through. The sea turns outcharacters like this just as she turns out shells. It is a pity thatthey have to cling to the ocean and the beaches; the cities want them.

“I feel just as if I had lost a near relation,” said Mrs. Connart.

“Well, we’ll have him back soon,” said her husband. “It’s up to us nowto get the copra to give him a cargo.”

Next morning the new trader began business by laying out a selection ofgoods on the verandah of his store. Mrs. Connart, who knew something ofthe Polynesian dialects and who had the art of picking up unknowntongues, had already got in touch with the Kanakas; they charmed andpleased her, especially the children, and wherever she went she wasgreeted by friendly faces. It seemed to her that the population of thisisland, leaving out Seedbaum, her husband and herself, consistedentirely of children, children of different sizes and different ages,but children all the same.

Returning that day from a long walk in the woods she found Connartsmoking a pipe on the verandah of their house. He looked ratherdepressed.

“I can’t make it out,” said he; “there’s no trade doing.”

“Maybe they don’t know you have started in business yet.”

“Oh, yes, they do; lots of them have passed and seen the store open;they’ve turned to look at the goods, and they seemed attracted, but theywent on.”

“Well, give them time,” said she.

“Look,” said Connart, “there’s copra going to Seedbaum’s; they’retrading with him, right enough.”

Mrs. Connart watched the copra bearers, but said nothing.

In her heart she felt that Seedbaum was moving against them by somestealthy means. At first she thought that it might be possible he hadworked upon the native mind and induced the Kanakas to put a taboo uponthe newcomers, but she dismissed this idea at once. There was no taboo.The Kanakas were not a bit afraid of either her or her husband, on thecontrary, there was every evidence of friendliness.

“Well,” she said that night, when the store was closed for the daywithout a knife or a stick of tobacco changing hands, “there’s nothingto be done till we find out why they are acting so. It’s that creature,I am sure. He began by robbing me of my beautiful cedar-wood chest, andhe’s going on to rob you of your chances in business. Well, let himbeware. I’m Christian enough not to wish to hurt him, but I’m Christianenough to believe there’s a power that punishes the wicked, and he’swicked. I knew him for a wicked man directly he came on board the ship.”

“He keeps to himself, and that’s one good thing,” said Connart; “but Idon’t see how he can stop the natives from trading with us.”

“I don’t, either, but I know he does,” said she.

The next day passed without business being done, and the next.

“We may as well shut up shop, it seems to me,” said Connart. “How wouldit be if you spoke to some of these people and asked them what is thematter?”

“I’ve thought of that,” said his wife, “and I held offbecause—because—oh, I don’t know, it seems sort of indelicate to askpeople why they don’t come to one’s store. I’ll do it to-morrow morningfirst thing. One mustn’t let one’s feelings stand in the way when one’sliving is concerned.”

“I wish we had never come here,” said he, “for your sake.”

“Never come here?” she cried. “Why, I wouldn’t for the earth have goneanywhere else! I love the place and I love people, and what aredifficulties? Why, difficulties are the main excitement in life. If lifewasn’t an obstacle race, it would be a very flat affair. George, we havegot to beat that man, and I’m going to, you wait and see.”

He kissed her and blessed her, and they sat down that night to a game ofcribbage, Seedbaum and the wickedness of the world forgotten.

Next morning after breakfast Mrs. Connart went out. She passed throughthe village and on to the beach, brilliant in the morning light,breeze-blown and filled with the murmurs of the reef; some natives werepulling in a net and she watched them, chatting to them and playing withthe children who had come down to secure the little fish. Then she had atalk with a woman who was standing by, a woman dark and straight as anarrow, a woman mild-eyed and with a voice sweet as the sound of runningwater.

Leaving her, Mrs. Connart passed to a man who was engaged in mending anoutrigger of one of the canoes hauled up on the beach; she had a talkwith him.

Then she returned, walking slowly and thoughtfully to the house, whereshe found her husband.

“George,” said she. “I am right. It is that Creature. The people hatehim, but they are afraid of him. It seems absolutely absurd, but it isso. He holds them in a spell. He kicks them and beats them, but they arenot afraid of that. It’s just him.”

“Good Lord,” said Connart, “why on earth don’t they rise against him,and tell him to go to the devil; he’s only one man, anyway.”

“I don’t know,” said she. “It’s a mystery of human nature. He’s thetyrant type, and it’s always been the same in the world; there’s somesort of magnetism in that type that keeps folk under. History is full ofthat. It’s the soft man and the kindly man and the good man that’sassassinated, but tyrants seem to go free. He’s what he said he was, theking of this place—well, we must see what we can do to pull him from histhrone. I wish there were more whites here.”

“That’s the bother,” said Connart.

Next morning they found a basket of fruit on their verandah, a gift fromsome unknown person. It was as though the Kanakas, afraid to show theirsympathy and friendliness openly for the strangers, had done it in thismanner. But no one came to trade.

That night two chickens, some sweet potatoes and another basket of fruitwere deposited in the same place.

“And we can’t thank them,” said Mrs. Connart; “but I believe thesehaven’t all come from one person. I think it’s everyone here—they alllike us. Oh, George, isn’t it maddening that we can’t have them openlyour friends, just because of that Beast!”

“It is,” said George.

Now at eleven o’clock that morning, Mrs. Connart, seated on the verandahand engaged on some needle-work, noticed a little native girl, who,pausing at the garden gate and seeming undecided, at last picked upcourage, opened the gate and came towards the house.

Connart was in the house, going over some accounts, when his wife ran into him.

“George, come at once,” cried she; “such a dreadful thing—they’ve risenagainst Seedbaum and they are killing him somewhere in the woods, andthey want us to go and see!”

“Good Lord!” cried he, “killing him! Want us to go and see! Are theymad?”

He picked up his hat and came out on the verandah, where the prettylittle native girl was waiting, a flower of the scarlet hibiscus in herhair and calm contentment in her eyes.

“I can’t quite make out all she says,” said Mrs. Connart; “but I canmake out her meaning.”

“You’d better stay here,” said he, “whilst I go; there may be trouble.”

“I am not afraid,” she replied. “Come on, we may be too late.”

They followed the child.

“Tell her to hurry,” said Connart.

“She says we need not hurry,” replied she; “as far as I can make outthey are only going to kill him—I expect they have him a prisonersomewhere; well, much as I hate him, I am glad we will be able to savehim.”

“That depends on how the natives take it,” said he.

The child led them from the road by a path trod by the copra gatherers,a path running through the wonderland of the woods, a green gloom wherethe soaring palms shot upwards through a twilight roofed with movingshadows and sun sparkles.

They reached a glade where a number of natives were seated in a circle.Above them and swinging by a cord from two trees was hanging a littledisk about half the size of a tambourine; the disk was made of cane, andso constructed as to leave a small hole in the centre. An old nativewoman seated under the disk was clapping her hands and repeatingsomething that sounded like an incantation. Every pair of eyes in thewhole of that assembly was fixed upon the disk.

The child whispered something to Mrs. Connart. Then she turned from thechild and whispered to her husband.

“It’s only witchcraft. That’s a soul trap. They are waiting for a fly topass through the hole in that thing. If it does, then Seedbaum willdie.”

“Good heavens,” murmured Connart, with a half-laugh. “Why, the fellowhasn’t any soul—not enough to furnish out a fly.”

They watched patiently for ten minutes. There were plenty of flies; theyrested on the little tambourine, crawled round its edge, but not onewent through the hole.

“Come,” whispered Connart.

They withdrew, taking the path back.

“It’s pathetic,” murmured she.

“It’s damned foolishness,” he repeated. “They trade with him, and lethim kick them, and then go on with that nonsense. If they refused himcopra, they would bring him to his senses quick enough.”

“Anyhow they hate him,” said she.

“Much good that is,” he replied.

4

Now it came about that the soul trap—turning out a dead failure, sincenot a single fly went through the hole—instead of destroying Seedbaum,fixed him on a pedestal more secure than that which he had hithertooccupied.

He was indestructible, and the power which he exercised over the nativemind threatened to be as indestructible as himself.

However, vengeance was coming. Retribution for all the wrongs he hadcommitted, his swindlings, brutalities and beatings.

It came in this wise:

One afternoon Mrs. Connart, seated on the verandah and reading TheMoths of the Limberlost, heard the cries of a child.

Right in front of the house, King Seedbaum was beating a native childfor some fault or fancied disrespect towards his royal highness, cuffingit and cuffing it, whilst the squeals of the cuffed one affronted theheavens and the ears of all listeners.

Now, to touch a child or dog or cat in Mrs. Connart’s presence was toraise a devil. White as death she rushed into the house and white asdeath she rushed out again. She held her riding-whip, a Mexican quirt,ladies’ size, but horribly efficient in energetic hands.

Seedbaum saw her coming, couldn’t understand, caught the first lash onhis right arm and along his back—he was wearing the pyjama suit—and hisyell brought the village flocking and Connart running from a field wherehe was laying out some plants.

He saw the quirt lashing over Seedbaum’s shoulder, across his legs, andacross the back, for the King of Maleka was now running, running andpursued for ten yards or so whilst the quirt got one last blow in.

Then he had his wife in his arms, and she was weeping.

“Did he touch you?” cried Connart.

“No—it was a child,” she gasped. “Beast! Look, he has run into hishouse.”

The street was filled with a crowd that all through the beating hadremained spell-bound. Now it broke up into knots and small parties, alltalking together excitedly.

Connart, with his arm around his wife, drew her into the house.

She sat down on a couch and laughed and sobbed. She was half hysterical,but not for long.

“I couldn’t help it,” she said. “I would do it again. It’s not becauseof us—but because he was beating a child.”

“Brute!” said Connart. “I’ll go down now and give him more. I want tohave it out with him right now.” He turned to the door. She caught him.

“No,” she cried, “he’s had enough. He won’t do it again. Listen, what’sthat?”

From away in the direction of Seedbaum’s house came a sound like theswarming of angry bees, also shouts.

They rushed to the door and saw Seedbaum. Seedbaum with fifty peopleround him, and every person trying to beat him at the same time.

“Good God,” said Connart, “you’ve taught them the trick—they’ll killhim.”

“He’s got away,” cried Mrs. Connart.

Seedbaum, breaking from the crowd, was making up the street, the wholevillage was after him; he passed the Connarts’ house and headed for thewoods where he disappeared. Then his pursuers drew off, and, rushing tothe house of Connart, swarmed at the railings, shouting and waving andlaughing, whilst Mrs. Connart interpreted.

“They say he’ll never come back to the village again,” said she, “forthey’ll kill him if he does; that he’ll have to live in the woods. Oh,George! I’m frightened—what will be the end of it all?”

The end was a whale ship that came into the lagoon. Seedbaum, living inthe woods and supported by the generosity of the Connarts, was givennotice by the three chiefs of the island, Matua, Tamura and Ratupea byname, that if he did not go away in the whale ship he would be killedbefore the next ship arrived. And he went.

He was almost friendly with the Connarts, in return for their food andprotection, at the last, and as the natives would allow him to takenothing with him, he had to leave everything behind him, including thered cedar-wood chest, which thus came back to its rightful owner.

He did not even threaten the natives with governmental retribution; heknew he was done and placed out of court by his own conduct.

But the thing that always remained with Connart out of this affair wasthe fact that a population of active and vigorous people would stillhave been down-trodden by a merciless tyrant but for a little, quiet,calm-eyed woman, who had unconsciously and just from an uprising of herown spirit, “shown them the trick.”

Spirit—after all, what else is there in the world beside it?

ALLELUIA

By T. F. POWYS

Follow me into one of those shining days of April, when the blue in thesky has lost its March iciness and the village of Wallbridge pauses inits usual grey monotony to look for events.

Events come indeed, as they always do, for those who wait long enoughfor them. The first intimation that something was going to happenchanced to be picked up in the road by Mr. Tapper, labourer of Ford’sFarm.

Mr. Tapper had once found a penny in the mud, and ever since thateventful day the good man had kept his eye fixed upon the road when hewalked abroad.

Mr. Tapper handed the paper he had found when teatime came round to hisdaughter Lily, remarking as he did so:

“’Tain’t nothink,” which merely meant, of course, that the paper wasn’ta penny.

Lily—the pretty Lily—gave her head a little shake, and read at the topof the printed sheet the word “Alleluia.”

It was all out then, of course, as soon as the pretty Lily had got holdof it, all the whole merry matter of the coming of Alleluia intoWallbridge. After he had handed in those papers at the doors—with theexception of the ones that he wisely dropped in the road, well knowingthat anything picked up always interests—invited everyone to hismeetings. Alleluia for he must have known everyone would call himAlleluia, began to preach and sing in a devout manner in the handsometent that he had set up near to his van. He was so gentle and polite andso good at starting those emotional tunes—invented by Mr. Moody—thatWallbridge at once praised and patronised him.

Alleluia had come down from Oxford, and his confiding and childlikelook, together with his silky moustache, had led him into the bypathsand hedges and so on and on until he reached the village of Wallbridge.

There were, of course, troubles in even so gentle a young man’s path;there were difficulties and doubts—little worries—so that Alleluia’seyes were not always without their tears.

The Wallbridge people were not always so loving as they should be. TheRev. John Sutton, the vicar, disapproved of the preacher’s looks and waseven slightly contemptuous of the glory hymns. This unkindness hit theyoung man hard, because, outwardly, the vicar seemed pleased with thework that he was doing.

And there was Lily. Lily had to be considered even by Mr. Tapper, herfather, as something female. Mr. Tapper put her down entirely, with hermother included, to the simple fact that he had stayed too long out onelovely June fair day at the Stickland revels. Even that day he saw asall Lily’s fault, feeling, truly perhaps, that the child brings herparents together.

Even then Mr. Tapper was middle-aged, but that only made him blame Lilythe more. If it had not been for Lily, Mr. Tapper might have gone onhawking saucepan lids and receiving beer in exchange for the countrymatters in his tavern songs.

When Lily was eighteen a very important event happened to her. Shebought a new looking-glass to replace a cracked one that had alwaysgiven her face such an ugly cut down the middle. Before this new one—shehad stolen the money for it from her drunken parent’s pocket—she couldtouch herself and preen herself, and wonder at a red mark on her bosomthat looked almost like a bite.

That must not happen again; of course it wouldn’t after Alleluia’spreaching; young Wakely would have to take her home more gently infuture. Following the lovely hymns, it was not quite proper to becovered and eaten and bitten by kisses all the way home.

“No you mustn’t, Tom.”

Pretty Lily said the words before her glass in order to practise them.She used to sit quite near to the young preacher, and had got hischild’s look and his silky upper lip quite by heart. He would be alwaysspeaking about love and about doing kind actions to one another, andevery hymn was filled with the delicious savour of subdued sin.

Lily was quite moved by all the excitement, but she wished to be morecareful about Tom, and so she was....

Alleluia had grown fond of looking upwards too, and for many nights hehad seen only one face in the sky. Alleluia was forced to allow that thepretty face in the sky had nothing whatever to do with the hymns he hadbeen singing; he knew it was not God’s face, nor David’s, nor any otherheavenly person’s. But, alas, it so pleased Alleluia that he wanderedabroad in search of it sometimes, and often it was midnight before thepreacher opened his van door to go to bed.

The excessive longing for events to happen in a village sometimesover-reaches itself; it did, indeed, over-reach itself this time inWallbridge.

As usual, events pass in a sober grey way in the country. The dismalsermons of all the Rev. John Suttons are nearly always of the samedismal colour. And even the Wallbridge quarrel between old Mother Wimpleand Farmer Told had become dull coloured, too. The sun shone as best itcould, and sometimes the moon would appear, though none of theseheavenly lights proved strong enough to break the leaden colouring.

But the people had longed, and when the people long something happens.

It came in this wise. A morning dawned with a splash of red, thatsplashed the grey sod, that splashed the hills and the meadows, and evengave to Farmer Told’s white cow a red blood-stained look.

Her hymn-book soaked, her pretty Sunday clothes so sadly torn, herpretty lily face rudely beaten and broken: there was quite a little poolof blood in the chalk-pit, the grey colour lurid for once.

This was more than peaceful Wallbridge had wished for. This dreadfuldash of red made even the April sunshine look a little queer. It couldnever be the same usual Wallbridge wind that blew upon the stalwartforms of the inspectors and policemen who had the case in hand.

Alleluia had been found, almost crazed, near the chalkpit; he had beenlooking for pretty Lily all night, he said, and had only found her atdawn. There was blood upon his clothes, he had held her body in hisarms.

Others told so much, too. They had been seen together very often; theyhad been followed, watched, and the stars needs must have blushed, sofolks said. Tom Wakely had been away that red night, so it could nothave been he who had done it.

Honest Mr. Tapper gave the strongest evidence, and Alleluia was hanged.

Perhaps this was a little hard upon Alleluia, but all men said he shouldhave stuck to his hymn-singing and not gone out to look for prettylilies at night-time. One wit even remarked that he could have sung hishymns in the town in a cheaper fashion without a stretch of the neck atthe end of it.

The red splash of pretty Lily’s blood coloured some dozen or so years ofWallbridge life, but after that time was passed the old grey began tohang heavy again and an owl hooted.

The owl must have settled upon Mr. Tapper’s chimney, so near did thesound of its hooting seem to Mr. Tapper.

It was midnight, two old women—one was Mrs. Tapper—were sitting by thedying man’s side.

“’E do die ’ard,” Mrs. Tapper remarked in a friendly tone.

Mr. Tapper was thoughtful.

“If only he hadn’t wandered off into the lanes on that fair day in June!He might even have been drinking beer instead of dying hard.”

The owl perched upon the cottage chimney hooted again. The ice uponFord’s pond cracked—the midnight frost was abroad.

Mr. Tapper spoke his last words.

“Our Lily, she weren’t murdered by thik young preacher,” said Mr.Tapper.

“Who did kill she?” the old women whispered excitedly.

“’Twas I,” said Mr. Tapper, “because young Wakely never give I thik beer’e’d promised. I did blame she for it.”

The owl hooted, the old women looked at one another—and Mr. Tapper’s jawslowly dropped.

THE MONKEY’S PAW

By W. W. JACOBS

From The Lady of the Barge, by W. W. Jacobs. Copyright, 1902, byDodd, Mead and Company.

1

Without, the night was cold and wet, but in the small parlour ofLaburnam Villa the blinds were drawn and the fire burned brightly.Father and son were at chess, the former, who possessed ideas about thegame involving radical changes, putting his king into such sharp andunnecessary perils that it even provoked comment from the white-hairedold lady knitting placidly by the fire.

“Hark at the wind,” said Mr. White, who, having seen a fatal mistakeafter it was too late, was amiably desirous of preventing his son fromseeing it.

“I’m listening,” said the latter, grimly surveying the board as hestretched out his hand. “Check.”

“I should hardly think that he’d come to-night,” said his father, withhis hand poised over the board.

“Mate,” replied the son.

“That’s the worst of living so far out,” bawled Mr. White, with suddenand unlooked-for violence; “of all the beastly, slushy, out-of-the-wayplaces to live in, this is the worst. Pathway’s a bog, and the road’s atorrent. I don’t know what people are thinking about. I suppose becauseonly two houses in the road are let, they think it doesn’t matter.”

“Never mind, dear,” said his wife, soothingly; “perhaps you’ll win thenext one.”

Mr. White looked up sharply, just in time to intercept a knowing glancebetween mother and son. The words died away on his lips, and he hid aguilty grin in his thin grey beard.

“There he is,” said Herbert White, as the gate banged to loudly andheavy footsteps came toward the door.

The old man rose with hospitable haste, and opening the door, was heardcondoling with the new arrival. The new arrival also condoled withhimself so that Mrs. White said, “Tut tut!” and coughed gently as herhusband entered the room, followed by a tall, burly man, beady of eyeand rubicund of visage.

“Sergeant-Major Morris,” he said, introducing him.

The sergeant-major shook hands, and taking the proffered seat by thefire, watched contentedly while his host got out whiskey and tumblersand stood a small copper kettle on the fire.

At the third glass his eyes got brighter, and he began to talk, thelittle family circle regarding with eager interest this visitor fromdistant parts, as he squared his broad shoulders in the chair and spokeof wild scenes and doughty deeds; of wars and plagues and strangepeoples.

“Twenty-one years of it,” said Mr. White, nodding at his wife and son.“When he went away he was a slip of a youth in the warehouse. Now lookat him.”

“He don’t look to have taken much harm,” said Mrs. White, politely.

“I’d like to go to India myself,” said the old man, “just to look rounda bit, you know.”

“Better where you are,” said the sergeant-major, shaking his head. Heput down the empty glass, and sighing softly, shook it again.

“I should like to see those old temples and fakirs and jugglers,” saidthe old man. “What was that you started telling me the other day about amonkey’s paw or something, Morris?”

“Nothing,” said the soldier, hastily. “Leastways, nothing worthhearing.”

“Monkey’s paw?” said Mrs. White, curiously.

“Well, it’s just a bit of what you might call magic, perhaps,” said thesergeant-major, off-handedly.

His three listeners leaned forward eagerly. The visitor absent-mindedlyput his empty glass to his lips and then set it down again. His hostfilled it for him.

“To look at,” said the sergeant-major, fumbling in his pocket, “it’sjust an ordinary little paw, dried to a mummy.”

He took something out of his pocket and proffered it. Mrs. White drewback with a grimace, but her son, taking it, examined it curiously.

“And what is there special about it?” inquired Mr. White as he took itfrom his son, and having examined it, placed it upon the table.

“It had a spell put on it by an old fakir,” said the sergeant-major, “avery holy man. He wanted to show that fate ruled people’s lives, andthat those who interfered with it did so to their sorrow. He put a spellon it so that three separate men could each have three wishes from it.”

His manner was so impressive that his hearers were conscious that theirlight laughter jarred somewhat.

“Well, why don’t you have three, sir?” said Herbert White, cleverly.

The soldier regarded him in the way that middle-age is wont to regardpresumptuous youth. “I have,” he said, quietly, and his blotchy facewhitened.

“And did you really have the three wishes granted?” asked Mrs. White.

“I did,” said the sergeant-major, and his glass tapped against hisstrong teeth.

“And has anybody else wished?” persisted the old lady.

“The first man had his three wishes. Yes,” was the reply; “I don’t knowwhat the first two were, but the third was for death. That’s how I gotthe paw.”

His tones were so grave that a hush fell upon the group.

“If you’ve had your three wishes, it’s no good to you now, then,Morris,” said the old man at last. “What do you keep it for?”

The soldier shook his head. “Fancy, I suppose,” he said, slowly. “I didhave some idea of selling it, but I don’t think I will. It has causedenough mischief already. Besides, people won’t buy. They think it’s afairy tale; some of them, and those who do think anything of it want totry it first and pay me afterward.”

“If you could have another three wishes,” said the old man, eyeing himkeenly, “would you have them?”

“I don’t know,” said the other. “I don’t know.”

He took the paw, and dangling it between his forefinger and thumb,suddenly threw it upon the fire. White, with a slight cry, stooped downand snatched it off.

“Better let it burn,” said the soldier, solemnly.

“If you don’t want it, Morris,” said the other, “give it to me.”

“I won’t,” said his friend doggedly. “I threw it on the fire. If youkeep it, don’t blame me for what happens. Pitch it on the fire againlike a sensible man.”

The other shook his head and examined his new possession closely. “Howdo you do it?” he inquired.

“Hold it up in your right hand and wish aloud,” said the sergeant-major,“but I warn you of the consequences.”

“Sounds like the Arabian Nights,” said Mrs. White, as she rose and beganto set the supper. “Don’t you think you might wish for four pairs ofhands for me?”

Her husband drew the talisman from pocket, and then all three burst intolaughter as the sergeant-major, with a look of alarm on his face, caughthim by the arm.

“If you must wish,” he said gruffly, “wish for something sensible.”

Mr. White dropped it back in his pocket, and placing chairs, motionedhis friend to the table. In the business of supper the talisman waspartly forgotten, and afterward the three sat listening in an enthralledfashion to a second instalment of the soldier’s adventures in India.

“If the tale about the monkey’s paw is not more truthful than those hehas been telling us,” said Herbert, as the door closed behind the guest,just in time for him to catch the last train, “we shan’t make much outof it.”

“Did you give him anything for it, father?” inquired Mrs. White,regarding her husband closely.

“A trifle,” said he, colouring slightly. “He didn’t want it, but I madehim take it. And he pressed me again to throw it away.”

“Likely,” said Herbert, with pretended horror. “Why, we’re going to berich, and famous and happy. Wish to be an emperor, father, to beginwith; then you can’t be henpecked.”

He darted round the table, pursued by the maligned Mrs. White armed withan antimacassar.

Mr. White took the paw from his pocket and eyed it dubiously. “I don’tknow what to wish for, and that’s a fact,” he said, slowly. “It seems tome I’ve got all I want.”

“If you only cleared the house, you’d be quite happy, wouldn’t you?”said Herbert, with his hand on his shoulder. “Well, wish for two hundredpounds then; that’ll just do it.”

His father, smiling shamefacedly at his own credulity, held up thetalisman, as his son, with a solemn face, somewhat marred by a wink athis mother, sat down at the piano and struck a few impressive chords.

“I wish for two hundred pounds,” said the old man distinctly.

A fine crash from the piano greeted the words, interrupted by ashuddering cry from the old man. His wife and son ran toward him.

“It moved,” he cried, with a glance of disgust at the object as it layon the floor. “As I wished, it twisted in my hand like a snake.”

“Well, I don’t see the money,” said his son as he picked it up andplaced it on the table, “and I bet I never shall.”

“It must have been your fancy, father,” said his wife, regarding himanxiously.

He shook his head. “Never mind, though; there’s no harm done, but itgave me a shock all the same.”

They sat down by the fire again while the two men finished their pipes.Outside, the wind was higher than ever, and the old man startednervously at the sound of a door banging upstairs. A silence unusual anddepressing settled upon all three, which lasted until the old couplerose to retire for the night.

“I expect you’ll find the cash tied up in a big bag in the middle ofyour bed,” said Herbert, as he bade them good-night, “and somethinghorrible squatting up on top of the wardrobe watching you as you pocketyour ill-gotten gains.”

He sat alone in the darkness, gazing at the dying fire, and seeing facesin it. The last face was so horrible and so simian that he gazed at itin amazement. It got so vivid that, with a little uneasy laugh, he felton the table for a glass containing a little water to throw over it. Hishand grasped the monkey’s paw, and with a little shiver he wiped hishand on his coat and went up to bed.

2

In the brightness of the wintry sun next morning as it streamed over thebreakfast table he laughed at his fears. There was an air of prosaicwholesomeness about the room which it had lacked on the previous night,and the dirty, shrivelled little paw was pitched on the sideboard andwith a carelessness which betokened no great belief in its virtues.

“I suppose all old soldiers are the same,” said Mrs. White. “The idea ofour listening to such nonsense! How could wishes be granted in thesedays? And if they could, how could two hundred pounds hurt you, father?”

“Might drop on his head from the sky,” said the frivolous Herbert.

“Morris said the things happened so naturally,” said his father, “thatyou might if you so wished attribute it to coincidence.”

“Well, don’t break into the money before I come back,” said Herbert ashe rose from the table. “I’m afraid it’ll turn you into a mean,avaricious man, and we shall have to disown you.”

His mother laughed, and following him to the door, watched him down theroad; and returning to the breakfast table, was very happy at theexpense of her husband’s credulity. All of which did not prevent herfrom scurrying to the door at the postman’s knock, nor prevent her fromreferring somewhat shortly to retired sergeant-majors of bibulous habitswhen she found that the post brought a tailor’s bill.

“Herbert will have some more of his funny remarks, I expect, when hecomes home,” she said, as they sat at dinner.

“I dare say,” said Mr. White, pouring himself out some beer; “but forall that, the thing moved in my hand; that I’ll swear to.”

“You thought it did,” said the old lady soothingly.

“I say it did,” replied the other. “There was no thought about it; I hadjust——What’s the matter?”

His wife made no reply. She was watching the mysterious movements of aman outside, who, peering in an undecided fashion at the house, appearedto be trying to make up his mind to enter. In mental connection with thetwo hundred pounds, she noticed that the stranger was well dressed, andwore a silk hat of glossy newness. Three times he paused at the gate,and then walked on again. The fourth time he stood with his hand uponit, and then with sudden resolution flung it open and walked up thepath. Mrs. White at the same moment placed her hands behind her, andhurriedly unfastening the strings of her apron, put that useful articleof apparel beneath the cushion of her chair.

She brought the stranger, who seemed ill at ease, into the room. Hegazed at her furtively, and listened in a preoccupied fashion as the oldlady apologised for the appearance of the room, and her husband’s coat,a garment which he usually reserved for the garden. She then waited aspatiently as her sex would permit, for him to broach his business, buthe was at first strangely silent.

“I—was asked to call,” he said at last, and stooped and picked a pieceof cotton from his trousers. “I come from ‘Maw and Meggins.’”

The old lady started. “Is anything the matter?” she asked, breathlessly.“Has anything happened to Herbert? What is it? What is it?”

Her husband interposed. “There, there, mother,” he said, hastily. “Sitdown, and don’t jump to conclusions. You’ve not brought bad news, I’msure, sir;” and he eyed the other wistfully.

“I’m sorry——” began the visitor.

“Is he hurt?” demanded the mother, wildly.

The visitor bowed in assent. “Badly hurt,” he said, quietly, “but he isnot in any pain.”

“Oh, thank God!” said the old woman, clasping her hands. “Thank God forthat! Thank——”

She broke off suddenly as the sinister meaning of the assurance dawnedupon her, and she saw the awful confirmation of her fears in the other’saverted face. She caught her breath, and turning to her slow-wittedhusband, laid her trembling old hand upon his. There was a long silence.

“He was caught in the machinery,” said the visitor at length in a lowvoice.

“Caught in the machinery,” repeated Mr. White, in a dazed fashion,“yes.”

He sat staring blankly out at the window, and taking his wife’s handbetween his own, pressed it as he had been wont to do in their oldcourting-days nearly forty years before.

“He was the only one left to us,” he said, turning gently to thevisitor. “It is hard.”

The other coughed, and rising, walked slowly to the window. “The firmwished me to convey their sincere sympathy with you in your great loss,”he said, without looking around. “I beg that you will understand I amonly their servant and merely obeying orders.”

There was no reply; the old woman’s face was white, her eyes staring,and her breath inaudible; on the husband’s face was a look such as hisfriend the sergeant might have carried into his first action.

“I was to say that Maw and Meggins disclaim all responsibility,”continued the other. “They admit no liability at all, but inconsideration of your son’s services, they wish to present you with acertain sum as compensation.”

Mr. White dropped his wife’s hand, and rising to his feet, gazed with alook of horror at his visitor. His dry lips shaped the words. “Howmuch?”

“Two hundred pounds,” was the answer.

Unconscious of his wife’s shriek, the old man smiled faintly, put outhis hands like a sightless man, and dropped, a senseless heap, to thefloor.

3

In the huge new cemetery, some two miles distant, the old people buriedtheir dead, and came back to a house steeped in shadow and silence. Itwas all over so quickly that at first they could hardly realise it, andremained in a state of expectation as though of something else tohappen—something else which was to lighten this load, too heavy for oldhearts to bear.

But the days passed, and expectation gave place to resignation—thehopeless resignation of the old, sometimes miscalled, apathy. Sometimesthey hardly exchanged a word, for now they had nothing to talk about,and their days were long to weariness. It was about a week after thatthe old man, waking suddenly in the night, stretched out his hand andfound himself alone. The room was in darkness, and the sound of subduedweeping came from the window. He raised himself in bed and listened.

“Come back,” he said, tenderly. “You will be cold.”

“It is colder for my son,” said the old woman, and wept afresh.

The sound of her sobs died away on his ears. The bed was warm, and hiseyes heavy with sleep. He dozed fitfully, and then slept until a suddenwild cry from his wife awoke him with a start.

“The paw!” she cried wildly. “The monkey’s paw!”

He started up in alarm. “Where? Where is it? What’s the matter?”

She came stumbling across the room toward him. “I want it,” she said,quietly. “You’ve not destroyed it?”

“It’s in the parlour, on the bracket,” he replied, marvelling. “Why?”

She cried and laughed together, and bending over, kissed his cheek.

“I only just thought of it,” she said, hysterically. “Why didn’t I thinkof it before? Why didn’t you think of it?”

“Think of what?” he questioned.

“The other two wishes,” she replied, rapidly. “We’ve only had one.”

“Was not that enough?” he demanded, fiercely.

“No,” she cried, triumphantly; “we’ll have one more. Go down and get itquickly, and wish our boy alive again.”

The man sat up in bed and flung the bed-clothes from his quaking limbs.“Good God, you are mad!” he cried, aghast.

“Get it,” she panted; “get it quickly, and wish——Oh, my boy, my boy!”

Her husband struck a match and lit the candle. “Get back to bed,” hesaid, unsteadily. “You don’t know what you are saying.”

“We had the first wish granted,” said the old woman, feverishly; “whynot the second?”

“A coincidence,” stammered the old man.

“Go and get it and wish,” cried his wife, quivering with excitement.

The old man turned and regarded her, and his voice shook. “He has beendead ten days, and besides he—I would not tell you else, but—I couldonly recognise him by his clothing. If he was too terrible for you tosee then, how now?”

“Bring him back,” cried the old woman, and dragged him toward the door.“Do you think I fear the child I have nursed?”

He went down in the darkness, and felt his way to the parlour, and thento the mantelpiece. The talisman was in its place, and a horrible fearthat the unspoken wish might bring his mutilated son before him ere hecould escape from the room seized upon him, and he caught his breath ashe found that he had lost the direction of the door. His brow cold withsweat, he felt his way round the table, and groped along the wall untilhe found himself in the small passage with the unwholesome thing in hishand.

Even his wife’s face seemed changed as he entered the room. It was whiteand expectant, and to his fears seemed to have an unnatural look uponit. He was afraid of her.

“Wish!” she cried, in a strong voice.

“It is foolish and wicked,” he faltered.

“Wish!” repeated his wife.

He raised his hand. “I wish my son alive again.”

The talisman fell to the floor, and he regarded it fearfully. Then hesank trembling into a chair as the old woman, with burning eyes, walkedto the window and raised the blind.

He sat until he was chilled with the cold, glancing occasionally at thefigure of the old woman peering through the window. The candle-end,which had burned below the rim of the china candlestick, was throwingpulsating shadows on the ceiling and walls, until, with a flicker largerthan the rest, it expired. The old man, with an unspeakable sense ofrelief at the failure of the talisman, crept back to his bed, and aminute or two afterward the old woman came silently and apatheticallybeside him.

Neither spoke, but lay silently listening to the ticking of the clock. Astair creaked, and a squeaky mouse scurried noisily through the wall.The darkness was oppressive, and after lying for some time screwing uphis courage, he took the box of matches, and striking one, wentdownstairs for a candle.

At the foot of the stairs the match went out, and he paused to strikeanother; and at the same moment a knock, so quiet and stealthy as to bescarcely audible, sounded on the front door.

The matches fell from his hand and spilled in the passage. He stoodmotionless, his breath suspended until the knock was repeated. Then heturned and fled swiftly back to his room, and closed the door behindhim. A third knock sounded through the house.

“What’s that?” cried the old woman, starting up.

“A rat,” said the old man in shaking tones—“a rat. It passed me on thestairs.”

His wife sat up in bed listening. A loud knock resounded through thehouse.

“It’s Herbert!” she screamed. “It’s Herbert!”

She ran to the door, but her husband was before her, and catching her bythe arm, held her tightly.

“What are you going to do?” he whispered hoarsely.

“It’s my boy; it’s Herbert!” she cried, struggling mechanically. “Iforgot it was two miles away. What are you holding me for? Let go. Imust open the door.”

“For God’s sake don’t let it in,” cried the old man, trembling.

“You’re afraid of your own son,” she cried, struggling. “Let me go. I’mcoming, Herbert; I’m coming.”

There was another knock, and another. The old woman with a sudden wrenchbroke free and ran from the room. Her husband followed to the landing,and called after her appealingly as she hurried downstairs. He heard thechain rattle back and the bottom bolt drawn slowly and stiffly from thesocket. Then the old woman’s voice, strained and panting.

“The bolt,” she cried loudly. “Come down. I can’t reach it.”

But her husband was on his hands and knees groping wildly on the floorin search of the paw. If he could only find it before the thing outsidegot in. A perfect fusillade of knocks reverberated through the house,and he heard the scraping of a chair as his wife put it down in thepassage against the door. He heard the creaking of the bolt as it cameslowly back and at the same moment he found the monkey’s paw, andfrantically breathed his third and last wish.

The knocking ceased suddenly, although the echoes of it were still inthe house. He heard the chair drawn back, and the door opened. A coldwind rushed up the staircase, and a long loud wail of disappointment andmisery from his wife gave him courage to run down to her side, and thento the gate beyond. The street lamp flickering opposite shone on a quietand deserted road.

THE CREATURES

By WALTER DE LA MARE

From The Riddle and Other Stories, by Walter de la Mare.Copyright, 1923, by Walter de la Mare. By permission of Alfred A. Knopf,Inc.

It was the ebbing light of evening that recalled me out of my story to aconsciousness of my whereabouts. I dropped the squat little red book tomy knee and glanced out of the narrow and begrimed oblong window. Wewere skirting the eastern coast of cliffs, to the very edge of which aploughman, stumbling along behind his two great horses, was driving thelast of his dark furrows. In a cleft far down between the rocks a coldand idle sea was soundlessly laying its frigid garlands of foam. Istared over the flat stretch of waters, then turned my head, and lookedwith a kind of suddenness into the face of my one fellow-traveller.

He had entered the carriage, all but unheeded, yet not altogetherunresented, at the last country station. His features were a littleobscure in the fading daylight that hung between our four narrow walls,but apparently his eyes had been fixed on my face for some little time.

He narrowed his lids at this unexpected confrontation, jerked back hishead, and cast a glance out of his mirky glass at the slip ofgreenish-bright moon that was struggling into its full brilliance abovethe dun, swelling uplands.

“It’s a queer experience, railway-travelling,” he began abruptly, in alow, almost deprecating voice, drawing his hand across his eyes. “One iscast into a passing privacy with a fellow-stranger and then is gone.” Itwas as if he had been patiently awaiting the attention of a chosenlistener.

I nodded, looking at him. “That privacy, too,” he ejacul*ted, “allthat!” My eyes turned towards the window again: bare, thorned, blackJanuary hedge, inhospitable salt coast, flat waste of northern water.Our engine driver promptly shut off his steam, and we slid almostnoiselessly out of sight of sky and sea into a cutting.

“It’s a desolate country,” I ventured to remark.

“Oh, yes, ‘desolate,’” he echoed a little wearily. “But what frets me isthe way we have of arrogating to ourselves the offices of judge, jury,and counsel all in one. As if this earth.... I never forget it—thefutility, the presumption. It leads nowhere. We drive in—into all thissilence, this—this, ‘forsakenness,’ this dream of a world between herlights of day and night time. We desecrate. Consciousness! What restlessmonkeys men are.” He recovered himself, swallowed his indignation withan obvious gulp. “As if,” he continued, in more chastened tones—“as ifthat other gate were not for ever ajar, into God knows what of peace andmystery.” He stooped forward, lean, darkened, objurgatory. “Don’t wemake our world? Isn’t that our blessed, our betrayed responsibility?”

I nodded, and ensconced myself, like a dog in straw, in the basest ofall responses to a rare, even if eccentric, candour—caution.

“Well,” he continued, a little weariedly, “that’s the indictment. Smallwonder if it will need a trumpet to blare us into that last ‘FamilyPrayers.’ Then perhaps a few solitaries—just a few—will creep out oftheir holes and fastnesses, and draw mercy from the merciful on thecities of the plain. The buried talent will shine none the worse for thelong, long looming of its napery spun from dream and desire.

“Years ago—ten, fifteen, perhaps—I chanced on the queerest specimen ofthis order of the ‘talented.’ Much the same country, too. This”—he swepthis glance out towards the now invisible sea—“this is a kind of dwarfreplica of it. More naked, smoother, more sudden and precipitous, more‘forsaken,’ moody! Alone! The trees are shorn there, as if withmonstrous shears, by the winter gales. The air’s salt. It is a countryof stones and emerald meadows, of green, meandering, aimless lanes, offarms set in their cliffs and valleys like rough time-bedimmed jewels,as if by some angel of humanity, wandering between dark and daybreak.

“I was younger then—in body: the youth of the mind is for men of acertain age; yours, maybe, and mine. Even then, even at that, I wassickened of crowds, of that unimaginable London—swarming wilderness ofmankind in which a poor, lost, thirsty dog from Otherwhere tastes firstthe full meaning of that idle word ‘forsaken.’ ‘Forsaken by whom?’ isthe question I ask myself now. Visitors to my particular paradise werefew then—as if, my dear sir, we are not all of us visitors, visitants,revenants, on earth, panting for time in which to tell and share oursecrets, roving in search of marks that shall prove our quest not vain,not unprecedented, not a treachery. But let that be.

“I would start off morning after morning, bread and cheese in pocket,from the bare old house I lodged in, bound for that unforeseen nowherefor which the heart, the fantasy, aches. Lingering hot noondays wouldfind me stretched in a state half-comatose, yet vigilant, on theclose-flowered turf of the fields or cliffs, on the sun-baked sands androcks, soaking in the scene and life around me like some pilgrimchameleon. It was in hope to lose my way that I would set out. How shalla man find his way unless he lose it? Now and then I succeeded. Thatcountry is large, and its land and sea marks easily cheat the stranger.I was still of an age, you see, when my ‘small door’ was ajar, and Iplanted a solid foot to keep it from shutting. But how could I know whatI was after? One just shakes the tree of life, and the rare fruits cometumbling down, to rot for the most part in the lush grasses.

“What was most haunting and provocative in that far-away country was itsfleeting resemblance to the country of dream. You stand, you sit, or lieprone on its bud-starred heights, and look down; the green, dispersed,treeless landscape spreads beneath you, with its hollow and moundedslopes, clustering farmstead, and scatter of village, all motionlessunder the vast wash of sun and blue, like the drop-scene of someenchanted playhouse centuries old. So, too, the visionary bird-hauntedheadlands, veiled faintly in a mist of unreality above their brokenstones and the enormous saucer of the sea.

“You cannot guess there what you may not chance upon, or whom. Bellsclash, boom, and quarrel hollowly on the edge of darkness in thosebreakers. Voices waver across the fainter winds. The birds cry in atongue unknown yet not unfamiliar. The sky is the hawks’ and the stars’.There one is on the edge of life, of the unforeseen, whereas ourcities—are not our desiccated, jaded minds ever continually pressing andedging further and further away from freedom, the vast unknown, theinfinite presence, picking a fool’s journey from sensual fact to fact atthe tail of that he-ass called Reason? I suggest that in that solitudethe spirit within us realises that it treads the outskirts of a regionlong since called the Imagination. I assert we have strayed, and in ourblindness abandoned——”

My stranger paused in his frenzy, glanced out at me from his obscurecorner as if he had intended to stun, to astonish me with some violentheresy. We puffed out slowly, laboriously from a “Halt” at which in thegathering dark and moonshine we had for some while been at a standstill.Never was wedding-guest more desperately at the mercy of ancientmariner.

“Well, one day,” he went on, lifting his voice a little to master theresounding heart-beats of our steam-engine—“one late afternoon, in mygoalless wanderings, I had climbed to the summit of a steep grass-growncart-track, winding up dustily between dense, untended hedges. Even thenI might have missed the house to which it led, for, hair-pin fashion,the track here abruptly turned back on itself, and only a far fainterfootpath led on over the hill-crest. I might, I say, have missed thehouse and—and its inmates, if I had not heard the musical sound of whatseemed like the twangling of a harp. This thin-drawn, sweet, tunelesswarbling welled over the close green grass of the height as if out ofspace. Truth cannot say whether it was of that air or of my own fantasy.Nor did I ever discover what instrument, whether of man or Ariel, hadreleased a strain so pure and yet so bodiless.

“I pushed on and found myself in command of a gorse-strewn height, astretch of country that lay a few hundred paces across the steep andsudden valley in between. In a V-shaped entry to the left, and sunwards,lay an azure and lazy tongue of the sea. And as my eye slid softlythence and upwards and along the sharp, green horizon line against theglass-clear turquoise of space, it caught the flinty glitter of a squarechimney. I pushed on, and presently found myself at the gate of afarmyard.

“There was but one straw-mow upon its staddles. A few fowls were sunningthemselves in their dust-baths. White and pied doves preened and cooedon the roof of an outbuilding as golden with its lichens as if thewestern sun had scattered its dust for centuries upon the large slateslabs. Just that life and the whispering of the wind: nothing more. Yeteven at one swift glimpse I seemed to have trespassed upon a peace thathad endured for ages; to have crossed the viewless border that dividestime from eternity. I leaned, resting, over the gate, and could haveremained there for hours, lapsing ever more profoundly into the blessedquietude that had stolen over my thoughts.

“A bent-up woman appeared at the dark entry of a stone shed opposite tome, and, shading her eyes, paused in prolonged scrutiny of the stranger.At that I entered the gate and, explaining that I had lost my way andwas tired and thirsty, asked for some milk. She made no reply, but afterpeering up at me, with something between suspicion and apprehension onher weather-beaten old face, led me towards the house which lay to theleft on the slope of the valley, hidden from me till then by plumybushes of tamarisk.

“It was a low grave house, grey-chimneyed, its stone walls traversed bya deep shadow cast by the declining sun, its dark windows rounded anduncurtained, its door wide open to the porch. She entered the house, andI paused upon the threshold. A deep unmoving quiet lay within, like thatof water in a cave renewed by the tide. Above a table hung a wreath ofwild flowers. To the right was a heavy oak settle upon the flags. A beamof sunlight pierced the air of the staircase from an upper window.

“Presently a dark, long-faced, gaunt man appeared from within,contemplating me, as he advanced, out of eyes that seemed not so much tofix the intruder as to encircle his image, as the sea contains thedistant speck of a ship on its wide, blue bosom of water. They mighthave been the eyes of the blind; the windows of a house in dream towhich the inmate must make something of a pilgrimage to look out uponactuality. Then he smiled, and the long, dark features, melancholy yetserene, took light upon them, as might a bluff of rock beneath a thinpassing wash of sunshine. With a gesture he welcomed me into the largedark-flagged kitchen, cool as a cellar, airy as a belfry, its sweet airtraversed by a long oblong of light out of the west.

“The wide shelves of the painted dresser were laden with crockery. Awreath of freshly-gathered flowers hung over the chimney-piece. As weentered, a twittering cloud of small birds, robins, hedge-sparrows,chaffinches fluttered up a few inches from floor and sill andwindow-seat, and once more, with tiny starry-dark eyes observing me,soundlessly alighted. I could hear the infinitesimal tic-tac of theirtiny claws upon the slate. My gaze drifted out of the window into thegarden beyond, a cavern of clearer crystal and colour than that whichastounded the eyes of young Aladdin.

“Apart from the twisted garland of wild flowers, the shining metal ofrange and copper candlestick, and the bright-scoured crockery, there wasno adornment in the room except a rough frame, hanging from a nail inthe wall, and enclosing what appeared to be a faint patterned fragmentof blue silk or fine linen. The chairs and table were old and heavy. Alow, light warbling, an occasional skirr of wing, a haze-like drone ofbee and fly—these were the only sounds that edged a quiet intensified inits profundity by the remote stirrings of the sea.

“The house was stilled as by a charm, yet thought within me asked noquestions; speculation was asleep in its kennel. I sat down to the milkand bread, the honey and fruit which the old woman laid out upon thetable, and her master seated himself opposite to me, now in a lowsibilant whisper—a tongue which they seemed to understand—addressinghimself to the birds, and now, as if with an effort, raising thosestrange grey-green eyes of his to bestow a quiet remark upon me. Heasked, rather in courtesy than with any active interest, a fewquestions, referring to the world, its business and transports—ourbeautiful world—as an astronomer in the small hours might murmur a fewwords to the chance-sent guest of his solitude concerning the secrets ofUranus or Saturn. There is another, an inexplorable side to the moon.Yet he said enough for me to gather that he, too, was of that smalltribe of the aloof and wild to which our cracked old word ‘forsaken’might be applied, hermits, lamas, clay-matted fakirs, and such-like; thesnowy birds that play and cry amid mid-oceanic surges; the living of anoasis of the wilderness; which share a reality only distantly dreamed ofby the time-driven thought-corroded congregations of man.

“Yet so narrow and hazardous I somehow realised was the brink offellow-being (shall I call it?) which we shared, he and I, that againand again fantasy within me seemed to hover over that precipice Nightknows as fear. It was he, it seemed, with that still embracivecontemplation of his, with that far-away yet reassuring smile, that keptmy poise, my balance. ‘No,’ some voice within him seemed to utter, ‘youare safe; the bounds are fixed; though hallucination chaunt its decoy,you shall not irretrievably pass over. Eat and drink, and presentlyreturn to life.’ And I listened, and, like that of a drowsy child in itscradle, my consciousness sank deeper and deeper, stilled, pacified intothe dream which, as it seemed, this soundless house of stone now rearedits walls.

“I had all but finished my meal when I heard footsteps approaching onthe flags without. The murmur of other voices, distinguishably shrillyet guttural even at a distance, and in spite of the dense stones andbeams of the house which had blunted their timbre, had already reachedme. Now the feet halted. I turned my head—cautiously, even perhapsapprehensively—and confronted two figures in the doorway.

“I cannot now guess the age of my entertainer. These children—forchildren they were in face and gesture and effect, though as to form andstature apparently in their last teens—these children were far moreproblematical. I say ‘form and stature,’ yet obviously they weredwarfish. Their heads were sunken between their shoulders, their hairthick, their eyes disconcertingly deep-set. They were ungainly; theirfeatures peculiarly irregular, as if two races from the ends of theearth had in them intermingled their blood and strangeness; as if,rather animal and angel had connived in their creation.

“But if some inward light lay on the still eyes, on the gaunt,sorrowful, quixotic countenance that now was fully and intensely bent onmine, emphatically that light was theirs also. He spoke to them; theyanswered—in English, my own language, without a doubt: but an Englishslurred, broken, and unintelligible to me, yet clear as a bell,haunting, penetrating, pining as voice of nix or siren. My ears drank inthe sound as an Arab parched with desert sand falls on his dried bellyand gulps in mouthfuls of crystal water. The birds hopped nearer as ifbeneath the rod of an enchanter. A sweet continuous clamour arose fromtheir small throats. The exquisite colours of plume and bosom burned,greened, melted in the level sun-ray, in the darker air beyond.

“A kind of mournful gaiety, a lamentable felicity, such as rings in thecadences of an old folk-song, welled into my heart. I was come back tothe borders of Eden, bowed and outwearied, gazing from out of dream intodream, homesick, ‘forsaken.’

“Well, years have gone by,” muttered my fellow-traveller deprecatingly,“but I have not forgotten that Eden’s primeval trees and shade.

“They led me out, these bizarre companions, a he and a she, if I may putit as crudely as my apprehension of them put it to me then. Through abroad door they conducted me—if one who leads may be said to beconducted—into their garden. Garden! A full mile long, betweenundiscerned walls, it sloped and narrowed towards a sea at whose darkunfoamed blue, even at this distance, my eyes dazzled. Yet how can onecall that a garden which reveals no ghost of a sign of humanarrangement, of human slavery, of spade or hoe?

“Great boulders shouldered up, tessellated, embossed, powdered with athousand various mosses and lichens, between a flowering greenery ofweeds. Wind-stunted, clear-emerald, lichen-tufted trees smoothed andcrisped the inflowing airs of the ocean with their leaves and spines,sibilating a thin scarce-audible music. Scanty, rank, and uncultivatedfruits hung close their vivid-coloured cheeks to the gnarled branches.It was the harbourage of birds, the small embowering parlour of theirhouse of life, under an evening sky, pure and lustrous as a water-drop.It cried, ‘Hospital’ to the wanderers of the universe.

“As I look back in ever-thinning, nebulous remembrance on my twocompanions, hear their voices gutturally sweet and shrill, catch againtheir being, so to speak, I realise that there was a kind of Orientalismin their effect. Their instant courtesy was not Western, the smiles thatgreeted me, whenever I turned my head to look back at them, wereinfinitely friendly, yet infinitely remote. So ungainly, so far from ournotions of beauty and symmetry were their bodies and faces, those headsthrust heavily between their shoulders, their disproportioned yetgraceful arms and hands, that the children in some of our Englishvillages might be moved to stone them, while their elders looked on andlaughed.

“Dusk was drawing near; soon night would come. The colours of thesunset, sucking its extremest dye from every leaf and blade and petal,touched my consciousness even then with a vague fleeting alarm.

“I remember I asked these strange and happy beings, repeating myquestion twice or thrice, as we neared the surfy entry of the valleyupon whose sands a tiny stream emptied its fresh water—I asked them ifit was they who had planted this multitude of flowers, many of a kindutterly unknown to me and alien to a country inexhaustibly rich. ‘Wewait; we wait!’ I think they cried. And it was as if their cry awokeecho from the green-walled valleys of the mind into which I had strayed.Shall I confess that tears came into my eyes as I gazed hungrily aroundme on the harvest of their patience?

“Never was actuality so close to dream. It was not only an unknowncountry, slipped in between these placid hills, on which I had chancedin my ramblings. I had entered for a few brief moments a strange regionof consciousness. I was treading, thus accompanied, amid a world ofwelcoming and fearless life—oh, friendly to me!—the paths of man’simagination, the kingdom from which thought and curiosity, vexedscrutiny and lust—a lust it may be for nothing more impious than theactual—had prehistorically proved the insensate means of his banishment.‘Reality,’ ‘Consciousness’: had he for ‘the time being’ unwittingly,unhappily missed his way? Would he be led back at length to that gardenwherein co*ckatrice and basilisk bask, harmlessly, at peace?

“I speculate now. In that queer, yes, and possibly sinister company,sinister only because it was alien to me, I did not speculate. In theirgarden, the familiar was become the strange—‘the strange’ that lurks inthe inmost heart, unburdens its riches in trance, flings its light andgilding upon love, gives heavenly savour to the intemperate bowl ofpassion, and is the secret of our incommunicable pity. What is yetqueerer, these things were evidently glad of my company. They stumpedafter me (as might yellow men after some Occidental quadruped neverbefore seen) in merry collusion of nods and wreathed smiles at thisperhaps unprecedented intrusion.

“I stood for a moment looking out over the placid surface of the sea. Aship in sail hung phantom-like on the horizon. I pined to call mydiscovery to its seamen. The tide gushed, broke, spent itself on thebare boulders, I was suddenly cold and alone, and gladly turned backinto the garden, my companions instinctively separating to let me passbetween them. I breathed in the rare, almost exotic heat, the tenuous,honeyed, almond-laden air of its flowers and birds—gull, sheldrake,plover, wagtail, finch, robin, which as I half-angrily, half-sadlyrealised fluttered up in momentary dismay only at my presence—theembodied spectre of their enemy, man. Man? Then who were these?...

“I lost again a way lost early that morning, as I trudged inland atnight. The dark came, warm and starry. I was dejected and exhaustedbeyond words. That night I slept in a barn and was awakened soon afterdaybreak by the crowing of co*cks. I went out, dazed and blinking intothe sunlight, bathed face and hands in a brook near by, and came to avillage before a soul was stirring. So I sat under a thrift-cushioned,thorn-crowned wall in a meadow, and once more drowsed off and fellasleep. When again I awoke, it was ten o’clock. The church clock in itstower knelled out the strokes, and I went into an inn for food.

“A corpulent, blonde woman, kindly and hospitable, with a facecomfortably resembling her own sow’s, that yuffed and nosed in at theopen door as I sat on my stool, served me with what I called for. Idescribed—not without some vanishing shame, as if it were a treachery—myfarm, its whereabouts.

“Her small blue eyes ‘pigged’ at me with a fleeting expression which Ifailed to translate. The name of the farm, it appeared, was Trevarras.‘And did you see any of the Creatures?’ she asked me in a voice notentirely her own. ‘The Creatures’? I sat back for an instant and staredat her; then realised that Creature was the name of my host, and Mariaand Christus (though here her dialect may have deceived me) the names ofmy two gardeners. She spun an absurd story, so far as I could tack ittogether and make it coherent. Superstitious stuff about this man whohad wandered in upon the shocked and curious inhabitants of the districtand made his home at Trevarras—a stranger and pilgrim, a ‘foreigner,’ itseemed, of few words, dubious manners, and both uninformative.

“Then there was something (she placed her two fat hands, one of themwedding-ringed, on the zinc of the bar-counter, and peered over at me,as if I were a delectable ‘wash’), then there was something about awoman ‘from the sea.’ In a ‘blue gown,’ and either dumb, inarticulate,or mistress of only a foreign tongue. She must have lived in sin,moreover, those pig’s eyes seemed to yearn, since the children were‘simple,’ ‘naturals’—as God intends in such matters. It was useless.One’s stomach may sometimes reject the cold sanative aerated water of‘the next morning,’ and my ridiculous intoxication had left me dry butnot yet quite sober.

“Anyhow, this she told me, that my blue woman, as fair as flax, had diedand was buried in the neighbouring churchyard (the nearest to, thoughmiles distant from Trevarras). She repeatedly assured me, as if I mightotherwise doubt so sophisticated a fact, that I should find her gravethere, her ‘stone.’

“So indeed I did—far away from the elect, and in a shade-riddennorth-west corner of the sleepy, cropless acre: a slab, scarcelyrounded, of granite, with but a name bitten out of the dark, roughsurface, ‘Femina Creature.’”

THE TAIPAN

By W. SOMERSET MAUGHAM

From On a Chinese Screen, by W. Somerset Maugham. Copyright, 1922, by George H. Doran Company.

No one knew better than he that he was an important person. He wasnumber one in not the least important branch of the most importantEnglish firm in China. He had worked his way up through solid ability,and he looked back with a faint smile at the callow clerk who had comeout to China thirty years before. When he remembered the modest home hehad come from, a little red house in a long row of little red houses, inBarnes, a suburb which, aiming desperately at the genteel, achieves onlya sordid melancholy, and compared it with the magnificent stone mansion,with its wide verandahs and spacious rooms, which was at once the officeof the company and his own residence, he chuckled with satisfaction. Hehad come a long way since then. He thought of the high tea to which hesat down when he came home from school (he was at St. Paul’s), with hisfather and mother and his two sisters, a slice of cold meat, a greatdeal of bread and butter and plenty of milk in his tea, everybodyhelping himself, and then he thought of the state in which now he atehis evening meal. He always dressed, and whether he was alone or not heexpected the three boys to wait at table. His number one boy knewexactly what he liked, and he never had to bother himself with thedetails of housekeeping; but he always had a set dinner with soup andfish, entree, roast, sweet and savoury, so that if he wanted to askanyone in at the last moment he could. He liked his food, and he did notsee why when he was alone he should have less good a dinner than when hehad a guest.

He had indeed gone far. That was why he did not care to go home now; hehad not been to England for ten years, and he took his leave in Japan orVancouver where he was sure of meeting old friends from the China coast.He knew no one at home. His sisters had married in their own station,their husbands were clerks and their sons were clerks; there was nothingbetween him and them; they bored him. He satisfied the claims ofrelationship by sending them every Christmas a piece of fine silk, someelaborate embroidery, or a case of tea. He was not a mean man, and aslong as his mother lived he had made her an allowance. But when the timecame for him to retire he had no intention of going back to England, hehad seen too many men do that and he knew how often it was a failure; hemeant to take a house near the race-course in Shanghai: what with bridgeand his ponies and gold he expected to get through the rest of his lifevery comfortably. But he had a good many years before he need think ofretiring. In another five or six Higgins would be going home, and thenhe would take charge of the head office in Shanghai. Meanwhile he wasvery happy where he was; he could save money, which you couldn’t do inShanghai, and have a good time into the bargain. This place had anotheradvantage over Shanghai: he was the most prominent man in the communityand what he said went. Even the consul took care to keep on the rightside of him. Once a consul and he had been at loggerheads, and it wasnot he who had gone to the wall. The taipan thrust out his jawpugnaciously as he thought of the incident.

But he smiled, for he felt in an excellent humour. He was walking backto his office from a capital luncheon at the Hong-Kong and ShanghaiBank. They did you very well there. The food was first rate and therewas plenty of liquor. He had started with a couple of co*cktails, then hehad had some excellent sauterne, and he had finished up with two glassesof port and some fine old brandy. He felt good. And when he left he dida thing that was rare with him: he walked. His bearers with his chairkept a few paces behind him in case he felt inclined to slip into it,but he enjoyed stretching his legs. He did not get enough exercise thesedays. Now that he was too heavy to ride, it was difficult to getexercise. But if he was too heavy to ride he could still keep ponies,and as he strolled along in the balmy air he thought of the springmeeting. He had a couple of griffins that he had hopes of and one of thelads in his office had turned out a fine jockey (he must see they didn’tsneak him away, old Higgins in Shanghai would give a pot of money to gethim over there) and he ought to pull off two or three races. Heflattered himself that he had the finest stable in the city. He poutedhis broad chest like a pigeon. It was a beautiful day, and it was goodto be alive.

He paused as he came to the cemetery. It stood there, neat and orderly,as an evident sign of the community’s opulence. He never passed thecemetery without a little glow of pride. He was pleased to be anEnglishman. For the cemetery stood in a place, valueless when it waschosen, which with the increase of the city’s affluence was now worth agreat deal of money. It had been suggested that the graves should bemoved to another spot and the land sold for building, but the feeling ofthe community was against it. It gave the taipan a sense of satisfactionto think that their dead rested on the most valuable site on the island.It showed that there were things they cared for more than money. Moneybe blowed! When it came to “the things that mattered” (this was afavourite phrase with the taipan), well, one remembered that moneywasn’t everything.

And now he thought he would take a stroll through. He looked at thegraves. They were neatly kept, and the pathways were free from weeds.There was a look of prosperity. And as he sauntered along he read thenames on the tombstones. Here were three side by side; the captain, thefirst mate, and the second mate of the barque Mary Baxter, who had allperished together in the typhoon of 1908. He remembered it well. Therewas a little group of two missionaries, their wives and children, whohad been massacred during the Boxer troubles. Shocking thing that hadbeen! Not that he took much stock in missionaries; but, hang it all, onecouldn’t have these damned Chinese massacring them. Then he came to across with a name on it he knew. Good chap, Edward Mulock, but hecouldn’t stand his liquor, drank himself to death, poor devil, attwenty-five: the taipan had known a lot of them do that; there wereseveral more neat crosses with a man’s name on them and the age,twenty-five, twenty-six, or twenty-seven; it was always the same story;they had come out to China: they had never seen so much money before,they were good fellows, and they wanted to drink with the rest: theycouldn’t stand it, and there they were in the cemetery. You had to havea strong head and a fine constitution to drink drink for drink on theChina coast. Of course it was very sad, but the taipan could hardly helpa smile when he thought how many of those young fellows he had drunkunderground. And there was a death that had been useful, a fellow in hisown firm, senior to him and a clever chap too: if that fellow had livedhe might not have been taipan now. Truly the ways of fate wereinscrutable. Ah, and here was little Mrs. Turner, Violet Turner, she hadbeen a pretty little thing, he had had quite an affair with her; he hadbeen devilish cut up when she died. He looked at her age on thetombstone. She’d be no chicken if she were alive now. And as he thoughtof all those dead people, a sense of satisfaction spread through him. Hehad beaten them all. They were dead, and he was alive, and by Georgehe’d scored them off. His eyes collected in one picture all thosecrowded graves and he smiled scornfully. He very nearly rubbed hishands.

“No one ever thought I was a fool,” he muttered.

He had a feeling of good-natured contempt for the gibbering dead. Then,as he strolled along, he came suddenly upon two coolies digging a grave.He was astonished, for he had not heard that anyone in the community wasdead.

“Who the devil’s that for?” he said aloud.

The coolies did not even look at him, they went on with their work,standing in the grave, deep down, and they shovelled up heavy clods ofearth. Though he had been so long in China he knew no Chinese, in hisday it was not thought necessary to learn the damned language, and heasked the coolies in English whose grave they were digging. They did notunderstand. They answered him in Chinese and he cursed them for ignorantfools. He knew that Mrs. Broome’s child was ailing, and it might havedied, but he would certainly have heard of it, and besides that wasn’t achild’s grave, it was a man’s and a big man’s too. It was uncanny. Hewished he hadn’t gone into that cemetery; he hurried out and steppedinto his chair. His good humour had all gone and there was an uneasyfrown on his face. The moment he got back to his office he called to hisnumber two:

“I say, Peters, who’s dead, d’you know?”

But Peters knew nothing. The taipan was puzzled. He called one of thenative clerks and sent him to the cemetery to ask the coolies. He beganto sign his letters. The clerk came back and said the coolies had goneand there was no one to ask. The taipan began to feel vaguely annoyed:he did not like things to happen of which he knew nothing. His own boywould know; his boy always knew everything, and he sent for him; but theboy had heard of no death in the community.

“I knew no one was dead,” said the taipan irritably. “But what’s thegrave for?”

He told the boy to go to the overseer of the cemetery and find out whatthe devil he had dug a grave for when no one was dead.

“Let me have a whisky and soda before you go,” he added, as the boy wasleaving the room.

He did not know why the sight of the grave had made him uncomfortable.But he tried to put it out of his mind. He felt better when he had drunkthe whisky, and he finished his work. He went upstairs and turned overthe pages of Punch. In a few minutes he would go to the club and playa rubber or two of bridge before dinner. But it would ease his mind tohear what his boy had to say, and he waited for his return. In a littlewhile the boy came back, and he brought the overseer with him.

“What are you having a grave dug for?” he asked the overseer pointblank. “Nobody’s dead.”

“I no dig glave,” said the man.

“What the devil do you mean by that? There were two coolies digging agrave this afternoon.”

The two Chinese looked at one another. Then the boy said they had beento the cemetery together. There was no new grave there.

The taipan only just stopped himself from speaking.

“But damn it all, I saw it myself,” were the words on the tip of histongue.

But he did not say them. He grew very red as he choked them down. Thetwo Chinese looked at him with their steady eyes. For a moment hisbreath failed him.

“All right. Get out,” he gasped.

But as soon as they were gone he shouted for the boy again, and when hecame, maddeningly impassive, he told him to bring some whisky. He rubbedhis sweating face with a handkerchief. His hand trembled when he liftedthe glass to his lips. They could say what they liked, but he had seenthe grave. Why, he could hear still the dull thud as the coolies threwthe spadefuls of earth on the ground above them. What did it mean? Hecould feel his heart beating. He felt strangely ill at ease. But hepulled himself together. It was all nonsense. If there was no gravethere it must have been an hallucination. The best thing he could do wasto go to the club, and if he ran across the doctor, he would ask him togive him a look over.

Everyone in the club looked just the same as ever. He did not know whyhe should have expected them to look different. It was a comfort. Thesem*n, living for many years with one another, lives that weremethodically regulated, had acquired a number of littleidiosyncrasies—one of them hummed incessantly while he played bridge,another insisted on drinking beer through a straw—and these tricks whichhad so often irritated the taipan now gave him a sense of security. Heneeded it, for he could not get out of his head that strange sight hehad seen; he played bridge very badly; his partner was censorious, andthe taipan lost his temper. He thought the men were looking at himoddly. He wondered what they saw in him that was unaccustomed.

Suddenly he felt he could not bear to stay in the club any longer. As hewent out he saw the doctor reading The Times in the reading-room, buthe could not bring himself to speak to him. He wanted to see for himselfwhether that grave was really there, and, stepping into his chair hetold his bearers to take him to the cemetery. You couldn’t have anhallucination twice, could you? And besides, he would take the overseerin with him, and if the grave was not there, he wouldn’t see it, and ifit was he’d give the overseer the soundest thrashing he’d ever had. Butthe overseer was nowhere to be found. He had gone out and taken the keyswith him. When the taipan found he could not get into the cemetery, hefelt suddenly exhausted. He got back into his chair and told his bearersto take him home. He would lie down for half an hour before dinner. Hewas tired out. That was it. He had heard that people had hallucinationswhen they were tired. When his boy came in to put out his clothes fordinner, it was only by an effort of will that he got up. He had a stronginclination not to dress that evening, but he resisted it: he made it arule to dress, he had dressed every evening for twenty years, and itwould never do to break his rule. But he ordered a bottle of champagnewith his dinner, and that made him feel more comfortable. Afterwards hetold the boy to bring him the best brandy. When he had drunk a couple ofglasses of this he felt himself again. Hallucinations be damned! He wentto the billiard room and practised a few difficult shots. There couldnot be much the matter with him when his eye was so sure. When he wentto bed he sank immediately into a sound sleep.

But suddenly he awoke. He had dreamed of that open grave and the cooliesdigging leisurely. He was sure he had seen them. It was absurd to say itwas an hallucination when he had seen them with his own eyes. Then heheard the rattle of the night watchman going his rounds. It broke uponthe stillness of the night so harshly that it made him jump out of hisskin. And then terror seized him. He felt a horror of the windingmultitudinous streets of the Chinese city, and there was somethingghastly and terrible in the convoluted roofs of the temples with theirdevils grimacing and tortured. He loathed the smells that assaulted hisnostrils. And the people. Those myriads of blue-clad coolies, and thebeggars in their filthy rags, and the merchants and the magistrates,sleek, smiling, and inscrutable, in their long black gowns. They seemedto press upon him with menace. He hated the country. China! Why had heever come? He was panic-stricken now. He must get out. He would not stayanother year, another month. What did he care about Shanghai?

“Oh, my God!” he cried, “if I were only safely back in England!”

He wanted to go home. If he had to die, he wanted to die in England. Hecould not bear to be buried among all these yellow men, with theirslanting eyes and their grinning faces. He wanted to be buried at home,not in that grave he had seen that day. He could never rest there.Never. What did it matter what people thought? Let them think what theyliked. The only thing that mattered was to get away while he had thechance.

He got out of bed and wrote to the head of the firm and said he haddiscovered he was dangerously ill. He must be replaced. He could notstay longer than was absolutely necessary. He must go home at once.

They found the letter in the morning clenched in the taipan’s hand. Hehad slipped down between the desk and the chair. He was stone dead.