{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_38310/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_38310","id":"gutenberg_38310","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/38310","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Category: Short Stories","Paranormal fiction","Paranormal fiction, English","Short stories"],"text":"Produced by David Starner, eagkw and the Online Distributed\nProofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This book was\nproduced from scanned images of public domain material\nfrom the Google Print project.)\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n  THE WOLVES OF GOD\n\n\n\n\n  _OTHER WORKS BY\n  ALGERNON BLACKWOOD_\n\n\n  JULIUS LE VALLON\n  THE WAVE: An Egyptian Aftermath\n  TEN-MINUTE STORIES\n  DAY AND NIGHT STORIES\n  THE PROMISE OF AIR\n  THE GARDEN OF SURVIVAL\n  THE LISTENER and Other Stories\n  THE EMPTY HOUSE and Other Stories\n  THE LOST VALLEY and Other Stories\n  JOHN SILENCE: Physician Extraordinary\n\n      _With Violet Pearn_\n  KARMA: A Reincarnation Play\n\n\n  E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY\n\n\n\n\n  THE WOLVES OF GOD\n  _And Other Fey Stories_\n\n  BY\n  ALGERNON BLACKWOOD\n  _Author of \"The Wave,\" \"The Promise of Air,\" etc_\n\n  AND\n  WILFRED WILSON\n\n  [Illustration]\n\n  NEW YORK\n  E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY\n  681 FIFTH AVENUE\n\n\n\n\n  Copyright, 1921\n  By E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY\n\n  _All rights reserved_\n\n  _Printed in the United States of America_\n\n\n\n\n  TO THE MEMORY\n  OF\n  OUR CAMP-FIRES IN THE WILDERNESS\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\n\n  CHAPTER                                   PAGE\n\n     I. THE WOLVES OF GOD                      1\n\n    II. CHINESE MAGIC                         27\n\n   III. RUNNING WOLF                          52\n\n    IV. FIRST HATE                            74\n\n     V. THE TARN OF SACRIFICE                 86\n\n    VI. THE VALLEY OF THE BEASTS             113\n\n   VII. THE CALL                             137\n\n  VIII. EGYPTIAN SORCERY                     151\n\n    IX. THE DECOY                            169\n\n     X. THE MAN WHO FOUND OUT                192\n\n    XI. THE EMPTY SLEEVE                     211\n\n   XII. WIRELESS CONFUSION                   230\n\n  XIII. CONFESSION                           237\n\n   XIV. THE LANE THAT RAN EAST AND WEST      259\n\n    XV. \"VENGEANCE IS MINE\"                  279\n\n\n\n\nTHE WOLVES OF GOD\n\n\n\n\nI\n\nTHE WOLVES OF GOD\n\n\n1\n\nAs the little steamer entered the bay of Kettletoft in the Orkneys the\nbeach at Sanday appeared so low that the houses almost seemed to be\nstanding in the water; and to the big, dark man leaning over the rail of\nthe upper deck the sight of them came with a pang of mingled pain and\npleasure. The scene, to his eyes, had not changed. The houses, the low\nshore, the flat treeless country beyond, the vast open sky, all looked\nexactly the same as when he left the island thirty years ago to work for\nthe Hudson Bay Company in distant N. W. Canada. A lad of eighteen then,\nhe was now a man of forty-eight, old for his years, and this was the\nhome-coming he had so often dreamed about in the lonely wilderness of\ntrees where he had spent his life. Yet his grim face wore an anxious\nrather than a tender expression. The return was perhaps not quite as he\nhad pictured it.\n\nJim Peace had not done too badly, however, in the Company's service.\nFor an islander, he would be a rich man now; he had not married, he had\nsaved the greater part of his salary, and even in the far-away Post\nwhere he had spent so many years there had been occasional opportunities\nof the kind common to new, wild countries where life and law are in\nthe making. He had not hesitated to take them. None of the big Company\nPosts, it was true, had come his way, nor had he risen very high in the\nservice; in another two years his turn would have come, yet he had left\nof his own accord before those two years were up. His decision, judging\nby the strength in the features, was not due to impulse; the move\nhad been deliberately weighed and calculated; he had renounced his\nopportunity after full reflection. A man with those steady eyes, with\nthat square jaw and determined mouth, certainly did not act without good\nreason.\n\nA curious expression now flickered over his weather-hardened face as he\nsaw again his childhood's home, and the return, so often dreamed about,\nactually took place at last. An uneasy light flashed for a moment in the\ndeep-set grey eyes, but was quickly gone again, and the tanned visage\nrecovered its accustomed look of stern composure. His keen sight took in\na dark knot of figures on the landing-pier--his brother, he knew, among\nthem. A wave of home-sickness swept over him. He longed to see his\nbrother again, the old farm, the sweep of open country, the sand-dunes,\nand the breaking seas. The smell of long-forgotten days came to his\nnostrils with its sweet, painful pang of youthful memories.\n\nHow fine, he thought, to be back there in the old familiar fields of\nchildhood, with sea and sand about him instead of the smother of\nendless woods that ran a thousand miles without a break. He was glad in\nparticular that no trees were visible, and that rabbits scampering among\nthe dunes were the only wild animals he need ever meet....\n\nThose thirty years in the woods, it seemed, oppressed his mind; the\nforests, the countless multitudes of trees, had wearied him. His nerves,\nperhaps, had suffered finally. Snow, frost and sun, stars, and the wind\nhad been his companions during the long days and endless nights in his\nlonely Post, but chiefly--trees. Trees, trees, trees! On the whole, he\nhad preferred them in stormy weather, though, in another way, their\nrigid hosts, 'mid the deep silence of still days, had been equally\noppressive. In the clear sunlight of a windless day they assumed a\nwaiting, listening, watching aspect that had something spectral in it,\nbut when in motion--well, he preferred a moving animal to one that stood\nstock-still and stared. Wind, moreover, in a million trees, even the\nlightest breeze, drowned all other sounds--the howling of the wolves,\nfor instance, in winter, or the ceaseless harsh barking of the husky\ndogs he so disliked.\n\nEven on this warm September afternoon a slight shiver ran over him as\nthe background of dead years loomed up behind the present scene. He\nthrust the picture back, deep down inside himself. The self-control, the\nstrong, even violent will that the face betrayed, came into operation\ninstantly. The background was background; it belonged to what was past,\nand the past was over and done with. It was dead. Jim meant it to stay\ndead.\n\nThe figure waving to him from the pier was his brother. He knew Tom\ninstantly; the years had dealt easily with him in this quiet island;\nthere was no startling, no unkindly change, and a deep emotion, though\nunexpressed, rose in his heart. It was good to be home again, he\nrealized, as he sat presently in the cart, Tom holding the reins,\ndriving slowly back to the farm at the north end of the island.\nEverything he found familiar, yet at the same time strange. They passed\nthe school where he used to go as a little bare-legged boy; other boys\nwere now learning their lessons exactly as he used to do. Through the\nopen window he could hear the droning voice of the schoolmaster, who,\nthough invisible, wore the face of Mr. Lovibond, his own teacher.\n\n\"Lovibond?\" said Tom, in reply to his question. \"Oh, he's been dead\nthese twenty years. He went south, you know--Glasgow, I think it was, or\nEdinburgh. He got typhoid.\"\n\nStands of golden plover were to be seen as of old in the fields, or\nflashing overhead in swift flight with a whir of wings, wheeling and\nturning together like one huge bird. Down on the empty shore a curlew\ncried. Its piercing note rose clear above the noisy clamour of the\ngulls. The sun played softly on the quiet sea, the air was keen but\npleasant, the tang of salt mixed sweetly with the clean smells of open\ncountry that he knew so well. Nothing of essentials had changed, even\nthe low clouds beyond the heaving uplands were the clouds of childhood.\n\nThey came presently to the sand-dunes, where rabbits sat at their\nburrow-mouths, or ran helter-skelter across the road in front of the\nslow cart.\n\n\"They're safe till the colder weather comes and trapping begins,\" he\nmentioned. It all came back to him in detail.\n\n\"And they know it, too--the canny little beggars,\" replied Tom. \"Any\nrabbits out where you've been?\" he asked casually.\n\n\"Not to hurt you,\" returned his brother shortly.\n\nNothing seemed changed, although everything seemed different. He looked\nupon the old, familiar things, but with other eyes. There were, of\ncourse, changes, alterations, yet so slight, in a way so odd and\ncurious, that they evaded him; not being of the physical order, they\nreported to his soul, not to his mind. But his soul, being troubled,\nsought to deny the changes; to admit them meant to admit a change in\nhimself he had determined to conceal even if he could not entirely deny\nit.\n\n\"Same old place, Tom,\" came one of his rare remarks. \"The years ain't\ndone much to it.\" He looked into his brother's face a moment squarely.\n\"Nor to you, either, Tom,\" he added, affection and tenderness just\ntouching his voice and breaking through a natural reserve that was\nalmost taciturnity.\n\nHis brother returned the look; and something in that instant passed\nbetween the two men, something of understanding that no words had\nhinted at, much less expressed. The tie was real, they loved each other,\nthey were loyal, true, steadfast fellows. In youth they had known no\nsecrets. The shadow that now passed and vanished left a vague trouble in\nboth hearts.\n\n\"The forests,\" said Tom slowly, \"have made a silent man of you, Jim.\nYou'll miss them here, I'm thinking.\"\n\n\"Maybe,\" was the curt reply, \"but I guess not.\"\n\nHis lips snapped to as though they were of steel and could never open\nagain, while the tone he used made Tom realize that the subject was not\none his brother cared to talk about particularly. He was surprised,\ntherefore, when, after a pause, Jim returned to it of his own accord. He\nwas sitting a little sideways as he spoke, taking in the scene with\nhungry eyes. \"It's a queer thing,\" he observed, \"to look round and see\nnothing but clean empty land, and not a single tree in sight. You see,\nit don't look natural quite.\"\n\nAgain his brother was struck by the tone of voice, but this time by\nsomething else as well he could not name. Jim was excusing himself,\nexplaining. The manner, too, arrested him. And thirty years disappeared\nas though they had not been, for it was thus Jim acted as a boy when\nthere was something unpleasant he had to say and wished to get it over.\nThe tone, the gesture, the manner, all were there. He was edging up to\nsomething he wished to say, yet dared not utter.\n\n\"You've had enough of trees then?\" Tom said sympathetically, trying to\nhelp, \"and things?\"\n\nThe instant the last two words were out he realized that they had been\ndrawn from him instinctively, and that it was the anxiety of deep\naffection which had prompted them. He had guessed without knowing he had\nguessed, or rather, without intention or attempt to guess. Jim had a\nsecret. Love's clairvoyance had discovered it, though not yet its hidden\nterms.\n\n\"I have----\" began the other, then paused, evidently to choose his\nwords with care. \"I've had enough of trees.\" He was about to speak of\nsomething that his brother had unwittingly touched upon in his chance\nphrase, but instead of finding the words he sought, he gave a sudden\nstart, his breath caught sharply. \"What's that?\" he exclaimed, jerking\nhis body round so abruptly that Tom automatically pulled the reins.\n\"What is it?\"\n\n\"A dog barking,\" Tom answered, much surprised. \"A farm dog barking. Why?\nWhat did you think it was?\" he asked, as he flicked the horse to go on\nagain. \"You made me jump,\" he added, with a laugh. \"You're used to\nhuskies, ain't you?\"\n\n\"It sounded so--not like a dog, I mean,\" came the slow explanation.\n\"It's long since I heard a sheep-dog bark, I suppose it startled me.\"\n\n\"Oh, it's a dog all right,\" Tom assured him comfortingly, for his heart\ntold him infallibly the kind of tone to use. And presently, too, he\nchanged the subject in his blunt, honest fashion, knowing that, also,\nwas the right and kindly thing to do. He pointed out the old farms as\nthey drove along, his brother silent again, sitting stiff and rigid at\nhis side. \"And it's good to have you back, Jim, from those outlandish\nplaces. There are not too many of the family left now--just you and I,\nas a matter of fact.\"\n\n\"Just you and I,\" the other repeated gruffly, but in a sweetened tone\nthat proved he appreciated the ready sympathy and tact. \"We'll stick\ntogether, Tom, eh? Blood's thicker than water, ain't it? I've learnt\nthat much, anyhow.\"\n\nThe voice had something gentle and appealing in it, something his\nbrother heard now for the first time. An elbow nudged into his side, and\nTom knew the gesture was not solely a sign of affection, but grew\npartly also from the comfort born of physical contact when the heart is\nanxious. The touch, like the last words, conveyed an appeal for help.\nTom was so surprised he couldn't believe it quite.\n\nScared! Jim scared! The thought puzzled and afflicted him who knew his\nbrother's character inside out, his courage, his presence of mind in\ndanger, his resolution. Jim frightened seemed an impossibility, a\ncontradiction in terms; he was the kind of man who did not know the\nmeaning of fear, who shrank from nothing, whose spirits rose highest\nwhen things appeared most hopeless. It must, indeed, be an uncommon,\neven a terrible danger that could shake such nerves; yet Tom saw the\nsigns and read them clearly. Explain them he could not, nor did he try.\nAll he knew with certainty was that his brother, sitting now beside him\nin the cart, hid a secret terror in his heart. Sooner or later, in his\nown good time, he would share it with him.\n\nHe ascribed it, this simple Orkney farmer, to those thirty years of\nloneliness and exile in wild desolate places, without companionship,\nwithout the society of women, with only Indians, husky dogs, a few\ntrappers or fur-dealers like himself, but none of the wholesome, natural\ninfluences that sweeten life within reach. Thirty years was a long, long\ntime. He began planning schemes to help. Jim must see people as much as\npossible, and his mind ran quickly over the men and women available. In\nwomen the neighbourhood was not rich, but there were several men of\nthe right sort who might be useful, good fellows all. There was John\nRossiter, another old Hudson Bay man, who had been factor at Cartwright,\nLabrador, for many years, and had returned long ago to spend his last\ndays in civilization. There was Sandy McKay, also back from a long spell\nof rubber-planting in Malay.... Tom was still busy making plans when\nthey reached the old farm and presently sat down to their first meal\ntogether since that early breakfast thirty years ago before Jim caught\nthe steamer that bore him off to exile--an exile that now returned him\nwith nerves unstrung and a secret terror hidden in his heart.\n\n\"I'll ask no questions,\" he decided. \"Jim will tell me in his own good\ntime. And meanwhile, I'll get him to see as many folks as possible.\" He\nmeant it too; yet not only for his brother's sake. Jim's terror was so\nvivid it had touched his own heart too.\n\n\"Ah, a man can open his lungs here and breathe!\" exclaimed Jim, as the\ntwo came out after supper and stood before the house, gazing across the\nopen country. He drew a deep breath as though to prove his assertion,\nexhaling with slow satisfaction again. \"It's good to see a clear horizon\nand to know there's all that water between--between me and where I've\nbeen.\" He turned his face to watch the plover in the sky, then looked\ntowards the distant shore-line where the sea was just visible in the\nlong evening light. \"There can't be too much water for me,\" he added,\nhalf to himself. \"I guess they can't cross water--not that much water at\nany rate.\"\n\nTom stared, wondering uneasily what to make of it.\n\n\"At the trees again, Jim?\" he said laughingly. He had overheard the last\nwords, though spoken low, and thought it best not to ignore them\naltogether. To be natural was the right way, he believed, natural and\ncheery. To make a joke of anything unpleasant, he felt, was to make it\nless serious. \"I've never seen a tree come across the Atlantic yet,\nexcept as a mast--dead,\" he added.\n\n\"I wasn't thinking of the trees just then,\" was the blunt reply, \"but\nof--something else. The damned trees are nothing, though I hate the\nsight of 'em. Not of much account, anyway\"--as though he compared them\nmentally with another thing. He puffed at his pipe, a moment.\n\n\"They certainly can't move,\" put in his brother, \"nor swim either.\"\n\n\"Nor another thing,\" said Jim, his voice thick suddenly, but not\nwith smoke, and his speech confused, though the idea in his mind was\ncertainly clear as daylight. \"Things can't hide behind 'em--can they?\"\n\n\"Not much cover hereabouts, I admit,\" laughed Tom, though the look in\nhis brother's eyes made his laughter as short as it sounded unnatural.\n\n\"That's so,\" agreed the other. \"But what I meant was\"--he threw out his\nchest, looked about him with an air of intense relief, drew in another\ndeep breath, and again exhaled with satisfaction--\"if there are no\ntrees, there's no hiding.\"\n\nIt was the expression on the rugged, weathered face that sent the blood\nin a sudden gulping rush from his brother's heart. He had seen men\nfrightened, seen men afraid before they were actually frightened; he\nhad also seen men stiff with terror in the face both of natural and\nso-called supernatural things; but never in his life before had he seen\nthe look of unearthly dread that now turned his brother's face as white\nas chalk and yet put the glow of fire in two haunted burning eyes.\n\nAcross the darkening landscape the sound of distant barking had floated\nto them on the evening wind.\n\n\"It's only a farm-dog barking.\" Yet it was Jim's deep, quiet voice that\nsaid it, one hand upon his brother's arm.\n\n\"That's all,\" replied Tom, ashamed that he had betrayed himself, and\nrealizing with a shock of surprise that it was Jim who now played the\nrole of comforter--a startling change in their relations. \"Why, what did\nyou think it was?\"\n\nHe tried hard to speak naturally and easily, but his voice shook. So\ndeep was the brothers' love and intimacy that they could not help but\nshare.\n\nJim lowered his great head. \"I thought,\" he whispered, his grey beard\ntouching the other's cheek, \"maybe it was the wolves\"--an agony of\nterror made both voice and body tremble--\"the Wolves of God!\"\n\n\n2\n\nThe interval of thirty years had been bridged easily enough; it was the\nsecret that left the open gap neither of them cared or dared to cross.\nJim's reason for hesitation lay within reach of guesswork, but Tom's\nsilence was more complicated.\n\nWith strong, simple men, strangers to affectation or pretence, reserve\nis a real, almost a sacred thing. Jim offered nothing more; Tom asked no\nsingle question. In the latter's mind lay, for one thing, a singular\nintuitive certainty: that if he knew the truth he would lose his\nbrother. How, why, wherefore, he had no notion; whether by death, or\nbecause, having told an awful thing, Jim would hide--physically or\nmentally--he knew not, nor even asked himself. No subtlety lay in Tom,\nthe Orkney farmer. He merely felt that a knowledge of the truth involved\nseparation which was death.\n\nDay and night, however, that extraordinary phrase which, at its first\nhearing, had frozen his blood, ran on beating in his mind. With it came\nalways the original, nameless horror that had held him motionless where\nhe stood, his brother's bearded lips against his ear: _The Wolves of\nGod_. In some dim way, he sometimes felt--tried to persuade himself,\nrather--the horror did not belong to the phrase alone, but was a\nsympathetic echo of what Jim felt himself. It had entered his own mind\nand heart. They had always shared in this same strange, intimate way.\nThe deep brotherly tie accounted for it. Of the possible transference of\nthought and emotion he knew nothing, but this was what he meant perhaps.\n\nAt the same time he fought and strove to keep it out, not because it\nbrought uneasy and distressing feelings to him, but because he did not\nwish to pry, to ascertain, to discover his brother's secret as by some\nkind of subterfuge that seemed too near to eavesdropping almost.\nAlso, he wished most earnestly to protect him. Meanwhile, in spite of\nhimself, or perhaps because of himself, he watched his brother as a wild\nanimal watches its young. Jim was the only tie he had on earth. He loved\nhim with a brother's love, and Jim, similarly, he knew, loved him. His\njob was difficult. Love alone could guide him.\n\nHe gave openings, but he never questioned:\n\n\"Your letter did surprise me, Jim. I was never so delighted in my life.\nYou had still two years to run.\"\n\n\"I'd had enough,\" was the short reply. \"God, man, it was good to get\nhome again!\"\n\nThis, and the blunt talk that followed their first meeting, was all\nTom had to go upon, while those eyes that refused to shut watched\nceaselessly always. There was improvement, unless, which never occurred\nto Tom, it was self-control; there was no more talk of trees and water,\nthe barking of the dogs passed unnoticed, no reference to the loneliness\nof the backwoods life passed his lips; he spent his days fishing,\nshooting, helping with the work of the farm, his evenings smoking over\na glass--he was more than temperate--and talking over the days of long\nago.\n\nThe signs of uneasiness still were there, but they were negative, far\nmore suggestive, therefore, than if open and direct. He desired no\ncompany, for instance--an unnatural thing, thought Tom, after so many\nyears of loneliness.\n\nIt was this and the awkward fact that he had given up two years before\nhis time was finished, renouncing, therefore, a comfortable pension--it\nwas these two big details that stuck with such unkind persistence in\nhis brother's thoughts. Behind both, moreover, ran ever the strange\nwhispered phrase. What the words meant, or whence they were derived, Tom\nhad no possible inkling. Like the wicked refrain of some forbidden song,\nthey haunted him day and night, even his sleep not free from them\nentirely. All of which, to the simple Orkney farmer, was so new an\nexperience that he knew not how to deal with it at all. Too strong to\nbe flustered, he was at any rate bewildered. And it was for Jim, his\nbrother, he suffered most.\n\nWhat perplexed him chiefly, however, was the attitude his brother showed\ntowards old John Rossiter. He could almost have imagined that the two\nmen had met and known each other out in Canada, though Rossiter showed\nhim how impossible that was, both in point of time and of geography as\nwell. He had brought them together within the first few days, and Jim,\nsilent, gloomy, morose, even surly, had eyed him like an enemy. Old\nRossiter, the milk of human kindness as thick in his veins as cream, had\ntaken no offence. Grizzled veteran of the wilds, he had served his full\nterm with the Company and now enjoyed his well-earned pension. He was\nfull of stories, reminiscences, adventures of every sort and kind;\nhe knew men and values, had seen strange things that only the true\nwilderness delivers, and he loved nothing better than to tell them over\na glass. He talked with Jim so genially and affably that little response\nwas called for luckily, for Jim was glum and unresponsive almost to\nrudeness. Old Rossiter noticed nothing. What Tom noticed was, chiefly\nperhaps, his brother's acute uneasiness. Between his desire to help, his\nattachment to Rossiter, and his keen personal distress, he knew not what\nto do or say. The situation was becoming too much for him.\n\nThe two families, besides--Peace and Rossiter--had been neighbours\nfor generations, had intermarried freely, and were related in various\ndegrees. He was too fond of his brother to feel ashamed, but he was glad\nwhen the visit was over and they were out of their host's house. Jim had\neven declined to drink with him.\n\n\"They're good fellows on the island,\" said Tom on their way home, \"but\nnot specially entertaining, perhaps. We all stick together though. You\ncan trust 'em mostly.\"\n\n\"I never was a talker, Tom,\" came the gruff reply. \"You know that.\" And\nTom, understanding more than he understood, accepted the apology and\nmade generous allowances.\n\n\"John likes to talk,\" he helped him. \"He appreciates a good listener.\"\n\n\"It's the kind of talk I'm finished with,\" was the rejoinder. \"The\nCompany and their goings-on don't interest me any more. I've had\nenough.\"\n\nTom noticed other things as well with those affectionate eyes of his\nthat did not want to see yet would not close. As the days drew in, for\ninstance, Jim seemed reluctant to leave the house towards evening. Once\nthe full light of day had passed, he kept indoors. He was eager and\nready enough to shoot in the early morning, no matter at what hour he\nhad to get up, but he refused point blank to go with his brother to the\nlake for an evening flight. No excuse was offered; he simply declined to\ngo.\n\nThe gap between them thus widened and deepened, while yet in another\nsense it grew less formidable. Both knew, that is, that a secret lay\nbetween them for the first time in their lives, yet both knew also that\nat the right and proper moment it would be revealed. Jim only waited\ntill the proper moment came. And Tom understood. His deep, simple love\nwas equal to all emergencies. He respected his brother's reserve. The\nobvious desire of John Rossiter to talk and ask questions, for instance,\nhe resisted staunchly as far as he was able. Only when he could help and\nprotect his brother did he yield a little. The talk was brief, even\nmonosyllabic; neither the old Hudson Bay fellow nor the Orkney farmer\nran to many words:\n\n\"He ain't right with himself,\" offered John, taking his pipe out of his\nmouth and leaning forward. \"That's what I don't like to see.\" He put a\nskinny hand on Tom's knee, and looked earnestly into his face as he said\nit.\n\n\"Jim!\" replied the other. \"Jim ill, you mean!\" It sounded ridiculous.\n\n\"His mind is sick.\"\n\n\"I don't understand,\" Tom said, though the truth bit like rough-edged\nsteel into the brother's heart.\n\n\"His soul, then, if you like that better.\"\n\nTom fought with himself a moment, then asked him to be more explicit.\n\n\"More'n I can say,\" rejoined the laconic old backwoodsman. \"I don't know\nmyself. The woods heal some men and make others sick.\"\n\n\"Maybe, John, maybe.\" Tom fought back his resentment. \"You've lived,\nlike him, in lonely places. You ought to know.\" His mouth shut with a\nsnap, as though he had said too much. Loyalty to his suffering brother\ncaught him strongly. Already his heart ached for Jim. He felt angry with\nRossiter for his divination, but perceived, too, that the old fellow\nmeant well and was trying to help him. If he lost Jim, he lost the\nworld--his all.\n\nA considerable pause followed, during which both men puffed their pipes\nwith reckless energy. Both, that is, were a bit excited. Yet both had\ntheir code, a code they would not exceed for worlds.\n\n\"Jim,\" added Tom presently, making an effort to meet the sympathy half\nway, \"ain't quite up to the mark, I'll admit that.\"\n\nThere was another long pause, while Rossiter kept his eyes on his\ncompanion steadily, though without a trace of expression in them--a\nhabit that the woods had taught him.\n\n\"Jim,\" he said at length, with an obvious effort, \"is skeered. And it's\nthe soul in him that's skeered.\"\n\nTom wavered dreadfully then. He saw that old Rossiter, experienced\nbackwoodsman and taught by the Company as he was, knew where the secret\nlay, if he did not yet know its exact terms. It was easy enough to put\nthe question, yet he hesitated, because loyalty forbade.\n\n\"It's a dirty outfit somewheres,\" the old man mumbled to himself.\n\nTom sprang to his feet, \"If you talk that way,\" he exclaimed angrily,\n\"you're no friend of mine--or his.\" His anger gained upon him as he said\nit. \"Say that again,\" he cried, \"and I'll knock your teeth----\"\n\nHe sat back, stunned a moment.\n\n\"Forgive me, John,\" he faltered, shamed yet still angry. \"It's pain to\nme, it's pain. Jim,\" he went on, after a long breath and a pull at his\nglass, \"Jim _is_ scared, I know it.\" He waited a moment, hunting for the\nwords that he could use without disloyalty. \"But it's nothing he's done\nhimself,\" he said, \"nothing to his discredit. I know _that_.\"\n\nOld Rossiter looked up, a strange light in his eyes.\n\n\"No offence,\" he said quietly.\n\n\"Tell me what you know,\" cried Tom suddenly, standing up again.\n\nThe old factor met his eye squarely, steadfastly. He laid his pipe\naside.\n\n\"D'ye really want to hear?\" he asked in a lowered voice. \"Because, if\nyou don't--why, say so right now. I'm all for justice,\" he added, \"and\nalways was.\"\n\n\"Tell me,\" said Tom, his heart in his mouth. \"Maybe, if I knew--I might\nhelp him.\" The old man's words woke fear in him. He well knew his\npassionate, remorseless sense of justice.\n\n\"Help him,\" repeated the other. \"For a man skeered in his soul there\nain't no help. But--if you want to hear--I'll tell you.\"\n\n\"Tell me,\" cried Tom. \"I _will_ help him,\" while rising anger fought\nback rising fear.\n\nJohn took another pull at his glass.\n\n\"Jest between you and me like.\"\n\n\"Between you and me,\" said Tom. \"Get on with it.\"\n\nThere was a deep silence in the little room. Only the sound of the sea\ncame in, the wind behind it.\n\n\"The Wolves,\" whispered old Rossiter. \"The Wolves of God.\"\n\nTom sat still in his chair, as though struck in the face. He shivered.\nHe kept silent and the silence seemed to him long and curious. His heart\nwas throbbing, the blood in his veins played strange tricks. All he\nremembered was that old Rossiter had gone on talking. The voice,\nhowever, sounded far away and distant. It was all unreal, he felt, as he\nwent homewards across the bleak, wind-swept upland, the sound of the sea\nfor ever in his ears....\n\nYes, old John Rossiter, damned be his soul, had gone on talking. He had\nsaid wild, incredible things. Damned be his soul! His teeth should be\nsmashed for that. It was outrageous, it was cowardly, it was not true.\n\n\"Jim,\" he thought, \"my brother, Jim!\" as he ploughed his way wearily\nagainst the wind. \"I'll teach him. I'll teach him to spread such wicked\ntales!\" He referred to Rossiter. \"God blast these fellows! They come\nhome from their outlandish places and think they can say anything! I'll\nknock his yellow dog's teeth...!\"\n\nWhile, inside, his heart went quailing, crying for help, afraid.\n\nHe tried hard to remember exactly what old John had said. Round Garden\nLake--that's where Jim was located in his lonely Post--there was a tribe\nof Redskins. They were of unusual type. Malefactors among them--thieves,\ncriminals, murderers--were not punished. They were merely turned out by\nthe Tribe to die.\n\nBut how?\n\nThe Wolves of God took care of them. What were the Wolves of God?\n\nA pack of wolves the Redskins held in awe, a sacred pack, a spirit\npack--God curse the man! Absurd, outlandish nonsense! Superstitious\nhumbug! A pack of wolves that punished malefactors, killing but never\neating them. \"Torn but not eaten,\" the words came back to him, \"white\nmen as well as red. They could even cross the sea....\"\n\n\"He ought to be strung up for telling such wild yarns. By God--I'll\nteach him!\"\n\n\"Jim! My brother, Jim! It's monstrous.\"\n\nBut the old man, in his passionate cold justice, had said a yet more\nterrible thing, a thing that Tom would never forget, as he never could\nforgive it: \"You mustn't keep him here; you must send him away. We\ncannot have him on the island.\" And for that, though he could scarcely\nbelieve his ears, wondering afterwards whether he heard aright, for\nthat, the proper answer to which was a blow in the mouth, Tom knew that\nhis old friendship and affection had turned to bitter hatred.\n\n\"If I don't kill him, for that cursed lie, may God--and Jim--forgive\nme!\"\n\n\n3\n\nIt was a few days later that the storm caught the islands, making them\ntremble in their sea-born bed. The wind tearing over the treeless\nexpanse was terrible, the lightning lit the skies. No such rain had ever\nbeen known. The building shook and trembled. It almost seemed the sea\nhad burst her limits, and the waves poured in. Its fury and the noises\nthat the wind made affected both the brothers, but Jim disliked the\nuproar most. It made him gloomy, silent, morose. It made him--Tom\nperceived it at once--uneasy. \"Scared in his soul\"--the ugly phrase came\nback to him.\n\n\"God save anyone who's out to-night,\" said Jim anxiously, as the old\nfarm rattled about his head. Whereupon the door opened as of itself.\nThere was no knock. It flew wide, as if the wind had burst it. Two\ndrenched and beaten figures showed in the gap against the lurid sky--old\nJohn Rossiter and Sandy. They laid their fowling pieces down and took\noff their capes; they had been up at the lake for the evening flight and\nsix birds were in the game bag. So suddenly had the storm come up that\nthey had been caught before they could get home.\n\nAnd, while Tom welcomed them, looked after their creature wants, and\nmade them feel at home as in duty bound, no visit, he felt at the same\ntime, could have been less opportune. Sandy did not matter--Sandy never\ndid matter anywhere, his personality being negligible--but John Rossiter\nwas the last man Tom wished to see just then. He hated the man; hated\nthat sense of implacable justice that he knew was in him; with the\nslightest excuse he would have turned him out and sent him on to his own\nhome, storm or no storm. But Rossiter provided no excuse; he was all\ngratitude and easy politeness, more pleasant and friendly to Jim even\nthan to his brother. Tom set out the whisky and sugar, sliced the lemon,\nput the kettle on, and furnished dry coats while the soaked garments\nhung up before the roaring fire that Orkney makes customary even when\ndays are warm.\n\n\"It might be the equinoctials,\" observed Sandy, \"if it wasn't late\nOctober.\" He shivered, for the tropics had thinned his blood.\n\n\"This ain't no ordinary storm,\" put in Rossiter, drying his drenched\nboots. \"It reminds me a bit\"--he jerked his head to the window that\ngave seawards, the rush of rain against the panes half drowning his\nvoice--\"reminds me a bit of yonder.\" He looked up, as though to find\nsomeone to agree with him, only one such person being in the room.\n\n\"Sure, it ain't,\" agreed Jim at once, but speaking slowly, \"no ordinary\nstorm.\" His voice was quiet as a child's. Tom, stooping over the kettle,\nfelt something cold go trickling down his back. \"It's from acrost the\nAtlantic too.\"\n\n\"All our big storms come from the sea,\" offered Sandy, saying just what\nSandy was expected to say. His lank red hair lay matted on his forehead,\nmaking him look like an unhappy collie dog.\n\n\"There's no hospitality,\" Rossiter changed the talk, \"like an\nislander's,\" as Tom mixed and filled the glasses. \"He don't even ask\n'Say when?'\" He chuckled in his beard and turned to Sandy, well pleased\nwith the compliment to his host. \"Now, in Malay,\" he added dryly, \"it's\nprobably different, I guess.\" And the two men, one from Labrador, the\nother from the tropics, fell to bantering one another with heavy humour,\nwhile Tom made things comfortable and Jim stood silent with his back to\nthe fire. At each blow of the wind that shook the building, a suitable\nremark was made, generally by Sandy: \"Did you hear that now?\" \"Ninety\nmiles an hour at least.\" \"Good thing you build solid in this country!\"\nwhile Rossiter occasionally repeated that it was an \"uncommon storm\" and\nthat \"it reminded\" him of the northern tempests he had known \"out\nyonder.\"\n\nTom said little, one thought and one thought only in his heart--the wish\nthat the storm would abate and his guests depart. He felt uneasy about\nJim. He hated Rossiter. In the kitchen he had steadied himself already\nwith a good stiff drink, and was now half-way through a second; the\nfeeling was in him that he would need their help before the evening was\nout. Jim, he noticed, had left his glass untouched. His attention,\nclearly, went to the wind and the outer night; he added little to the\nconversation.\n\n\"Hark!\" cried Sandy's shrill voice. \"Did you hear that? That wasn't\nwind, I'll swear.\" He sat up, looking for all the world like a dog\npricking its ears to something no one else could hear.\n\n\"The sea coming over the dunes,\" said Rossiter. \"There'll be an awful\ntide to-night and a terrible sea off the Swarf. Moon at the full, too.\"\nHe cocked his head sideways to listen. The roaring was tremendous, waves\nand wind combining with a result that almost shook the ground. Rain hit\nthe glass with incessant volleys like duck shot.\n\nIt was then that Jim spoke, having said no word for a long time.\n\n\"It's good there's no trees,\" he mentioned quietly. \"I'm glad of that.\"\n\n\"There'd be fearful damage, wouldn't there?\" remarked Sandy. \"They might\nfall on the house too.\"\n\nBut it was the tone Jim used that made Rossiter turn stiffly in his\nchair, looking first at the speaker, then at his brother. Tom caught\nboth glances and saw the hard keen glitter in the eyes. This kind of\ntalk, he decided, had got to stop, yet how to stop it he hardly knew,\nfor his were not subtle methods, and rudeness to his guests ran too\nstrong against the island customs. He refilled the glasses, thinking in\nhis blunt fashion how best to achieve his object, when Sandy helped the\nsituation without knowing it.\n\n\"That's my first,\" he observed, and all burst out laughing. For Sandy's\ntenth glass was equally his \"first,\" and he absorbed his liquor like\na sponge, yet showed no effects of it until the moment when he would\nsuddenly collapse and sink helpless to the ground. The glass in\nquestion, however, was only his third, the final moment still far away.\n\n\"Three in one and one in three,\" said Rossiter, amid the general\nlaughter, while Sandy, grave as a judge, half emptied it at a single\ngulp. Good-natured, obtuse as a cart-horse, the tropics, it seemed, had\nfirst worn out his nerves, then removed them entirely from his body.\n\"That's Malay theology, I guess,\" finished Rossiter. And the laugh broke\nout again. Whereupon, setting his glass down, Sandy offered his usual\nexplanation that the hot lands had thinned his blood, that he felt the\ncold in these \"arctic islands,\" and that alcohol was a necessity of life\nwith him. Tom, grateful for the unexpected help, encouraged him to talk,\nand Sandy, accustomed to neglect as a rule, responded readily. Having\nsaved the situation, however, he now unwittingly led it back into the\ndanger zone.\n\n\"A night for tales, eh?\" he remarked, as the wind came howling with\na burst of strangest noises against the house. \"Down there in the\nStates,\" he went on, \"they'd say the evil spirits were out. They're a\nsuperstitious crowd, the natives. I remember once----\" And he told a\ntale, half foolish, half interesting, of a mysterious track he had seen\nwhen following buffalo in the jungle. It ran close to the spoor of a\nwounded buffalo for miles, a track unlike that of any known animal, and\nthe natives, though unable to name it, regarded it with awe. It was\na good sign, a kill was certain. They said it was a spirit track.\n\n\"You got your buffalo?\" asked Tom.\n\n\"Found him two miles away, lying dead. The mysterious spoor came to an\nend close beside the carcass. It didn't continue.\"\n\n\"And that reminds me----\" began old Rossiter, ignoring Tom's attempt to\nintroduce another subject. He told them of the haunted island at Eagle\nRiver, and a tale of the man who would not stay buried on another island\noff the coast. From that he went on to describe the strange man-beast\nthat hides in the deep forests of Labrador, manifesting but rarely, and\ndangerous to men who stray too far from camp, men with a passion for\nwild life over-strong in their blood--the great mythical Wendigo. And\nwhile he talked, Tom noticed that Sandy used each pause as a good moment\nfor a drink, but that Jim's glass still remained untouched.\n\nThe atmosphere of incredible things, thus, grew in the little room, much\nas it gathers among the shadows round a forest camp-fire when men who\nhave seen strange places of the world give tongue about them, knowing\nthey will not be laughed at--an atmosphere, once established, it is\nvain to fight against. The ingrained superstition that hides in every\nmother's son comes up at such times to breathe. It came up now. Sandy,\ncloser by several glasses to the moment, Tom saw, when he would be\nsuddenly drunk, gave birth again, a tale this time of a Scottish planter\nwho had brutally dismissed a native servant for no other reason than\nthat he disliked him. The man disappeared completely, but the villagers\nhinted that he would--soon indeed that he had--come back, though \"not\nquite as he went.\" The planter armed, knowing that vengeance might\nbe violent. A black panther, meanwhile, was seen prowling about the\nbungalow. One night a noise outside his door on the veranda roused him.\nJust in time to see the black brute leaping over the railings into the\ncompound, he fired, and the beast fell with a savage growl of pain. Help\narrived and more shots were fired into the animal, as it lay, mortally\nwounded already, lashing its tail upon the grass. The lanterns, however,\nshowed that instead of a panther, it was the servant they had shot to\nshreds.\n\nSandy told the story well, a certain odd conviction in his tone and\nmanner, neither of them at all to the liking of his host. Uneasiness and\nannoyance had been growing in Tom for some time already, his inability\nto control the situation adding to his anger. Emotion was accumulating\nin him dangerously; it was directed chiefly against Rossiter, who,\nthough saying nothing definite, somehow deliberately encouraged both\ntalk and atmosphere. Given the conditions, it was natural enough the\ntalk should take the turn it did take, but what made Tom more and more\nangry was that, if Rossiter had not been present, he could have stopped\nit easily enough. It was the presence of the old Hudson Bay man that\nprevented his taking decided action. He was afraid of Rossiter, afraid\nof putting his back up. That was the truth. His recognition of it made\nhim furious.\n\n\"Tell us another, Sandy McKay,\" said the veteran. \"There's a lot in such\ntales. They're found the world over--men turning into animals and the\nlike.\"\n\nAnd Sandy, yet nearer to his moment of collapse, but still showing no\neffects, obeyed willingly. He noticed nothing; the whisky was good, his\ntales were appreciated, and that sufficed him. He thanked Tom, who just\nthen refilled his glass, and went on with his tale. But Tom, hatred\nand fury in his heart, had reached the point where he could no longer\ncontain himself, and Rossiter's last words inflamed him. He went over,\nunder cover of a tremendous clap of wind, to fill the old man's glass.\nThe latter refused, covering the tumbler with his big, lean hand.\nTom stood over him a moment, lowering his face. \"You keep still,\" he\nwhispered ferociously, but so that no one else heard it. He glared into\nhis eyes with an intensity that held danger, and Rossiter, without\nanswering, flung back that glare with equal, but with a calmer, anger.\n\nThe wind, meanwhile, had a trick of veering, and each time it shifted,\nJim shifted his seat too. Apparently, he preferred to face the sound,\nrather than have his back to it.\n\n\"Your turn now for a tale,\" said Rossiter with purpose, when Sandy\nfinished. He looked across at him, just as Jim, hearing the burst of\nwind at the walls behind him, was in the act of moving his chair again.\nThe same moment the attack rattled the door and windows facing him. Jim,\nwithout answering, stood for a moment still as death, not knowing which\nway to turn.\n\n\"It's beatin' up from all sides,\" remarked Rossiter, \"like it was goin'\nround the building.\"\n\nThere was a moment's pause, the four men listening with awe to the roar\nand power of the terrific wind. Tom listened too, but at the same time\nwatched, wondering vaguely why he didn't cross the room and crash his\nfist into the old man's chattering mouth. Jim put out his hand and took\nhis glass, but did not raise it to his lips. And a lull came abruptly in\nthe storm, the wind sinking into a moment's dreadful silence. Tom and\nRossiter turned their heads in the same instant and stared into each\nother's eyes. For Tom the instant seemed enormously prolonged. He\nrealized the challenge in the other and that his rudeness had roused it\ninto action. It had become a contest of wills--Justice battling against\nLove.\n\nJim's glass had now reached his lips, and the chattering of his teeth\nagainst its rim was audible.\n\nBut the lull passed quickly and the wind began again, though so gently\nat first, it had the sound of innumerable swift footsteps treading\nlightly, of countless hands fingering the doors and windows, but then\nsuddenly with a mighty shout as it swept against the walls, rushed\nacross the roof and descended like a battering-ram against the farther\nside.\n\n\"God, did you hear that?\" cried Sandy. \"It's trying to get in!\" and\nhaving said it, he sank in a heap beside his chair, all of a sudden\ncompletely drunk. \"It's wolves or panthersh,\" he mumbled in his stupor\non the floor, \"but whatsh's happened to Malay?\" It was the last thing he\nsaid before unconsciousness took him, and apparently he was insensible\nto the kick on the head from a heavy farmer's boot. For Jim's glass had\nfallen with a crash and the second kick was stopped midway. Tom stood\nspell-bound, unable to move or speak, as he watched his brother suddenly\ncross the room and open a window into the very teeth of the gale.\n\n\"Let be! Let be!\" came the voice of Rossiter, an authority in it, a\ncurious gentleness too, both of them new. He had risen, his lips were\nstill moving, but the words that issued from them were inaudible, as the\nwind and rain leaped with a galloping violence into the room, smashing\nthe glass to atoms and dashing a dozen loose objects helter-skelter on\nto the floor.\n\n\"I saw it!\" cried Jim, in a voice that rose above the din and clamour of\nthe elements. He turned and faced the others, but it was at Rossiter he\nlooked. \"I saw the leader.\" He shouted to make himself heard, although\nthe tone was quiet. \"A splash of white on his great chest. I saw them\nall!\"\n\nAt the words, and at the expression in Jim's eyes, old Rossiter, white\nto the lips, dropped back into his chair as if a blow had struck him.\nTom, petrified, felt his own heart stop. For through the broken window,\nabove yet within the wind, came the sound of a wolf-pack running,\nhowling in deep, full-throated chorus, mad for blood. It passed like a\nwhirlwind and was gone. And, of the three men so close together, one\nsitting and two standing, Jim alone was in that terrible moment wholly\nmaster of himself.\n\nBefore the others could move or speak, he turned and looked full into\nthe eyes of each in succession. His speech went back to his wilderness\ndays:\n\n\"I done it,\" he said calmly. \"I killed him--and I got ter go.\"\n\nWith a look of mystical horror on his face, he took one stride, flung\nthe door wide, and vanished into the darkness.\n\nSo quick were both words and action, that Tom's paralysis passed only as\nthe draught from the broken window banged the door behind him. He seemed\nto leap across the room, old Rossiter, tears on his cheeks and his lips\nmumbling foolish words, so close upon his heels that the backward blow\nof fury Tom aimed at his face caught him only in the neck and sent him\nreeling sideways to the floor instead of flat upon his back.\n\n\"Murderer! My brother's death upon you!\" he shouted as he tore the door\nopen again and plunged out into the night.\n\nAnd the odd thing that happened then, the thing that touched old John\nRossiter's reason, leaving him from that moment till his death a foolish\nman of uncertain mind and memory, happened when he and the unconscious,\ndrink-sodden Sandy lay alone together on the stone floor of that\nfarm-house room.\n\nRossiter, dazed by the blow and his fall, but in full possession of his\nsenses, and the anger gone out of him owing to what he had brought\nabout, this same John Rossiter sat up and saw Sandy also sitting up and\nstaring at him hard. And Sandy was sober as a judge, his eyes and\nspeech both clear, even his face unflushed.\n\n\"John Rossiter,\" he said, \"it was not God who appointed you executioner.\nIt was the devil.\" And his eyes, thought Rossiter, were like the eyes of\nan angel.\n\n\"Sandy McKay,\" he stammered, his teeth chattering and breath failing\nhim. \"Sandy McKay!\" It was all the words that he could find. But Sandy,\nalready sunk back into his stupor again, was stretched drunk and\nincapable upon the farm-house floor, and remained in that condition till\nthe dawn.\n\nJim's body lay hidden among the dunes for many months and in spite of\nthe most careful and prolonged searching. It was another storm that laid\nit bare. The sand had covered it. The clothes were gone, and the flesh,\ntorn but not eaten, was naked to the December sun and wind.\n\n\n\n\nII\n\nCHINESE MAGIC\n\n\n1\n\nDr. Owen Francis felt a sudden wave of pleasure and admiration sweep\nover him as he saw her enter the room. He was in the act of going out;\nin fact, he had already said good-bye to his hostess, glad to make his\nescape from the chattering throng, when the tall and graceful young\nwoman glided past him. Her carriage was superb; she had black eyes with\na twinkling happiness in them; her mouth was exquisite. Round her\nneck, in spite of the warm afternoon, she wore a soft thing of fur or\nfeathers; and as she brushed by to shake the hand he had just shaken\nhimself, the tail of this touched his very cheek. Their eyes met fair\nand square. He felt as though her eyes also touched him.\n\nChanging his mind, he lingered another ten minutes, chatting with\nvarious ladies he did not in the least remember, but who remembered him.\nHe did not, of course, desire to exchange banalities with these other\nladies, yet did so gallantly enough. If they found him absent-minded\nthey excused him since he was the famous mental specialist whom\neverybody was proud to know. And all the time his eyes never left the\ntall graceful figure that allured him almost to the point of casting a\nspell upon him.\n\nHis first impression deepened as he watched. He was aware of excitement,\ncuriosity, longing; there was a touch even of exaltation in him; yet\nhe took no steps to seek the introduction which was easily enough\nprocurable. He checked himself, if with an effort. Several times\ntheir eyes met across the crowded room; he dared to believe--he felt\ninstinctively--that his interest was returned. Indeed, it was more than\ninstinct, for she was certainly aware of his presence, and he even\ncaught her indicating him to a woman she spoke with, and evidently\nasking who he was. Once he half bowed, and once, in spite of himself, he\nwent so far as to smile, and there came, he was sure, a faint, delicious\nbrightening of the eyes in answer. There was, he fancied, a look of\nyearning in the face. The young woman charmed him inexpressibly; the\nvery way she moved delighted him. Yet at last he slipped out of the room\nwithout a word, without an introduction, without even knowing her name.\nHe chose his moment when her back was turned. It was characteristic of\nhim.\n\nFor Owen Francis had ever regarded marriage, for himself at least, as a\ndisaster that could be avoided. He was in love with his work, and his\nwork was necessary to humanity. Others might perpetuate the race, but he\nmust heal it. He had come to regard love as the bait wherewith Nature\nlays her trap to fulfill her own ends. A man in love was a man enjoying\na delusion, a deluded man. In his case, and he was nearing forty-five,\nthe theory had worked admirably, and the dangerous exception that proved\nit had as yet not troubled him.\n\n\"It's come at last--I do believe,\" he thought to himself, as he walked\nhome, a new tumultuous emotion in his blood; \"the exception, quite\npossibly, has come at last. I wonder....\"\n\nAnd it seemed he said it to the tall graceful figure by his side, who\nturned up dark eyes smilingly to meet his own, and whose lips repeated\nsoftly his last two words \"I wonder....\"\n\nThe experience, being new to him, was baffling. A part of his nature,\nlong dormant, received the authentic thrill that pertains actually to\nyouth. He was a man of chaste, abstemious custom. The reaction was\nvehement. That dormant part of him became obstreperous. He thought of\nhis age, his appearance, his prospects; he looked thirty-eight, he was\nnot unhandsome, his position was secure, even remarkable. That gorgeous\nyoung woman--he called her gorgeous--haunted him. Never could he forget\nthat face, those eyes. It was extraordinary--he had left her there\nunspoken to, unknown, when an introduction would have been the simplest\nthing in the world.\n\n\"But it still is,\" he replied. And the reflection filled his being with\na flood of joy.\n\nHe checked himself again. Not so easily is established habit routed. He\nfelt instinctively that, at last, he had met his mate; if he followed it\nup he was a man in love, a lost man enjoying a delusion, a deluded man.\nBut the way she had looked at him! That air of intuitive invitation\nwhich not even the sweetest modesty could conceal! He felt an immense\nconfidence in himself; also he felt oddly sure of her.\n\nThe presence of that following figure, already precious, came with him\ninto his house, even into his study at the back where he sat over a\nnumber of letters by the open window. The pathetic little London garden\nshowed its pitiful patch. The lilac had faded, but a smell of roses\nentered. The sun was just behind the buildings opposite, and the garden\nlay soft and warm in summer shadows.\n\nHe read and tossed aside the letters; one only interested him, from\nEdward Farque, whose journey to China had interrupted a friendship of\nlong standing. Edward Farque's work on eastern art and philosophy, on\nChinese painting and Chinese thought in particular, had made its mark.\nHe was an authority. He was to be back about this time, and his friend\nsmiled with pleasure. \"Dear old unpractical dreamer, as I used to call\nhim,\" he mused. \"He's a success, anyhow!\" And as he mused, the presence\nthat sat beside him came a little closer, yet at the same time faded.\nNot that he forgot her--that was impossible--but that just before\nopening the letter from his friend, he had come to a decision. He had\ndefinitely made up his mind to seek acquaintance. The reality replaced\nthe remembered substitute.\n\n  \"As the newspapers may have warned you,\" ran the familiar and kinky\n  writing, \"I am back in England after what the scribes term my ten\n  years of exile in Cathay. I have taken a little house in Hampstead\n  for six months, and am just settling in. Come to us to-morrow night\n  and let me prove it to you. Come to dinner. We shall have much to\n  say; we both are ten years wiser. You know how glad I shall be to\n  see my old-time critic and disparager, but let me add frankly\n  that I want to ask you a few professional, or, rather, technical,\n  questions. So prepare yourself to come as doctor and as friend. I\n  am writing, as the papers said truthfully, a treatise on Chinese\n  thought. But--don't shy!--it is about Chinese Magic that I want\n  your technical advice [the last two words were substituted for\n  \"professional wisdom,\" which had been crossed out] and the benefit\n  of your vast experience. So come, old friend, come quickly, and come\n  hungry! I'll feed your body as you shall feed my mind.--Yours,\n\n                                              \"EDWARD FARQUE.\"\n\n  \"P.S.--'The coming of a friend from a far-off land--is not this true\n  joy?'\"\n\nDr. Francis laid down the letter with a pleased anticipatory chuckle,\nand it was the touch in the final sentence that amused him. In spite of\nbeing an authority, Farque was clearly the same fanciful, poetic dreamer\nas of old. He quoted Confucius as in other days. The firm but kinky\nwriting had not altered either. The only sign of novelty he noticed was\nthe use of scented paper, for a faint and pungent aroma clung to the big\nquarto sheet.\n\n\"A Chinese habit, doubtless,\" he decided, sniffing it with a puzzled air\nof disapproval. Yet it had nothing in common with the scented sachets\nsome ladies use too lavishly, so that even the air of the street is\npolluted by their passing for a dozen yards. He was familiar with every\nkind of perfumed note-paper used in London, Paris, and Constantinople.\nThis one was difficult. It was delicate and penetrating for all its\nfaintness, pleasurable too. He rather liked it, and while annoyed that\nhe could not name it, he sniffed at the letter several times, as though\nit were a flower.\n\n\"I'll go,\" he decided at once, and wrote an acceptance then and there.\nHe went out and posted it. He meant to prolong his walk into the Park,\ntaking his chief preoccupation, the face, the eyes, the figure, with\nhim. Already he was composing the note of inquiry to Mrs. Malleson, his\nhostess of the tea-party, the note whose willing answer should give him\nthe name, the address, the means of introduction he had now determined\nto secure. He visualized that note of inquiry, seeing it in his mind's\neye; only, for some odd reason, he saw the kinky writing of Farque\ninstead of his own more elegant script. Association of ideas and\nemotions readily explained this. Two new and unexpected interests had\nentered his life on the same day, and within half an hour of each other.\nWhat he could not so readily explain, however, was that two words in his\nfriend's ridiculous letter, and in that kinky writing, stood out sharply\nfrom the rest. As he slipped his envelope into the mouth of the red\npillar-box they shone vividly in his mind. These two words were \"Chinese\nMagic.\"\n\n\n2\n\nIt was the warmth of his friend's invitation as much as his own state of\ninward excitement that decided him suddenly to anticipate his visit by\ntwenty-four hours. It would clear his judgment and help his mind, if he\nspent the evening at Hampstead rather than alone with his own thoughts.\n\"A dose of China,\" he thought, with a smile, \"will do me good. Edward\nwon't mind. I'll telephone.\"\n\nHe left the Park soon after six o'clock and acted upon his impulse. The\nconnexion was bad, the wire buzzed and popped and crackled; talk was\ndifficult; he did not hear properly. The Professor had not yet come in,\napparently. Francis said he would come up anyhow on the chance.\n\n\"Velly pleased,\" said the voice in his ear, as he rang off.\n\nGoing into his study, he drafted the note that should result in the\nintroduction that was now, it appeared, the chief object of his life.\nThe way this woman with the black, twinkling eyes obsessed him was--he\nadmitted it with joy--extraordinary. The draft he put in his pocket,\nintending to re-write it next morning, and all the way up to Hampstead\nHeath the gracious figure glided silently beside him, the eyes were ever\npresent, his cheek still glowed where the feather boa had touched his\nskin. Edward Farque remained in the background. In fact, it was on the\nvery door-step, having rung the bell, that Francis realized he must pull\nhimself together. \"I've come to see old Farque,\" he reminded himself,\nwith a smile. \"I've got to be interested in him and his, and, probably,\nfor an hour or two, to talk Chinese----\" when the door opened\nnoiselessly, and he saw facing him, with a grin of celestial welcome on\nhis yellow face, a China-man.\n\n\"Oh!\" he said, with a start. He had not expected a Chinese servant.\n\n\"Velly pleased,\" the man bowed him in.\n\nDr. Francis stared round him with astonishment he could not conceal. A\ngreat golden idol faced him in the hall, its gleaming visage blazing out\nof a sort of miniature golden palanquin, with a grin, half dignified,\nhalf cruel. Fully double human size, it blocked the way, looking so\nlife-like that it might have moved to meet him without too great a shock\nto what seemed possible. It rested on a throne with four massive legs,\ncarved, the doctor saw, with serpents, dragons, and mythical monsters\ngenerally. Round it on every side were other things in keeping. Name\nthem he could not, describe them he did not try. He summed them up in\none word--China: pictures, weapons, cloths and tapestries, bells, gongs,\nand figures of every sort and kind imaginable.\n\nBeing ignorant of Chinese matters, Dr. Francis stood and looked about\nhim in a mental state of some confusion. He had the feeling that he had\nentered a Chinese temple, for there was a faint smell of incense hanging\nabout the house that was, to say the least, un-English. Nothing English,\nin fact, was visible at all. The matting on the floor, the swinging\ncurtains of bamboo beads that replaced the customary doors, the silk\ndraperies and pictured cushions, the bronze and ivory, the screens hung\nwith fantastic embroideries, everything was Chinese. Hampstead vanished\nfrom his thoughts. The very lamps were in keeping, the ancient lacquered\nfurniture as well. The value of what he saw, an expert could have told\nhim, was considerable.\n\n\"You likee?\" queried the voice at his side.\n\nHe had forgotten the servant. He turned sharply.\n\n\"Very much; it's wonderfully done,\" he said. \"Makes you feel at home,\nJohn, eh?\" he added tactfully, with a smile, and was going to ask how\nlong all this preparation had taken, when a voice sounded on the stairs\nbeyond. It was a voice he knew, a note of hearty welcome in its deep\nnotes.\n\n\"The coming of a friend from a far-off land, even from Harley Street--is\nnot this true joy?\" he heard, and the next minute was shaking the hand\nof his old and valued friend. The intimacy between them had always been\nof the truest.\n\n\"I almost expected a pigtail,\" observed Francis, looking him\naffectionately up and down, \"but, really--why, you've hardly changed at\nall!\"\n\n\"Outwardly, not as much, perhaps, as Time expects,\" was the happy\nreply, \"but inwardly----!\" He scanned appreciatively the burly figure of\nthe doctor in his turn. \"And I can say the same of you,\" he declared,\nstill holding his hand tight. \"This is a real pleasure, Owen,\" he went\non in his deep voice, \"to see you again is a joy to me. Old friends\nmeeting again--there's nothing like it in life, I believe, nothing.\" He\ngave the hand another squeeze before he let it go. \"And we,\" he added,\nleading the way into a room across the hall, \"neither of us is a\nfugitive from life. We take what we can, I mean.\"\n\nThe doctor smiled as he noted the un-English turn of language, and\ntogether they entered a sitting-room that was, again, more like some\ninner chamber of a Chinese temple than a back room in a rented Hampstead\nhouse.\n\n\"I only knew ten minutes ago that you were coming, my dear fellow,\"\nthe scholar was saying, as his friend gazed round him with increased\nastonishment, \"or I would have prepared more suitably for your\nreception. I was out till late. All this\"--he waved his hand--\"surprises\nyou, of course, but the fact is I have been home some days already, and\nmost of what you see was arranged for me in advance of my arrival. Hence\nits apparent completion. I say 'apparent,' because, actually, it is far\nfrom faithfully carried out. Yet to exceed,\" he added, \"is as bad as to\nfall short.\"\n\nThe doctor watched him while he listened to a somewhat lengthy\nexplanation of the various articles surrounding them. The speaker--he\nconfirmed his first impression--had changed little during the long\ninterval; the same enthusiasm was in him as before, the same fire and\ndreaminess alternately in the fine grey eyes, the same humour and\npassion about the mouth, the same free gestures, and the same big voice.\nOnly the lines had deepened on the forehead, and on the fine face the\nair of thoughtfulness was also deeper. It was Edward Farque as of old,\nscholar, poet, dreamer and enthusiast, despiser of western civilization,\ncontemptuous of money, generous and upright, a type of value, an\nindividual.\n\n\"You've done well, done splendidly, Edward, old man,\" said his friend\npresently, after hearing of Chinese wonders that took him somewhat\nbeyond his depth perhaps. \"No one is more pleased than I. I've watched\nyour books. You haven't regretted England, I'll be bound?\" he asked.\n\n\"The philosopher has no country, in any case,\" was the reply, steadily\ngiven. \"But out there, I confess, I've found my home.\" He leaned\nforward, a deeper earnestness in his tone and expression. And into his\nface, as he spoke, came a glow of happiness. \"My heart,\" he said, \"is in\nChina.\"\n\n\"I see it is, I see it is,\" put in the other, conscious that he could\nnot honestly share his friend's enthusiasm. \"And you're fortunate to be\nfree to live where your treasure is,\" he added after a moment's pause.\n\"You must be a happy man. Your passion amounts to nostalgia, I suspect.\nAlready yearning to get back there, probably?\"\n\nFarque gazed at him for some seconds with shining eyes. \"You remember\nthe Persian saying, I'm sure,\" he said. \"'You see a man drink, but you\ndo not see his thirst.' Well,\" he added, laughing happily, \"you may see\nme off in six months' time, but you will not see my happiness.\"\n\nWhile he went on talking, the doctor glanced round the room, marvelling\nstill at the exquisite taste of everything, the neat arrangement, the\nperfect matching of form and colour. A woman might have done this thing,\noccurred to him, as the haunting figure shifted deliciously into the\nforeground of his mind again. The thought of her had been momentarily\nreplaced by all he heard and saw. She now returned, filling him with\njoy, anticipation and enthusiasm. Presently, when it was his turn to\ntalk, he would tell his friend about this new, unimagined happiness that\nhad burst upon him like a sunrise. Presently, but not just yet. He\nremembered, too, with a passing twinge of possible boredom to come, that\nthere must be some delay before his own heart could unburden itself in\nits turn. Farque wanted to ask some professional questions, of course.\nHe had for the moment forgotten that part of the letter in his general\ninterest and astonishment.\n\n\"Happiness, yes....\" he murmured, aware that his thoughts had wandered,\nand catching at the last word he remembered hearing. \"As you said just\nnow in your own queer way--you haven't changed a bit, let me tell you,\nin your picturesqueness of quotation, Edward--one must not be fugitive\nfrom life; one must seize happiness when and where it offers.\"\n\nHe said it lightly enough, hugging internally his own sweet secret; but\nhe was a little surprised at the earnestness of his friend's rejoinder:\n\"Both of us, I see,\" came the deep voice, backed by the flash of the\nfar-seeing grey eyes, \"have made some progress in the doctrine of life\nand death.\" He paused, gazing at the other with sight that was obviously\nturned inwards upon his own thoughts. \"Beauty,\" he went on presently,\nhis tone even more serious, \"has been my lure; yours, Reality....\"\n\n\"You don't flatter either of us, Edward. That's too exclusive a\nstatement,\" put in the doctor. He was becoming every minute more and\nmore interested in the workings of his friend's mind. Something about\nthe signs offered eluded his understanding. \"Explain yourself, old\nscholar-poet. I'm a dull, practical mind, remember, and can't keep pace\nwith Chinese subtleties.\"\n\n\"_You've_ left out Beauty,\" was the quiet rejoinder, \"while _I_ left out\nReality. That's neither Chinese nor subtle. It is simply true.\"\n\n\"A bit wholesale, isn't it?\" laughed Francis. \"A big generalization,\nrather.\"\n\nA bright light seemed to illuminate the scholar's face. It was as though\nan inner lamp was suddenly lit. At the same moment the sound of a soft\ngong floated in from the hall outside, so soft that the actual strokes\nwere not distinguishable in the wave of musical vibration that reached\nthe ear.\n\nFarque rose to lead the way in to dinner.\n\n\"What if I----\" he whispered, \"have combined the two?\" And upon his face\nwas a look of joy that reached down into the other's own full heart with\nits unexpectedness and wonder. It was the last remark in the world he\nhad looked for. He wondered for a moment whether he interpreted it\ncorrectly.\n\n\"By Jove...!\" he exclaimed. \"Edward, what d'you mean?\"\n\n\"You shall hear--after dinner,\" said Farque, his voice mysterious, his\neyes still shining with his inner joy. \"I told you I have some questions\nto ask you--professionally.\" And they took their seats round an ancient,\nmarvellous table, lit by two swinging lamps of soft green jade, while\nthe Chinese servant waited on them with the silent movements and deft\nneatness of his imperturbable celestial race.\n\n\n3\n\nTo say that he was bored during the meal were an over-statement of Dr.\nFrancis's mental condition, but to say that he was half-bored seemed the\nliteral truth; for one-half of him, while he ate his steak and savoury\nand watched Farque manipulating _chou chop suey_ and _chou om dong_ most\ncleverly with chop-sticks, was too pre-occupied with his own romance to\nallow the other half to give its full attention to the conversation.\n\nHe had entered the room, however, with a distinct quickening of what may\nbe termed his instinctive and infallible sense of diagnosis. That last\nremark of his friend's had stimulated him. He was aware of surprise,\ncuriosity, and impatience. Willy-nilly, he began automatically to study\nhim with a profounder interest. Something, he gathered, was not quite as\nit should be in Edward Farque's mental composition. There was what might\nbe called an elusive emotional disturbance. He began to wonder and to\nwatch.\n\nThey talked, naturally, of China and of things Chinese, for the scholar\nresponded to little else, and Francis listened with what sympathy and\npatience he could muster. Of art and beauty he had hitherto known\nlittle, his mind was practical and utilitarian. He now learned that all\nart was derived from China, where a high, fine, subtle culture had\nreigned since time immemorial. Older than Egypt was their wisdom. When\nthe western races were eating one another, before Greece was even heard\nof, the Chinese had reached a level of knowledge and achievement that\nfew realized. Never had they, even in earliest times, been deluded by\nanthropomorphic conceptions of the Deity, but perceived in everything\nthe expressions of a single whole whose giant activities they reverently\nworshipped. Their contempt for the western scurry after knowledge,\nwealth, machinery, was justified, if Farque was worthy of belief. He\nseemed saturated with Chinese thought, art, philosophy, and his natural\nbias towards the celestial race had hardened into an attitude to life\nthat had now become ineradicable.\n\n\"They deal, as it were, in essences,\" he declared; \"they discern the\nessence of everything, leaving out the superfluous, the unessential, the\ntrivial. Their pictures alone prove it. Come with me,\" he concluded,\n\"and see the 'Earthly Paradise,' now in the British Museum. It is like\nBotticelli, but better than anything Botticelli ever did. It was\npainted\"--he paused for emphasis--\"600 years B.C.\"\n\nThe wonder of this quiet, ancient civilization, a sense of its depth,\nits wisdom, grew upon his listener as the enthusiastic poet described\nits charm and influence upon himself. He willingly allowed the\nenchantment of the other's Paradise to steal upon his own awakened\nheart. There was a good deal Francis might have offered by way of\ncriticism and objection, but he preferred on the whole to keep his own\nviews to himself, and to let his friend wander unhindered through the\nmazes of his passionate evocation. All men, he well knew, needed a dream\nto carry them through life's disappointments, a dream that they could\nenter at will and find peace, contentment, happiness. Farque's dream was\nChina. Why not? It was as good as another, and a man like Farque was\nentitled to what dream he pleased.\n\n\"And their women?\" he inquired at last, letting both halves of his mind\nspeak together for the first time.\n\nBut he was not prepared for the expression that leaped upon his friend's\nface at the simple question. Nor for his method of reply. It was no\nreply, in point of fact. It was simply an attack upon all other types of\nwoman, and upon the white, the English, in particular--their emptiness,\ntheir triviality, their want of intuitive imagination, of spiritual\ngrace, of everything, in a word, that should constitute woman a meet\ncompanion for man, and a little higher than the angels into the bargain.\nThe doctor listened spellbound. Too humorous to be shocked, he was, at\nany rate, disturbed by what he heard, displeased a little, too. It\nthreatened too directly his own new tender dream.\n\nOnly with the utmost self-restraint did he keep his temper under, and\nprevent hot words he would have regretted later from tearing his\nfriend's absurd claim into ragged shreds. He was wounded personally as\nwell. Never now could he bring himself to tell his own secret to him.\nThe outburst chilled and disappointed him. But it had another effect--it\ncooled his judgment. His sense of diagnosis quickened. He divined an\n_idee fixe_, a mania possibly. His interest deepened abruptly. He\nwatched. He began to look about him with more wary eyes, and a sense of\nuneasiness, once the anger passed, stirred in his friendly and\naffectionate heart.\n\nThey had been sitting alone over their port for some considerable time,\nthe servant having long since left the room. The doctor had sought to\nchange the subject many times without much success, when suddenly\nFarque changed it for him.\n\n\"Now,\" he announced, \"I'll tell you something,\" and Francis guessed that\nthe professional questions were on the way at last. \"We must pity the\nliving, remember, and part with the dead. Have you forgotten old\nShan-Yu?\"\n\nThe forgotten name came back to him, the picturesque East End dealer of\nmany years ago. \"The old merchant who taught you your first Chinese? I\ndo recall him dimly; now you mention it. You made quite a friend of him,\ndidn't you? He thought very highly of you--ah, it comes back to me\nnow--he offered something or other very wonderful in his gratitude,\nunless my memory fails me?\"\n\n\"His most valuable possession,\" Farque went on, a strange look deepening\non his face, an expression of mysterious rapture, as it were, and one\nthat Francis recognized and swiftly pigeon-holed in his now attentive\nmind.\n\n\"Which was?\" he asked sympathetically. \"You told me once, but so long\nago that really it's slipped my mind. Something magical, wasn't it?\" He\nwatched closely for his friend's reply.\n\nFarque lowered his voice to a whisper almost devotional:\n\n\"The Perfume of the Garden of Happiness,\" he murmured, with an\nexpression in his eyes as though the mere recollection gave him joy.\n\"'Burn it,' he told me, 'in a brazier; then inhale. You will enter the\nValley of a Thousand Temples wherein lies the Garden of Happiness, and\nthere you will meet your Love. You will have seven years of happiness\nwith your Love before the Waters of Separation flow between you. I give\nthis to you who alone of men here have appreciated the wisdom of my\nland. Follow my body towards the Sunrise. You, an eastern soul in a\nbarbarian body, will meet your Destiny.'\"\n\nThe doctor's attention, such is the power of self-interest, quickened\namazingly as he heard. His own romance flamed up with power. His\nfriend--it dawned upon him suddenly--loved a woman.\n\n\"Come,\" said Farque, rising quietly, \"we will go into the other room,\nand I will show you what I have shown to but one other in the world\nbefore. You are a doctor,\" he continued, as he led the way to the\nsilk-covered divan where golden dragons swallowed crimson suns, and\nwonderful jade horses hovered near. \"You understand the mind and nerves.\nStates of consciousness you also can explain, and the effect of drugs\nis, doubtless, known to you.\" He swung to the heavy curtains that took\nthe place of door, handed a lacquered box of cigarettes to his friend,\nand lit one himself. \"Perfumes, too,\" he added, \"you probably have\nstudied, with their extraordinary evocative power.\" He stood in the\nmiddle of the room, the green light falling on his interesting and\nthoughtful face, and for a passing second Francis, watching keenly,\nobserved a change flit over it and vanish. The eyes grew narrow and slid\ntilted upwards, the skin wore a shade of yellow underneath the green\nfrom the lamp of jade, the nose slipped back a little, the cheek-bones\nforward.\n\n\"Perfumes,\" said the doctor, \"no. Of perfumes I know nothing, beyond\ntheir interesting effect upon the memory. I cannot help you there.\nBut, you, I suspect,\" and he looked up with an inviting sympathy that\nconcealed the close observation underneath, \"you yourself, I feel sure,\ncan tell me something of value about them?\"\n\n\"Perhaps,\" was the calm reply, \"perhaps, for I have smelt the perfume of\nthe Garden of Happiness, and I have been in the Valley of a Thousand\nTemples.\" He spoke with a glow of joy and reverence almost devotional.\n\nThe doctor waited in some suspense, while his friend moved towards an\ninlaid cabinet across the room. More than broad-minded, he was that much\nrarer thing, an open-minded man, ready at a moment's notice to discard\nall preconceived ideas, provided new knowledge that necessitated the\nholocaust were shown to him. At present, none the less, he held very\ndefinite views of his own. \"Please ask me any questions you like,\" he\nadded. \"All I know is entirely yours, as always.\" He was aware of\nsuppressed excitement in his friend that betrayed itself in every word\nand look and gesture, an excitement intense, and not as yet explained by\nanything he had seen or heard.\n\nThe scholar, meanwhile, had opened a drawer in the cabinet and taken\nfrom it a neat little packet tied up with purple silk. He held it with\ntender, almost loving care, as he came and sat down on the divan beside\nhis friend.\n\n\"This,\" he said, in a tone, again, of something between reverence and\nworship, \"contains what I have to show you first.\" He slowly unrolled\nit, disclosing a yet smaller silken bag within, coloured a deep rich\norange. There were two vertical columns of writing on it, painted in\nChinese characters. The doctor leaned forward to examine them. His\nfriend translated:\n\n\"The Perfume of the Garden of Happiness,\" he read aloud, tracing\nthe letters of the first column with his finger. \"The Destroyer of\nHonourable Homes,\" he finished, passing to the second, and then\nproceeded to unwrap the little silken bag. Before it was actually open,\nhowever, and the pale shredded material resembling coloured chaff\nvisible to the eyes, the doctor's nostrils had recognized the strange\naroma he had first noticed about his friend's letter received earlier\nin the day. The same soft, penetrating odour, sharply piercing, sweet\nand delicate, rose to his brain. It stirred at once a deep emotional\npleasure in him. Having come to him first when he was aglow with his own\nunexpected romance, his mind and heart full of the woman he had just\nleft, that delicious, torturing state revived in him quite naturally.\nThe evocative power of perfume with regard to memory is compelling. A\nlivelier sympathy towards his friend, and towards what he was about to\nhear, awoke in him spontaneously.\n\nHe did not mention the letter, however. He merely leaned over to smell\nthe fragrant perfume more easily.\n\nFarque drew back the open packet instantly, at the same time holding\nout a warning hand. \"Careful,\" he said gravely, \"be careful, my old\nfriend--unless you desire to share the rapture and the risk that have\nbeen mine. To enjoy its full effect, true, this dust must be burned in a\nbrazier and its smoke inhaled; but even sniffed, as you now would sniff\nit, and you are in danger----\"\n\n\"Of what?\" asked Francis, impressed by the other's extraordinary\nintensity of voice and manner.\n\n\"Of Heaven; but, possibly, of Heaven before your time.\"\n\n\n4\n\nThe tale that Farque unfolded then had certainly a strange celestial\nflavour, a glory not of this dull world; and as his friend listened, his\ninterest deepened with every minute, while his bewilderment increased.\nHe watched closely, expert that he was, for clues that might guide his\ndeductions aright, but for all his keen observation and experience he\ncould detect no inconsistency, no weakness, nothing that betrayed the\nsmallest mental aberration. The origin and nature of what he already\ndecided was an _idee fixe_, a mania, evaded him entirely. This evasion\npiqued and vexed him; he had heard a thousand tales of similar type\nbefore; that this one in particular should baffle his unusual skill\ntouched his pride. Yet he faced the position honestly, he confessed\nhimself baffled until the end of the evening. When he went away,\nhowever, he went away satisfied, even forgetful--because a new problem\nof yet more poignant interest had replaced the first.\n\n\"It was after three years out there,\" said Farque, \"that a sense of my\nloneliness first came upon me. It came upon me bitterly. My work had\nnot then been recognized; obstacles and difficulties had increased; I\nfelt a failure; I had accomplished nothing. And it seemed to me I had\nmisjudged my capacities, taken a wrong direction, and wasted my life\naccordingly. For my move to China, remember, was a radical move, and my\nboats were burnt behind me. This sense of loneliness was really\ndevastating.\"\n\nFrancis, already fidgeting, put up his hand.\n\n\"One question, if I may,\" he said, \"and I'll not interrupt again.\"\n\n\"By all means,\" said the other patiently, \"what is it?\"\n\n\"Were you--we are such old friends\"--he apologized--\"were you still\ncelibate as ever?\"\n\nFarque looked surprised, then smiled. \"My habits had not changed,\" he\nreplied, \"I was, as always, celibate.\"\n\n\"Ah!\" murmured the doctor, and settled down to listen.\n\n\"And I think now,\" his friend went on, \"that it was the lack of\ncompanionship that first turned my thoughts towards conscious\ndisappointment. However that may be, it was one evening, as I walked\nhomewards to my little house, that I caught my imagination lingering\nupon English memories, though chiefly, I admit, upon my old Chinese\ntutor, the dead Shan-Yu.\n\n\"It was dusk, the stars were coming out in the pale evening air, and the\norchards, as I passed them, stood like wavering ghosts of unbelievable\nbeauty. The effect of thousands upon thousands of these trees, flooding\nthe twilight of a spring evening with their sea of blossom, is almost\nunearthly. They seem transparencies, their colour hangs sheets upon the\nvery sky. I crossed a small wooden bridge that joined two of these\norchards above a stream, and in the dark water I watched a moment the\nmingled reflection of stars and flowering branches on the quiet surface.\nIt seemed too exquisite to belong to earth, this fairy garden of stars\nand blossoms, shining faintly in the crystal depths, and my thought, as\nI gazed, dived suddenly down the little avenue that memory opened into\nformer days. I remembered Shan-Yu's present, given to me when he died.\nHis very words came back to me: The Garden of Happiness in the Valley\nof the Thousand Temples, with its promise of love, of seven years of\nhappiness, and the prophecy that I should follow his body towards the\nSunrise and meet my destiny.\n\n\"This memory I took home with me into my lonely little one-storey house\nupon the hill. My servants did not sleep there. There was no one near. I\nsat by the open window with my thoughts, and you may easily guess that\nbefore very long I had unearthed the long-forgotten packet from among my\nthings, spread a portion of its contents on a metal tray above a lighted\nbrazier, and was comfortably seated before it, inhaling the light blue\nsmoke with its exquisite and fragrant perfume.\n\n\"A light air entered through the window, the distant orchards below me\ntrembled, rose and floated through the dusk, and I found myself, almost\nat once, in a pavilion of flowers; a blue river lay shining in the sun\nbefore me, as it wandered through a lovely valley where I saw groves of\nflowering trees among a thousand scattered temples. Drenched in light\nand colour, the Valley lay dreaming amid a peaceful loveliness that woke\nwhat seemed impossible, unrealizable, longings in my heart. I yearned\ntowards its groves and temples, I would bathe my soul in that flood of\ntender light, and my body in the blue coolness of that winding river.\nIn a thousand temples must I worship. Yet these impossible yearnings\ninstantly were satisfied. I found myself there at once ... and the time\nthat passed over my head you may reckon in centuries, if not in ages. I\nwas in the Garden of Happiness and its marvellous perfume banished time\nand sorrow, there was no end to chill the soul, nor any beginning, which\nis its foolish counterpart.\n\n\"Nor was there loneliness.\" The speaker clasped his thin hands, and\nclosed his eyes a moment in what was evidently an ecstasy of the\nsweetest memory man may ever know. A slight trembling ran through his\nframe, communicating itself to his friend upon the divan beside\nhim--this understanding, listening, sympathetic friend, whose eyes had\nnever once yet withdrawn their attentive gaze from the narrator's face.\n\n\"I was not alone,\" the scholar resumed, opening his eyes again, and\nsmiling out of some deep inner joy. \"Shan-Yu came down the steps of the\nfirst temple and took my hand, while the great golden figures in the dim\ninterior turned their splendid shining heads to watch. Then, breathing\nthe soul of his ancient wisdom in my ear, he led me through all the\nperfumed ways of that enchanted garden, worshipping with me at a hundred\ndeathless shrines, led me, I tell you, to the sound of soft gongs and\ngentle bells, by fragrant groves and sparkling streams, mid a million\ngorgeous flowers, until, beneath that unsetting sun, we reached the\nheart of the Valley, where the source of the river gushed forth beneath\nthe lighted mountains. He stopped and pointed across the narrow waters.\nI saw the woman----\"\n\n\"_The_ woman,\" his listener murmured beneath his breath, though Farque\nseemed unaware of interruption.\n\n\"She smiled at me and held her hands out, and while she did so, even\nbefore I could express my joy and wonder in response, Shan-Yu, I saw,\nhad crossed the narrow stream and stood beside her. I made to follow\nthen, my heart burning with inexpressible delight. But Shan-Yu held up\nhis hand, as they began to move down the flowered bank together, making\na sign that I should keep pace with them, though on my own side.\n\n\"Thus, side by side, yet with the blue sparkling stream between us,\nwe followed back along its winding course, through the heart of that\nenchanted valley, my hands stretched out towards the radiant figure of\nmy Love, and hers stretched out towards me. They did not touch, but our\neyes, our smiles, our thoughts, these met and mingled in a sweet union\nof unimagined bliss, so that the absence of physical contact was\nunnoticed and laid no injury on our marvellous joy. It was a spirit\nunion, and our kiss a spirit kiss. Therein lay the subtlety and glory of\nthe Chinese wonder, for it was our _essences_ that met, and for such\nunion there is no satiety and, equally, no possible end. The Perfume of\nthe Garden of Happiness is an essence. We were in Eternity.\n\n\"The stream, meanwhile, widened between us, and as it widened, my Love\ngrew farther from me in space, smaller, less visibly defined, yet ever\nessentially more perfect, and never once with a sense of distance that\nmade our union less divinely close. Across the widening reaches of blue,\nsunlit water I still knew her smile, her eyes, the gestures of her\nradiant being; I saw her exquisite reflection in the stream; and, mid\nthe music of those soft gongs and gentle bells, the voice of Shan-Yu\ncame like a melody to my ears:\n\n\"'You have followed me into the sunrise, and have found your destiny.\nBehold now your Love. In this Valley of a Thousand Temples you have\nknown the Garden of Happiness, and its Perfume your soul now inhales.'\n\n\"'I am bathed,' I answered, 'in a happiness divine. It is forever.'\n\n\"'The Waters of Separation,' his answer floated like a bell, 'lie\nwidening between you.'\n\n\"I moved nearer to the bank, impelled by the pain in his words to take\nmy Love and hold her to my breast.\n\n\"'But I would cross to her,' I cried, and saw that, as I moved, Shan-Yu\nand my Love came likewise closer to the water's edge across the widening\nriver. They both obeyed, I was aware, my slightest wish.\n\n\"'Seven years of Happiness you may know,' sang his gentle tones across\nthe brimming flood, 'if you would cross to her. Yet the Destroyer of\nHonourable Homes lies in the shadows that you must cast outside.'\n\n\"I heard his words, I noticed for the first time that in the blaze of\nthis radiant sunshine we cast no shadows on the sea of flowers at our\nfeet, and--I stretched out my arms towards my Love across the river.\n\n\"'I accept my destiny,' I cried, 'I will have my seven years of bliss,'\nand stepped forward into the running flood. As the cool water took my\nfeet, my Love's hands stretched out both to hold me and to bid me stay.\nThere was acceptance in her gesture, but there was warning too.\n\n\"I did not falter. I advanced until the water bathed my knees, and my\nLove, too, came to meet me, the stream already to her waist, while our\narms stretched forth above the running flood towards each other.\n\n\"The change came suddenly. Shan-Yu first faded behind her advancing\nfigure into air; there stole a chill upon the sunlight; a cool mist rose\nfrom the water, hiding the Garden and the hills beyond; our fingers\ntouched, I gazed into her eyes, our lips lay level with the water--and\nthe room was dark and cold about me. The brazier stood extinguished at\nmy side. The dust had burnt out, and no smoke rose. I slowly left my\nchair and closed the window, for the air was chill.\"\n\n\n5\n\nIt was difficult at first to return to Hampstead and the details of\nordinary life about him. Francis looked round him slowly, freeing\nhimself gradually from the spell his friend's words had laid even upon\nhis analytical temperament. The transition was helped, however, by the\ndetails that everywhere met his eye. The Chinese atmosphere remained.\nMore, its effect had gained, if anything. The embroideries of yellow\ngold, the pictures, the lacquered stools and inlaid cabinets, above all,\nthe exquisite figures in green jade upon the shelf beside him, all this,\nin the shimmering pale olive light the lamps shed everywhere, helped his\npuzzled mind to bridge the gulf from the Garden of Happiness into the\ndecorated villa upon Hampstead Heath.\n\nThere was silence between the two men for several minutes. Far was it\nfrom the doctor's desire to injure his old friend's delightful fantasy.\nFor he called it fantasy, although something in him trembled. He\nremained, therefore, silent. Truth to tell, perhaps, he knew not exactly\nwhat to say.\n\nFarque broke the silence himself. He had not moved since the story\nended; he sat motionless, his hands tightly clasped, his eyes alight\nwith the memory of his strange imagined joy, his face rapt and almost\nluminous, as though he still wandered through the groves of the\nEnchanted Garden and inhaled the perfume of its perfect happiness in the\nValley of the Thousand Temples.\n\n\"It was two days later,\" he went on suddenly in his quiet voice, \"only\ntwo days afterwards, that I met her.\"\n\n\"You met her? You met the woman of your dream?\" Francis's eyes opened\nvery wide.\n\n\"In that little harbour town,\" repeated Farque calmly, \"I met her in the\nflesh. She had just landed in a steamer from up the coast. The details\nare of no particular interest. She knew me, of course, at once. And,\nnaturally, I knew her.\"\n\nThe doctor's tongue refused to act as he heard. It dawned upon him\nsuddenly that his friend was married. He remembered the woman's touch\nabout the house; he recalled, too, for the first time that the letter of\ninvitation to dinner had said \"come to _us_.\" He was full of a\nbewildered astonishment.\n\nThe reaction upon himself was odd, perhaps, yet wholly natural. His\nheart warmed towards his imaginative friend. He could now tell him his\nown new strange romance. The woman who haunted him crept back into the\nroom and sat between them. He found his tongue.\n\n\"You married her, Edward?\" he exclaimed.\n\n\"She is my wife,\" was the reply, in a gentle, happy voice.\n\n\"A Ch----\" he could not bring himself to say the word. \"A foreigner?\"\n\n\"My wife is a Chinese woman,\" Farque helped him easily, with a delighted\nsmile.\n\nSo great was the other's absorption in the actual moment, that he had\nnot heard the step in the passage that his host had heard. The latter\nstood up suddenly.\n\n\"I hear her now,\" he said. \"I'm glad she's come back before you left.\"\nHe stepped towards the door.\n\nBut before he reached it, the door was opened and in came the woman\nherself. Francis tried to rise, but something had happened to him. His\nheart missed a beat. Something, it seemed, broke in him. He faced\na tall, graceful young English woman with black eyes of sparkling\nhappiness, the woman of his own romance. She still wore the feather boa\nround her neck. She was no more Chinese than he was.\n\n\"My wife,\" he heard Farque introducing them, as he struggled to his\nfeet, searching feverishly for words of congratulation, normal, everyday\nwords he ought to use, \"I'm so pleased, oh, so pleased,\" Farque was\nsaying--he heard the sound from a distance, his sight was blurred as\nwell--\"my two best friends in the world, my English comrade and my\nChinese wife.\" His voice was absolutely sincere with conviction and\nbelief.\n\n\"But we have already met,\" came the woman's delightful voice, her eyes\nfull upon his face with smiling pleasure, \"I saw you at Mrs. Malleson's\ntea only this afternoon.\"\n\nAnd Francis remembered suddenly that the Mallesons were old\nacquaintances of Farque's as well as of himself. \"And I even dared to\nask who you were,\" the voice went on, floating from some other space, it\nseemed, to his ears, \"I had you pointed out to me. I had heard of you\nfrom Edward, of course. But you vanished before I could be introduced.\"\n\nThe doctor mumbled something or other polite and, he hoped, adequate.\nBut the truth had flashed upon him with remorseless suddenness. She had\n\"heard of\" him--the famous mental specialist. Her interest in him was\ncruelly explained, cruelly both for himself and for his friend. Farque's\ndelusion lay clear before his eyes. An awakening to reality might\ninvolve dislocation of the mind. _She_, too, moreover, knew the truth.\nShe was involved as well. And her interest in himself was--consultation.\n\n\"Seven years we've been married, just seven years to-day,\" Farque was\nsaying thoughtfully, as he looked at them. \"Curious, rather, isn't it?\"\n\n\"Very,\" said Francis, turning his regard from the black eyes to the\ngrey.\n\nThus it was that Owen Francis left the house a little later with a mind\nin a measure satisfied, yet in a measure forgetful too--forgetful of his\nown deep problem, because another of even greater interest had replaced\nit.\n\n\"Why undeceive him?\" ran his thought. \"He need never know. It's harmless\nanyhow--I can tell her that.\"\n\nBut, side by side with this reflection, ran another that was oddly\nhaunting, considering his type of mind: \"Destroyer of Honourable Homes,\"\nwas the form of words it took. And with a sigh he added \"Chinese\nMagic.\"\n\n\n\n\nIII\n\nRUNNING WOLF\n\n\nThe man who enjoys an adventure outside the general experience of the\nrace, and imparts it to others, must not be surprised if he is taken for\neither a liar or a fool, as Malcolm Hyde, hotel clerk on a holiday,\ndiscovered in due course. Nor is \"enjoy\" the right word to use in\ndescribing his emotions; the word he chose was probably \"survive.\"\n\nWhen he first set eyes on Medicine Lake he was struck by its still,\nsparkling beauty, lying there in the vast Canadian backwoods; next, by\nits extreme loneliness; and, lastly--a good deal later, this--by its\ncombination of beauty, loneliness, and singular atmosphere, due to the\nfact that it was the scene of his adventure.\n\n\"It's fairly stiff with big fish,\" said Morton of the Montreal Sporting\nClub. \"Spend your holiday there--up Mattawa way, some fifteen miles west\nof Stony Creek. You'll have it all to yourself except for an old Indian\nwho's got a shack there. Camp on the east side--if you'll take a tip\nfrom me.\" He then talked for half an hour about the wonderful sport; yet\nhe was not otherwise very communicative, and did not suffer questions\ngladly, Hyde noticed. Nor had he stayed there very long himself. If it\nwas such a paradise as Morton, its discoverer and the most experienced\nrod in the province, claimed, why had he himself spent only three days\nthere?\n\n\"Ran short of grub,\" was the explanation offered; but to another\nfriend he had mentioned briefly, \"flies,\" and to a third, so Hyde\nlearned later, he gave the excuse that his half-breed \"took sick,\"\nnecessitating a quick return to civilization.\n\nHyde, however, cared little for the explanations; his interest in these\ncame later. \"Stiff with fish\" was the phrase he liked. He took the\nCanadian Pacific train to Mattawa, laid in his outfit at Stony Creek,\nand set off thence for the fifteen-mile canoe-trip without a care in the\nworld.\n\nTravelling light, the portages did not trouble him; the water was swift\nand easy, the rapids negotiable; everything came his way, as the saying\nis. Occasionally he saw big fish making for the deeper pools, and was\nsorely tempted to stop; but he resisted. He pushed on between the\nimmense world of forests that stretched for hundreds of miles, known to\ndeer, bear, moose, and wolf, but strange to any echo of human tread, a\ndeserted and primeval wilderness. The autumn day was calm, the water\nsang and sparkled, the blue sky hung cloudless over all, ablaze with\nlight. Toward evening he passed an old beaver-dam, rounded a little\npoint, and had his first sight of Medicine Lake. He lifted his dripping\npaddle; the canoe shot with silent glide into calm water. He gave an\nexclamation of delight, for the loveliness caught his breath away.\n\nThough primarily a sportsman, he was not insensible to beauty. The lake\nformed a crescent, perhaps four miles long, its width between a mile and\nhalf a mile. The slanting gold of sunset flooded it. No wind stirred its\ncrystal surface. Here it had lain since the redskin's god first made\nit; here it would lie until he dried it up again. Towering spruce and\nhemlock trooped to its very edge, majestic cedars leaned down as if to\ndrink, crimson sumachs shone in fiery patches, and maples gleamed orange\nand red beyond belief. The air was like wine, with the silence of a\ndream.\n\nIt was here the red men formerly \"made medicine,\" with all the wild\nritual and tribal ceremony of an ancient day. But it was of Morton,\nrather than of Indians, that Hyde thought. If this lonely, hidden\nparadise was really stiff with big fish, he owed a lot to Morton for the\ninformation. Peace invaded him, but the excitement of the hunter lay\nbelow.\n\nHe looked about him with quick, practised eye for a camping-place before\nthe sun sank below the forests and the half-lights came. The Indian's\nshack, lying in full sunshine on the eastern shore, he found at once;\nbut the trees lay too thick about it for comfort, nor did he wish to be\nso close to its inhabitant. Upon the opposite side, however, an ideal\nclearing offered. This lay already in shadow, the huge forest darkening\nit toward evening; but the open space attracted. He paddled over quickly\nand examined it. The ground was hard and dry, he found, and a little\nbrook ran tinkling down one side of it into the lake. This outfall, too,\nwould be a good fishing spot. Also it was sheltered. A few low willows\nmarked the mouth.\n\nAn experienced camper soon makes up his mind. It was a perfect site,\nand some charred logs, with traces of former fires, proved that he\nwas not the first to think so. Hyde was delighted. Then, suddenly,\ndisappointment came to tinge his pleasure. His kit was landed, and\npreparations for putting up the tent were begun, when he recalled\na detail that excitement had so far kept in the background of his\nmind--Morton's advice. But not Morton's only, for the storekeeper\nat Stony Creek had reinforced it. The big fellow with straggling\nmoustache and stooping shoulders, dressed in shirt and trousers, had\nhanded him out a final sentence with the bacon, flour, condensed milk,\nand sugar. He had repeated Morton's half-forgotten words:\n\n\"Put yer tent on the east shore. I should,\" he had said at parting.\n\nHe remembered Morton, too, apparently. \"A shortish fellow, brown as an\nIndian and fairly smelling of the woods. Travelling with Jake, the\nhalf-breed.\" That assuredly was Morton. \"Didn't stay long, now, did\nhe?\" he added in a reflective tone.\n\n\"Going Windy Lake way, are yer? Or Ten Mile Water, maybe?\" he had first\ninquired of Hyde.\n\n\"Medicine Lake.\"\n\n\"Is that so?\" the man said, as though he doubted it for some obscure\nreason. He pulled at his ragged moustache a moment. \"Is that so, now?\"\nhe repeated. And the final words followed him down-stream after a\nconsiderable pause--the advice about the best shore on which to put his\ntent.\n\nAll this now suddenly flashed back upon Hyde's mind with a tinge of\ndisappointment and annoyance, for when two experienced men agreed, their\nopinion was not to be lightly disregarded. He wished he had asked the\nstorekeeper for more details. He looked about him, he reflected, he\nhesitated. His ideal camping-ground lay certainly on the forbidden\nshore. What in the world, he pondered, could be the objection to it?\n\nBut the light was fading; he must decide quickly one way or the other.\nAfter staring at his unpacked dunnage and the tent, already half\nerected, he made up his mind with a muttered expression that consigned\nboth Morton and the storekeeper to less pleasant places. \"They must have\n_some_ reason,\" he growled to himself; \"fellows like that usually know\nwhat they're talking about. I guess I'd better shift over to the other\nside--for to-night, at any rate.\"\n\nHe glanced across the water before actually reloading. No smoke rose\nfrom the Indian's shack. He had seen no sign of a canoe. The man, he\ndecided, was away. Reluctantly, then, he left the good camping-ground\nand paddled across the lake, and half an hour later his tent was up,\nfirewood collected, and two small trout were already caught for supper.\nBut the bigger fish, he knew, lay waiting for him on the other side by\nthe little outfall, and he fell asleep at length on his bed of balsam\nboughs, annoyed and disappointed, yet wondering how a mere sentence\ncould have persuaded him so easily against his own better judgment. He\nslept like the dead; the sun was well up before he stirred.\n\nBut his morning mood was a very different one. The brilliant light, the\npeace, the intoxicating air, all this was too exhilarating for the mind\nto harbour foolish fancies, and he marvelled that he could have been so\nweak the night before. No hesitation lay in him anywhere. He struck camp\nimmediately after breakfast, paddled back across the strip of shining\nwater, and quickly settled in upon the forbidden shore, as he now called\nit, with a contemptuous grin. And the more he saw of the spot, the\nbetter he liked it. There was plenty of wood, running water to drink,\nan open space about the tent, and there were no flies. The fishing,\nmoreover, was magnificent. Morton's description was fully justified, and\n\"stiff with big fish\" for once was not an exaggeration.\n\nThe useless hours of the early afternoon he passed dozing in the sun, or\nwandering through the underbrush beyond the camp. He found no sign of\nanything unusual. He bathed in a cool, deep pool; he revelled in the\nlonely little paradise. Lonely it certainly was, but the loneliness was\npart of its charm; the stillness, the peace, the isolation of this\nbeautiful backwoods lake delighted him. The silence was divine. He was\nentirely satisfied.\n\nAfter a brew of tea, he strolled toward evening along the shore, looking\nfor the first sign of a rising fish. A faint ripple on the water, with\nthe lengthening shadows, made good conditions. _Plop_ followed _plop_,\nas the big fellows rose, snatched at their food, and vanished into the\ndepths. He hurried back. Ten minutes later he had taken his rods and was\ngliding cautiously in the canoe through the quiet water.\n\nSo good was the sport, indeed, and so quickly did the big trout pile up\nin the bottom of the canoe that, despite the growing lateness, he found\nit hard to tear himself away. \"One more,\" he said, \"and then I really\nwill go.\" He landed that \"one more,\" and was in act of taking it off the\nhook, when the deep silence of the evening was curiously disturbed. He\nbecame abruptly aware that someone watched him. A pair of eyes, it\nseemed, were fixed upon him from some point in the surrounding shadows.\n\nThus, at least, he interpreted the odd disturbance in his happy mood;\nfor thus he felt it. The feeling stole over him without the slightest\nwarning. He was not alone. The slippery big trout dropped from his\nfingers. He sat motionless, and stared about him.\n\nNothing stirred; the ripple on the lake had died away; there was no\nwind; the forest lay a single purple mass of shadow; the yellow sky,\nfast fading, threw reflections that troubled the eye and made distances\nuncertain. But there was no sound, no movement; he saw no figure\nanywhere. Yet he knew that someone watched him, and a wave of quite\nunreasoning terror gripped him. The nose of the canoe was against the\nbank. In a moment, and instinctively, he shoved it off and paddled into\ndeeper water. The watcher, it came to him also instinctively, was quite\nclose to him upon that bank. But where? And who? Was it the Indian?\n\nHere, in deeper water, and some twenty yards from the shore, he paused\nand strained both sight and hearing to find some possible clue. He felt\nhalf ashamed, now that the first strange feeling passed a little. But\nthe certainty remained. Absurd as it was, he felt positive that someone\nwatched him with concentrated and intent regard. Every fibre in his\nbeing told him so; and though he could discover no figure, no new\noutline on the shore, he could even have sworn in which clump of willow\nbushes the hidden person crouched and stared. His attention seemed drawn\nto that particular clump.\n\nThe water dripped slowly from his paddle, now lying across the thwarts.\nThere was no other sound. The canvas of his tent gleamed dimly. A star\nor two were out. He waited. Nothing happened.\n\nThen, as suddenly as it had come, the feeling passed, and he knew that\nthe person who had been watching him intently had gone. It was as if a\ncurrent had been turned off; the normal world flowed back; the landscape\nemptied as if someone had left a room. The disagreeable feeling left him\nat the same time, so that he instantly turned the canoe in to the shore\nagain, landed, and, paddle in hand, went over to examine the clump of\nwillows he had singled out as the place of concealment. There was no one\nthere, of course, nor any trace of recent human occupancy. No leaves,\nno branches stirred, nor was a single twig displaced; his keen and\npractised sight detected no sign of tracks upon the ground. Yet, for all\nthat, he felt positive that a little time ago someone had crouched among\nthese very leaves and watched him. He remained absolutely convinced of\nit. The watcher, whether Indian, hunter, stray lumberman, or wandering\nhalf-breed, had now withdrawn, a search was useless, and dusk was\nfalling. He returned to his little camp, more disturbed perhaps than he\ncared to acknowledge. He cooked his supper, hung up his catch on a\nstring, so that no prowling animal could get at it during the night, and\nprepared to make himself comfortable until bedtime. Unconsciously, he\nbuilt a bigger fire than usual, and found himself peering over his pipe\ninto the deep shadows beyond the firelight, straining his ears to catch\nthe slightest sound. He remained generally on the alert in a way that\nwas new to him.\n\nA man under such conditions and in such a place need not know discomfort\nuntil the sense of loneliness strikes him as too vivid a reality.\nLoneliness in a backwoods camp brings charm, pleasure, and a happy sense\nof calm until, and unless, it comes too near. It should remain an\ningredient only among other conditions; it should not be directly,\nvividly noticed. Once it has crept within short range, however, it may\neasily cross the narrow line between comfort and discomfort, and\ndarkness is an undesirable time for the transition. A curious dread may\neasily follow--the dread lest the loneliness suddenly be disturbed, and\nthe solitary human feel himself open to attack.\n\nFor Hyde, now, this transition had been already accomplished; the too\nintimate sense of his loneliness had shifted abruptly into the worse\ncondition of no longer being quite alone. It was an awkward moment, and\nthe hotel clerk realized his position exactly. He did not quite like it.\nHe sat there, with his back to the blazing logs, a very visible object\nin the light, while all about him the darkness of the forest lay like an\nimpenetrable wall. He could not see a foot beyond the small circle of\nhis camp-fire; the silence about him was like the silence of the dead.\nNo leaf rustled, no wave lapped; he himself sat motionless as a log.\n\nThen again he became suddenly aware that the person who watched him had\nreturned, and that same intent and concentrated gaze as before was fixed\nupon him where he lay. There was no warning; he heard no stealthy tread\nor snapping of dry twigs, yet the owner of those steady eyes was very\nclose to him, probably not a dozen feet away. This sense of proximity\nwas overwhelming.\n\nIt is unquestionable that a shiver ran down his spine. This time,\nmoreover, he felt positive that the man crouched just beyond the\nfirelight, the distance he himself could see being nicely calculated,\nand straight in front of him. For some minutes he sat without stirring a\nsingle muscle, yet with each muscle ready and alert, straining his eyes\nin vain to pierce the darkness, but only succeeding in dazzling his\nsight with the reflected light. Then, as he shifted his position slowly,\ncautiously, to obtain another angle of vision, his heart gave two big\nthumps against his ribs and the hair seemed to rise on his scalp with\nthe sense of cold that shot horribly up his spine. In the darkness\nfacing him he saw two small and greenish circles that were certainly\na pair of eyes, yet not the eyes of Indian, hunter, or of any human\nbeing. It was a pair of animal eyes that stared so fixedly at him out of\nthe night. And this certainly had an immediate and natural effect upon\nhim.\n\nFor, at the menace of those eyes, the fears of millions of long dead\nhunters since the dawn of time woke in him. Hotel clerk though he was,\nheredity surged through him in an automatic wave of instinct. His hand\ngroped for a weapon. His fingers fell on the iron head of his small camp\naxe, and at once he was himself again. Confidence returned; the vague,\nsuperstitious dread was gone. This was a bear or wolf that smelt\nhis catch and came to steal it. With beings of that sort he knew\ninstinctively how to deal, yet admitting, by this very instinct, that\nhis original dread had been of quite another kind.\n\n\"I'll damned quick find out what it is,\" he exclaimed aloud, and\nsnatching a burning brand from the fire, he hurled it with good aim\nstraight at the eyes of the beast before him.\n\nThe bit of pitch-pine fell in a shower of sparks that lit the dry grass\nthis side of the animal, flared up a moment, then died quickly down\nagain. But in that instant of bright illumination he saw clearly what\nhis unwelcome visitor was. A big timber wolf sat on its hindquarters,\nstaring steadily at him through the firelight. He saw its legs and\nshoulders, he saw its hair, he saw also the big hemlock trunks lit up\nbehind it, and the willow scrub on each side. It formed a vivid,\nclear-cut picture shown in clear detail by the momentary blaze. To his\namazement, however, the wolf did not turn and bolt away from the burning\nlog, but withdrew a few yards only, and sat there again on its haunches,\nstaring, staring as before. Heavens, how it stared! He \"shoo-ed\" it, but\nwithout effect; it did not budge. He did not waste another good log on\nit, for his fear was dissipated now; a timber wolf was a timber wolf,\nand it might sit there as long as it pleased, provided it did not try to\nsteal his catch. No alarm was in him any more. He knew that wolves were\nharmless in the summer and autumn, and even when \"packed\" in the winter,\nthey would attack a man only when suffering desperate hunger. So he lay\nand watched the beast, threw bits of stick in its direction, even talked\nto it, wondering only that it never moved. \"You can stay there for ever,\nif you like,\" he remarked to it aloud, \"for you cannot get at my fish,\nand the rest of the grub I shall take into the tent with me!\"\n\nThe creature blinked its bright green eyes, but made no move.\n\nWhy, then, if his fear was gone, did he think of certain things as he\nrolled himself in the Hudson Bay blankets before going to sleep? The\nimmobility of the animal was strange, its refusal to turn and bolt was\nstill stranger. Never before had he known a wild creature that was not\nafraid of fire. Why did it sit and watch him, as with purpose in its\ndreadful eyes? How had he felt its presence earlier and instantly? A\ntimber wolf, especially a solitary timber wolf, was a timid thing, yet\nthis one feared neither man nor fire. Now, as he lay there wrapped in\nhis blankets inside the cosy tent, it sat outside beneath the stars,\nbeside the fading embers, the wind chilly in its fur, the ground cooling\nbeneath its planted paws, watching him, steadily watching him, perhaps\nuntil the dawn.\n\nIt was unusual, it was strange. Having neither imagination nor\ntradition, he called upon no store of racial visions. Matter of fact, a\nhotel clerk on a fishing holiday, he lay there in his blankets, merely\nwondering and puzzled. A timber wolf was a timber wolf and nothing more.\nYet this timber wolf--the idea haunted him--was different. In a word,\nthe deeper part of his original uneasiness remained. He tossed about, he\nshivered sometimes in his broken sleep; he did not go out to see, but he\nwoke early and unrefreshed.\n\nAgain, with the sunshine and the morning wind, however, the incident of\nthe night before was forgotten, almost unreal. His hunting zeal was\nuppermost. The tea and fish were delicious, his pipe had never tasted so\ngood, the glory of this lonely lake amid primeval forests went to his\nhead a little; he was a hunter before the Lord, and nothing else. He\ntried the edge of the lake, and in the excitement of playing a big fish,\nknew suddenly that _it_, the wolf, was there. He paused with the rod,\nexactly as if struck. He looked about him, he looked in a definite\ndirection. The brilliant sunshine made every smallest detail clear and\nsharp--boulders of granite, burned stems, crimson sumach, pebbles along\nthe shore in neat, separate detail--without revealing where the watcher\nhid. Then, his sight wandering farther inshore among the tangled\nundergrowth, he suddenly picked up the familiar, half-expected outline.\nThe wolf was lying behind a granite boulder, so that only the head, the\nmuzzle, and the eyes were visible. It merged in its background. Had he\nnot known it was a wolf, he could never have separated it from the\nlandscape. The eyes shone in the sunlight.\n\nThere it lay. He looked straight at it. Their eyes, in fact, actually\nmet full and square. \"Great Scott!\" he exclaimed aloud, \"why, it's like\nlooking at a human being!\" From that moment, unwittingly, he established\na singular personal relation with the beast. And what followed confirmed\nthis undesirable impression, for the animal rose instantly and came down\nin leisurely fashion to the shore, where it stood looking back at him.\nIt stood and stared into his eyes like some great wild dog, so that he\nwas aware of a new and almost incredible sensation--that it courted\nrecognition.\n\n\"Well! well!\" he exclaimed again, relieving his feelings by addressing\nit aloud, \"if this doesn't beat everything I ever saw! What d'you want,\nanyway?\"\n\nHe examined it now more carefully. He had never seen a wolf so big\nbefore; it was a tremendous beast, a nasty customer to tackle, he\nreflected, if it ever came to that. It stood there absolutely fearless\nand full of confidence. In the clear sunlight he took in every detail of\nit--a huge, shaggy, lean-flanked timber wolf, its wicked eyes staring\nstraight into his own, almost with a kind of purpose in them. He saw its\ngreat jaws, its teeth, and its tongue, hung out, dropping saliva a\nlittle. And yet the idea of its savagery, its fierceness, was very\nlittle in him.\n\nHe was amazed and puzzled beyond belief. He wished the Indian would come\nback. He did not understand this strange behaviour in an animal. Its\neyes, the odd expression in them, gave him a queer, unusual, difficult\nfeeling. Had his nerves gone wrong, he almost wondered.\n\nThe beast stood on the shore and looked at him. He wished for the first\ntime that he had brought a rifle. With a resounding smack he brought his\npaddle down flat upon the water, using all his strength, till the echoes\nrang as from a pistol-shot that was audible from one end of the lake to\nthe other. The wolf never stirred. He shouted, but the beast remained\nunmoved. He blinked his eyes, speaking as to a dog, a domestic animal,\na creature accustomed to human ways. It blinked its eyes in return.\n\nAt length, increasing his distance from the shore, he continued fishing,\nand the excitement of the marvellous sport held his attention--his\nsurface attention, at any rate. At times he almost forgot the attendant\nbeast; yet whenever he looked up, he saw it there. And worse; when he\nslowly paddled home again, he observed it trotting along the shore as\nthough to keep him company. Crossing a little bay, he spurted, hoping to\nreach the other point before his undesired and undesirable attendant.\nInstantly the brute broke into that rapid, tireless lope that, except on\nice, can run down anything on four legs in the woods. When he reached\nthe distant point, the wolf was waiting for him. He raised his paddle\nfrom the water, pausing a moment for reflection; for this very close\nattention--there were dusk and night yet to come--he certainly did not\nrelish. His camp was near; he had to land; he felt uncomfortable even\nin the sunshine of broad day, when, to his keen relief, about half a\nmile from the tent, he saw the creature suddenly stop and sit down in\nthe open. He waited a moment, then paddled on. It did not follow. There\nwas no attempt to move; it merely sat and watched him. After a few\nhundred yards, he looked back. It was still sitting where he left it.\nAnd the absurd, yet significant, feeling came to him that the beast\ndivined his thought, his anxiety, his dread, and was now showing him, as\nwell as it could, that it entertained no hostile feeling and did not\nmeditate attack.\n\nHe turned the canoe toward the shore; he landed; he cooked his supper in\nthe dusk; the animal made no sign. Not far away it certainly lay and\nwatched, but it did not advance. And to Hyde, observant now in a new\nway, came one sharp, vivid reminder of the strange atmosphere into which\nhis commonplace personality had strayed: he suddenly recalled that his\nrelations with the beast, already established, had progressed distinctly\na stage further. This startled him, yet without the accompanying\nalarm he must certainly have felt twenty-four hours before. He had an\nunderstanding with the wolf. He was aware of friendly thoughts toward\nit. He even went so far as to set out a few big fish on the spot where\nhe had first seen it sitting the previous night. \"If he comes,\" he\nthought, \"he is welcome to them. I've got plenty, anyway.\" He thought of\nit now as \"he.\"\n\nYet the wolf made no appearance until he was in the act of entering\nhis tent a good deal later. It was close on ten o'clock, whereas nine\nwas his hour, and late at that, for turning in. He had, therefore,\nunconsciously been waiting for him. Then, as he was closing the flap, he\nsaw the eyes close to where he had placed the fish. He waited, hiding\nhimself, and expecting to hear sounds of munching jaws; but all was\nsilence. Only the eyes glowed steadily out of the background of pitch\ndarkness. He closed the flap. He had no slightest fear. In ten minutes\nhe was sound asleep.\n\nHe could not have slept very long, for when he woke up he could see the\nshine of a faint red light through the canvas, and the fire had not died\ndown completely. He rose and cautiously peeped out. The air was very\ncold; he saw his breath. But he also saw the wolf, for it had come in,\nand was sitting by the dying embers, not two yards away from where he\ncrouched behind the flap. And this time, at these very close quarters,\nthere was something in the attitude of the big wild thing that caught\nhis attention with a vivid thrill of startled surprise and a sudden\nshock of cold that held him spellbound. He stared, unable to believe his\neyes; for the wolf's attitude conveyed to him something familiar that at\nfirst he was unable to explain. Its pose reached him in the terms of\nanother thing with which he was entirely at home. What was it? Did his\nsenses betray him? Was he still asleep and dreaming?\n\nThen, suddenly, with a start of uncanny recognition, he knew. Its\nattitude was that of a dog. Having found the clue, his mind then made\nan awful leap. For it was, after all, no dog its appearance aped, but\nsomething nearer to himself, and more familiar still. Good heavens!\nIt sat there with the pose, the attitude, the gesture in repose of\nsomething almost human. And then, with a second shock of biting wonder,\nit came to him like a revelation. The wolf sat beside that camp-fire as\na man might sit.\n\nBefore he could weigh his extraordinary discovery, before he could\nexamine it in detail or with care, the animal, sitting in this ghastly\nfashion, seemed to feel his eyes fixed on it. It slowly turned and\nlooked him in the face, and for the first time Hyde felt a full-blooded,\nsuperstitious fear flood through his entire being. He seemed transfixed\nwith that nameless terror that is said to attack human beings who\nsuddenly face the dead, finding themselves bereft of speech and\nmovement. This moment of paralysis certainly occurred. Its passing,\nhowever, was as singular as its advent. For almost at once he was aware\nof something beyond and above this mockery of human attitude and pose,\nsomething that ran along unaccustomed nerves and reached his feeling,\neven perhaps his heart. The revulsion was extraordinary, its result\nstill more extraordinary and unexpected. Yet the fact remains. He was\naware of another thing that had the effect of stilling his terror as\nsoon as it was born. He was aware of appeal, silent, half expressed,\nyet vastly pathetic. He saw in the savage eyes a beseeching, even a\nyearning, expression that changed his mood as by magic from dread to\nnatural sympathy. The great grey brute, symbol of cruel ferocity, sat\nthere beside his dying fire and appealed for help.\n\nThis gulf betwixt animal and human seemed in that instant bridged. It\nwas, of course, incredible. Hyde, sleep still possibly clinging to his\ninner being with the shades and half shapes of dream yet about his\nsoul, acknowledged, how he knew not, the amazing fact. He found himself\nnodding to the brute in half consent, and instantly, without more ado,\nthe lean grey shape rose like a wraith and trotted off swiftly, but with\nstealthy tread, into the background of the night.\n\nWhen Hyde woke in the morning his first impression was that he must have\ndreamed the entire incident. His practical nature asserted itself. There\nwas a bite in the fresh autumn air; the bright sun allowed no half\nlights anywhere; he felt brisk in mind and body. Reviewing what had\nhappened, he came to the conclusion that it was utterly vain to\nspeculate; no possible explanation of the animal's behaviour occurred to\nhim; he was dealing with something entirely outside his experience. His\nfear, however, had completely left him. The odd sense of friendliness\nremained. The beast had a definite purpose, and he himself was included\nin that purpose. His sympathy held good.\n\nBut with the sympathy there was also an intense curiosity. \"If it shows\nitself again,\" he told himself, \"I'll go up close and find out what it\nwants.\" The fish laid out the night before had not been touched.\n\nIt must have been a full hour after breakfast when he next saw the\nbrute; it was standing on the edge of the clearing, looking at him in\nthe way now become familiar. Hyde immediately picked up his axe and\nadvanced toward it boldly, keeping his eyes fixed straight upon its own.\nThere was nervousness in him, but kept well under; nothing betrayed it;\nstep by step he drew nearer until some ten yards separated them. The\nwolf had not stirred a muscle as yet. Its jaws hung open, its eyes\nobserved him intently; it allowed him to approach without a sign of what\nits mood might be. Then, with these ten yards between them, it turned\nabruptly and moved slowly off, looking back first over one shoulder and\nthen over the other, exactly as a dog might do, to see if he was\nfollowing.\n\nA singular journey it was they then made together, animal and man. The\ntrees surrounded them at once, for they left the lake behind them,\nentering the tangled bush beyond. The beast, Hyde noticed, obviously\npicked the easiest track for him to follow; for obstacles that meant\nnothing to the four-legged expert, yet were difficult for a man, were\ncarefully avoided with an almost uncanny skill, while yet the general\ndirection was accurately kept. Occasionally there were windfalls to be\nsurmounted; but though the wolf bounded over these with ease, it was\nalways waiting for the man on the other side after he had laboriously\nclimbed over. Deeper and deeper into the heart of the lonely forest\nthey penetrated in this singular fashion, cutting across the arc of the\nlake's crescent, it seemed to Hyde; for after two miles or so, he\nrecognized the big rocky bluff that overhung the water at its northern\nend. This outstanding bluff he had seen from his camp, one side of it\nfalling sheer into the water; it was probably the spot, he imagined,\nwhere the Indians held their medicine-making ceremonies, for it stood\nout in isolated fashion, and its top formed a private plateau not easy\nof access. And it was here, close to a big spruce at the foot of the\nbluff upon the forest side, that the wolf stopped suddenly and for the\nfirst time since its appearance gave audible expression to its feelings.\nIt sat down on its haunches, lifted its muzzle with open jaws, and gave\nvent to a subdued and long-drawn howl that was more like the wail of a\ndog than the fierce barking cry associated with a wolf.\n\nBy this time Hyde had lost not only fear, but caution too; nor, oddly\nenough, did this warning howl revive a sign of unwelcome emotion in\nhim. In that curious sound he detected the same message that the eyes\nconveyed--appeal for help. He paused, nevertheless, a little startled,\nand while the wolf sat waiting for him, he looked about him quickly.\nThere was young timber here; it had once been a small clearing,\nevidently. Axe and fire had done their work, but there was evidence to\nan experienced eye that it was Indians and not white men who had once\nbeen busy here. Some part of the medicine ritual, doubtless, took place\nin the little clearing, thought the man, as he advanced again towards\nhis patient leader. The end of their queer journey, he felt, was close\nat hand.\n\nHe had not taken two steps before the animal got up and moved very\nslowly in the direction of some low bushes that formed a clump just\nbeyond. It entered these, first looking back to make sure that its\ncompanion watched. The bushes hid it; a moment later it emerged again.\nTwice it performed this pantomime, each time, as it reappeared, standing\nstill and staring at the man with as distinct an expression of appeal in\nthe eyes as an animal may compass, probably. Its excitement, meanwhile,\ncertainly increased, and this excitement was, with equal certainty,\ncommunicated to the man. Hyde made up his mind quickly. Gripping his axe\ntightly, and ready to use it at the first hint of malice, he moved\nslowly nearer to the bushes, wondering with something of a tremor what\nwould happen.\n\nIf he expected to be startled, his expectation was at once fulfilled;\nbut it was the behaviour of the beast that made him jump. It positively\nfrisked about him like a happy dog. It frisked for joy. Its excitement\nwas intense, yet from its open mouth no sound was audible. With a sudden\nleap, then, it bounded past him into the clump of bushes, against whose\nvery edge he stood, and began scraping vigorously at the ground. Hyde\nstood and stared, amazement and interest now banishing all his\nnervousness, even when the beast, in its violent scraping, actually\ntouched his body with its own. He had, perhaps, the feeling that he was\nin a dream, one of those fantastic dreams in which things may happen\nwithout involving an adequate surprise; for otherwise the manner of\nscraping and scratching at the ground must have seemed an impossible\nphenomenon. No wolf, no dog certainly, used its paws in the way those\npaws were working. Hyde had the odd, distressing sensation that it was\nhands, not paws, he watched. And yet, somehow, the natural, adequate\nsurprise he should have felt was absent. The strange action seemed not\nentirely unnatural. In his heart some deep hidden spring of sympathy and\npity stirred instead. He was aware of pathos.\n\nThe wolf stopped in its task and looked up into his face. Hyde acted\nwithout hesitation then. Afterwards he was wholly at a loss to explain\nhis own conduct. It seemed he knew what to do, divined what was asked,\nexpected of him. Between his mind and the dumb desire yearning through\nthe savage animal there was intelligent and intelligible communication.\nHe cut a stake and sharpened it, for the stones would blunt his\naxe-edge. He entered the clump of bushes to complete the digging his\nfour-legged companion had begun. And while he worked, though he did not\nforget the close proximity of the wolf, he paid no attention to it;\noften his back was turned as he stooped over the laborious clearing\naway of the hard earth; no uneasiness or sense of danger was in him any\nmore. The wolf sat outside the clump and watched the operations. Its\nconcentrated attention, its patience, its intense eagerness, the\ngentleness and docility of the grey, fierce, and probably hungry brute,\nits obvious pleasure and satisfaction, too, at having won the human to\nits mysterious purpose--these were colours in the strange picture that\nHyde thought of later when dealing with the human herd in his hotel\nagain. At the moment he was aware chiefly of pathos and affection. The\nwhole business was, of course, not to be believed, but that discovery\ncame later, too, when telling it to others.\n\nThe digging continued for fully half an hour before his labour was\nrewarded by the discovery of a small whitish object. He picked it up and\nexamined it--the finger-bone of a man. Other discoveries then followed\nquickly and in quantity. The _cache_ was laid bare. He collected nearly\nthe complete skeleton. The skull, however, he found last, and might not\nhave found at all but for the guidance of his strangely alert companion.\nIt lay some few yards away from the central hole now dug, and the wolf\nstood nuzzling the ground with its nose before Hyde understood that he\nwas meant to dig exactly in that spot for it. Between the beast's very\npaws his stake struck hard upon it. He scraped the earth from the bone\nand examined it carefully. It was perfect, save for the fact that some\nwild animal had gnawed it, the teeth-marks being still plainly visible.\nClose beside it lay the rusty iron head of a tomahawk. This and the\nsmallness of the bones confirmed him in his judgment that it was the\nskeleton not of a white man, but of an Indian.\n\nDuring the excitement of the discovery of the bones one by one, and\nfinally of the skull, but, more especially, during the period of intense\ninterest while Hyde was examining them, he had paid little, if any,\nattention to the wolf. He was aware that it sat and watched him, never\nmoving its keen eyes for a single moment from the actual operations, but\nof sign or movement it made none at all. He knew that it was pleased and\nsatisfied, he knew also that he had now fulfilled its purpose in a great\nmeasure. The further intuition that now came to him, derived, he felt\npositive, from his companion's dumb desire, was perhaps the cream of the\nentire experience to him. Gathering the bones together in his coat, he\ncarried them, together with the tomahawk, to the foot of the big spruce\nwhere the animal had first stopped. His leg actually touched the\ncreature's muzzle as he passed. It turned its head to watch, but did not\nfollow, nor did it move a muscle while he prepared the platform of\nboughs upon which he then laid the poor worn bones of an Indian who had\nbeen killed, doubtless, in sudden attack or ambush, and to whose remains\nhad been denied the last grace of proper tribal burial. He wrapped the\nbones in bark; he laid the tomahawk beside the skull; he lit the\ncircular fire round the pyre, and the blue smoke rose upward into the\nclear bright sunshine of the Canadian autumn morning till it was lost\namong the mighty trees far overhead.\n\nIn the moment before actually lighting the little fire he had turned to\nnote what his companion did. It sat five yards away, he saw, gazing\nintently, and one of its front paws was raised a little from the ground.\nIt made no sign of any kind. He finished the work, becoming so absorbed\nin it that he had eyes for nothing but the tending and guarding of his\ncareful ceremonial fire. It was only when the platform of boughs\ncollapsed, laying their charred burden gently on the fragrant earth\namong the soft wood ashes, that he turned again, as though to show the\nwolf what he had done, and seek, perhaps, some look of satisfaction in\nits curiously expressive eyes. But the place he searched was empty. The\nwolf had gone.\n\nHe did not see it again; it gave no sign of its presence anywhere; he\nwas not watched. He fished as before, wandered through the bush about\nhis camp, sat smoking round his fire after dark, and slept peacefully\nin his cosy little tent. He was not disturbed. No howl was ever audible\nin the distant forest, no twig snapped beneath a stealthy tread, he saw\nno eyes. The wolf that behaved like a man had gone for ever.\n\nIt was the day before he left that Hyde, noticing smoke rising from the\nshack across the lake, paddled over to exchange a word or two with the\nIndian, who had evidently now returned. The Redskin came down to meet\nhim as he landed, but it was soon plain that he spoke very little\nEnglish. He emitted the familiar grunts at first; then bit by bit Hyde\nstirred his limited vocabulary into action. The net result, however, was\nslight enough, though it was certainly direct:\n\n\"You camp there?\" the man asked, pointing to the other side.\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Wolf come?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"You see wolf?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\nThe Indian stared at him fixedly a moment, a keen, wondering look upon\nhis coppery, creased face.\n\n\"You 'fraid wolf?\" he asked after a moment's pause.\n\n\"No,\" replied Hyde, truthfully. He knew it was useless to ask questions\nof his own, though he was eager for information. The other would have\ntold him nothing. It was sheer luck that the man had touched on the\nsubject at all, and Hyde realized that his own best role was merely to\nanswer, but to ask no questions. Then, suddenly, the Indian became\ncomparatively voluble. There was awe in his voice and manner.\n\n\"Him no wolf. Him big medicine wolf. Him spirit wolf.\"\n\nWhereupon he drank the tea the other had brewed for him, closed his lips\ntightly, and said no more. His outline was discernible on the shore,\nrigid and motionless, an hour later, when Hyde's canoe turned the\ncorner of the lake three miles away, and landed to make the portages up\nthe first rapid of his homeward stream.\n\nIt was Morton who, after some persuasion, supplied further details\nof what he called the legend. Some hundred years before, the tribe\nthat lived in the territory beyond the lake began their annual\nmedicine-making ceremonies on the big rocky bluff at the northern end;\nbut no medicine could be made. The spirits, declared the chief medicine\nman, would not answer. They were offended. An investigation followed. It\nwas discovered that a young brave had recently killed a wolf, a thing\nstrictly forbidden, since the wolf was the totem animal of the tribe. To\nmake matters worse, the name of the guilty man was Running Wolf. The\noffence being unpardonable, the man was cursed and driven from the\ntribe:\n\n\"Go out. Wander alone among the woods, and if we see you we slay you.\nYour bones shall be scattered in the forest, and your spirit shall not\nenter the Happy Hunting Grounds till one of another race shall find and\nbury them.\"\n\n\"Which meant,\" explained Morton laconically, his only comment on the\nstory, \"probably for ever.\"\n\n\n\n\nIV\n\nFIRST HATE\n\n\nThey had been shooting all day; the weather had been perfect and the\npowder straight, so that when they assembled in the smoking-room after\ndinner they were well pleased with themselves. From discussing the day's\nsport and the weather outlook, the conversation drifted to other, though\nstill cognate, fields. Lawson, the crack shot of the party, mentioned\nthe instinctive recognition all animals feel for their natural enemies,\nand gave several instances in which he had tested it--tame rats with a\nferret, birds with a snake, and so forth.\n\n\"Even after being domesticated for generations,\" he said, \"they\nrecognize their natural enemy at once by instinct, an enemy they can\nnever even have seen before. It's infallible. They know instantly.\"\n\n\"Undoubtedly,\" said a voice from the corner chair; \"and so do we.\"\n\nThe speaker was Ericssen, their host, a great hunter before the Lord,\ngenerally uncommunicative but a good listener, leaving the talk to\nothers. For this latter reason, as well as for a certain note of\nchallenge in his voice, his abrupt statement gained attention.\n\n\"What do you mean exactly by 'so do we'?\" asked three men together,\nafter waiting some seconds to see whether he meant to elaborate, which\nhe evidently did not.\n\n\"We belong to the animal kingdom, of course,\" put in a fourth, for\nbehind the challenge there obviously lay a story, though a story that\nmight be difficult to drag out of him. It was.\n\nEricssen, who had leaned forward a moment so that his strong, humorous\nface was in clear light, now sank back again into his chair, his\nexpression concealed by the red lampshade at his side. The light played\ntricks, obliterating the humorous, almost tender lines, while\nemphasizing the strength of the jaw and nose. The red glare lent to the\nwhole a rather grim expression.\n\nLawson, man of authority among them, broke the little pause.\n\n\"You're dead right,\" he observed, \"but how do you know it?\"--for John\nEricssen never made a positive statement without a good reason for it.\nThat good reason, he felt sure, involved a personal proof, but a story\nEricssen would never tell before a general audience. He would tell it\nlater, however, when the others had left. \"There's such a thing as\ninstinctive antipathy, of course,\" he added, with a laugh, looking\naround him. \"That's what you mean probably.\"\n\n\"I meant exactly what I said,\" replied the host bluntly. \"There's first\nlove. There's first hate, too.\"\n\n\"Hate's a strong word,\" remarked Lawson.\n\n\"So is love,\" put in another.\n\n\"Hate's strongest,\" said Ericssen grimly. \"In the animal kingdom, at\nleast,\" he added suggestively, and then kept his lips closed, except to\nsip his liquor, for the rest of the evening--until the party at length\nbroke up, leaving Lawson and one other man, both old trusted friends of\nmany years' standing.\n\n\"It's not a tale I'd tell to everybody,\" he began, when they were alone.\n\"It's true, for one thing; for another, you see, some of those good\nfellows\"--he indicated the empty chairs with an expressive nod of his\ngreat head--\"some of 'em knew him. You both knew him too, probably.\"\n\n\"The man you hated,\" said the understanding Lawson.\n\n\"And who hated me,\" came the quiet confirmation. \"My other reason,\" he\nwent on, \"for keeping quiet was that the tale involves my wife.\"\n\nThe two listeners said nothing, but each remembered the curiously long\ncourtship that had been the prelude to his marriage. No engagement had\nbeen announced, the pair were devoted to one another, there was no known\nrival on either side; yet the courtship continued without coming to its\nexpected conclusion. Many stories were afloat in consequence. It was a\nsocial mystery that intrigued the gossips.\n\n\"I may tell you two,\" Ericssen continued, \"the reason my wife refused\nfor so long to marry me. It is hard to believe, perhaps, but it is true.\nAnother man wished to make her his wife, and she would not consent to\nmarry me until that other man was dead. Quixotic, absurd, unreasonable?\nIf you like. I'll tell you what she said.\" He looked up with a\nsignificant expression in his face which proved that he, at least, did\nnot now judge her reason foolish. \"'Because it would be murder,' she\ntold me. 'Another man who wants to marry me would kill you.'\"\n\n\"She had some proof for the assertion, no doubt?\" suggested Lawson.\n\n\"None whatever,\" was the reply. \"Merely her woman's instinct. Moreover,\n_I_ did not know who the other man was, nor would she ever tell me.\"\n\n\"Otherwise you might have murdered him instead?\" said Baynes, the second\nlistener.\n\n\"I did,\" said Ericssen grimly. \"But without knowing he was the man.\" He\nsipped his whisky and relit his pipe. The others waited.\n\n\"Our marriage took place two months later--just after Hazel's\ndisappearance.\"\n\n\"Hazel?\" exclaimed Lawson and Baynes in a single breath. \"Hazel! Member\nof the Hunters!\" His mysterious disappearance had been a nine days'\nwonder some ten years ago. It had never been explained. They had all\nbeen members of the Hunters' Club together.\n\n\"That's the chap,\" Ericssen said. \"Now I'll tell you the tale, if you\ncare to hear it.\" They settled back in their chairs to listen, and\nEricssen, who had evidently never told the affair to another living soul\nexcept his own wife, doubtless, seemed glad this time to tell it to two\nmen.\n\n\"It began some dozen years ago when my brother Jack and I came home from\na shooting trip in China. I've often told you about our adventures\nthere, and you see the heads hanging up here in the smoking-room--some\nof 'em.\" He glanced round proudly at the walls. \"We were glad to be in\ntown again after two years' roughing it, and we looked forward to our\nfirst good dinner at the club, to make up for the rotten cooking we had\nendured so long. We had ordered that dinner in anticipatory detail many\na time together. Well, we had it and enjoyed it up to a point--the point\nof the _entree_, to be exact.\n\n\"Up to that point it was delicious, and we let ourselves go, I can tell\nyou. We had ordered the very wine we had planned months before when we\nwere snow-bound and half starving in the mountains.\" He smacked his lips\nas he mentioned it. \"I was just starting on a beautifully cooked\ngrouse,\" he went on, \"when a figure went by our table, and Jack looked\nup and nodded. The two exchanged a brief word of greeting and\nexplanation, and the other man passed on. Evidently they knew each other\njust enough to make a word or two necessary, but enough.\n\n\"'Who's that?' I asked.\n\n\"'A new member, named Hazel,' Jack told me. 'A great shot.' He knew him\nslightly, he explained; he had once been a client of his--Jack was a\nbarrister, you remember--and had defended him in some financial case or\nother. Rather an unpleasant case, he added. Jack did not 'care about'\nthe fellow, he told me, as he went on with his tender wing of grouse.\"\n\nEricssen paused to relight his pipe a moment.\n\n\"Not care about him!\" he continued. \"It didn't surprise me, for my own\nfeeling, the instant I set eyes on the fellow, was one of violent,\ninstinctive dislike that amounted to loathing. Loathing! No. I'll give\nit the right word--hatred. I simply couldn't help myself; I hated the\nman from the very first go off. A wave of repulsion swept over me as I\nfollowed him down the room a moment with my eyes, till he took his seat\nat a distant table and was out of sight. Ugh! He was a big, fat-faced\nman, with an eyeglass glued into one of his pale-blue cod-like eyes--out\nof condition, ugly as a toad, with a smug expression of intense\nself-satisfaction on his jowl that made me long to----\n\n\"I leave it to you to guess what I would have liked to do to him. But\nthe instinctive loathing he inspired in me had another aspect, too. Jack\nhad not introduced us during the momentary pause beside our table, but\nas I looked up I caught the fellow's eye on mine--he was glaring at\nme instead of at Jack, to whom he was talking--with an expression of\nmalignant dislike, as keen evidently as my own. That's the other aspect\nI meant. He hated me as violently as I hated him. We were instinctive\nenemies, just as the rat and ferret are instinctive enemies. Each\nrecognized a mortal foe. It was a case--I swear it--of whoever got first\nchance.\"\n\n\"Bad as that!\" exclaimed Baynes. \"I knew him by sight. He wasn't pretty,\nI'll admit.\"\n\n\"I knew him to nod to,\" Lawson mentioned. \"I never heard anything\nparticular against him.\" He shrugged his shoulders.\n\nEricssen went on. \"It was not his character or qualities I hated,\" he\nsaid. \"I didn't even know them. That's the whole point. There's no\nreason you fellows should have disliked him. _My_ hatred--our mutual\nhatred--was instinctive, as instinctive as first love. A man knows his\nnatural mate; also he knows his natural enemy. I did, at any rate, both\nwith him and with my wife. Given the chance, Hazel would have done me\nin; just as surely, given the chance, I would have done him in. No\nblame to either of us, what's more, in my opinion.\"\n\n\"I've felt dislike, but never hatred like that,\" Baynes mentioned. \"I\ncame across it in a book once, though. The writer did not mention the\ninstinctive fear of the human animal for its natural enemy, or anything\nof that sort. He thought it was a continuance of a bitter feud begun in\nan earlier existence. He called it memory.\"\n\n\"Possibly,\" said Ericssen briefly. \"My mind is not speculative. But I'm\nglad you spoke of fear. I left that out. The truth is, I feared the\nfellow, too, in a way; and had we ever met face to face in some wild\ncountry without witnesses I should have felt justified in drawing on him\nat sight, and he would have felt the same. Murder? If you like. I should\ncall it self-defence. Anyhow, the fellow polluted the room for me. He\nspoilt the enjoyment of that dinner we had ordered months before in\nChina.\"\n\n\"But you saw him again, of course, later?\"\n\n\"Lots of times. Not that night, because we went on to a theatre. But in\nthe club we were always running across one another--in the houses of\nfriends at lunch or dinner; at race meetings; all over the place; in\nfact, I even had some trouble to avoid being introduced to him. And\nevery time we met our eyes betrayed us. He felt in his heart what I felt\nin mine. Ugh! He was as loathsome to me as leprosy, and as dangerous.\nOdd, isn't it? The most intense feeling, except love, I've ever known. I\nremember\"--he laughed gruffly--\"I used to feel quite sorry for him. If\nhe felt what I felt, and I'm convinced he did, he must have suffered.\nHis one object--to get me out of the way for good--was so impossible.\nThen Fate played a hand in the game. I'll tell you how.\n\n\"My brother died a year or two later, and I went abroad to try and\nforget it. I went salmon fishing in Canada. But, though the sport was\ngood, it was not like the old times with Jack. The camp never felt the\nsame without him. I missed him badly. But I forgot Hazel for the time;\nhating did not seem worth while, somehow.\n\n\"When the best of the fishing was over on the Atlantic side, I took a\nrun back to Vancouver and fished there for a bit. I went up the Campbell\nRiver, which was not so crowded then as it is now, and had some rattling\nsport. Then I grew tired of the rod and decided to go after wapiti for a\nchange. I came back to Victoria and learned what I could about the best\nplaces, and decided finally to go up the west coast of the island. By\nluck I happened to pick up a good guide, who was in the town at the\nmoment on business, and we started off together in one of the little\nCanadian Pacific Railway boats that ply along that coast.\n\n\"Outfitting two days later at a small place the steamer stopped at, the\nguide said we needed another man to help pack our kit over portages,\nand so forth, but the only fellow available was a Siwash of whom he\ndisapproved. My guide would not have him at any price; he was lazy, a\ndrunkard, a liar, and even worse, for on one occasion he came back\nwithout the sportsman he had taken up country on a shooting trip, and\nhis story was not convincing, to say the least. These disappearances are\nalways awkward, of course, as you both know. We preferred, anyhow, to go\nwithout the Siwash, and off we started.\n\n\"At first our luck was bad. I saw many wapiti, but no good heads; only\nafter a fortnight's hunting did I manage to get a decent head, though\neven that was not so good as I should have liked.\n\n\"We were then near the head waters of a little river that ran down into\nthe Inlet; heavy rains had made the river rise; running downstream was a\nrisky job, what with old log-jams shifting and new ones forming; and,\nafter many narrow escapes, we upset one afternoon and had the misfortune\nto lose a lot of our kit, amongst it most of our cartridges. We could\nonly muster a few between us. The guide had a dozen; I had two--just\nenough, we considered, to take us out all right. Still, it was an\ninfernal nuisance. We camped at once to dry out our soaked things in\nfront of a big fire, and while this laundry work was going on, the guide\nsuggested my filling in the time by taking a look at the next little\nvalley, which ran parallel to ours. He had seen some good heads over\nthere a few weeks ago. Possibly I might come upon the herd. I started at\nonce, taking my two cartridges with me.\n\n\"It was the devil of a job getting over the divide, for it was a badly\nbushed-up place, and where there were no bushes there were boulders and\nfallen trees, and the going was slow and tiring. But I got across at\nlast and came out upon another stream at the bottom of the new valley.\nSigns of wapiti were plentiful, though I never came up with a single\nbeast all the afternoon. Blacktail deer were everywhere, but the wapiti\nremained invisible. Providence, or whatever you like to call that which\nthere is no escaping in our lives, made me save my two cartridges.\"\n\nEricssen stopped a minute then. It was not to light his pipe or sip his\nwhisky. Nor was it because the remainder of his story failed in the\nrecollection of any vivid detail. He paused a moment to think.\n\n\"Tell us the lot,\" pleaded Lawson. \"Don't leave out anything.\"\n\nEricssen looked up. His friend's remark had helped him to make up his\nmind apparently. He _had_ hesitated about something or other, but the\nhesitation passed. He glanced at both his listeners.\n\n\"Right,\" he said. \"I'll tell you everything. I'm not imaginative, as you\nknow, and my amount of superstition, I should judge, is microscopic.\" He\ntook a longer breath, then lowered his voice a trifle. \"Anyhow,\" he went\non, \"it's true, so I don't see why I should feel shy about admitting\nit--but as I stood there in that lonely valley, where only the noises of\nwind and water were audible, and no human being, except my guide, some\nmiles away, was within reach, a curious feeling came over me I find\ndifficult to describe. I felt\"--obviously he made an effort to get the\nword out--\"I felt creepy.\"\n\n\"You,\" murmured Lawson, with an incredulous smile--\"you creepy?\" he\nrepeated under his breath.\n\n\"I felt creepy and afraid,\" continued the other, with conviction. \"I\nhad the sensation of being seen by someone--as if someone, I mean,\nwas watching me. It was so unlikely that anyone was near me in that\nGod-forsaken bit of wilderness, that I simply couldn't believe it at\nfirst. But the feeling persisted. I felt absolutely positive somebody\nwas not far away among the red maples, behind a boulder, across the\nlittle stream, perhaps, somewhere, at any rate, so near that I was\nplainly visible to him. It was not an animal. It was human. Also, it\nwas hostile.\n\n\"I was in danger.\n\n\"You may laugh, both of you, but I assure you the feeling was so\npositive that I crouched down instinctively to hide myself behind a\nrock. My first thought, that the guide had followed me for some reason\nor other, I at once discarded. It was not the guide. It was an enemy.\n\n\"No, no, I thought of no one in particular. No name, no face occurred to\nme. Merely that an enemy was on my trail, that he saw me, and I did not\nsee him, and that he was near enough to me to--well, to take instant\naction. This deep instinctive feeling of danger, of fear, of anything\nyou like to call it, was simply overwhelming.\n\n\"Another curious detail I must also mention. About half an hour before,\nhaving given up all hope of seeing wapiti, I had decided to kill a\nblacktail deer for meat. A good shot offered itself, not thirty yards\naway. I aimed. But just as I was going to pull the trigger a queer\nemotion touched me, and I lowered the rifle. It was exactly as though a\nvoice said, 'Don't!' I heard no voice, mind you; it was an emotion only,\na feeling, a sudden inexplicable change of mind--a warning, if you\nlike. I didn't fire, anyhow.\n\n\"But now, as I crouched behind that rock, I remembered this curious\nlittle incident, and was glad I had not used up my last two cartridges.\nMore than that I cannot tell you. Things of that kind are new to me.\nThey're difficult enough to tell, let alone to explain. But they were\n_real_.\n\n\"I crouched there, wondering what on earth was happening to me, and,\nfeeling a bit of a fool, if you want to know, when suddenly, over the\ntop of the boulder, I saw something moving. It was a man's hat. I peered\ncautiously. Some sixty yards away the bushes parted, and two men came\nout on to the river's bank, and I knew them both. One was the Siwash I\nhad seen at the store. The other was Hazel. Before I had time to think\nI cocked my rifle.\"\n\n\"Hazel. Good Lord!\" exclaimed the listeners.\n\n\"For a moment I was too surprised to do anything but cock that rifle. I\nwaited, for what puzzled me was that, after all, Hazel had _not_ seen\nme. It was only the feeling of his beastly proximity that had made me\nfeel I was seen and watched by him. There was something else, too, that\nmade me pause before--er--doing anything. Two other things, in fact. One\nwas that I was so intensely interested in watching the fellow's actions.\nObviously he had the same uneasy sensation that I had. He shared with me\nthe nasty feeling that danger was about. His rifle, I saw, was cocked\nand ready; he kept looking behind him, over his shoulder, peering this\nway and that, and sometimes addressing a remark to the Siwash at his\nside. I caught the laughter of the latter. The Siwash evidently did not\nthink there was danger anywhere. It was, of course, unlikely enough----\"\n\n\"And the other thing that stopped you?\" urged Lawson, impatiently\ninterrupting.\n\nEricssen turned with a look of grim humour on his face.\n\n\"Some confounded or perverted sense of chivalry in me, I suppose,\" he\nsaid, \"that made it impossible to shoot him down in cold blood, or,\nrather, without letting him have a chance. For my blood, as a matter of\nfact, was far from cold at the moment. Perhaps, too, I wanted the added\nsatisfaction of letting him know who fired the shot that was to end his\nvile existence.\"\n\nHe laughed again. \"It was rat and ferret in the human kingdom,\" he went\non, \"but I wanted my rat to have a chance, I suppose. Anyhow, though I\nhad a perfect shot in front of me at easy distance, I did not fire.\nInstead I got up, holding my cocked rifle ready, finger on trigger, and\ncame out of my hiding place. I called to him. 'Hazel, you beast! So\nthere you are--at last!'\n\n\"He turned, but turned away from me, offering his horrid back. The\ndirection of the voice he misjudged. He pointed down stream, and the\nSiwash turned to look. Neither of them had seen me yet. There was a big\nlog-jam below them. The roar of the water in their ears concealed my\nfootsteps. I was, perhaps, twenty paces from them when Hazel, with a\njerk of his whole body, abruptly turned clean round and faced me. We\nstared into each other's eyes.\n\n\"The amazement on his face changed instantly to hatred and resolve. He\nacted with incredible rapidity. I think the unexpected suddenness of his\nturn made me lose a precious second or two. Anyhow he was ahead of me.\nHe flung his rifle to his shoulder. 'You devil!' I heard his voice.\n'I've got you at last!' His rifle cracked, for he let drive the same\ninstant. The hair stirred just above my ear.\n\n\"He had missed!\n\n\"Before he could draw back his bolt for another shot I had acted.\n\n\"'You're not fit to live!' I shouted, as my bullet crashed into his\ntemple. I had the satisfaction, too, of knowing that he heard my words.\nI saw the swift expression of frustrated loathing in his eyes.\n\n\"He fell like an ox, his face splashing in the stream. I shoved the body\nout. I saw it sucked beneath the log-jam instantly. It disappeared.\nThere could be no inquest on him, I reflected comfortably. Hazel was\ngone--gone from this earth, from my life, our mutual hatred over at\nlast.\"\n\nThe speaker paused a moment. \"Odd,\" he continued presently--\"very odd\nindeed.\" He turned to the others. \"I felt quite sorry for him suddenly.\nI suppose,\" he added, \"the philosophers are right when they gas about\nhate being very close to love.\"\n\nHis friends contributed no remark.\n\n\"Then I came away,\" he resumed shortly. \"My wife--well, you know the\nrest, don't you? I told her the whole thing. She--she said nothing. But\nshe married me, you see.\"\n\nThere was a moment's silence. Baynes was the first to break it.\n\"But--the Siwash?\" he asked. \"The witness?\"\n\nLawson turned upon him with something of contemptuous impatience.\n\n\"He told you he had _two_ cartridges.\"\n\nEricssen, smiling grimly, said nothing at all.\n\n\n\n\nV\n\nTHE TARN OF SACRIFICE\n\n\nJohn Holt, a vague excitement in him, stood at the door of the little\ninn, listening to the landlord's directions as to the best way of\nreaching Scarsdale. He was on a walking tour through the Lake District,\nexploring the smaller dales that lie away from the beaten track and are\naccessible only on foot.\n\nThe landlord, a hard-featured north countryman, half innkeeper, half\nsheep farmer, pointed up the valley. His deep voice had a friendly burr\nin it.\n\n\"You go straight on till you reach the head,\" he said, \"then take to the\nfell. Follow the 'sheep-trod' past the Crag. Directly you're over the\ntop you'll strike the road.\"\n\n\"A road up there!\" exclaimed his customer incredulously.\n\n\"Aye,\" was the steady reply. \"The old Roman road. The same road,\" he\nadded, \"the savages came down when they burst through the Wall and burnt\neverything right up to Lancaster----\"\n\n\"They were held--weren't they--at Lancaster?\" asked the other, yet not\nknowing quite why he asked it.\n\n\"I don't rightly know,\" came the answer slowly. \"Some say they were. But\nthe old town has been that built over since, it's hard to tell.\" He\npaused a moment. \"At Ambleside,\" he went on presently, \"you can still\nsee the marks of the burning, and at the little fort on the way to\nRavenglass.\"\n\nHolt strained his eyes into the sunlit distance, for he would soon have\nto walk that road and he was anxious to be off. But the landlord was\ncommunicative and interesting. \"You can't miss it,\" he told him. \"It\nruns straight as a spear along the fell top till it meets the Wall. You\nmust hold to it for about eight miles. Then you'll come to the Standing\nStone on the left of the track----\"\n\n\"The Standing Stone, yes?\" broke in the other a little eagerly.\n\n\"You'll see the Stone right enough. It was where the Romans came. Then\nbear to the left down another 'trod' that comes into the road there.\nThey say it was the war-trail of the folk that set up the Stone.\"\n\n\"And what did they use the Stone for?\" Holt inquired, more as though he\nasked it of himself than of his companion.\n\nThe old man paused to reflect. He spoke at length.\n\n\"I mind an old fellow who seemed to know about such things called it a\nSighting Stone. He reckoned the sun shone over it at dawn on the longest\nday right on to the little holm in Blood Tarn. He said they held\nsacrifices in a stone circle there.\" He stopped a moment to puff at his\nblack pipe. \"Maybe he was right. I have seen stones lying about that may\nwell be that.\"\n\nThe man was pleased and willing to talk to so good a listener. Either he\nhad not noticed the curious gesture the other made, or he read it as a\nsign of eagerness to start. The sun was warm, but a sharp wind from the\nbare hills went between them with a sighing sound. Holt buttoned his\ncoat about him. \"An odd name for a mountain lake--Blood Tarn,\" he\nremarked, watching the landlord's face expectantly.\n\n\"Aye, but a good one,\" was the measured reply. \"When I was a boy the old\nfolk had a tale that the savages flung three Roman captives from that\ncrag into the water. There's a book been written about it; they say it\nwas a sacrifice, but most likely they were tired of dragging them along,\n_I_ say. Anyway, that's what the writer said. One, I mind, now you ask\nme, was a priest of some heathen temple that stood near the Wall, and\nthe other two were his daughter and her lover.\" He guffawed. At least he\nmade a strange noise in his throat. Evidently, thought Holt, he was\nsceptical yet superstitious. \"It's just an old tale handed down,\nwhatever the learned folk may say,\" the old man added.\n\n\"A lonely place,\" began Holt, aware that a fleeting touch of awe was\nadded suddenly to his interest.\n\n\"Aye,\" said the other, \"and a bad spot too. Every year the Crag takes\nits toll of sheep, and sometimes a man goes over in the mist. It's right\nbeside the track and very slippery. Ninety foot of a drop before you hit\nthe water. Best keep round the tarn and leave the Crag alone if there's\nany mist about. Fishing? Yes, there's some quite fair trout in the tarn,\nbut it's not much fished. Happen one of the shepherd lads from Tyson's\nfarm may give it a turn with an 'otter,'\" he went on, \"once in a while,\nbut he won't stay for the evening. He'll clear out before sunset.\"\n\n\"Ah! Superstitious, I suppose?\"\n\n\"It's a gloomy, chancy spot--and with the dusk falling,\" agreed the\ninnkeeper eventually. \"None of our folk care to be caught up there with\nnight coming on. Most handy for a shepherd, too--but Tyson can't get\na man to bide there.\" He paused again, then added significantly:\n\"Strangers don't seem to mind it though. It's only our own folk----\"\n\n\"Strangers!\" repeated the other sharply, as though he had been waiting\nall along for this special bit of information. \"You don't mean to say\nthere are people living up there?\" A curious thrill ran over him.\n\n\"Aye,\" replied the landlord, \"but they're daft folk--a man and his\ndaughter. They come every spring. It's early in the year yet, but I mind\nJim Backhouse, one of Tyson's men, talking about them last week.\" He\nstopped to think. \"So they've come back,\" he went on decidedly. \"They\nget milk from the farm.\"\n\n\"And what on earth are they doing up there?\" Holt asked.\n\nHe asked many other questions as well, but the answers were poor, the\ninformation not forthcoming. The landlord would talk for hours about\nthe Crag, the tarn, the legends and the Romans, but concerning the two\nstrangers he was uncommunicative. Either he knew little, or he did not\nwant to discuss them; Holt felt it was probably the former. They were\neducated town-folk, he gathered with difficulty, rich apparently, and\nthey spent their time wandering about the fell, or fishing. The man was\noften seen upon the Crag, his girl beside him, bare-legged, dressed as\na peasant. \"Happen they come for their health, happen the father is a\nlearned man studying the Wall\"--exact information was not forthcoming.\n\nThe landlord \"minded his own business,\" and inhabitants were too few and\nfar between for gossip. All Holt could extract amounted to this: the\ncouple had been in a motor accident some years before, and as a result\nthey came every spring to spend a month or two in absolute solitude,\naway from cities and the excitement of modern life. They troubled no one\nand no one troubled them.\n\n\"Perhaps I may see them as I go by the tarn,\" remarked the walker\nfinally, making ready to go. He gave up questioning in despair. The\nmorning hours were passing.\n\n\"Happen you may,\" was the reply, \"for your track goes past their door\nand leads straight down to Scarsdale. The other way over the Crag saves\nhalf a mile, but it's rough going along the scree.\" He stopped dead.\nThen he added, in reply to Holt's good-bye: \"In my opinion it's not\nworth it,\" yet what he meant exactly by \"it\" was not quite clear.\n\n                 *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe walker shouldered his knapsack. Instinctively he gave the little\nhitch to settle it on his shoulders--much as he used to give to his pack\nin France. The pain that shot through him as he did so was another\nreminder of France. The bullet he had stopped on the Somme still made\nits presence felt at times.... Yet he knew, as he walked off briskly,\nthat he was one of the lucky ones. How many of his old pals would never\nwalk again, condemned to hobble on crutches for the rest of their lives!\nHow many, again, would never even hobble! More terrible still, he\nremembered, were the blind.... The dead, it seemed to him, had been more\nfortunate....\n\nHe swung up the narrowing valley at a good pace and was soon climbing\nthe fell. It proved far steeper than it had appeared from the door of\nthe inn, and he was glad enough to reach the top and fling himself down\non the coarse springy turf to admire the view below.\n\nThe spring day was delicious. It stirred his blood. The world beneath\nlooked young and stainless. Emotion rose through him in a wave of\noptimistic happiness. The bare hills were half hidden by a soft blue\nhaze that made them look bigger, vaster, less earthly than they really\nwere. He saw silver streaks in the valleys that he knew were distant\nstreams and lakes. Birds soared between. The dazzling air seemed painted\nwith exhilarating light and colour. The very clouds were floating\ngossamer that he could touch. There were bees and dragon-flies and\nfluttering thistle-down. Heat vibrated. His body, his physical\nsensations, so-called, retired into almost nothing. He felt himself,\nlike his surroundings, made of air and sunlight. A delicious sense of\nresignation poured upon him. He, too, like his surroundings, was\ncomposed of air and sunshine, of insect wings, of soft, fluttering\nvibrations that the gorgeous spring day produced.... It seemed that he\nrenounced the heavy dues of bodily life, and enjoyed the delights,\nmomentarily at any rate, of a more ethereal consciousness.\n\nNear at hand, the hills were covered with the faded gold of last year's\nbracken, which ran down in a brimming flood till it was lost in the\nfresh green of the familiar woods below. Far in the hazy distance swam\nthe sea of ash and hazel. The silver birch sprinkled that lower world\nwith fairy light.\n\nYes, it was all natural enough. He could see the road quite clearly now,\nonly a hundred yards away from where he lay. How straight it ran along\nthe top of the hill! The landlord's expression recurred to him:\n\"Straight as a spear.\" Somehow, the phrase seemed to describe exactly\nthe Romans and all their works.... The Romans, yes, and all their\nworks....\n\nHe became aware of a sudden sympathy with these long dead conquerors of\nthe world. With them, he felt sure, there had been no useless, foolish\ntalk. They had known no empty words, no bandying of foolish phrases.\n\"War to end war,\" and \"Regeneration of the race\"--no hypocritical\nnonsense of that sort had troubled their minds and purposes. They had\nnot attempted to cover up the horrible in words. With them had been no\nchildish, vain pretence. They had gone straight to their ends.\n\nOther thoughts, too, stole over him, as he sat gazing down upon the\ntrack of that ancient road; strange thoughts, not wholly welcome. New,\nyet old, emotions rose in a tide upon him. He began to wonder.... Had\nhe, after all, become brutalized by the War? He knew quite well that the\nlittle \"Christianity\" he inherited had soon fallen from him like a\ngarment in France. In his attitude to Life and Death he had become,\nfrankly, pagan. He now realized, abruptly, another thing as well: in\nreality he had never been a \"Christian\" at any time. Given to him with\nhis mother's milk, he had never accepted, felt at home with Christian\ndogmas. To him they had always been an alien creed. Christianity met\nnone of his requirements....\n\nBut what were his \"requirements\"? He found it difficult to answer.\n\nSomething, at any rate, different and more primitive, he thought....\n\nEven up here, alone on the mountain-top, it was hard to be absolutely\nfrank with himself. With a kind of savage, honest determination, he bent\nhimself to the task. It became suddenly important for him. He must know\nexactly where he stood. It seemed he had reached a turning point in his\nlife. The War, in the objective world, had been one such turning point;\nnow he had reached another, in the subjective life, and it was more\nimportant than the first.\n\nAs he lay there in the pleasant sunshine, his thoughts went back to\nthe fighting. A friend, he recalled, had divided people into those who\nenjoyed the War and those who didn't. He was obliged to admit that he\nhad been one of the former--he had thoroughly enjoyed it. Brought up\nfrom a youth as an engineer, he had taken to a soldier's life as a\nduck takes to water. There had been plenty of misery, discomfort,\nwretchedness; but there had been compensations that, for him, outweighed\nthem. The fierce excitement, the primitive, naked passions, the wild\nfury, the reckless indifference to pain and death, with the loss of the\nnormal, cautious, pettifogging little daily self all these involved, had\nsatisfied him. Even the actual killing....\n\nHe started. A slight shudder ran down his back as the cool wind from the\nopen moorlands came sighing across the soft spring sunshine. Sitting up\nstraight, he looked behind him a moment, as with an effort to turn away\nfrom something he disliked and dreaded because it was, he knew, too\nstrong for him. But the same instant he turned round again. He faced the\nvile and dreadful thing in himself he had hitherto sought to deny,\nevade. Pretence fell away. He could not disguise from himself, that he\nhad thoroughly enjoyed the killing; or, at any rate, had not been\nshocked by it as by an unnatural and ghastly duty. The shooting and\nbombing he performed with an effort always, but the rarer moments when\nhe had been able to use the bayonet ... the joy of feeling the steel go\nhome....\n\nHe started again, hiding his face a moment in his hands, but he did not\ntry to evade the hideous memories that surged. At times, he knew, he had\ngone quite mad with the lust of slaughter; he had gone on long after he\nshould have stopped. Once an officer had pulled him up sharply for it,\nbut the next instant had been killed by a bullet. He thought he had gone\non killing, but he did not know. It was all a red mist before his eyes\nand he could only remember the sticky feeling of the blood on his hands\nwhen he gripped his rifle....\n\nAnd now, at this moment of painful honesty with himself, he realized\nthat his creed, whatever it was, must cover all that; it must provide\nsome sort of a philosophy for it; must neither apologize nor ignore it.\nThe heaven that it promised must be a man's heaven. The Christian heaven\nmade no appeal to him, he could not believe in it. The ritual must be\nsimple and direct. He felt that in some dim way he understood why those\nold people had thrown their captives from the Crag. The sacrifice of an\nanimal victim that could be eaten afterwards with due ceremonial did not\nshock him. Such methods seemed simple, natural, effective. Yet would it\nnot have been better--the horrid thought rose unbidden in his inmost\nmind--better to have cut their throats with a flint knife ... slowly?\n\nHorror-stricken, he sprang to his feet. These terrible thoughts he could\nnot recognize as his own. Had he slept a moment in the sunlight,\ndreaming them? Was it some hideous nightmare flash that touched him as\nhe dozed a second? Something of fear and awe stole over him. He stared\nround for some minutes into the emptiness of the desolate landscape,\nthen hurriedly ran down to the road, hoping to exorcize the strange\nsudden horror by vigorous movement. Yet when he reached the track he\nknew that he had not succeeded. The awful pictures were gone perhaps,\nbut the mood remained. It was as though some new attitude began to take\ndefinite form and harden within him.\n\nHe walked on, trying to pretend to himself that he was some forgotten\nlegionary marching up with his fellows to defend the Wall. Half\nunconsciously he fell into the steady tramping pace of his old regiment:\nthe words of the ribald songs they had sung going to the front came\npouring into his mind. Steadily and almost mechanically he swung along\ntill he saw the Stone as a black speck on the left of the track, and the\ninstant he saw it there rose in him the feeling that he stood upon the\nedge of an adventure that he feared yet longed for. He approached the\ngreat granite monolith with a curious thrill of anticipatory excitement,\nborn he knew not whence.\n\nBut, of course, there was nothing. Common sense, still operating\nstrongly, had warned him there would be, could be, nothing. In the waste\nthe great Stone stood upright, solitary, forbidding, as it had stood for\nthousands of years. It dominated the landscape somewhat ominously. The\nsheep and cattle had used it as a rubbing-stone, and bits of hair and\nwool clung to its rough, weather-eaten edges; the feet of generations\nhad worn a cup-shaped hollow at its base. The wind sighed round it\nplaintively. Its bulk glistened as it took the sun.\n\nA short mile away the Blood Tarn was now plainly visible; he could\nsee the little holm lying in a direct line with the Stone, while,\noverhanging the water as a dark shadow on one side, rose the cliff-like\nrock they called \"the Crag.\" Of the house the landlord had mentioned,\nhowever, he could see no trace, as he relieved his shoulders of the\nknapsack and sat down to enjoy his lunch. The tarn, he reflected,\nwas certainly a gloomy place; he could understand that the simple\nsuperstitious shepherds did not dare to live there, for even on this\nbright spring day it wore a dismal and forbidding look. With failing\nlight, when the Crag sprawled its big lengthening shadow across the\nwater, he could well imagine they would give it the widest possible\nberth. He strolled down to the shore after lunch, smoking his pipe\nlazily--then suddenly stood still. At the far end, hidden hitherto by\na fold in the ground, he saw the little house, a faint column of blue\nsmoke rising from the chimney, and at the same moment a woman came out\nof the low door and began to walk towards the tarn. She had seen him,\nshe was moving evidently in his direction; a few minutes later she\nstopped and stood waiting on the path--waiting, he well knew, for him.\n\nAnd his earlier mood, the mood he dreaded yet had forced himself to\nrecognize, came back upon him with sudden redoubled power. As in some\nvivid dream that dominates and paralyses the will, or as in the first\nstages of an imposed hypnotic spell, all question, hesitation, refusal\nsank away. He felt a pleasurable resignation steal upon him with soft,\nnumbing effect. Denial and criticism ceased to operate, and common sense\ndied with them. He yielded his being automatically to the deeps of an\nadventure he did not understand. He began to walk towards the woman.\n\nIt was, he saw as he drew nearer, the figure of a young girl, nineteen\nor twenty years of age, who stood there motionless with her eyes fixed\nsteadily on his own. She looked as wild and picturesque as the scene\nthat framed her. Thick black hair hung loose over her back and\nshoulders; about her head was bound a green ribbon; her clothes\nconsisted of a jersey and a very short skirt which showed her bare legs\nbrowned by exposure to the sun and wind. A pair of rough sandals covered\nher feet. Whether the face was beautiful or not he could not tell; he\nonly knew that it attracted him immensely and with a strength of appeal\nthat he at once felt curiously irresistible. She remained motionless\nagainst the boulder, staring fixedly at him till he was close before\nher. Then she spoke:\n\n\"I am glad that you have come at last,\" she said in a clear, strong\nvoice that yet was soft and even tender. \"We have been expecting you.\"\n\n\"You have been expecting me!\" he repeated, astonished beyond words, yet\nfinding the language natural, right and true. A stream of sweet feeling\ninvaded him, his heart beat faster, he felt happy and at home in some\nextraordinary way he could not understand yet did not question.\n\n\"Of course,\" she answered, looking straight into his eyes with welcome\nunashamed. Her next words thrilled him to the core of his being. \"I have\nmade the room ready for you.\"\n\nQuick upon her own, however, flashed back the landlord's words, while\ncommon sense made a last faint effort in his thought. He was the victim\nof some absurd mistake evidently. The lonely life, the forbidding\nsurroundings, the associations of the desolate hills had affected her\nmind. He remembered the accident.\n\n\"I am afraid,\" he offered, lamely enough, \"there is some mistake. I am\nnot the friend you were expecting. I----\" He stopped. A thin slight\nsound as of distant laughter seemed to echo behind the unconvincing\nwords.\n\n\"There is no mistake,\" the girl answered firmly, with a quiet smile,\nmoving a step nearer to him, so that he caught the subtle perfume of her\nvigorous youth. \"I saw you clearly in the Mystery Stone. I recognized\nyou at once.\"\n\n\"The Mystery Stone,\" he heard himself saying, bewilderment increasing, a\nsense of wild happiness growing with it.\n\nLaughing, she took his hand in hers. \"Come,\" she said, drawing him along\nwith her, \"come home with me. My father will be waiting for us; he will\ntell you everything, and better far than I can.\"\n\nHe went with her, feeling that he was made of sunlight and that he\nwalked on air, for at her touch his own hand responded as with a sudden\nfierceness of pleasure that he failed utterly to understand, yet did not\nquestion for an instant. Wildly, absurdly, madly it flashed across his\nmind: \"This is the woman I shall marry--_my_ woman. I am her man.\"\n\nThey walked in silence for a little, for no words of any sort offered\nthemselves to his mind, nor did the girl attempt to speak. The total\nabsence of embarrassment between them occurred to him once or twice\nas curious, though the very idea of embarrassment then disappeared\nentirely. It all seemed natural and unforced, the sudden intercourse as\nfamiliar and effortless as though they had known one another always.\n\n\"The Mystery Stone,\" he heard himself saying presently, as the idea rose\nagain to the surface of his mind. \"I should like to know more about it.\nTell me, dear.\"\n\n\"I bought it with the other things,\" she replied softly.\n\n\"What other things?\"\n\nShe turned and looked up into his face with a slight expression of\nsurprise; their shoulders touched as they swung along; her hair blew in\nthe wind across his coat. \"The bronze collar,\" she answered in the low\nvoice that pleased him so, \"and this ornament that I wear in my hair.\"\n\nHe glanced down to examine it. Instead of a ribbon, as he had first\nsupposed, he saw that it was a circlet of bronze, covered with a\nbeautiful green patina and evidently very old. In front, above the\nforehead, was a small disk bearing an inscription he could not decipher\nat the moment. He bent down and kissed her hair, the girl smiling with\nhappy contentment, but offering no sign of resistance or annoyance.\n\n\"And,\" she added suddenly, \"the dagger.\"\n\nHolt started visibly. This time there was a thrill in her voice that\nseemed to pierce down straight into his heart. He said nothing, however.\nThe unexpectedness of the word she used, together with the note in her\nvoice that moved him so strangely, had a disconcerting effect that kept\nhim silent for a time. He did not ask about the dagger. Something\nprevented his curiosity finding expression in speech, though the word,\nwith the marked accent she placed upon it, had struck into him like the\nshock of sudden steel itself, causing him an indecipherable emotion of\nboth joy and pain. He asked instead, presently, another question, and a\nvery commonplace one: he asked where she and her father had lived before\nthey came to these lonely hills. And the form of his question--his voice\nshook a little as he said it--was, again, an effort of his normal self\nto maintain its already precarious balance.\n\nThe effect of his simple query, the girl's reply above all, increased in\nhim the mingled sensations of sweetness and menace, of joy and dread,\nthat half alarmed, half satisfied him. For a moment she wore a puzzled\nexpression, as though making an effort to remember.\n\n\"Down by the sea,\" she answered slowly, thoughtfully, her voice very\nlow. \"Somewhere by a big harbour with great ships coming in and out.\nIt was there we had the break--the shock--an accident that broke us,\nshattering the dream we share To-day.\" Her face cleared a little. \"We\nwere in a chariot,\" she went on more easily and rapidly, \"and father--my\nfather was injured, so that I went with him to a palace beyond the Wall\ntill he grew well.\"\n\n\"You were in a chariot?\" Holt repeated. \"Surely not.\"\n\n\"Did I say chariot?\" the girl replied. \"How foolish of me!\" She shook\nher hair back as though the gesture helped to clear her mind and memory.\n\"That belongs, of course, to the other dream. No, not a chariot; it was\na car. But it had wheels like a chariot--the old war-chariots. You\nknow.\"\n\n\"Disk-wheels,\" thought Holt to himself. He did not ask about the palace.\nHe asked instead where she had bought the Mystery Stone, as she called\nit, and the other things. Her reply bemused and enticed him farther,\nfor he could not unravel it. His whole inner attitude was shifting\nwith uncanny rapidity and completeness. They walked together, he now\nrealized, with linked arms, moving slowly in step, their bodies\ntouching. He felt the blood run hot and almost savage in his veins. He\nwas aware how amazingly precious she was to him, how deeply, absolutely\nnecessary to his life and happiness. Her words went past him in the\nmountain wind like flying birds.\n\n\"My father was fishing,\" she went on, \"and I was on my way to join him,\nwhen the old woman called me into her dwelling and showed me the things.\nShe wished to give them to me, but I refused the present and paid for\nthem in gold. I put the fillet on my head to see if it would fit, and\ntook the Mystery Stone in my hand. Then, as I looked deep into the\nstone, this present dream died all away. It faded out. I saw the older\ndreams again--_our_ dreams.\"\n\n\"The older dreams!\" interrupted Holt. \"Ours!\" But instead of saying the\nwords aloud, they issued from his lips in a quiet whisper, as though\ncontrol of his voice had passed a little from him. The sweetness in him\nbecame more wonderful, unmanageable; his astonishment had vanished; he\nwalked and talked with his old familiar happy Love, the woman he had\nsought so long and waited for, the woman who was his mate, as he was\nhers, she who alone could satisfy his inmost soul.\n\n\"The old dream,\" she replied, \"the very old--the oldest of all\nperhaps--when we committed the terrible sacrilege. I saw the High Priest\nlying dead--whom my father slew--and the other whom _you_ destroyed. I\nsaw you prise out the jewel from the image of the god--with your short\nbloody spear. I saw, too, our flight to the galley through the hot,\nawful night beneath the stars--and our escape....\"\n\nHer voice died away and she fell silent.\n\n\"Tell me more,\" he whispered, drawing her closer against his side. \"What\nhad _you_ done?\" His heart was racing now. Some fighting blood surged\nuppermost. He felt that he could kill, and the joy of violence and\nslaughter rose in him.\n\n\"Have you forgotten so completely?\" she asked very low, as he pressed\nher more tightly still against his heart. And almost beneath her breath\nshe whispered into his ear, which he bent to catch the little sound: \"I\nhad broken my vows with you.\"\n\n\"What else, my lovely one--my best beloved--what more did you see?\" he\nwhispered in return, yet wondering why the fierce pain and anger that he\nfelt behind still lay hidden from betrayal.\n\n\"Dream after dream, and always we were punished. But the last time was\nthe clearest, for it was here--here where we now walk together in the\nsunlight and the wind--it was here the savages hurled us from the rock.\"\n\nA shiver ran through him, making him tremble with an unaccountable touch\nof cold that communicated itself to her as well. Her arm went instantly\nabout his shoulder, as he stooped and kissed her passionately. \"Fasten\nyour coat about you,\" she said tenderly, but with troubled breath,\nwhen he released her, \"for this wind is chill although the sun shines\nbrightly. We were glad, you remember, when they stopped to kill us, for\nwe were tired and our feet were cut to pieces by the long, rough journey\nfrom the Wall.\" Then suddenly her voice grew louder again and the\nsmile of happy confidence came back into her eyes. There was the deep\nearnestness of love in it, of love that cannot end or die. She looked up\ninto his face. \"But soon now,\" she said, \"we shall be free. For you have\ncome, and it is nearly finished--this weary little present dream.\"\n\n\"How,\" he asked, \"shall we get free?\" A red mist swam momentarily before\nhis eyes.\n\n\"My father,\" she replied at once, \"will tell you all. It is quite easy.\"\n\n\"Your father, too, remembers?\"\n\n\"The moment the collar touches him,\" she said, \"he is a priest again.\nSee! Here he comes forth already to meet us, and to bid you welcome.\"\n\nHolt looked up, startled. He had hardly noticed, so absorbed had he been\nin the words that half intoxicated him, the distance they had covered.\nThe cottage was now close at hand, and a tall, powerfully built man,\nwearing a shepherd's rough clothing, stood a few feet in front of\nhim. His stature, breadth of shoulder and thick black beard made up a\nstriking figure. The dark eyes, with fire in them, gazed straight into\nhis own, and a kindly smile played round the stern and vigorous mouth.\n\n\"Greeting, my son,\" said a deep, booming voice, \"for I shall call you my\nson as I did of old. The bond of the spirit is stronger than that of the\nflesh, and with us three the tie is indeed of triple strength. You come,\ntoo, at an auspicious hour, for the omens are favourable and the time of\nour liberation is at hand.\" He took the other's hand in a grip that\nmight have killed an ox and yet was warm with gentle kindliness, while\nHolt, now caught wholly into the spirit of some deep reality he could\nnot master yet accepted, saw that the wrist was small, the fingers\nshapely, the gesture itself one of dignity and refinement.\n\n\"Greeting, my father,\" he replied, as naturally as though he said more\nmodern words.\n\n\"Come in with me, I pray,\" pursued the other, leading the way, \"and let\nme show you the poor accommodation we have provided, yet the best that\nwe can offer.\"\n\nHe stooped to pass the threshold, and as Holt stooped likewise the girl\ntook his hand and he knew that his bewitchment was complete. Entering\nthe low doorway, he passed through a kitchen, where only the roughest,\nscantiest furniture was visible, into another room that was completely\nbare. A heap of dried bracken had been spread on the floor in one corner\nto form a bed. Beside it lay two cheap, coloured blankets. There was\nnothing else.\n\n\"Our place is poor,\" said the man, smiling courteously, but with that\ndignity and air of welcome which made the hovel seem a palace. \"Yet it\nmay serve, perhaps, for the short time that you will need it. Our little\ndream here is wellnigh over, now that you have come. The long weary\npilgrimage at last draws to a close.\" The girl had left them alone a\nmoment, and the man stepped closer to his guest. His face grew solemn,\nhis voice deeper and more earnest suddenly, the light in his eyes seemed\nactually to flame with the enthusiasm of a great belief. \"Why have you\ntarried thus so long, and where?\" he asked in a lowered tone that\nvibrated in the little space. \"We have sought you with prayer and\nfasting, and she has spent her nights for you in tears. You lost the\nway, it must be. The lesser dreams entangled your feet, I see.\" A touch\nof sadness entered the voice, the eyes held pity in them. \"It is, alas,\ntoo easy, I well know,\" he murmured. \"It is too easy.\"\n\n\"I lost the way,\" the other replied. It seemed suddenly that his heart\nwas filled with fire. \"But now,\" he cried aloud, \"now that I have found\nher, I will never, never let her go again. My feet are steady and my way\nis sure.\"\n\n\"For ever and ever, my son,\" boomed the happy, yet almost solemn answer,\n\"she is yours. Our freedom is at hand.\"\n\nHe turned and crossed the little kitchen again, making a sign that his\nguest should follow him. They stood together by the door, looking out\nacross the tarn in silence. The afternoon sunshine fell in a golden\nblaze across the bare hills that seemed to smoke with the glory of the\nfiery light. But the Crag loomed dark in shadow overhead, and the little\nlake lay deep and black beneath it.\n\n\"Acella, Acella!\" called the man, the name breaking upon his companion\nas with a shock of sweet delicious fire that filled his entire being, as\nthe girl came the same instant from behind the cottage. \"The Gods call\nme,\" said her father. \"I go now to the hill. Protect our guest and\ncomfort him in my absence.\"\n\nWithout another word, he strode away up the hillside and presently was\nvisible standing on the summit of the Crag, his arms stretched out above\nhis head to heaven, his great head thrown back, his bearded face turned\nupwards. An impressive, even a majestic figure he looked, as his bulk\nand stature rose in dark silhouette against the brilliant evening sky.\nHolt stood motionless, watching him for several minutes, his heart\nswelling in his breast, his pulses thumping before some great nameless\npressure that rose from the depths of his being. That inner attitude\nwhich seemed a new and yet more satisfying attitude to life than he had\nknown hitherto, had crystallized. Define it he could not, he only knew\nthat he accepted it as natural. It satisfied him. The sight of that\ndignified, gaunt figure worshipping upon the hill-top enflamed him....\n\n\"I have brought the stone,\" a voice interrupted his reflections, and\nturning, he saw the girl beside him. She held out for his inspection a\ndark square object that looked to him at first like a black stone lying\nagainst the brown skin of her hand. \"The Mystery Stone,\" the girl added,\nas their faces bent down together to examine it. \"It is there I see the\ndreams I told you of.\"\n\nHe took it from her and found that it was heavy, composed apparently\nof something like black quartz, with a brilliant polished surface that\nrevealed clear depths within. Once, evidently, it had been set in a\nstand or frame, for the marks where it had been attached still showed,\nand it was obviously of great age. He felt confused, the mind in him\ntroubled yet excited, as he gazed. The effect upon him was as though a\nwind rose suddenly and passed across his inmost subjective life, setting\nits entire contents in rushing motion.\n\n\"And here,\" the girl said, \"is the dagger.\"\n\nHe took from her the short bronze weapon, feeling at once instinctively\nits ragged edge, its keen point, sharp and effective still. The handle\nhad long since rotted away, but the bronze tongue, and the holes where\nthe rivets had been, remained, and, as he touched it, the confusion and\ntrouble in his mind increased to a kind of turmoil, in which violence,\nlinked to something tameless, wild and almost savage, was the dominating\nemotion. He turned to seize the girl and crush her to him in a\npassionate embrace, but she held away, throwing back her lovely head,\nher eyes shining, her lips parted, yet one hand stretched out to stop\nhim.\n\n\"First look into it with me,\" she said quietly. \"Let us see together.\"\n\nShe sat down on the turf beside the cottage door, and Holt, obeying,\ntook his place beside her. She remained very still for some minutes,\ncovering the stone with both hands as though to warm it. Her lips moved.\nShe seemed to be repeating some kind of invocation beneath her breath,\nthough no actual words were audible. Presently her hands parted. They\nsat together gazing at the polished surface. They looked within.\n\n\"There comes a white mist in the heart of the stone,\" the girl\nwhispered. \"It will soon open. The pictures will then grow. Look!\" she\nexclaimed after a brief pause, \"they are forming now.\"\n\n\"I see only mist,\" her companion murmured, gazing intently. \"Only mist\nI see.\"\n\nShe took his hand and instantly the mist parted. He found himself\npeering into another landscape which opened before his eyes as though it\nwere a photograph. Hills covered with heather stretched away on every\nside.\n\n\"Hills, I see,\" he whispered. \"The ancient hills----\"\n\n\"Watch closely,\" she replied, holding his hand firmly.\n\nAt first the landscape was devoid of any sign of life; then suddenly it\nsurged and swarmed with moving figures. Torrents of men poured over the\nhill-crests and down their heathery sides in columns. He could see them\nclearly--great hairy men, clad in skins, with thick shields on their\nleft arms or slung over their backs, and short stabbing spears in their\nhands. Thousands upon thousands poured over in an endless stream. In the\ndistance he could see other columns sweeping in a turning movement. A\nfew of the men rode rough ponies and seemed to be directing the march,\nand these, he knew, were the chiefs....\n\nThe scene grew dimmer, faded, died away completely. Another took its\nplace:\n\nBy the faint light he knew that it was dawn. The undulating country,\nless hilly than before, was still wild and uncultivated. A great wall,\nwith towers at intervals, stretched away till it was lost in shadowy\ndistance. On the nearest of these towers he saw a sentinel clad in\narmour, gazing out across the rolling country. The armour gleamed\nfaintly in the pale glimmering light, as the man suddenly snatched up a\nbugle and blew upon it. From a brazier burning beside him he next seized\na brand and fired a great heap of brushwood. The smoke rose in a dense\ncolumn into the air almost immediately, and from all directions, with\nincredible rapidity, figures came pouring up to man the wall. Hurriedly\nthey strung their bows, and laid spare arrows close beside them on the\ncoping. The light grew brighter. The whole country was alive with\nsavages; like the waves of the sea they came rolling in enormous\nnumbers. For several minutes the wall held. Then, in an impetuous,\nfearful torrent, they poured over....\n\nIt faded, died away, was gone again, and a moment later yet another took\nits place:\n\nBut this time the landscape was familiar, and he recognized the tarn. He\nsaw the savages upon the ledge that flanked the dominating Crag; they\nhad three captives with them. He saw two men. The other was a woman. But\nthe woman had fallen exhausted to the ground, and a chief on a rough\npony rode back to see what had delayed the march. Glancing at the\ncaptives, he made a fierce gesture with his arm towards the water far\nbelow. Instantly the woman was jerked cruelly to her feet and forced\nonwards till the summit of the Crag was reached. A man snatched\nsomething from her hand. A second later she was hurled over the brink.\n\nThe two men were next dragged on to the dizzy spot where she had stood.\nDead with fatigue, bleeding from numerous wounds, yet at this awful\nmoment they straightened themselves, casting contemptuous glances at the\nfierce savages surrounding them. They were Romans and would die like\nRomans. Holt saw their faces clearly for the first time.\n\nHe sprang up with a cry of anguished fury.\n\n\"The second man!\" he exclaimed. \"You saw the second man!\"\n\nThe girl, releasing his hand, turned her eyes slowly up to his, so that\nhe met the flame of her ancient and undying love shining like stars upon\nhim out of the night of time.\n\n\"Ever since that moment,\" she said in a low voice that trembled, \"I have\nbeen looking, waiting for you----\"\n\nHe took her in his arms and smothered her words with kisses, holding her\nfiercely to him as though he would never let her go. \"I, too,\" he said,\nhis whole being burning with his love, \"I have been looking, waiting for\nyou. Now I have found you. We have found each other...!\"\n\nThe dusk fell slowly, imperceptibly. As twilight slowly draped the gaunt\nhills, blotting out familiar details, so the strong dream, veil upon\nveil, drew closer over the soul of the wanderer, obliterating finally\nthe last reminder of To-day. The little wind had dropped and the\ndesolate moors lay silent, but for the hum of distant water falling to\nits valley bed. His life, too, and the life of the girl, he knew, were\nsimilarly falling, falling into some deep shadowed bed where rest would\ncome at last. No details troubled him, he asked himself no questions. A\nprofound sense of happy peace numbed every nerve and stilled his\nbeating heart.\n\nHe felt no fear, no anxiety, no hint of alarm or uneasiness vexed his\nsingular contentment. He realized one thing only--that the girl lay in\nhis arms, he held her fast, her breath mingled with his own. They had\nfound each other. What else mattered?\n\nFrom time to time, as the daylight faded and the sun went down behind\nthe moors, she spoke. She uttered words he vaguely heard, listening,\nthough with a certain curious effort, before he closed the thing she\nsaid with kisses. Even the fierceness of his blood was gone. The world\nlay still, life almost ceased to flow. Lapped in the deeps of his great\nlove, he was redeemed, perhaps, of violence and savagery....\n\n\"Three dark birds,\" she whispered, \"pass across the sky ... they fall\nbeyond the ridge. The omens are favourable. A hawk now follows them,\ncleaving the sky with pointed wings.\"\n\n\"A hawk,\" he murmured. \"The badge of my old Legion.\"\n\n\"My father will perform the sacrifice,\" he heard again, though it seemed\na long interval had passed, and the man's figure was now invisible on\nthe Crag amid the gathering darkness. \"Already he prepares the fire.\nLook, the sacred island is alight. He has the black cock ready for the\nknife.\"\n\nHolt roused himself with difficulty, lifting his face from the garden of\nher hair. A faint light, he saw, gleamed fitfully on the holm within the\ntarn. Her father, then, had descended from the Crag, and had lit the\nsacrificial fire upon the stones. But what did the doings of the father\nmatter now to him?\n\n\"The dark bird,\" he repeated dully, \"the black victim the Gods of the\nUnderworld alone accept. It is good, Acella, it is good!\" He was about\nto sink back again, taking her against his breast as before, when she\nresisted and sat up suddenly.\n\n\"It is time,\" she said aloud. \"The hour has come. My father climbs, and\nwe must join him on the summit. Come!\"\n\nShe took his hand and raised him to his feet, and together they began\nthe rough ascent towards the Crag. As they passed along the shore of the\nTarn of Blood, he saw the fire reflected in the ink-black waters; he\nmade out, too, though dimly, a rough circle of big stones, with a larger\nflag-stone lying in the centre. Three small fires of bracken and wood,\nplaced in a triangle with its apex towards the Standing Stone on the\ndistant hill, burned briskly, the crackling material sending out sparks\nthat pierced the columns of thick smoke. And in this smoke, peering,\nshifting, appearing and disappearing, it seemed he saw great faces\nmoving. The flickering light and twirling smoke made clear sight\ndifficult. His bliss, his lethargy were very deep. They left the tarn\nbelow them and hand in hand began to climb the final slope.\n\nWhether the physical effort of climbing disturbed the deep pressure of\nthe mood that numbed his senses, or whether the cold draught of wind\nthey met upon the ridge restored some vital detail of To-day, Holt does\nnot know. Something, at any rate, in him wavered suddenly, as though\na centre of gravity had shifted slightly. There was a perceptible\nalteration in the balance of thought and feeling that had held\ninvariable now for many hours. It seemed to him that something heavy\nlifted, or rather, began to lift--a weight, a shadow, something\noppressive that obstructed light. A ray of light, as it were, struggled\nthrough the thick darkness that enveloped him. To him, as he paused on\nthe ridge to recover his breath, came this vague suggestion of faint\nlight breaking across the blackness. It was objective.\n\n\"See,\" said the girl in a low voice, \"the moon is rising. It lights the\nsacred island. The blood-red waters turn to silver.\"\n\nHe saw, indeed, that a huge three-quarter moon now drove with almost\nvisible movement above the distant line of hills; the little tarn\ngleamed as with silvery armour; the glow of the sacrificial fires showed\nred across it. He looked down with a shudder into the sheer depth that\nopened at his feet, then turned to look at his companion. He started and\nshrank back. Her face, lit by the moon and by the fire, shone pale as\ndeath; her black hair framed it with a terrible suggestiveness; the\neyes, though brilliant as ever, had a film upon them. She stood in an\nattitude of both ecstasy and resignation, and one outstretched arm\npointed towards the summit where her father stood.\n\nHer lips parted, a marvellous smile broke over her features, her voice\nwas suddenly unfamiliar: \"He wears the collar,\" she uttered. \"Come. Our\ntime is here at last, and we are ready. See, he waits for us!\"\n\nThere rose for the first time struggle and opposition in him; he\nresisted the pressure of her hand that had seized his own and drew him\nforcibly along. Whence came the resistance and the opposition he could\nnot tell, but though he followed her, he was aware that the refusal in\nhim strengthened. The weight of darkness that oppressed him shifted a\nlittle more, an inner light increased; The same moment they reached the\nsummit and stood beside--the priest. There was a curious sound of\nfluttering. The figure, he saw, was naked, save for a rough blanket tied\nloosely about the waist.\n\n\"The hour has come at last,\" cried his deep booming voice that woke\nechoes from the dark hills about them. \"We are alone now with our Gods.\"\nAnd he broke then into a monotonous rhythmic chanting that rose and fell\nupon the wind, yet in a tongue that sounded strange; his erect figure\nswayed slightly with its cadences; his black beard swept his naked\nchest; and his face, turned skywards, shone in the mingled light of moon\nabove and fire below, yet with an added light as well that burned\nwithin him rather than without. He was a weird, magnificent figure, a\npriest of ancient rites invoking his deathless deities upon the\nunchanging hills.\n\nBut upon Holt, too, as he stared in awed amazement, an inner light\nhad broken suddenly. It came as with a dazzling blaze that at first\nparalysed thought and action. His mind cleared, but too abruptly for\nmovement, either of tongue or hand, to be possible. Then, abruptly, the\ninner darkness rolled away completely. The light in the wild eyes of the\ngreat chanting, swaying figure, he now knew was the light of mania.\n\nThe faint fluttering sound increased, and the voice of the girl was\noddly mingled with it. The priest had ceased his invocation. Holt, aware\nthat he stood alone, saw the girl go past him carrying a big black bird\nthat struggled with vainly beating wings.\n\n\"Behold the sacrifice,\" she said, as she knelt before her father and\nheld up the victim. \"May the Gods accept it as presently They shall\naccept us too!\"\n\nThe great figure stooped and took the offering, and with one blow of the\nknife he held, its head was severed from its body. The blood spattered\non the white face of the kneeling girl. Holt was aware for the first\ntime that she, too, was now unclothed; but for a loose blanket, her\nwhite body gleamed against the dark heather in the moonlight. At the\nsame moment she rose to her feet, stood upright, turned towards him so\nthat he saw the dark hair streaming across her naked shoulders, and,\nwith a face of ecstasy, yet ever that strange film upon her eyes, her\nvoice came to him on the wind:\n\n\"Farewell, yet not farewell! We shall meet, all three, in the\nunderworld. The Gods accept us!\"\n\nTurning her face away, she stepped towards the ominous figure behind,\nand bared her ivory neck and breast to the knife. The eyes of the maniac\nwere upon her own; she was as helpless and obedient as a lamb before\nhis spell.\n\nThen Holt's horrible paralysis, if only just in time, was lifted. The\npriest had raised his arm, the bronze knife with its ragged edge gleamed\nin the air, with the other hand he had already gathered up the thick\ndark hair, so that the neck lay bare and open to the final blow. But it\nwas two other details, Holt thinks, that set his muscles suddenly\nfree, enabling him to act with the swift judgment which, being wholly\nunexpected, disconcerted both maniac and victim and frustrated the awful\nculmination. The dark spots of blood upon the face he loved, and the\nsudden final fluttering of the dead bird's wings upon the ground--these\ntwo things, life actually touching death, released the held-back\nsprings.\n\nHe leaped forward. He received the blow upon his left arm and hand. It\nwas his right fist that sent the High Priest to earth with a blow that,\nluckily, felled him in the direction away from the dreadful brink, and\nit was his right arm and hand, he became aware some time afterwards\nonly, that were chiefly of use in carrying the fainting girl and her\nunconscious father back to the shelter of the cottage, and to the best\nhelp and comfort he could provide....\n\nIt was several years afterwards, in a very different setting, that he\nfound himself spelling out slowly to a little boy the lettering cut into\na circlet of bronze the child found on his study table. To the child he\ntold a fairy tale, then dismissed him to play with his mother in the\ngarden. But, when alone, he rubbed away the verdigris with great care,\nfor the circlet was thin and frail with age, as he examined again the\nlittle picture of a tripod from which smoke issued, incised neatly in\nthe metal. Below it, almost as sharp as when the Roman craftsman cut it\nfirst, was the name Acella. He touched the letters tenderly with his\nleft hand, from which two fingers were missing, then placed it in a\ndrawer of his desk and turned the key.\n\n\"That curious name,\" said a low voice behind his chair. His wife had\ncome in and was looking over his shoulder. \"You love it, and I dread\nit.\" She sat on the desk beside him, her eyes troubled. \"It was the name\nfather used to call me in his illness.\"\n\nHer husband looked at her with passionate tenderness, but said no word.\n\n\"And this,\" she went on, taking the broken hand in both her own, \"is the\nprice you paid to me for his life. I often wonder what strange good\ndeity brought you upon the lonely moor that night, and just in the very\nnick of time. You remember...?\"\n\n\"The deity who helps true lovers, of course,\" he said with a smile,\nevading the question. The deeper memory, he knew, had closed absolutely\nin her since the moment of the attempted double crime. He kissed her,\nmurmuring to himself as he did so, but too low for her to hear,\n\"Acella! _My_ Acella...!\"\n\n\n\n\nVI\n\nTHE VALLEY OF THE BEASTS\n\n\n1\n\nAs they emerged suddenly from the dense forest the Indian halted, and\nGrimwood, his employer, stood beside him, gazing into the beautiful\nwooded valley that lay spread below them in the blaze of a golden\nsunset. Both men leaned upon their rifles, caught by the enchantment of\nthe unexpected scene.\n\n\"We camp here,\" said Tooshalli abruptly, after a careful survey.\n\"To-morrow we make a plan.\"\n\nHe spoke excellent English. The note of decision, almost of authority,\nin his voice was noticeable, but Grimwood set it down to the natural\nexcitement of the moment. Every track they had followed during the last\ntwo days, but one track in particular as well, had headed straight for\nthis remote and hidden valley, and the sport promised to be unusual.\n\n\"That's so,\" he replied, in the tone of one giving an order. \"You can\nmake camp ready at once.\" And he sat down on a fallen hemlock to take\noff his moccasin boots and grease his feet that ached from the arduous\nday now drawing to a close. Though under ordinary circumstances he would\nhave pushed on for another hour or two, he was not averse to a night\nhere, for exhaustion had come upon him during the last bit of rough\ngoing, his eye and muscles were no longer steady, and it was doubtful if\nhe could have shot straight enough to kill. He did not mean to miss a\nsecond time.\n\nWith his Canadian friend, Iredale, the latter's half-breed, and his own\nIndian, Tooshalli, the party had set out three weeks ago to find the\n\"wonderful big moose\" the Indians reported were travelling in the Snow\nRiver country. They soon found that the tale was true; tracks were\nabundant; they saw fine animals nearly every day, but though carrying\ngood heads, the hunters expected better still and left them alone.\nPushing up the river to a chain of small lakes near its source, they\nthen separated into two parties, each with its nine-foot bark canoe,\nand packed in for three days after the yet bigger animals the Indians\nagreed would be found in the deeper woods beyond. Excitement was keen,\nexpectation keener still. The day before they separated, Iredale shot\nthe biggest moose of his life, and its head, bigger even than the grand\nAlaskan heads, hangs in his house to-day. Grimwood's hunting blood was\nfairly up. His blood was of the fiery, not to say ferocious, quality. It\nalmost seemed he liked killing for its own sake.\n\nFour days after the party broke into two he came upon a gigantic track,\nwhose measurements and length of stride keyed every nerve he possessed\nto its highest tension.\n\nTooshalli examined the tracks for some minutes with care. \"It is the\nbiggest moose in the world,\" he said at length, a new expression on his\ninscrutable red visage.\n\nFollowing it all that day, they yet got no sight of the big fellow that\nseemed to be frequenting a little marshy dip of country, too small to be\ncalled valley, where willow and undergrowth abounded. He had not yet\nscented his pursuers. They were after him again at dawn. Towards the\nevening of the second day Grimwood caught a sudden glimpse of the\nmonster among a thick clump of willows, and the sight of the magnificent\nhead that easily beat all records set his heart beating like a hammer\nwith excitement. He aimed and fired. But the moose, instead of crashing,\nwent thundering away through the further scrub and disappeared, the\nsound of his plunging canter presently dying away. Grimwood had missed,\neven if he had wounded.\n\nThey camped, and all next day, leaving the canoe behind, they followed\nthe huge track, but though finding signs of blood, these were not\nplentiful, and the shot had evidently only grazed the animal. The\ntravelling was of the hardest. Towards evening, utterly exhausted, the\nspoor led them to the ridge they now stood upon, gazing down into the\nenchanting valley that opened at their feet. The giant moose had gone\ndown into this valley. He would consider himself safe there. Grimwood\nagreed with the Indian's judgment. They would camp for the night and\ncontinue at dawn the wild hunt after \"the biggest moose in the world.\"\n\nSupper was over, the small fire used for cooking dying down, with\nGrimwood became first aware that the Indian was not behaving quite as\nusual. What particular detail drew his attention is hard to say. He was\na slow-witted, heavy man, full-blooded, unobservant; a fact had to hurt\nhim through his comfort, through his pleasure, before he noticed it. Yet\nanyone else must have observed the changed mood of the Redskin long ago.\nTooshalli had made the fire, fried the bacon, served the tea, and was\narranging the blankets, his own and his employer's, before the latter\nremarked upon his--silence. Tooshalli had not uttered a word for over an\nhour and a half, since he had first set eyes upon the new valley, to be\nexact. And his employer now noticed the unaccustomed silence, because\nafter food he liked to listen to wood talk and hunting lore.\n\n\"Tired out, aren't you?\" said big Grimwood, looking into the dark face\nacross the firelight. He resented the absence of conversation, now that\nhe noticed it. He was over-weary himself, he felt more irritable than\nusual, though his temper was always vile.\n\n\"Lost your tongue, eh?\" he went on with a growl, as the Indian returned\nhis stare with solemn, expressionless face. That dark inscrutable look\ngot on his nerves a bit. \"Speak up, man!\" he exclaimed sharply. \"What's\nit all about?\"\n\nThe Englishman had at last realized that there was something to \"speak\nup\" about. The discovery, in his present state, annoyed him further.\nTooshalli stared gravely, but made no reply. The silence was prolonged\nalmost into minutes. Presently the head turned sideways, as though the\nman listened. The other watched him very closely, anger growing in him.\n\nBut it was the way the Redskin turned his head, keeping his body rigid,\nthat gave the jerk to Grimwood's nerves, providing him with a sensation\nhe had never known in his life before--it gave him what is generally\ncalled \"the goose-flesh.\" It seemed to jangle his entire system, yet at\nthe same time made him cautious. He did not like it, this combination of\nemotions puzzled him.\n\n\"Say something, I tell you,\" he repeated in a harsher tone, raising his\nvoice. He sat up, drawing his great body closer to the fire. \"Say\nsomething, damn it!\"\n\nHis voice fell dead against the surrounding trees, making the silence of\nthe forest unpleasantly noticeable. Very still the great woods stood\nabout them; there was no wind, no stir of branches; only the crackle of\na snapping twig was audible from time to time, as the night-life moved\nunwarily sometimes watching the humans round their little fire. The\nOctober air had a frosty touch that nipped.\n\nThe Redskin did not answer. No muscle of his neck nor of his stiffened\nbody moved. He seemed all ears.\n\n\"Well?\" repeated the Englishman, lowering his voice this time\ninstinctively. \"What d'you hear, God damn it!\" The touch of odd\nnervousness that made his anger grow betrayed itself in his language.\n\nTooshalli slowly turned his head back again to its normal position, the\nbody rigid as before.\n\n\"I hear nothing, Mr. Grimwood,\" he said, gazing with quiet dignity into\nhis employer's eyes.\n\nThis was too much for the other, a man of savage temper at the best of\ntimes. He was the type of Englishman who held strong views as to the\nright way of treating \"inferior\" races.\n\n\"That's a lie, Tooshalli, and I won't have you lie to me. Now what was\nit? Tell me at once!\"\n\n\"I hear nothing,\" repeated the other. \"I only think.\"\n\n\"And what is it you're pleased to think?\" Impatience made a nasty\nexpression round the mouth.\n\n\"I go not,\" was the abrupt reply, unalterable decision in the voice.\n\nThe man's rejoinder was so unexpected that Grimwood found nothing to say\nat first. For a moment he did not take its meaning; his mind, always\nslow, was confused by impatience, also by what he considered the\nfoolishness of the little scene. Then in a flash he understood; but he\nalso understood the immovable obstinacy of the race he had to deal with.\nTooshalli was informing him that he refused to go into the valley where\nthe big moose had vanished. And his astonishment was so great at first\nthat he merely sat and stared. No words came to him.\n\n\"It is----\" said the Indian, but used a native term.\n\n\"What's that mean?\" Grimwood found his tongue, but his quiet tone was\nominous.\n\n\"Mr. Grimwood, it mean the 'Valley of the Beasts,'\" was the reply in a\ntone quieter still.\n\nThe Englishman made a great, a genuine effort at self-control. He was\ndealing, he forced himself to remember, with a superstitious Redskin. He\nknew the stubbornness of the type. If the man left him his sport was\nirretrievably spoilt, for he could not hunt in this wilderness alone,\nand even if he got the coveted head, he could never, never get it out\nalone. His native selfishness seconded his effort. Persuasion, if only\nhe could keep back his rising anger, was his role to play.\n\n\"The Valley of the Beasts,\" he said, a smile on his lips rather than in\nhis darkening eyes; \"but that's just what we want. It's beasts we're\nafter, isn't it?\" His voice had a false cheery ring that could not have\ndeceived a child. \"But what d'you mean, anyhow--the Valley of the\nBeasts?\" He asked it with a dull attempt at sympathy.\n\n\"It belong to Ishtot, Mr. Grimwood.\" The man looked him full in the\nface, no flinching in the eyes.\n\n\"My--our--big moose is there,\" said the other, who recognized the name\nof the Indian Hunting God, and understanding better, felt confident\nhe would soon persuade his man. Tooshalli, he remembered, too, was\nnominally a Christian. \"We'll follow him at dawn and get the biggest\nhead the world has ever seen. You will be famous,\" he added, his temper\nbetter in hand again. \"Your tribe will honour you. And the white hunters\nwill pay you much money.\"\n\n\"He go there to save himself. I go not.\"\n\nThe other's anger revived with a leap at this stupid obstinacy. But, in\nspite of it, he noticed the odd choice of words. He began to realize\nthat nothing now would move the man. At the same time he also realized\nthat violence on his part must prove worse than useless. Yet violence\nwas natural to his \"dominant\" type. \"That brute Grimwood\" was the way\nmost men spoke of him.\n\n\"Back at the settlement you're a Christian, remember,\" he tried, in his\nclumsy way, another line. \"And disobedience means hell-fire. You know\nthat!\"\n\n\"I a Christian--at the post,\" was the reply, \"but out here the Red God\nrule. Ishtot keep that valley for himself. No Indian hunt there.\" It was\nas though a granite boulder spoke.\n\nThe savage temper of the Englishman, enforced by the long difficult\nsuppression, rose wickedly into sudden flame. He stood up, kicking his\nblankets aside. He strode across the dying fire to the Indian's side.\nTooshalli also rose. They faced each other, two humans alone in the\nwilderness, watched by countless invisible forest eyes.\n\nTooshalli stood motionless, yet as though he expected violence from the\nfoolish, ignorant white-face. \"You go alone, Mr. Grimwood.\" There was no\nfear in him.\n\nGrimwood choked with rage. His words came forth with difficulty, though\nhe roared them into the silence of the forest:\n\n\"I pay you, don't I? You'll do what _I_ say, not what _you_ say!\" His\nvoice woke the echoes.\n\nThe Indian, arms hanging by his side, gave the old reply.\n\n\"I go not,\" he repeated firmly.\n\nIt stung the other into uncontrollable fury.\n\nThe beast then came uppermost; it came out. \"You've said that once too\noften, Tooshalli!\" and he struck him brutally in the face. The Indian\nfell, rose to his knees again, collapsed sideways beside the fire, then\nstruggled back into a sitting position. He never once took his eyes from\nthe white man's face.\n\nBeside himself with anger, Grimwood stood over him. \"Is that enough?\nWill you obey me now?\" he shouted.\n\n\"I go not,\" came the thick reply, blood streaming from his mouth. The\neyes had no flinching in them. \"That valley Ishtot keep. Ishtot see us\nnow. _He see you._\" The last words he uttered with strange, almost\nuncanny emphasis.\n\nGrimwood, arm raised, fist clenched, about to repeat his terrible\nassault, paused suddenly. His arm sank to his side. What exactly\nstopped him he could never say. For one thing, he feared his own\nanger, feared that if he let himself go he would not stop till he had\nkilled--committed murder. He knew his own fearful temper and stood\nafraid of it. Yet it was not only that. The calm firmness of the\nRedskin, his courage under pain, and something in the fixed and\nburning eyes arrested him. Was it also something in the words he had\nused--\"Ishtot see _you_\"--that stung him into a queer caution midway in\nhis violence?\n\nHe could not say. He only knew that a momentary sense of awe came over\nhim. He became unpleasantly aware of the enveloping forest, so still,\nlistening in a kind of impenetrable, remorseless silence. This lonely\nwilderness, looking silently upon what might easily prove murder, laid a\nfaint, inexplicable chill upon his raging blood. The hand dropped slowly\nto his side again, the fist unclenched itself, his breath came more\nevenly.\n\n\"Look you here,\" he said, adopting without knowing it the local way of\nspeech. \"I ain't a bad man, though your going-on do make a man damned\ntired. I'll give you another chance.\" His voice was sullen, but a new\nnote in it surprised even himself. \"I'll do that. You can have the night\nto think it over, Tooshalli--see? Talk it over with your----\"\n\nHe did not finish the sentence. Somehow the name of the Redskin God\nrefused to pass his lips. He turned away, flung himself into his\nblankets, and in less than ten minutes, exhausted as much by his anger\nas by the day's hard going, he was sound asleep.\n\nThe Indian, crouching beside the dying fire, had said nothing.\n\nNight held the woods, the sky was thick with stars, the life of the\nforest went about its business quietly, with that wondrous skill which\nmillions of years have perfected. The Redskin, so close to this skill\nthat he instinctively used and borrowed from it, was silent, alert and\nwise, his outline as inconspicuous as though he merged, like his\nfour-footed teachers, into the mass of the surrounding bush.\n\nHe moved perhaps, yet nothing knew he moved. His wisdom, derived from\nthat eternal, ancient mother who from infinite experience makes no\nmistakes, did not fail him. His soft tread made no sound; his breathing,\nas his weight, was calculated. The stars observed him, but they did not\ntell; the light air knew his whereabouts, yet without betrayal....\n\nThe chill dawn gleamed at length between the trees, lighting the pale\nashes of an extinguished fire, also of a bulky, obvious form beneath a\nblanket. The form moved clumsily. The cold was penetrating.\n\nAnd that bulky form now moved because a dream had come to trouble it. A\ndark figure stole across its confused field of vision. The form started,\nbut it did not wake. The figure spoke: \"Take this,\" it whispered,\nhanding a little stick, curiously carved. \"It is the totem of great\nIshtot. In the valley all memory of the White Gods will leave you. Call\nupon Ishtot.... Call on Him if you dare\"; and the dark figure glided\naway out of the dream and out of all remembrance....\n\n\n2\n\nThe first thing Grimwood noticed when he woke was that Tooshalli was not\nthere. No fire burned, no tea was ready. He felt exceedingly annoyed. He\nglared about him, then got up with a curse to make the fire. His mind\nseemed confused and troubled. At first he only realized one thing\nclearly--his guide had left him in the night.\n\nIt was very cold. He lit the wood with difficulty and made his tea, and\nthe actual world came gradually back to him. The Red Indian had gone;\nperhaps the blow, perhaps the superstitious terror, perhaps both, had\ndriven him away. He was alone, that was the outstanding fact. For\nanything beyond outstanding facts, Grimwood felt little interest.\nImaginative speculation was beyond his compass. Close to the brute\ncreation, it seemed, his nature lay.\n\nIt was while packing his blankets--he did it automatically, a dull,\nvicious resentment in him--that his fingers struck a bit of wood that\nhe was about to throw away when its unusual shape caught his attention\nsuddenly. His odd dream came back then. But was it a dream? The bit of\nwood was undoubtedly a totem stick. He examined it. He paid it more\nattention than he meant to, wished to. Yes, it was unquestionably a\ntotem stick. The dream, then, was not a dream. Tooshalli had quit, but,\nfollowing with Redskin faithfulness some code of his own, had left him\nthe means of safety. He chuckled sourly, but thrust the stick inside his\nbelt. \"One never knows,\" he mumbled to himself.\n\nHe faced the situation squarely. He was alone in the wilderness. His\ncapable, experienced woodsman had deserted him. The situation was\nserious. What should he do? A weakling would certainly retrace his\nsteps, following the track they had made, afraid to be left alone in\nthis vast hinterland of pathless forest. But Grimwood was of another\nbuild. Alarmed he might be, but he would not give in. He had the defects\nof his own qualities. The brutality of his nature argued force. He was\ndetermined and a sportsman. He would go on. And ten minutes after\nbreakfast, having first made a _cache_ of what provisions were left\nover, he was on his way--down across the ridge and into the mysterious\nvalley, the Valley of the Beasts.\n\nIt looked, in the morning sunlight, entrancing. The trees closed in\nbehind him, but he did not notice. It led him on....\n\nHe followed the track of the gigantic moose he meant to kill, and the\nsweet, delicious sunshine helped him. The air was like wine, the\nseductive spoor of the great beast, with here and there a faint splash\nof blood on leaves or ground, lay forever just before his eyes. He found\nthe valley, though the actual word did not occur to him, enticing; more\nand more he noticed the beauty, the desolate grandeur of the mighty\nspruce and hemlock, the splendour of the granite bluffs which in places\nrose above the forest and caught the sun.... The valley was deeper,\nvaster than he had imagined. He felt safe, at home in it, though, again\nthese actual terms did not occur to him.... Here he could hide for\never and find peace.... He became aware of a new quality in the deep\nloneliness. The scenery for the first time in his life appealed to him,\nand the form of the appeal was curious--he felt the comfort of it.\n\nFor a man of his habit, this was odd, yet the new sensations stole over\nhim so gently, their approach so gradual, that they were first\nrecognized by his consciousness indirectly. They had already established\nthemselves in him before he noticed them; and the indirectness took this\nform--that the passion of the chase gave place to an interest in the\nvalley itself. The lust of the hunt, the fierce desire to find and kill,\nthe keen wish, in a word, to see his quarry within range, to aim, to\nfire, to witness the natural consummation of the long expedition--these\nhad all become measurably less, while the effect of the valley upon him\nhad increased in strength. There was a welcome about it that he did not\nunderstand.\n\nThe change was singular, yet, oddly enough, it did not occur to him as\nsingular; it was unnatural, yet it did not strike him so. To a dull mind\nof his unobservant, unanalytical type, a change had to be marked and\ndramatic before he noticed it; something in the nature of a shock must\naccompany it for him to recognize it had happened. And there had been no\nshock. The spoor of the great moose was much cleaner, now that he caught\nup with the animal that made it; the blood more frequent; he had noticed\nthe spot where it had rested, its huge body leaving a marked imprint on\nthe soft ground; where it had reached up to eat the leaves of saplings\nhere and there was also visible; he had come undoubtedly very near to\nit, and any minute now might see its great bulk within range of an easy\nshot. Yet his ardour had somehow lessened.\n\nHe first realized this change in himself when it suddenly occurred to\nhim that the animal itself had grown less cautious. It must scent him\neasily now, since a moose, its sight being indifferent, depends chiefly\nfor its safety upon its unusually keen sense of smell, and the wind\ncame from behind him. This now struck him as decidedly uncommon: the\nmoose itself was obviously careless of his close approach. It felt no\nfear.\n\nIt was this inexplicable alteration in the animal's behaviour that made\nhim recognize, at last, the alteration in his own. He had followed it\nnow for a couple of hours and had descended some eight hundred to a\nthousand feet; the trees were thinner and more sparsely placed; there\nwere open, park-like places where silver birch, sumach and maple\nsplashed their blazing colours; and a crystal stream, broken by many\nwaterfalls, foamed past towards the bed of the great valley, yet another\nthousand feet below. By a quiet pool against some over-arching rocks,\nthe moose had evidently paused to drink, paused at its leisure,\nmoreover. Grimwood, rising from a close examination of the direction the\ncreature had taken after drinking--the hoof-marks were fresh and very\ndistinct in the marshy ground about the pool--looked suddenly straight\ninto the great creature's eyes. It was not twenty yards from where he\nstood, yet he had been standing on that spot for at least ten minutes,\ncaught by the wonder and loneliness of the scene. The moose, therefore,\nhad been close beside him all this time. It had been calmly drinking,\nundisturbed by his presence, unafraid.\n\nThe shock came now, the shock that woke his heavy nature into\nrealization. For some seconds, probably for minutes, he stood rooted to\nthe ground, motionless, hardly breathing. He stared as though he saw a\nvision. The animal's head was lowered, but turned obliquely somewhat,\nso that the eyes, placed sideways in its great head, could see him\nproperly; its immense proboscis hung as though stuffed upon an English\nwall; he saw the fore-feet planted wide apart, the slope of the enormous\nshoulders dropping back towards the fine hind-quarters and lean flanks.\nIt was a magnificent bull. The horns and head justified his wildest\nexpectations, they were superb, a record specimen, and a phrase--where\nhad he heard it?--ran vaguely, as from far distance, through his mind:\n\"the biggest moose in the world.\"\n\nThere was the extraordinary fact, however, that he did not shoot; nor\nfeel the wish to shoot. The familiar instinct, so strong hitherto in his\nblood, made no sign; the desire to kill apparently had left him. To\nraise his rifle, aim and fire had become suddenly an absolute\nimpossibility.\n\nHe did not move. The animal and the human stared into each other's eyes\nfor a length of time whose interval he could not measure. Then came a\nsoft noise close beside him: the rifle had slipped from his grasp and\nfallen with a thud into the mossy earth at his feet. And the moose, for\nthe first time now, was moving. With slow, easy stride, its great weight\ncausing a squelching sound as the feet drew out of the moist ground, it\ncame towards him, the bulk of the shoulders giving it an appearance of\nswaying like a ship at sea. It reached his side, it almost touched him,\nthe magnificent head bent low, the spread of the gigantic horns lay\nbeneath his very eyes. He could have patted, stroked it. He saw, with a\ntouch of pity, that blood trickled from a sore in its left shoulder,\nmatting the thick hair. It sniffed the fallen rifle.\n\nThen, lifting its head and shoulders again, it sniffed the air, this\ntime with an audible sound that shook from Grimwood's mind the last\npossibility that he witnessed a vision or dreamed a dream. One moment\nit gazed into his face, its big brown eyes shining and unafraid, then\nturned abruptly, and swung away at a speed ever rapidly increasing\nacross the park-like spaces till it was lost finally among the dark\ntangle of undergrowth beyond. And the Englishman's muscles turned to\npaper, his paralysis passed, his legs refused to support his weight, and\nhe sank heavily to the ground....\n\n\n3\n\nIt seems he slept, slept long and heavily; he sat up, stretched himself,\nyawned and rubbed his eyes. The sun had moved across the sky, for the\nshadows, he saw, now ran from west to east, and they were long shadows.\nHe had slept evidently for hours, and evening was drawing in. He was\naware that he felt hungry. In his pouchlike pockets, he had dried meat,\nsugar, matches, tea, and the little billy that never left him. He would\nmake a fire, boil some tea and eat.\n\nBut he took no steps to carry out his purpose, he felt disinclined to\nmove, he sat thinking, thinking.... What was he thinking about? He did\nnot know, he could not say exactly; it was more like fugitive pictures\nthat passed across his mind. Who, and where, was he? This was the Valley\nof the Beasts, that he knew; he felt sure of nothing else. How long had\nhe been here, and where had he come from, and why? The questions did not\nlinger for their answers, almost as though his interest in them was\nmerely automatic. He felt happy, peaceful, unafraid.\n\nHe looked about him, and the spell of this virgin forest came upon\nhim like a charm; only the sound of falling water, the murmur of wind\nsighing among innumerable branches, broke the enveloping silence.\nOverhead, beyond the crests of the towering trees, a cloudless evening\nsky was paling into transparent orange, opal, mother of pearl. He saw\nbuzzards soaring lazily. A scarlet tanager flashed by. Soon would the\nowls begin to call and the darkness fall like a sweet black veil\nand hide all detail, while the stars sparkled in their countless\nthousands....\n\nA glint of something that shone upon the ground caught his eye--a\nsmooth, polished strip of rounded metal: his rifle. And he started to\nhis feet impulsively, yet not knowing exactly what he meant to do. At\nthe sight of the weapon, something had leaped to life in him, then faded\nout, died down, and was gone again.\n\n\"I'm--I'm----\" he began muttering to himself, but could not finish what\nhe was about to say. His name had disappeared completely. \"I'm in the\nValley of the Beasts,\" he repeated in place of what he sought but could\nnot find.\n\nThis fact, that he was in the Valley of the Beasts, seemed the only\npositive item of knowledge that he had. About the name something known\nand familiar clung, though the sequence that led up to it he could not\ntrace. Presently, nevertheless, he rose to his feet, advanced a few\nsteps, stooped and picked up the shining metal thing, his rifle. He\nexamined it a moment, a feeling of dread and loathing rising in him,\na sensation of almost horror that made him tremble, then, with a\nconvulsive movement that betrayed an intense reaction of some sort he\ncould not comprehend, he flung the thing far from him into the foaming\ntorrent. He saw the splash it made, he also saw that same instant a\nlarge grizzly bear swing heavily along the bank not a dozen yards from\nwhere he stood. It, too, heard the splash, for it started, turned,\npaused a second, then changed its direction and came towards him. It\ncame up close. Its fur brushed his body. It examined him leisurely, as\nthe moose had done, sniffed, half rose upon its terrible hind legs,\nopened its mouth so that red tongue and gleaming teeth were plainly\nvisible, then flopped back upon all fours again with a deep growling\nthat yet had no anger in it, and swung off at a quick trot back to the\nbank of the torrent. He had felt its hot breath upon his face, but he\nhad felt no fear. The monster was puzzled but not hostile. It\ndisappeared.\n\n\"They know not----\" he sought for the word \"man,\" but could not find it.\n\"They have never been hunted.\"\n\nThe words ran through his mind, if perhaps he was not entirely certain\nof their meaning; they rose, as it were, automatically; a familiar sound\nlay in them somewhere. At the same time there rose feelings in him\nthat were equally, though in another way, familiar and quite natural,\nfeelings he had once known intimately but long since laid aside.\n\nWhat were they? What was their origin? They seemed distant as the stars,\nyet were actually in his body, in his blood and nerves, part and parcel\nof his flesh. Long, long ago.... Oh, how long, how long?\n\nThinking was difficult; feeling was what he most easily and naturally\nmanaged. He could not think for long; feeling rose up and drowned the\neffort quickly.\n\nThat huge and awful bear--not a nerve, not a muscle quivered in him as\nits acrid smell rose to his nostrils, its fur brushed down his legs. Yet\nhe was aware that somewhere there was danger, though not here. Somewhere\nthere was attack, hostility, wicked and calculated plans against him--as\nagainst that splendid, roaming animal that had sniffed, examined, then\ngone its own way, satisfied. Yes, active attack, hostility and careful,\ncruel plans against his safety, but--not here. Here he was safe, secure,\nat peace; here he was happy; here he could roam at will, no eye cast\nsideways into forest depths, no ear pricked high to catch sounds not\nexplained, no nostrils quivering to scent alarm. He felt this, but he\ndid not think it. He felt hungry, thirsty too.\n\nSomething prompted him now at last to act. His billy lay at his feet,\nand he picked it up; the matches--he carried them in a metal case whose\nscrew top kept out all moisture--were in his hand. Gathering a few dry\ntwigs, he stooped to light them, then suddenly drew back with the first\ntouch of fear he had yet known.\n\nFire! What _was_ fire? The idea was repugnant to him, it was impossible,\nhe was afraid of fire. He flung the metal case after the rifle and saw\nit gleam in the last rays of sunset, then sink with a little splash\nbeneath the water. Glancing down at his billy, he realized next that he\ncould not make use of it either, nor of the dark dry dusty stuff he had\nmeant to boil in water. He felt no repugnance, certainly no fear, in\nconnexion with these things, only he could not handle them, he did not\nneed them, he had forgotten, yes, \"forgotten,\" what they meant exactly.\nThis strange forgetfulness was increasing in him rapidly, becoming more\nand more complete with every minute. Yet his thirst must be quenched.\n\nThe next moment he found himself at the water's edge; he stooped to fill\nhis billy; paused, hesitated, examined the rushing water, then abruptly\nmoved a few feet higher up the stream, leaving the metal can behind him.\nHis handling of it had been oddly clumsy, his gestures awkward, even\nunnatural. He now flung himself down with an easy, simple motion of his\nentire body, lowered his face to a quiet pool he had found, and drank\nhis fill of the cool, refreshing liquid. But, though unaware of the\nfact, he did not drink. He lapped.\n\nThen, crouching where he was, he ate the meat and sugar from his\npockets, lapped more water, moved back a short distance again into the\ndry ground beneath the trees, but moved this time without rising to his\nfeet, curled his body into a comfortable position and closed his eyes\nagain to sleep.... No single question now raised its head in him. He\nfelt contentment, satisfaction only....\n\nHe stirred, shook himself, opened half an eye and saw, as he had felt\nalready in slumber, that he was not alone. In the park-like spaces in\nfront of him, as in the shadowed fringe of the trees at his back, there\nwas sound and movement, the sound of stealthy feet, the movement of\ninnumerable dark bodies. There was the pad and tread of animals, the\nstir of backs, of smooth and shaggy beasts, in countless numbers. Upon\nthis host fell the light of a half moon sailing high in a cloudless sky;\nthe gleam of stars, sparkling in the clear night air like diamonds,\nshone reflected in hundreds of ever-shifting eyes, most of them but a\nfew feet above the ground. The whole valley was alive.\n\nHe sat upon his haunches, staring, staring, but staring in wonder, not\nin fear, though the foremost of the great host were so near that he\ncould have stretched an arm and touched them. It was an ever-moving,\never-shifting throng he gazed at, spell-bound, in the pale light of moon\nand stars, now fading slowly towards the approaching dawn. And the smell\nof the forest itself was not sweeter to him in that moment than the\nmingled perfume, raw, pungent, acrid, of this furry host of beautiful\nwild animals that moved like a sea, with a strange murmuring, too, like\nsea, as the myriad feet and bodies passed to and fro together. Nor was\nthe gleam of the starry, phosphorescent eyes less pleasantly friendly\nthan those happy lamps that light home-lost wanderers to cosy rooms and\nsafety. Through the wild army, in a word, poured to him the deep comfort\nof the entire valley, a comfort which held both the sweetness of\ninvitation and the welcome of some magical home-coming.\n\nNo thoughts came to him, but feeling rose in a tide of wonder and\nacceptance. He was in his rightful place. His nature had come home.\nThere was this dim, vague consciousness in him that after long, futile\nstraying in another place where uncongenial conditions had forced him to\nbe unnatural and therefore terrible, he had returned at last where he\nbelonged. Here, in the Valley of the Beasts, he had found peace,\nsecurity and happiness. He would be--he was at last--himself.\n\nIt was a marvellous, even a magical, scene he watched, his nerves at\nhighest tension yet quite steady, his senses exquisitely alert, yet no\nuneasiness in the full, accurate reports they furnished. Strong as some\ndeep flood-tide, yet dim, as with untold time and distance, rose over\nhim the spell of long-forgotten memory of a state where he was content\nand happy, where he was natural. The outlines, as it were, of mighty,\nprimitive pictures, flashed before him, yet were gone again before the\ndetail was filled in.\n\nHe watched the great army of the animals, they were all about him now;\nhe crouched upon his haunches in the centre of an ever-moving circle of\nwild forest life. Great timber wolves he saw pass to and fro, loping\npast him with long stride and graceful swing; their red tongues lolling\nout; they swarmed in hundreds. Behind, yet mingling freely with them,\nrolled the huge grizzlies, not clumsy as their uncouth bodies promised,\nbut swiftly, lightly, easily, their half tumbling gait masking agility\nand speed. They gambolled, sometimes they rose and stood half upright,\nthey were comely in their mass and power, they rolled past him so close\nthat he could touch them. And the black bear and the brown went with\nthem, bears beyond counting, monsters and little ones, a splendid\nmultitude. Beyond them, yet only a little further back, where the\npark-like spaces made free movement easier, rose a sea of horns and\nantlers like a miniature forest in the silvery moonlight. The immense\ntribe of deer gathered in vast throngs beneath the starlit sky. Moose\nand caribou, he saw, the mighty wapiti, and the smaller deer in their\ncrowding thousands. He heard the sound of meeting horns, the tread of\ninnumerable hoofs, the occasional pawing of the ground as the bigger\ncreatures manoeuvred for more space about them. A wolf, he saw, was\nlicking gently at the shoulder of a great bull-moose that had been\ninjured. And the tide receded, advanced again, once more receded, rising\nand falling like a living sea whose waves were animal shapes, the\ninhabitants of the Valley of the Beasts.\n\nBeneath the quiet moonlight they swayed to and fro before him. They\nwatched him, knew him, recognized him. They made him welcome.\n\nHe was aware, moreover, of a world of smaller life that formed an\nunder-sea, as it were, numerous under-currents rather, running in and\nout between the great upright legs of the larger creatures. These,\nthough he could not see them clearly, covered the earth, he was aware,\nin enormous numbers, darting hither and thither, now hiding, now\nreappearing, too intent upon their busy purposes to pay him attention\nlike their huger comrades, yet ever and anon tumbling against his back,\ncannoning from his sides, scampering across his legs even, then gone\nagain with a scuttering sound of rapid little feet, and rushing back\ninto the general host beyond. And with this smaller world also he felt\nat home.\n\nHow long he sat gazing, happy in himself, secure, satisfied, contented,\nnatural, he could not say, but it was long enough for the desire to\nmingle with what he saw, to know closer contact, to become one with them\nall--long enough for this deep blind desire to assert itself, so that at\nlength he began to move from his mossy seat towards them, to move,\nmoreover, as they moved, and not upright on two feet.\n\nThe moon was lower now, just sinking behind a towering cedar whose\nragged crest broke its light into silvery spray. The stars were a little\npaler too. A line of faint red was visible beyond the heights at the\nvalley's eastern end.\n\nHe paused and looked about him, as he advanced slowly, aware that the\nhost already made an opening in their ranks and that the bear even nosed\nthe earth in front, as though to show the way that was easiest for him\nto follow. Then, suddenly, a lynx leaped past him into the low branches\nof a hemlock, and he lifted his head to admire its perfect poise. He saw\nin the same instant the arrival of the birds, the army of the eagles,\nhawks and buzzards, birds of prey--the awakening flight that just\nprecedes the dawn. He saw the flocks and streaming lines, hiding the\nwhitening stars a moment as they passed with a prodigious whirr of\nwings. There came the hooting of an owl from the tree immediately\noverhead where the lynx now crouched, but not maliciously, along its\nbranch.\n\nHe started. He half rose to an upright position. He knew not why he did\nso, knew not exactly why he started. But in the attempt to find his new,\nand, as it now seemed, his unaccustomed balance, one hand fell against\nhis side and came in contact with a hard straight thing that projected\nawkwardly from his clothing. He pulled it out, feeling it all over with\nhis fingers. It was a little stick. He raised it nearer to his eyes,\nexamined it in the light of dawn now growing swiftly, remembered, or\nhalf remembered what it was--and stood stock still.\n\n\"The totem stick,\" he mumbled to himself, yet audibly, finding his\nspeech, and finding another thing--a glint of peering memory--for the\nfirst time since entering the valley.\n\nA shock like fire ran through his body; he straightened himself, aware\nthat a moment before he had been crawling upon his hands and knees; it\nseemed that something broke in his brain, lifting a veil, flinging a\nshutter free. And Memory peered dreadfully through the widening gap.\n\n\"I'm--I'm Grimwood,\" his voice uttered, though below his breath.\n\"Tooshalli's left me. I'm alone...!\"\n\nHe was aware of a sudden change in the animals surrounding him. A big,\ngrey wolf sat three feet away, glaring into his face; at its side an\nenormous grizzly swayed itself from one foot to the other; behind it, as\nif looking over its shoulder, loomed a gigantic wapiti, its horns merged\nin the shadows of the drooping cedar boughs. But the northern dawn was\nnearer, the sun already close to the horizon. He saw details with sharp\ndistinctness now. The great bear rose, balancing a moment on its massive\nhind-quarters, then took a step towards him, its front paws spread like\narms. Its wicked head lolled horribly, as a huge bull-moose, lowering\nits horns as if about to charge, came up with a couple of long strides\nand joined it. A sudden excitement ran quivering over the entire host;\nthe distant ranks moved in a new, unpleasant way; a thousand heads were\nlifted, ears were pricked, a forest of ugly muzzles pointed up to the\nwind.\n\nAnd the Englishman, beside himself suddenly with a sense of ultimate\nterror that saw no possible escape, stiffened and stood rigid. The\nhorror of his position petrified him. Motionless and silent he faced\nthe awful army of his enemies, while the white light of breaking day\nadded fresh ghastliness to the scene which was the setting for his cruel\ndeath in the Valley of the Beasts.\n\nAbove him crouched the hideous lynx, ready to spring the instant he\nsought safety in the tree; above it again, he was aware of a thousand\ntalons of steel, fierce hooked beaks of iron, and the angry beating of\nprodigious wings.\n\nHe reeled, for the grizzly touched his body with its outstretched paw;\nthe wolf crouched just before its deadly spring; in another second\nhe would have been torn to pieces, crushed, devoured, when terror,\noperating naturally as ever, released the muscles of his throat and\ntongue. He shouted with what he believed was his last breath on earth.\nHe called aloud in his frenzy. It was a prayer to whatever gods there\nbe, it was an anguished cry for help to heaven.\n\n\"Ishtot! Great Ishtot, help me!\" his voice rang out, while his hand\nstill clutched the forgotten totem stick.\n\nAnd the Red Heaven heard him.\n\nGrimwood that same instant was aware of a presence that, but for\nhis terror of the beasts, must have frightened him into sheer\nunconsciousness. A gigantic Red Indian stood before him. Yet, while the\nfigure rose close in front of him, causing the birds to settle and the\nwild animals to crouch quietly where they stood, it rose also from\na great distance, for it seemed to fill the entire valley with its\ninfluence, its power, its amazing majesty. In some way, moreover, that\nhe could not understand, its vast appearance included the actual valley\nitself with all its trees, its running streams, its open spaces and its\nrocky bluffs. These marked its outline, as it were, the outline of a\nsuperhuman shape. There was a mighty bow, there was a quiver of enormous\narrows, there was this Redskin figure to whom they belonged.\n\nYet the appearance, the outline, the face and figure too--these _were_\nthe valley; and when the voice became audible, it was the valley itself\nthat uttered the appalling words. It was the voice of trees and wind,\nand of running, falling water that woke the echoes in the Valley of the\nBeasts, as, in that same moment, the sun topped the ridge and filled the\nscene, the outline of the majestic figure too, with a flood of dazzling\nlight:\n\n\"You have shed blood in this my valley.... _I will not save_...!\"\n\nThe figure melted away into the sunlit forest, merging with the new-born\nday. But Grimwood saw close against his face the shining teeth, hot\nfetid breath passed over his cheeks, a power enveloped his whole body as\nthough a mountain crushed him. He closed his eyes. He fell. A sharp,\ncrackling sound passed through his brain, but already unconscious, he\ndid not hear it.\n\n                 *       *       *       *       *\n\nHis eyes opened again, and the first thing they took in was--fire. He\nshrank back instinctively.\n\n\"It's all right, old man. We'll bring you round. Nothing to be\nfrightened about.\" He saw the face of Iredale looking down into his own.\nBehind Iredale stood Tooshalli. His face was swollen. Grimwood\nremembered the blow. The big man began to cry.\n\n\"Painful still, is it?\" Iredale said sympathetically. \"Here, swallow a\nlittle more of this. It'll set you right in no time.\"\n\nGrimwood gulped down the spirit. He made a violent effort to control\nhimself, but was unable to keep the tears back. He felt no pain. It was\nhis heart that ached, though why or wherefore, he had no idea.\n\n\"I'm all to pieces,\" he mumbled, ashamed yet somehow not ashamed. \"My\nnerves are rotten. What's happened?\" There was as yet no memory in him.\n\n\"You've been hugged by a bear, old man. But no bones broken. Tooshalli\nsaved you. He fired in the nick of time--a brave shot, for he might\neasily have hit you instead of the brute.\"\n\n\"The other brute,\" whispered Grimwood, as the whisky worked in him and\nmemory came slowly back.\n\n\"Where are we?\" he asked presently, looking about him.\n\nHe saw a lake, canoes drawn up on the shore, two tents, and figures\nmoving. Iredale explained matters briefly, then left him to sleep a bit.\nTooshalli, it appeared, travelling without rest, had reached Iredale's\ncamping ground twenty-four hours after leaving his employer. He found it\ndeserted, Iredale and his Indian being on the hunt. When they returned\nat nightfall, he had explained his presence in his brief native fashion:\n\"He struck me and I quit. He hunt now alone in Ishtot's Valley of the\nBeasts. He is dead, I think. I come to tell you.\"\n\nIredale and his guide, with Tooshalli as leader, started off then and\nthere, but Grimwood had covered a considerable distance, though leaving\nan easy track to follow. It was the moose tracks and the blood that\nchiefly guided them. They came up with him suddenly enough--in the grip\nof an enormous bear.\n\nIt was Tooshalli that fired.\n\n                 *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe Indian lives now in easy circumstances, all his needs cared for,\nwhile Grimwood, his benefactor but no longer his employer, has given up\nhunting. He is a quiet, easy-tempered, almost gentle sort of fellow,\nand people wonder rather why he hasn't married. \"Just the fellow to\nmake a good father,\" is what they say; \"so kind, good-natured and\naffectionate.\" Among his pipes, in a glass case over the mantlepiece,\nhangs a totem stick. He declares it saved his soul, but what he means by\nthe expression he has never quite explained.\n\n\n\n\nVII\n\nTHE CALL\n\n\nThe incident--story it never was, perhaps--began tamely, almost meanly;\nit ended upon a note of strange, unearthly wonder that has haunted him\never since. In Headley's memory, at any rate, it stands out as the\nloveliest, the most amazing thing he ever witnessed. Other emotions,\ntoo, contributed to the vividness of the picture. That he had felt\njealousy towards his old pal, Arthur Deane, shocked him in the first\nplace; it seemed impossible until it actually happened. But that the\njealousy was proved afterwards to have been without a cause shocked him\nstill more. He felt ashamed and miserable.\n\nFor him, the actual incident began when he received a note from Mrs.\nBlondin asking him to the Priory for a week-end, or for longer, if he\ncould manage it.\n\nCaptain Arthur Deane, she mentioned, was staying with her at the moment,\nand a warm welcome awaited him. Iris she did not mention--Iris Manning,\nthe interesting and beautiful girl for whom it was well known he had a\nconsiderable weakness. He found a good-sized house party; there was\nfishing in the little Sussex river, tennis, golf not far away, while two\nmotor cars brought the remoter country across the downs into easy reach.\nAlso there was a bit of duck shooting for those who cared to wake at\n3 a. m. and paddle up-stream to the marshes where the birds were feeding.\n\n\"Have you brought your gun?\" was the first thing Arthur said to him when\nhe arrived. \"Like a fool, I left mine in town.\"\n\n\"I hope you haven't,\" put in Miss Manning; \"because if you have I must\nget up one fine morning at three o'clock.\" She laughed merrily, and\nthere was an undernote of excitement in the laugh.\n\nCaptain Headley showed his surprise. \"That you were a Diana had escaped\nmy notice, I'm ashamed to say,\" he replied lightly. \"Yet I've known you\nsome years, haven't I?\" He looked straight at her, and the soft yet\nsearching eye, turning from his friend, met his own securely. She was\nappraising him, for the hundreth time, and he, for the hundreth time,\nwas thinking how pretty she was, and wondering how long the prettiness\nwould last after marriage.\n\n\"I'm not,\" he heard her answer. \"That's just it. But I've promised.\"\n\n\"Rather!\" said Arthur gallantly. \"And I shall hold you to it,\" he added\nstill more gallantly--too gallantly, Headley thought. \"I couldn't\npossibly get up at cockcrow without a very special inducement, could I,\nnow? You know me, Dick!\"\n\n\"Well, anyhow, I've brought my gun,\" Headley replied evasively, \"so\nyou've no excuse, either of you. You'll have to go.\" And while they were\nlaughing and chattering about it, Mrs. Blondin clinched the matter for\nthem. Provisions were hard to come by; the larder really needed a brace\nor two of birds; it was the least they could do in return for what she\ncalled amusingly her \"Armistice hospitality.\"\n\n\"So I expect you to get up at three,\" she chaffed them, \"and return with\nyour Victory birds.\"\n\nIt was from this preliminary skirmish over the tea-table on the law five\nminutes after his arrival that Dick Headley realized easily enough the\nlittle game in progress. As a man of experience, just on the wrong side\nof forty, it was not difficult to see the cards each held. He sighed.\nHad he guessed an intrigue was on foot he would not have come, yet he\nmight have known that wherever his hostess was, there were the vultures\ngathered together. Matchmaker by choice and instinct, Mrs. Blondin\ncould not help herself. True to her name, she was always balancing on\nmatrimonial tightropes--for others.\n\n_Her_ cards, at any rate, were obvious enough; she had laid them on the\ntable for him. He easily read her hand. The next twenty-four hours\nconfirmed this reading. Having made up her mind that Iris and Arthur\nwere destined for each other, she had grown impatient; they had been ten\ndays together, yet Iris was still free. They were good friends only.\nWith calculation, she, therefore, took a step that must bring things\nfurther. She invited Dick Headley, whose weakness for the girl was\ncommon knowledge. The card was indicated; she played it. Arthur must\ncome to the point or see another man carry her off. This, at least, she\nplanned, little dreaming that the dark King of Spades would interfere.\n\nMiss Manning's hand also was fairly obvious, for both men were extremely\neligible _partis_. She was getting on; one or other was to become her\nhusband before the party broke up. This, in crude language, was\ncertainly in her cards, though, being a nice and charming girl, she\nmight camouflage it cleverly to herself and others. Her eyes, on each\nman in turn when the shooting expedition was being discussed, revealed\nher part in the little intrigue clearly enough. It was all, thus far, as\ncommonplace as could be.\n\nBut there were two more hands Headley had to read--his own and his\nfriend's; and these, he admitted honestly, were not so easy. To take his\nown first. It was true he was fond of the girl and had often tried to\nmake up his mind to ask her. Without being conceited, he had good reason\nto believe his affection was returned and that she would accept him.\nThere was no ecstatic love on either side, for he was no longer a boy of\ntwenty, nor was she unscathed by tempestuous love affairs that had\nscorched the first bloom from her face and heart. But they understood\none another; they were an honest couple; she was tired of flirting;\nboth wanted to marry and settle down. Unless a better man turned up she\nprobably would say \"Yes\" without humbug or delay. It was this last\nreflection that brought him to the final hand he had to read.\n\nHere he was puzzled. Arthur Deane's role in the teacup strategy, for the\nfirst time since they had known one another, seemed strange, uncertain.\nWhy? Because, though paying no attention to the girl openly, he met her\nclandestinely, unknown to the rest of the house-party, and above all\nwithout telling his intimate pal--at three o'clock in the morning.\n\nThe house-party was in full swing, with a touch of that wild, reckless\ngaiety which followed the end of the war: \"Let us be happy before a\nworse thing comes upon us,\" was in many hearts. After a crowded day they\ndanced till early in the morning, while doubtful weather prevented the\nearly shooting expedition after duck. The third night Headley contrived\nto disappear early to bed. He lay there thinking. He was puzzled over\nhis friend's role, over the clandestine meeting in particular. It was\nthe morning before, waking very early, he had been drawn to the window\nby an unusual sound--the cry of a bird. Was it a bird? In all his\nexperience he had never heard such a curious, half-singing call before.\nHe listened a moment, thinking it must have been a dream, yet with the\nodd cry still ringing in his ears. It was repeated close beneath his\nopen window, a long, low-pitched cry with three distinct following notes\nin it.\n\nHe sat up in bed and listened hard. No bird that he knew could make such\nsounds. But it was not repeated a third time, and out of sheer curiosity\nhe went to the window and looked out. Dawn was creeping over the distant\ndowns; he saw their outline in the grey pearly light; he saw the lawn\nbelow, stretching down to the little river at the bottom, where a\ncurtain of faint mist hung in the air. And on this lawn he also saw\nArthur Deane--with Iris Manning.\n\nOf course, he reflected, they were going after the duck. He turned to\nlook at his watch; it was three o'clock. The same glance, however,\nshowed him his gun standing in the corner. So they were going without a\ngun. A sharp pang of unexpected jealousy shot through him. He was just\ngoing to shout out something or other, wishing them good luck, or asking\nif they had found another gun, perhaps, when a cold touch crept down his\nspine. The same instant his heart contracted. Deane had followed the\ngirl into the summer-house, which stood on the right. It was _not_ the\nshooting expedition at all. Arthur was meeting her for another purpose.\nThe blood flowed back, filling his head. He felt an eavesdropper, a\nsneak, a detective; but, for all that, he felt also jealous. And his\njealousy seemed chiefly because Arthur had not told him.\n\nOf this, then, he lay thinking in bed on the third night. The following\nday he had said nothing, but had crossed the corridor and put the gun in\nhis friend's room. Arthur, for his part, had said nothing either. For\nthe first time in their long, long friendship, there lay a secret\nbetween them. To Headley the unexpected revelation came with pain.\n\nFor something like a quarter of a century these two had been bosom\nfriends; they had camped together, been in the army together, taken\ntheir pleasure together, each the full confidant of the other in all the\nthings that go to make up men's lives. Above all, Headley had been the\none and only recipient of Arthur's unhappy love story. He knew the girl,\nknew his friend's deep passion, and also knew his terrible pain when she\nwas lost at sea. Arthur was burnt out, finished, out of the running, so\nfar as marriage was concerned. He was not a man to love a second time.\nIt was a great and poignant tragedy. Headley, as confidant, knew all.\nBut more than that--Arthur, on his side, knew his friend's weakness for\nIris Manning, knew that a marriage was still possible and likely between\nthem. They were true as steel to one another, and each man, oddly\nenough, had once saved the other's life, thus adding to the strength of\na great natural tie.\n\nYet now one of them, feigning innocence by day, even indifference,\nsecretly met his friend's girl by night, and kept the matter to himself.\nIt seemed incredible. With his own eyes Headley had seen him on the\nlawn, passing in the faint grey light through the mist into the\nsummer-house, where the girl had just preceded him. He had not seen her\nface, but he had seen the skirt sweep round the corner of the wooden\npillar. He had not waited to see them come out again.\n\nSo he now lay wondering what role his old friend was playing in this\nlittle intrigue that their hostess, Mrs. Blondin, helped to stage. And,\noddly enough, one minor detail stayed in his mind with a curious\nvividness. As naturalist, hunter, nature-lover, the cry of that strange\nbird, with its three mournful notes, perplexed him exceedingly.\n\nA knock came at his door, and the door pushed open before he had time to\nanswer. Deane himself came in.\n\n\"Wise man,\" he exclaimed in an easy tone, \"got off to bed. Iris was\nasking where you were.\" He sat down on the edge of the mattress, where\nHeadley was lying with a cigarette and an open book he had not read. The\nold sense of intimacy and comradeship rose in the latter's heart. Doubt\nand suspicion faded. He prized his great friendship. He met the familiar\neyes. \"Impossible,\" he said to himself, \"absolutely impossible! He's not\nplaying a game; he's not a rotter!\" He pushed over his cigarette case,\nand Arthur lighted one.\n\n\"Done in,\" he remarked shortly, with the first puff. \"Can't stand it any\nmore. I'm off to town to-morrow.\"\n\nHeadley stared in amazement. \"Fed up already?\" he asked. \"Why, I rather\nlike it. It's quite amusing. What's wrong, old man?\"\n\n\"This match-making,\" said Deane bluntly. \"Always throwing that girl at\nmy head. If it's not the duck-shooting stunt at 3 a. m., it's something\nelse. She doesn't care for me and I don't care for her. Besides----\"\n\nHe stopped, and the expression of his face changed suddenly. A sad,\nquiet look of tender yearning came into his clear brown eyes.\n\n\"_You_ know, Dick,\" he went on in a low, half-reverent tone. \"I don't\nwant to marry. I never can.\"\n\nDick's heart stirred within him. \"Mary,\" he said, understandingly.\n\nThe other nodded, as though the memories were still too much for him.\n\"I'm still miserably lonely for her,\" he said. \"Can't help it simply.\nI feel utterly lost without her. Her memory to me is everything.\" He\nlooked deep into his pal's eyes. \"I'm married to that,\" he added very\nfirmly.\n\nThey pulled their cigarettes a moment in silence. They belonged to the\nmale type that conceals emotion behind schoolboy language.\n\n\"It's hard luck,\" said Headley gently, \"rotten luck, old man, I\nunderstand.\" Arthur's head nodded several times in succession as he\nsmoked. He made no remark for some minutes. Then presently he said, as\nthough it had no particular importance--for thus old friends show\nfrankness to each other--\"Besides, anyhow, it's you the girl's dying\nfor, not me. She's blind as a bat, old Blondin. Even when I'm with\nher--thrust with her by that old matchmaker for my sins--it's you she\ntalks about. All the talk leads up to you and yours. She's devilish fond\nof you.\" He paused a moment and looked searchingly into his friend's\nface. \"I say, old man--are you--I mean, do you mean business there?\nBecause--excuse me interfering--but you'd better be careful. She's a\ngood sort, you know, after all.\"\n\n\"Yes, Arthur, I do like her a bit,\" Dick told him frankly. \"But I can't\nmake up my mind quite. You see, it's like this----\"\n\nAnd they talked the matter over as old friends will, until finally\nArthur chucked his cigarette into the grate and got up to go. \"Dead to\nthe world,\" he said, with a yawn. \"I'm off to bed. Give you a chance,\ntoo,\" he added with a laugh. It was after midnight.\n\nThe other turned, as though something had suddenly occurred to him.\n\n\"By the bye, Arthur,\" he said abruptly, \"what bird makes this sound? I\nheard it the other morning. Most extraordinary cry. You know everything\nthat flies. What is it?\" And, to the best of his ability, he imitated\nthe strange three-note cry he had heard in the dawn two mornings before.\n\nTo his amazement and keen distress, his friend, with a sound like a\nstifled groan, sat down upon the bed without a word. He seemed startled.\nHis face was white. He stared. He passed a hand, as in pain, across his\nforehead.\n\n\"Do it again,\" he whispered, in a hushed, nervous voice. \"Once\nagain--for me.\"\n\nAnd Headley, looking at him, repeated the queer notes, a sudden\nrevulsion of feeling rising through him. \"He's fooling me after all,\"\nran in his heart, \"my old, old pal----\"\n\nThere was silence for a full minute. Then Arthur, stammering a bit, said\nlamely, a certain hush in his voice still: \"Where in the world did you\nhear that--and _when_?\"\n\nDick Headley sat up in bed. He was not going to lose this friendship,\nwhich, to him, was more than the love of woman. He must help. His pal\nwas in distress and difficulty. There were circumstances, he realized,\nthat might be too strong for the best man in the world--sometimes. No,\nby God, he would play the game and help him out!\n\n\"Arthur, old chap,\" he said affectionately, almost tenderly. \"I heard it\ntwo mornings ago--on the lawn below my window here. It woke me up. I--I\nwent to look. Three in the morning, about.\"\n\nArthur amazed him then. He first took another cigarette and lit it\nsteadily. He looked round the room vaguely, avoiding, it seemed, the\nother's eyes. Then he turned, pain in his face, and gazed straight at\nhim.\n\n\"You saw--nothing?\" he asked in a louder voice, but a voice that had\nsomething very real and true in it. It reminded Headley of the voice he\nheard when he was fainting from exhaustion, and Arthur had said, \"Take\nit, I tell you. I'm all right,\" and had passed over the flask, though\nhis own throat and sight and heart were black with thirst. It was a\nvoice that had command in it, a voice that did not lie because it could\nnot--yet did lie and could lie--when occasion warranted.\n\nHeadley knew a second's awful struggle.\n\n\"Nothing,\" he answered quietly, after his little pause. \"Why?\"\n\nFor perhaps two minutes his friend hid his face. Then he looked up.\n\n\"Only,\" he whispered, \"because that was our secret lover's cry. It\nseems so strange you heard it and not I. I've felt her so close of\nlate--Mary!\"\n\nThe white face held very steady, the firm lips did not tremble, but it\nwas evident that the heart knew anguish that was deep and poignant. \"We\nused it to call each other--in the old days. It was our private call. No\none else in the world knew it but Mary and myself.\"\n\nDick Headley was flabbergasted. He had no time to think, however.\n\n\"It's odd you should hear it and not I,\" his friend repeated. He looked\nhurt, bewildered, wounded. Then suddenly his face brightened. \"I know,\"\nhe cried suddenly. \"You and I are pretty good pals. There's a tie\nbetween us and all that. Why, it's tel--telepathy, or whatever they call\nit. That's what it is.\"\n\nHe got up abruptly. Dick could think of nothing to say but to repeat\nthe other's words. \"Of course, of course. That's it,\" he said,\n\"telepathy.\" He stared--anywhere but at his pal.\n\n\"Night, night!\" he heard from the door, and before he could do more than\nreply in similar vein Arthur was gone.\n\nHe lay for a long time, thinking, thinking. He found it all very\nstrange. Arthur in this emotional state was new to him. He turned it\nover and over. Well, he had known good men behave queerly when wrought\nup. That recognition of the bird's cry was strange, of course, but--he\nknew the cry of a bird when he heard it, though he might not know the\nactual bird. That was no human whistle. Arthur was--inventing. No,\nthat was not possible. He was worked up, then, over something, a bit\nhysterical perhaps. It had happened before, though in a milder way, when\nhis heart attacks came on. They affected his nerves and head a little,\nit seemed. He was a deep sort, Dick remembered. Thought turned and\ntwisted in him, offering various solutions, some absurd, some likely. He\nwas a nervous, high-strung fellow underneath, Arthur was. He remembered\nthat. Also he remembered, anxiously again, that his heart was not quite\nsound, though what that had to do with the present tangle he did not\nsee.\n\nYet it was hardly likely that he would bring in Mary as an invention, an\nexcuse--Mary, the most sacred memory in his life, the deepest, truest,\nbest. He had sworn, anyhow, that Iris Manning meant nothing to him.\n\nThrough all his speculations, behind every thought, ran this horrid\nworking jealousy. It poisoned him. It twisted truth. It moved like\na wicked snake through mind and heart. Arthur, gripped by his new,\nabsorbing love for Iris Manning, lied. He couldn't believe it, he didn't\nbelieve it, he wouldn't believe it--yet jealousy persisted in keeping\nthe idea alive in him. It was a dreadful thought. He fell asleep on it.\n\nBut his sleep was uneasy with feverish, unpleasant dreams that rambled\non in fragments without coming to conclusion. Then, suddenly, the cry of\nthe strange bird came into his dream. He started, turned over, woke up.\nThe cry still continued. It was not a dream. He jumped out of bed.\n\nThe room was grey with early morning, the air fresh and a little chill.\nThe cry came floating over the lawn as before. He looked out, pain\nclutching at his heart. Two figures stood below, a man and a girl, and\nthe man was Arthur Deane. Yet the light was so dim, the morning being\novercast, that had he not expected to see his friend, he would scarcely\nhave recognized the familiar form in that shadowy outline that stood\nclose beside the girl. Nor could he, perhaps, have recognized Iris\nManning. Their backs were to him. They moved away, disappearing\nagain into the little summer-house, and this time--he saw it beyond\nquestion--the two were hand in hand. Vague and uncertain as the figures\nwere in the early twilight, he was sure of that.\n\nThe first disagreeable sensation of surprise, disgust, anger that\nsickened him turned quickly, however, into one of another kind\naltogether. A curious feeling of superstitious dread crept over him, and\na shiver ran again along his nerves.\n\n\"Hallo, Arthur!\" he called from the window. There was no answer. His\nvoice was certainly audible in the summer-house. But no one came. He\nrepeated the call a little louder, waited in vain for thirty seconds,\nthen came, the same moment, to a decision that even surprised himself,\nfor the truth we he could no longer bear the suspense of waiting. He\nmust see his friend at once and have it out with him. He turned and went\ndeliberately down the corridor to Deane's bedroom. He would wait there\nfor his return and know the truth from his own lips. But also another\nthought had come--the gun. He had quite forgotten it--the safety-catch\nwas out of order. He had not warned him.\n\nHe found the door closed but not locked; opening it cautiously, he went\nin.\n\nBut the unexpectedness of what he saw gave him a genuine shock. He could\nhardly suppress a cry. Everything in the room was neat and orderly, no\nsign of disturbance anywhere, and it was not empty. There, in bed,\nbefore his very eyes, was Arthur. The clothes were turned back a little;\nhe saw the pyjamas open at the throat; he lay sound asleep, deeply,\npeacefully asleep.\n\nSo surprised, indeed, was Headley that, after staring a moment, almost\nunable to believe his sight, he then put out a hand and touched him\ngently, cautiously on the forehead. But Arthur did not stir or wake; his\nbreathing remained deep and regular. He lay sleeping like a baby.\n\nHeadley glanced round the room, noticed the gun in the corner where he\nhimself had put it the day before, and then went out, closing the door\nbehind him softly.\n\nArthur Deane, however, did not leave for London as he had intended,\nbecause he felt unwell and kept to his room upstairs. It was only a\nslight attack, apparently, but he must lie quiet. There was no need to\nsend for a doctor; he knew just what to do; these passing attacks were\ncommon enough. He would be up and about again very shortly. Headley kept\nhim company, saying no single word of what had happened. He read aloud\nto him, chatted and cheered him up. He had no other visitors. Within\ntwenty-four hours he was himself once more. He and his friend had\nplanned to leave the following day.\n\nBut Headley, that last night in the house, felt an odd uneasiness and\ncould not sleep. All night long he sat up reading, looking out of the\nwindow, smoking in a chair where he could see the stars and hear the\nwind and watch the huge shadow of the downs. The house lay very still\nas the hours passed. He dozed once or twice. Why did he sit up in this\nunnecessary way? Why did he leave his door ajar so that the slightest\nsound of another door opening, or of steps passing along the corridor,\nmust reach him? Was he anxious for his friend? Was he suspicious? What\nwas his motive, what his secret purpose?\n\nHeadley did not know, and could not even explain it to himself. He felt\nuneasy, that was all he knew. Not for worlds would he have let himself\ngo to sleep or lose full consciousness that night. It was very odd; he\ncould not understand himself. He merely obeyed a strange, deep instinct\nthat bade him wait and watch. His nerves were jumpy; in his heart lay\nsome unexplicable anxiety that was pain.\n\nThe dawn came slowly; the stars faded one by one; the line of the downs\nshowed their grand bare curves against the sky; cool and cloudless the\nSeptember morning broke above the little Sussex pleasure house. He sat\nand watched the east grow bright. The early wind brought a scent of\nmarshes and the sea into his room. Then suddenly it brought a sound as\nwell--the haunting cry of the bird with its three following notes. And\nthis time there came an answer.\n\nHeadley knew then why he had sat up. A wave of emotion swept him as\nhe heard--an emotion he could not attempt to explain. Dread, wonder,\nlonging seized him. For some seconds he could not leave his chair\nbecause he did not dare to. The low-pitched cries of call and answer\nrang in his ears like some unearthly music. With an effort he started\nup, went to the window and looked out.\n\nThis time the light was sharp and clear. No mist hung in the air. He saw\nthe crimsoning sky reflected like a band of shining metal in the reach\nof river beyond the lawn. He saw dew on the grass, a sheet of pallid\nsilver. He saw the summer-house, empty of any passing figures. For this\ntime the two figures stood plainly in view before his eyes upon the\nlawn. They stood there, hand in hand, sharply defined, unmistakable in\nform and outline, their faces, moreover, turned upwards to the window\nwhere he stood, staring down in pain and amazement at them--at Arthur\nDeane and _Mary_.\n\nThey looked into his eyes. He tried to call, but no sound left his\nthroat. They began to move across the dew-soaked lawn. They went, he\nsaw, with a floating, undulating motion towards the river shining in the\ndawn. Their feet left no marks upon the grass. They reached the bank,\nbut did not pause in their going. They rose a little, floating like\nsilent birds across the river. Turning in mid-stream, they smiled\ntowards him, waved their hands with a gesture of farewell, then, rising\nstill higher into the opal dawn, their figures passed into the distance\nslowly, melting away against the sunlit marshes and the shadowing downs\nbeyond. They disappeared.\n\nHeadley never quite remembers actually leaving the window, crossing the\nroom, or going down the passage. Perhaps he went at once, perhaps he\nstood gazing into the air above the downs for a considerable time,\nunable to tear himself away. He was in some marvellous dream, it seemed.\nThe next thing he remembers, at any rate, was that he was standing\nbeside his friend's bed, trying, in his distraught anguish of heart, to\ncall him from that sleep which, on earth, knows no awakening.\n\n\n\n\nVIII\n\nEGYPTIAN SORCERY\n\n\n1\n\nSanfield paused as he was about to leave the Underground station at\nVictoria, and cursed the weather. When he left the City it was fine; now\nit was pouring with rain, and he had neither overcoat nor umbrella. Not\na taxi was discoverable in the dripping gloom. He would get soaked\nbefore he reached his rooms in Sloane Street.\n\nHe stood for some minutes, thinking how vile London was in February, and\nhow depressing life was in general. He stood also, in that moment,\nthough he knew it not, upon the edge of a singular adventure. Looking\nback upon it in later years, he often remembered this particularly\nwretched moment of a pouring wet February evening, when everything\nseemed wrong, and Fate had loaded the dice against him, even in the\nmatter of weather and umbrellas.\n\nFate, however, without betraying her presence, was watching him through\nthe rain and murk; and Fate, that night, had strange, mysterious eyes.\nFantastic cards lay up her sleeve. The rain, his weariness and\ndepression, his physical fatigue especially, seemed the conditions she\nrequired before she played these curious cards. Something new and\nwonderful fluttered close. Romance flashed by him across the driving\nrain and touched his cheek. He was too exasperated to be aware of it.\n\nThings had gone badly that day at the office, where he was junior\npartner in a small firm of engineers. Threatened trouble at the works\nhad come to a head. A strike seemed imminent. To add to his annoyance,\na new client, whose custom was of supreme importance, had just\ncomplained bitterly of the delay in the delivery of his machinery. The\nsenior partners had left the matter in Sanfield's hands; he had not\nsucceeded. The angry customer swore he would hold the firm to its\ncontract. They could deliver or pay up--whichever suited them. The\njunior partner had made a mess of things.\n\nThe final words on the telephone still rang in his ears as he stood\nsheltering under the arcade, watching the downpour, and wondering\nwhether he should make a dash for it or wait on the chance of its\nclearing up--when a further blow was dealt him as the rain-soaked poster\nof an evening paper caught his eye: \"Riots in Egypt. Heavy Fall in\nEgyptian Securities,\" he read with blank dismay. Buying a paper\nhe turned feverishly to the City article--to find his worst fears\nconfirmed. Delta Lands, in which nearly all his small capital was\ninvested, had declined a quarter on the news, and would evidently\ndecline further still. The riots were going on in the towns nearest to\ntheir property. Banks had been looted, crops destroyed; the trouble was\ndeep-seated.\n\nSo grave was the situation that mere weather seemed suddenly of no\naccount at all. He walked home doggedly in the drenching rain, paying\nless attention to it than if it had been Scotch mist. The water streamed\nfrom his hat, dripped down his back and neck, splashed him with mud and\ngrime from head to foot. He was soaked to the skin. He hardly noticed\nit. His capital had depreciated by half, at least, and possibly was\naltogether lost; his position at the office was insecure. How could mere\nweather matter?\n\nSitting, eventually, before his fire in dry clothes, after an apology\nfor a dinner he had no heart to eat, he reviewed the situation. He faced\na possible total loss of his private capital. Next, the position of his\nfirm caused him grave uneasiness, since, apart from his own mishandling\nof the new customer, the threatened strike might ruin it completely;\na long strain on its limited finances was out of the question. George\nSanfield certainly saw things at their worst. He was now thirty-five.\nA fresh start--the mere idea of it made him shudder--occurred as a\npossibility in the near future. Vitality, indeed, was at a low ebb, it\nseemed. Mental depression, great physical fatigue, weariness of life in\ngeneral made his spirits droop alarmingly, so that almost he felt tired\nof living. His tie with existence, at any rate, just then was\ndangerously weak.\n\nThought turned next to the man on whose advice he had staked his all in\nDelta Lands. Morris had important Egyptian interests in various big\ncompanies and enterprises along the Nile. He had first come to the firm\nwith a letter of introduction upon some business matter, which the\njunior partner had handled so successfully that acquaintance thus formed\nhad ripened into a more personal tie. The two men had much in common;\ntheir temperaments were suited; understanding grew between them; they\nfelt at home and comfortable with one another. They became friends; they\nfelt a mutual confidence. When Morris paid his rare visits to England,\nthey spent much time together; and it was on one of these occasions that\nthe matter of the Egyptian shares was mentioned, Morris urgently\nadvising their purchase.\n\nSanfield explained his own position clearly enough, but his friend was\nso confident and optimistic that the purchase eventually had been made.\nThere had been, moreover, Sanfield now remembered, the flavour of a\npeculiarly intimate and personal kind about the deal. He had remarked\nit, with a touch of surprise, at the moment, though really it seemed\nnatural enough. Morris was very earnest, holding his friend's interest\nat heart; he was affectionate almost.\n\n\"I'd like to do you this good turn, old man,\" he said. \"I have the\nstrong feeling, somehow, that I owe you this, though heaven alone knows\nwhy!\" After a pause he added, half shyly: \"It may be one of those old\nmemories we hear about nowadays cropping up out of some previous life\ntogether.\" Before the other could reply, he went on to explain that only\nthree men were in the parent syndicate, the shares being unobtainable.\n\"I'll set some of my own aside for you--four thousand or so, if you\nlike.\"\n\nThey laughed together; Sanfield thanked him warmly; the deal was carried\nout. But the recipient of the favour had wondered a little at the sudden\nincrease of intimacy even while he liked it and responded.\n\nHad he been a fool, he now asked himself, to swallow the advice, putting\nall his eggs into a single basket? He knew very little about Morris\nafter all.... Yet, while reflection showed him that the advice was\nhonest, and the present riots no fault of the adviser's, he found his\nthoughts turning in a steady stream towards the man. The affairs of the\nfirm took second place. It was Morris, with his deep-set eyes, his\ncurious ways, his dark skin burnt brick-red by a fierce Eastern sun; it\nwas Morris, looking almost like an Egyptian, who stood before him as he\nsat thinking gloomily over his dying fire.\n\nHe longed to talk with him, to ask him questions, to seek advice. He saw\nhim very vividly against the screen of thought; Morris stood beside him\nnow, gazing out across the limitless expanse of tawny sand. He had in\nhis eyes the \"distance\" that sailors share with men whose life has been\nspent amid great trackless wastes. Morris, moreover, now he came to\nthink of it, seemed always a little out of place in England. He had few\nrelatives and, apparently, no friends; he was always intensely pleased\nwhen the time came to return to his beloved Nile. He had once mentioned\ncasually a sister who kept house for him when duty detained him in\nCairo, but, even here, he was something of an Oriental, rarely speaking\nof his women folk. Egypt, however, plainly drew him like a magnet.\nResistance involved disturbance in his being, even ill-health. Egypt\nwas \"home\" to him, and his friend, though he had never been there, felt\nhimself its potent spell.\n\nAnother curious trait Sanfield remembered, too--his friend's childish\nsuperstition; his belief, or half-belief, in magic and the supernatural.\nSanfield, amused, had ascribed it to the long sojourn in a land where\nanything unusual is at once ascribed to spiritual agencies. Morris\nowed his entire fortune, if his tale could be believed, to the\nmagical apparition of an unearthly kind in some lonely _wadi_ among\nthe Bedouins. A sand-diviner had influenced another successful\nspeculation.... He was a picturesque figure, whichever way one took him:\nyet a successful business man into the bargain.\n\nThese reflections and memories, on the other hand, brought small comfort\nto the man who had tempted Fate by following his advice. It was only a\nlittle strange how Morris now dominated his thoughts, directing them\ntowards himself. Morris was in Egypt at the moment.\n\nHe went to bed at length, filled with uneasy misgivings, but for a long\ntime he could not sleep. He tossed restlessly, his mind still running on\nthe subject of his long reflections. He ached with tiredness. He dropped\noff at last. Then came a nightmare dream, in which the firm's works were\nsold for nearly nothing to an old Arab sheikh who wished to pay for\nthem--in goats. He woke up in a cold perspiration. He had uneasy\nthoughts. His fancy was travelling. He could not rest.\n\nTo distract his mind, he turned on the light and tried to read, and,\neventually, towards morning, fell into a sleep of sheer exhaustion. And\nhis final thought--he knew not exactly why--was a sentence Morris had\nmade use of long ago: \"I feel I owe you a good turn; I'd like to do\nsomething for you....\"\n\nThis was the memory in his mind as he slipped off into unconsciousness.\n\nBut what happens when the mind is unconscious and the tired body lies\nsubmerged in deep sleep, no man, they say, can really tell.\n\n\n2\n\nThe next thing he knew he was walking along a sun-baked street in some\nforeign town that was familiar, although, at first, its name escaped\nhim. Colour, softness, and warmth pervaded it; there was sparkle and\nlightness in the exhilarating air; it was an Eastern town.\n\nThough early morning, a number of people were already stirring; strings\nof camels passed him, loaded with clover, bales of merchandise, and\nfirewood. Gracefully-draped women went by silently, carrying water jars\nof burnt clay upon their heads. Rude wooden shutters were being taken\ndown in the bazaars; the smoke of cooking-fires rose in the blue spirals\nthrough the quiet air. He felt strangely at home and happy. The light,\nthe radiance stirred him. He passed a mosque from which the worshippers\ncame pouring in a stream of colour.\n\nYet, though an Eastern town, it was not wholly Oriental, for he saw that\nmany of the buildings were of semi-European design, and that the natives\nsometimes wore European dress, except for the fez upon the head. Among\nthem were Europeans, too. Staring into the faces of the passers-by he\nfound, to his vexation, that he could not focus sight as usual, and that\nthe nearer he approached, the less clearly he discerned the features.\nThe faces, upon close attention, at once grew shadowy, merged into each\nother, or, in some odd fashion, melted into the dazzling sunshine that\nwas their background. All his attempts in this direction failed;\nimpatience seized him; of surprise, however, he was not conscious. Yet\nthis mingled vagueness and intensity seemed perfectly natural.\n\nFilled with a stirring curiosity, he made a strong effort to concentrate\nhis attention, only to discover that this vagueness, this difficulty of\nfocus, lay in his own being, too. He wandered on, unaware exactly where\nhe was going, yet not much perturbed, since there was an objective in\nview, he knew, and this objective _must_ eventually be reached. Its\nnature, however, for the moment entirely eluded him.\n\nThe sense of familiarity, meanwhile, increased; he had been in this town\nbefore, although not quite within recoverable memory. It seemed,\nperhaps, the general atmosphere, rather than the actual streets, he\nknew; a certain perfume in the air, a tang of indefinable sweetness, a\nvitality in the radiant sunshine. The dark faces that he could not\nfocus, he yet knew; the flowing garments of blue and red and yellow, the\nsoftly-slippered feet, the slouching camels, the burning human eyes that\nfaded ere he fully caught them--the entire picture in this blazing\nsunlight lay half-hidden, half-revealed. And an extraordinary sense of\nhappiness and well-being flooded him as he walked; he felt at home;\ncomfort and bliss stole over him. Almost he knew his way about. This was\na place he loved and knew.\n\nThe complete silence, moreover, did not strike him as peculiar until,\nsuddenly, it was broken in a startling fashion. He heard his own name\nspoken. It sounded close beside his ear.\n\n\"George Sanfield!\" The voice was familiar. Morris called him. He\nrealized then the truth. He was, of course, in Cairo.\n\nYet, instead of turning to discover the speaker at his side, he hurried\nforward, as though he knew that the voice had come through distance. His\nconsciousness cleared and lightened; he felt more alive; his eyes now\nfocused the passers-by without difficulty. He was there to find Morris,\nand Morris was directing him. All was explained and natural again. He\nhastened. But, even while he hastened, he knew that his personal desire\nto speak with his friend about Egyptian shares and Delta Lands was not\nhis single object. Behind it, further in among as yet unstirring\nshadows, lay another deeper purpose. Yet he did not trouble about it,\nnor make a conscious effort at discovery. Morris was doing him that\n\"good turn I feel I owe you.\" This conviction filled him overwhelmingly.\nThe question of how and why did not once occur to him. A strange, great\nhappiness rose in him.\n\nUpon the outskirts of the town now, he found himself approaching a large\nbuilding in the European style, with wide verandas and a cultivated\ngarden filled with palm trees. A well-kept drive of yellow sand led to\nits chief entrance, and the man in khaki drill and riding-breeches\nwalking along this drive, not ten yards in front of him, was--Morris.\nHe overtook him, but his cry of welcome recognition was not answered.\nMorris, walking with bowed head and stooping shoulders, seemed intensely\npreoccupied; he had not heard the call.\n\n\"Here I am, old fellow!\" exclaimed his friend, holding out a hand. \"I've\ncome, you see...!\" then paused aghast before the altered face. Morris\npaid no attention. He walked straight on as though he had not heard. It\nwas the distraught and anguished expression on the drawn and haggard\nfeatures that impressed the other most. The silence he took without\nsurprise.\n\nIt was the pain and suffering in his friend that occupied him. The dark\nrims beneath heavy eyes, the evidence of sleepless nights, of long\nanxiety and ceaseless dread, afflicted him with their too-plain story.\nThe man was overwhelmed with some great sorrow. Sanfield forgot his\npersonal trouble; this larger, deeper grief usurped its place entirely.\n\n\"Morris! Morris!\" he cried yet more eagerly than before. \"I've come, you\nsee. Tell me what's the matter. I believe--that I can--help you...!\"\n\nThe other turned, looking past him through the air. He made no answer.\nThe eyes went through him. He walked straight on, and Sanfield walked at\nhis side in silence. Through the large door they passed together, Morris\npaying as little attention to him as though he were not there, and in\nthe small chamber they now entered, evidently a waiting-room, an\nEgyptian servant approached, uttered some inaudible words, and then\nwithdrew, leaving them alone together.\n\nIt seemed that time leaped forward, yet stood still; the passage of\nminutes, that is to say, was irregular, almost fanciful. Whether the\ninterval was long or short, however, Morris spent it pacing up and down\nthe little room, his hands thrust deep into his pockets, his mind\noblivious of all else but his absorbing anxiety and grief. To his\nfriend, who watched him by the wall with intense desire to help, he paid\nno attention. The latter's spoken words went by him, entirely unnoticed;\nhe gave no sign of seeing him; his eyes, as he paced up and down,\nmuttering inaudibly to himself, were fixed every few seconds on an inner\ndoor. Beyond that door, Sanfield now divined, lay someone who hesitated\non the narrow frontier between life and death.\n\nIt opened suddenly and a man, in overall and rubber gloves, came out,\nhis face grave yet with faint signs of hope about it--a doctor, clearly,\nstraight from the operating table. Morris, standing rigid in his tracks,\nlistened to something spoken, for the lips were in movement, though no\nwords were audible. The operation, Sanfield divined, had been\nsuccessful, though danger was still present. The two men passed out,\nthen, into the hall and climbed a wide staircase to the floor above,\nSanfield following noiselessly, though so close that he could touch\nthem. Entering a large, airy room where French windows, carefully shaded\nwith green blinds opened on to a veranda, they approached a bed. Two\nnurses bent over it. The occupant was at first invisible.\n\nEvents had moved with curious rapidity. All this had happened, it\nseemed, in a single moment, yet with the irregular effect already\nmentioned which made Sanfield feel it might, equally, have lasted hours.\nBut, as he stood behind Morris and the surgeon at the bed, the deeps in\nhim opened suddenly, and he trembled under a shock of intense emotion\nthat he could not understand. As with a stroke of lightning some\nheavenly fire set his heart aflame with yearning. The very soul in him\nbroke loose with passionate longing that _must_ find satisfaction. It\ncame to him in a single instant with the certain knowledge of an\nunconquerable conviction. Hidden, yet ever waiting, among the broken\ncenturies, there now leaped upon him this flash of memory--the memory of\nsome sweet and ancient love Time might veil yet could not kill.\n\nHe ran forward, past the surgeon and the nurses, past Morris who bent\nabove the bed with a face ghastly from anxiety. He gazed down upon the\nfair girl lying there, her unbound hair streaming over the pillow. He\nsaw, and he remembered. And an uncontrollable cry of recognition left\nhis lips....\n\nThe irregularity of the passing minutes became so marked then, that he\nmight well have passed outside their measure altogether, beyond what men\ncall Time; duration, interval, both escaped. Alone and free with his\neternal love, he was safe from all confinement, free, it seemed, either\nof time or space. His friend, however, was vaguely with him during\nthe amazing instant. He felt acutely aware of the need each had,\nrespectively, for the other, born of a heritage the Past had hidden\nover-long. Each, it was clear, could do the other a good turn....\nSanfield, though unable to describe or disentangle later, knew, while it\nlasted, this joy of full, delicious understanding....\n\nThe strange, swift instant of recognition passed and disappeared. The\ncry, Sanfield realized, on coming back to the Present, had been\nsoundless and inaudible as before. No one observed him; no one stirred.\nThe girl, on that bed beside the opened windows, lay evidently dying.\nHer breath came in gasps, her chest heaved convulsively, each attempt\nat recovery was slower and more painful than the one before. She was\nunconscious. Sometimes her breathing seemed to stop. It grew weaker, as\nthe pulse grew fainter. And Sanfield, transfixed as with paralysis,\nstood watching, waiting, an intolerable yearning in his heart to help.\nIt seemed to him that he waited with a purpose.\n\nThis purpose suddenly became clear. He knew why he waited. There was\nhelp to be given. He was the one to give it.\n\nThe girl's vitality and ebbing nerves, her entire physical organism now\nfading so quickly towards that final extinction which meant death--could\nthese but be stimulated by a new tide of life, the danger-point now fast\napproaching might be passed, and recovery must follow. This impetus, he\nknew suddenly, he could supply. How, he could not tell. It flashed upon\nhim from beyond the stars, as from ancient store of long-forgotten,\nlong-neglected knowledge. It was enough that he felt confident and sure.\nHis soul burned within him; the strength of an ancient and unconquerable\nlove rose through his being. He would try.\n\nThe doctor, he saw, was in the act of giving his last aid in the form of\na hypodermic injection, Morris and the nurses looking on. Sanfield\nobserved the sharp quick rally, only too faint, too slight; he saw the\ncollapse that followed. The doctor, shrugging his shoulders, turned with\na look that could not express itself in words, and Morris, burying his\nface in his hands, knelt by the bed, shaken with convulsive sobbing. It\nwas the end.\n\nIn which moment, precisely, the strange paralysis that had bound\nSanfield momentarily, was lifted from his being, and an impelling force,\nobeying his immense desire, invaded him. He knew how to act. His will,\ntaught long ago, yet long-forgotten, was set free.\n\n\"You have come back to me at last,\" he cried in his anguish and his\npower, though the voice was, as ever, inaudible and soundless, \"_I shall\nnot let you go!..._\"\n\nDrawn forward nearer and nearer to the bed, he leaned down, as if to\nkiss the pale lips and streaming hair. But his knowledge operated\nbetter than he knew. In the tremendous grip of that power which spins\nthe stars and suns, while drawing souls into manifestation upon a dozen\nplanets, he raced, he dived, he plunged, helpless, yet driven by the\ncreative stress of love and sacrifice towards some eternal purpose.\nCaught in what seemed a vortex of amazing force, he sank away, as a\nstraw is caught and sunk within the suction of a mighty whirlpool. His\nmemory of Morris, of the doctor, of the girl herself, passed utterly.\nHis entire personality became merged, lost, obliterated. He was aware of\nnothing; not even aware of nothingness. He lost consciousness....\n\n\n3\n\nThe reappearance was as sudden as the obliteration. He emerged. There\nhad been interval, duration, time. He was not aware of them. A spasm of\nblinding pain shot through him. He opened his eyes. His whole body was a\nsingle devouring pain. He felt cramped, confined, uncomfortable. He must\nescape. He thrashed about. Someone seized his arm and held it. With a\nsnarl he easily wrenched it free.\n\nHe was in bed. How had he come to this? An accident? He saw the faces of\nnurse and doctor bending over him, eager, amazed, surprised, a trifle\nfrightened. Vague memories floated to him. Who was he? Where had he come\nfrom? And where was ... where was ... someone ... who was dearer to him\nthan life itself? He looked about him: the room, the faces, the French\nwindows, the veranda, all seemed only half familiar. He looked, he\nsearched for ... someone ... but in vain....\n\nA spasm of violent pain burned through his body like a fire, and he shut\nhis eyes. He groaned. A voice sounded just above him: \"Take this, dear.\nTry and swallow a little. It will relieve you. Your brother will be back\nin a moment. You are much better already.\"\n\nHe looked up at the nurse; he drank what she gave him.\n\n\"My brother!\" he murmured. \"I don't understand. I have no brother.\"\nThirst came over him; he drained the glass. The nurse, wearing a\nstartled look, moved away. He watched her go. He pointed at her with his\nhand, meaning to say something that he instantly forgot--as he saw his\nown bare arm. Its dreadful thinness shocked him. He must have been ill\nfor months. The arm, wasted almost to nothing, showed the bone. He sank\nback exhausted, the sleeping draught began to take effect. The nurse\nreturned quietly to a chair beside the bed, from which she watched him\nwithout ceasing as the long minutes passed....\n\nHe found it difficult to collect his thoughts, to keep them in his mind\nwhen caught. There floated before him a series of odd scenes like\ncoloured pictures in an endless flow. He was unable to catch them.\nMorris was with him always. They were doing quite absurd, impossible\nthings. They rode together across the desert in the dawn, they wandered\nthrough old massive temples, they saw the sun set behind mud villages\nmid wavering palms, they drifted down a river in a sailing boat of\nquaint design. It had an enormous single sail. Together they visited\ntombs cut in the solid rock, hot airless corridors, and huge, dim,\nvaulted chambers underground. There was an icy wind by night, fierce\nburning sun by day. They watched vast troops of stars pass down a\nstupendous sky.... They knew delight and tasted wonder. Strange memories\ntouched them....\n\n\"Nurse!\" he called aloud, returning to himself again, and remembering\nthat he must speak with his friend about something--he failed to recall\nexactly what. \"Please ask Mr. Morris to come to me.\"\n\n\"At once, dear. He's only in the next room waiting for you to wake.\" She\nwent out quickly, and he heard her voice in the passage. It sank to a\nwhisper as she came back with Morris, yet every syllable reached him\ndistinctly:\n\n\"... and pay no attention if she wanders a little; just ignore it. She's\nturned the corner, thank God, and that's the chief thing.\" Each word he\nheard with wonder and perplexity, with increasing irritability too.\n\n\"I'm a hell of a wreck,\" he said, as Morris came, beaming, to the\nbedside. \"Have I been ill long? It's frightfully decent of you to come,\nold man.\"\n\nBut Morris, staggered at this greeting, stopped abruptly, half turning\nto the nurse for guidance. He seemed unable to find words. Sanfield\nwas extremely annoyed; he showed his feeling. \"I'm _not_ balmy, you\nold ass!\" he shouted. \"I'm all right again, though very weak. But I\nwanted to ask you--oh, I remember now--I wanted to ask you about\nmy--er--_Deltas_.\"\n\n\"My poor dear Maggie,\" stammered Morris, fumbling with his voice. \"Don't\nworry about your few shares, darling. Deltas are all right--it's _you_\nwe----\"\n\n\"Why, the devil, do you call me Maggie?\" snapped the other viciously.\n\"And 'darling'!\" He felt furious, exasperated. \"Have _you_ gone balmy,\nor have I? What in the world are you two up to?\" His fury tired him. He\nlay back upon his pillows, fuming. Morris took a chair beside the bed;\nhe put a hand gently on his wasted arm.\n\n\"My darling girl,\" he said, in what was intended to be a soothing\nvoice, though it stirred the sick man again to fury beyond expression,\n\"you must really keep quiet for a bit. You've had a very severe\noperation\"--his voice shook a little--\"but, thank God, you've pulled\nthrough and are now on the way to recovery. You are my sister Maggie. It\nwill all come back to you when you're rested----\"\n\n\"Maggie, indeed!\" interrupted the other, trying to sit up again, but too\nweak to compass it. \"Your sister! You bally idiot! Don't you know me? I\nwish to God the nurse wouldn't 'dear' me in that senseless way. And\nyou, with your atrocious 'darling,' I'm not your precious sister\nMaggie. I'm--I'm George San----\"\n\nBut even as he said it, there passed over him some dim lost fragment of\na wild, delicious memory he could not seize. Intense pleasure lay in it,\ncould he but recover it. He knew a sweet, forgotten joy. His broken,\ntroubled mind lay searching frantically but without success. It dazzled\nhim. It shook him with an indescribable emotion--of joy, of wonder, of\ndeep sweet confusion. A rapt happiness rose in him, yet pain, like a\nblack awful shutter, closed in upon the happiness at once. He remembered\na girl. But he remembered, too, that he had seen her die. Who was she?\nHad he lost her ... again...!\n\n\"My dear fellow,\" he faltered in a weaker voice to Morris, \"my\nbrain's in a whirl. I'm sorry. I suppose I've had some blasted\nconcussion--haven't I?\"\n\nBut the man beside his bed, he saw, was startled. An extraordinary look\ncame into his face, though he tried to hide it with a smile.\n\n\"My shares!\" cried Sanfield, with a half scream. \"Four thousand of\nthem!\"\n\nWhereupon Morris blanched. \"George Sanfield!\" he muttered, half to\nhimself, half to the nurse who hurried up. \"That voice! The very number\ntoo!\" He looked white and terrified, as if he had seen a ghost. A\nwhispered colloquy ensued between him and the nurse. It was inaudible.\n\n\"Now, dearest Maggie,\" he said at length, making evidently a tremendous\neffort, \"do try and lie quiet for a bit. Don't bother about George\nSanfield, my London friend. His shares are quite safe. You've heard me\nspeak of him. It's all right, my darling, quite all right. Oh, believe\nme! I'm your brother.\"\n\n\"Maggie...!\" whispered the man to himself upon the bed, whereupon Morris\nstooped, and, to his intense horror, kissed him on the cheek. But his\nhorror seemed merged at once in another personality that surged through\nand over his entire being, drowning memory and recognition hopelessly.\n\"Darling,\" he murmured. He realized that he was mad, of course. It\nseemed he fainted....\n\nThe momentary unconsciousness soon passed, at any rate. He opened his\neyes again. He saw a palm tree out of the window. He knew positively he\nwas _not_ mad, whatever else he might be. Dead perhaps? He felt the\nsheets, the mattress, the skin upon his face. No, he was alive all\nright. The dull pains where the tight bandages oppressed him were also\nreal. He was among substantial, earthly things. The nurse, he noticed,\nregarded him anxiously. She was a pleasant-looking young woman. He\nsmiled; and, with an expression of affectionate, even tender pleasure,\nshe smiled back at him.\n\n\"You feel better now, a little stronger,\" she said softly. \"You've had a\nsleep, Miss Margaret.\" She said \"Miss Margaret\" with a conscious effort.\nIt was better, perhaps, than \"dear\"; but his anger rose at once. He was\ntoo tired, however, to express his feelings. There stole over him,\nbesides, the afflicting consciousness of an alien personality that was\nfamiliar, and yet not his. It strove to dominate him. Only by a great\neffort could he continue to think his own thoughts. This other being\nkept trying to intrude, to oust him, to take full possession. It\nresented his presence with a kind of violence.\n\nHe sighed. So strong was the feeling of another personality trying to\nfoist itself upon his own, upon his mind, his body, even upon his very\nface, that he turned instinctively to the nurse, though unaware exactly\nwhat he meant to ask her for.\n\n\"My hand-glass, please,\" he heard himself saying--with horror. The\nphrase was not his own. Glass or mirror were the words _he_ would have\nused.\n\nA moment later he was staring with acute and ghastly terror at a\nreflection that was not his own. It was the face of the dead girl he\nsaw within the silver-handled, woman's hand-glass he held up.\n\n                 *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe dream with its amazing, vivid detail haunted him for days, even\ncoming between him and his work. It seemed far more real, more vivid\nthan the commonplace events of life that followed. The occurrences of\nthe day were pale compared to its overpowering intensity. And a cable,\nreceived the very next afternoon, increased this sense of actual\ntruth--of something that had really happened.\n\n\"Hold shares writing Morris.\"\n\nIts brevity added a convincing touch. He was aware of Egypt even in\nThrogmorton Street. Yet it was the face of the dead, or dying, girl that\nchiefly haunted him. She remained in his thoughts, alive and sweet and\nexquisite. Without her he felt incomplete, his life a failure. He\nthought of nothing else.\n\nThe affairs at the office, meanwhile, went well; unexpected success\nattended them; there was no strike; the angry customer was pacified. And\nwhen the promised letter came from Morris, Sanfield's hands trembled so\nviolently that he could hardly tear it open. Nor could he read it\ncalmly. The assurance about his precious shares scarcely interested him.\nIt was the final paragraph that set his heart beating against his ribs\nas though a hammer lay inside him:\n\n  \"... I've had great trouble and anxiety, though, thank God, the\n  danger is over now. I forget if I ever mentioned my sister,\n  Margaret, to you. She keeps house for me in Cairo, when I'm there.\n  She is my only tie in life. Well, a severe operation she had to\n  undergo, all but finished her. To tell you the truth, she very\n  nearly died, for the doctor gave her up. You'll smile when I tell\n  you that odd things happened--at the very last moment. I can't\n  explain it, nor can the doctor. It rather terrified me. But at the\n  very moment when we thought her gone, something revived in her.\n  She became full of unexpected life and vigor. She was even\n  violent--whereas, a moment before, she had not the strength to\n  speak, much less to move. It was rather wonderful, but it was\n  terrible too.\n\n  \"You don't believe in these things, I know, but I must tell you,\n  because, when she recovered consciousness, she began to babble about\n  yourself, using your name, though she has rarely, if ever, heard it,\n  and even speaking--you won't believe this, of course!--of your\n  shares in Deltas, giving the _exact_ number that you hold. When you\n  write, please tell me if you were very anxious about these? Also,\n  whether your thoughts were directed particularly to me? I thought a\n  good deal about you, knowing you might be uneasy, but my mind was\n  pretty full, as you will understand, of her operation at the time.\n  The climax, when all this happened, was about 11 a. m. on February\n  13th.\n\n  \"Don't fail to tell me this, as I'm particularly interested in what\n  you may have to say.\"\n\n  \"And, now, I want to ask a great favor of you. The doctor forbids\n  Margaret to stay here during the hot weather, so I'm sending her\n  home to some cousins in Yorkshire, as soon as she is fit to travel.\n  It would be most awfully kind--I know how women bore you--if you\n  could manage to meet the boat and help her on her way through\n  London. I'll let you know dates and particulars later, when I hear\n  that you will do this for me....\"\n\nSanfield hardly read the remainder of the letter, which dealt with\nshares and business matters. But a month later he stood on the dock-pier\nat Tilbury, watching the approach of the tender from the _Egyptian\nMail_.\n\nHe saw it make fast; he saw the stream of passengers pour down the\ngangway; and he saw among them the tall, fair woman of his dream. With a\nbeating heart he went to meet her....\n\n\n\n\nIX\n\nTHE DECOY\n\n\nIt belonged to the category of unlovely houses about which an ugly\nsuperstition clings, one reason being, perhaps, its inability to inspire\ninterest in itself without assistance. It seemed too ordinary to possess\nindividuality, much less to exert an influence. Solid and ungainly, its\nhuge bulk dwarfing the park timber, its best claim to notice was a\nnegative one--it was unpretentious.\n\nFrom the little hill its expressionless windows stared across the\nKentish Weald, indifferent to weather, dreary in winter, bleak in\nspring, unblessed in summer. Some colossal hand had tossed it down, then\nlet it starve to death, a country mansion that might well strain the\nadjectives of advertisers and find inheritors with difficulty. Its soul\nhad fled, said some; it had committed suicide, thought others; and it\nwas an inheritor, before he killed himself in the library, who thought\nthis latter, yielding, apparently, to an hereditary taint in the family.\nFor two other inheritors followed suit, with an interval of twenty years\nbetween them, and there was no clear reason to explain the three\ndisasters. Only the first owner, indeed, lived permanently in the house,\nthe others using it in the summer months and then deserting it with\nrelief. Hence, when John Burley, present inheritor, assumed possession,\nhe entered a house about which clung an ugly superstition, based,\nnevertheless, upon a series of undeniably ugly facts.\n\nThis century deals harshly with superstitious folk, deeming them fools\nor charlatans; but John Burley, robust, contemptuous of half lights, did\nnot deal harshly with them, because he did not deal with them at all.\nHe was hardly aware of their existence. He ignored them as he ignored,\nsay, the Esquimaux, poets, and other human aspects that did not touch\nhis scheme of life. A successful business man, he concentrated on what\nwas real; he dealt with business people. His philanthropy, on a big\nscale, was also real; yet, though he would have denied it vehemently,\nhe had his superstition as well. No man exists without some taint of\nsuperstition in his blood; the racial heritage is too rich to be escaped\nentirely. Burley's took this form--that unless he gave his tithe to the\npoor he would not prosper. This ugly mansion, he decided, would make an\nideal Convalescent Home.\n\n\"Only cowards or lunatics kill themselves,\" he declared flatly, when his\nuse of the house was criticized. \"I'm neither one nor t'other.\" He let\nout his gusty, boisterous laugh. In his invigorating atmosphere such\nweakness seemed contemptible, just as superstition in his presence\nseemed feeblest ignorance. Even its picturesqueness faded. \"I can't\nconceive,\" he boomed, \"can't even imagine to myself,\" he added\nemphatically, \"the state of mind in which a man can think of suicide,\nmuch less do it.\" He threw his chest out with a challenging air. \"I tell\nyou, Nancy, it's either cowardice or mania. And I've no use for either.\"\n\nYet he was easy-going and good-humoured in his denunciation. He admitted\nhis limitations with a hearty laugh his wife called noisy. Thus he made\nallowances for the fairy fears of sailorfolk, and had even been known to\nmention haunted ships his companies owned. But he did so in the terms of\ntonnage and L s. d. His scope was big; details were made for clerks.\n\nHis consent to pass a night in the mansion was the consent of a\npractical business man and philanthropist who dealt condescendingly with\nfoolish human nature. It was based on the common-sense of tonnage and\nL s. d. The local newspapers had revived the silly story of the suicides,\ncalling attention to the effect of the superstition upon the fortunes\nof the house, and so, possibly, upon the fortunes of its present owner.\nBut the mansion, otherwise a white elephant, was precisely ideal for his\npurpose, and so trivial a matter as spending a night in it should not\nstand in the way. \"We must take people as we find them, Nancy.\"\n\nHis young wife had her motive, of course, in making the proposal, and,\nif she was amused by what she called \"spook-hunting,\" he saw no reason\nto refuse her the indulgence. He loved her, and took her as he found\nher--late in life. To allay the superstitions of prospective staff and\npatients and supporters, all, in fact, whose goodwill was necessary to\nsuccess, he faced this boredom of a night in the building before its\nopening was announced. \"You see, John, if you, the owner, do this, it\nwill nip damaging talk in the bud. If anything went wrong later it would\nonly be put down to this suicide idea, this haunting influence. The Home\nwill have a bad name from the start. There'll be endless trouble. It\nwill be a failure.\"\n\n\"You think my spending a night there will stop the nonsense?\" he\ninquired.\n\n\"According to the old legend it breaks the spell,\" she replied. \"That's\nthe condition, anyhow.\"\n\n\"But somebody's sure to die there sooner or later,\" he objected. \"We\ncan't prevent that.\"\n\n\"We can prevent people whispering that they died unnaturally.\" She\nexplained the working of the public mind.\n\n\"I see,\" he replied, his lip curling, yet quick to gauge the truth of\nwhat she told him about collective instinct.\n\n\"Unless _you_ take poison in the hall,\" she added laughingly, \"or elect\nto hang yourself with your braces from the hat peg.\"\n\n\"I'll do it,\" he agreed, after a moment's thought. \"I'll sit up\nwith you. It will be like a honeymoon over again, you and I on the\nspree--eh?\" He was even interested now; the boyish side of him was\ntouched perhaps; but his enthusiasm was less when she explained that\nthree was a better number than two on such an expedition.\n\n\"I've often done it before, John. We were always three.\"\n\n\"Who?\" he asked bluntly. He looked wonderingly at her, but she answered\nthat if anything went wrong a party of three provided a better margin\nfor help. It was sufficiently obvious. He listened and agreed. \"I'll get\nyoung Mortimer,\" he suggested. \"Will he do?\"\n\nShe hesitated. \"Well--he's cheery; he'll be interested, too. Yes, he's\nas good as another.\" She seemed indifferent.\n\n\"And he'll make the time pass with his stories,\" added her husband.\n\nSo Captain Mortimer, late officer on a T.B.D., a \"cheery lad,\" afraid\nof nothing, cousin of Mrs. Burley, and now filling a good post in the\ncompany's London offices, was engaged as third hand in the expedition.\nBut Captain Mortimer was young and ardent, and Mrs. Burley was young\nand pretty and ill-mated, and John Burley was a neglectful, and\nself-satisfied husband.\n\nFate laid the trap with cunning, and John Burley, blind-eyed, careless\nof detail, floundered into it. He also floundered out again, though in a\nfashion none could have expected of him.\n\nThe night agreed upon eventually was as near to the shortest in the year\nas John Burley could contrive--June 18th--when the sun set at 8:18 and\nrose about a quarter to four. There would be barely three hours of true\ndarkness. \"You're the expert,\" he admitted, as she explained that\nsitting through the actual darkness only was required, not necessarily\nfrom sunset to sunrise. \"We'll do the thing properly. Mortimer's not\nvery keen, he had a dance or something,\" he added, noticing the look of\nannoyance that flashed swiftly in her eyes; \"but he got out of it. He's\ncoming.\" The pouting expression of the spoilt woman amused him. \"Oh, no,\nhe didn't need much persuading really,\" he assured her. \"Some girl or\nother, of course. He's young, remember.\" To which no comment was\nforthcoming, though the implied comparison made her flush.\n\nThey motored from South Audley Street after an early tea, in due course\npassing Sevenoaks and entering the Kentish Weald; and, in order that the\nnecessary advertisement should be given, the chauffeur, warned strictly\nto keep their purpose quiet, was to put up at the country inn and fetch\nthem an hour after sunrise; they would breakfast in London. \"He'll tell\neverybody,\" said his practical and cynical master; \"the local newspaper\nwill have it all next day. A few hours' discomfort is worth while if\nit ends the nonsense. We'll read and smoke, and Mortimer shall tell\nus yarns about the sea.\" He went with the driver into the house to\nsuperintend the arrangement of the room, the lights, the hampers of\nfood, and so forth, leaving the pair upon the lawn.\n\n\"Four hours isn't much, but it's something,\" whispered Mortimer, alone\nwith her for the first time since they started. \"It's simply ripping\nof you to have got me in. You look divine to-night. You're the most\nwonderful woman in the world.\" His blue eyes shone with the hungry\ndesire he mistook for love. He looked as if he had blown in from the\nsea, for his skin was tanned and his light hair bleached a little by the\nsun. He took her hand, drawing her out of the slanting sunlight towards\nthe rhododendrons.\n\n\"I didn't, you silly boy. It was John suggested your coming.\" She\nreleased her hand with an affected effort. \"Besides, you overdid\nit--pretending you had a dance.\"\n\n\"You could have objected,\" he said eagerly, \"and didn't. Oh, you're too\nlovely, you're delicious!\" He kissed her suddenly with passion. There\nwas a tiny struggle, in which she yielded too easily, he thought.\n\n\"Harry, you're an idiot!\" she cried breathlessly, when he let her go.\n\"I really don't know how you dare! And John's your friend. Besides, you\nknow\"--she glanced round quickly--\"it isn't safe here.\" Her eyes shone\nhappily, her cheeks were flaming. She looked what she was, a pretty,\nyoung, lustful animal, false to ideals, true to selfish passion only.\n\"Luckily,\" she added, \"he trusts me too fully to think anything.\"\n\nThe young man, worship in his eyes, laughed gaily. \"There's no harm in\na kiss,\" he said. \"You're a child to him, he never thinks of you as a\nwoman. Anyhow, his head's full of ships and kings and sealing-wax,\" he\ncomforted her, while respecting her sudden instinct which warned him not\nto touch her again, \"and he never sees anything. Why, even at ten\nyards----\"\n\nFrom twenty yards away a big voice interrupted him, as John Burley\ncame round a corner of the house and across the lawn towards them. The\nchauffeur, he announced, had left the hampers in the room on the first\nfloor and gone back to the inn. \"Let's take a walk round,\" he added,\njoining them, \"and see the garden. Five minutes before sunset we'll go\nin and feed.\" He laughed. \"We must do the thing faithfully, you know,\nmustn't we, Nancy? Dark to dark, remember. Come on, Mortimer\"--he\ntook the young man's arm--\"a last look round before we go in and hang\nourselves from adjoining hooks in the matron's room!\" He reached out his\nfree hand towards his wife.\n\n\"Oh, hush, John!\" she said quickly. \"I don't like--especially now the\ndusk is coming.\" She shivered, as though it were a genuine little\nshiver, pursing her lips deliciously as she did so; whereupon he drew\nher forcibly to him, saying he was sorry, and kissed her exactly where\nshe had been kissed two minutes before, while young Mortimer looked on.\n\"We'll take care of you between us,\" he said. Behind a broad back the\npair exchanged a swift but meaning glance, for there was that in his\ntone which enjoined wariness, and perhaps after all he was not so blind\nas he appeared. They had their code, these two. \"All's well,\" was\nsignalled; \"but another time be more careful!\"\n\nThere still remained some minutes' sunlight before the huge red ball of\nfire would sink behind the wooded hills, and the trio, talking idly, a\nflutter of excitement in two hearts certainly, walked among the roses.\nIt was a perfect evening, windless, perfumed, warm. Headless shadows\npreceded them gigantically across the lawn as they moved, and one side\nof the great building lay already dark; bats were flitting, moths darted\nto and fro above the azalea and rhododendron clumps. The talk turned\nchiefly on the uses of the mansion as a Convalescent Home, its probable\nrunning cost, suitable staff, and so forth.\n\n\"Come along,\" John Burley said presently, breaking off and turning\nabruptly, \"we must be inside, actually inside, before the sun's gone. We\nmust fulfil the conditions faithfully,\" he repeated, as though fond of\nthe phrase. He was in earnest over everything in life, big or little,\nonce he set his hand to it.\n\nThey entered, this incongruous trio of ghost-hunters, no one of them\nreally intent upon the business in hand, and went slowly upstairs to the\ngreat room where the hampers lay. Already in the hall it was dark enough\nfor three electric torches to flash usefully and help their steps as\nthey moved with caution, lighting one corner after another. The air\ninside was chill and damp. \"Like an unused museum,\" said Mortimer. \"I\ncan smell the specimens.\" They looked about them, sniffing. \"That's\nhumanity,\" declared his host, employer, friend, \"with cement and\nwhitewash to flavour it\"; and all three laughed as Mrs. Burley said she\nwished they had picked some roses and brought them in. Her husband was\nagain in front on the broad staircase, Mortimer just behind him, when\nshe called out. \"I don't like being last,\" she exclaimed. It's so black\nbehind me in the hall. I'll come between you two,\" and the sailor took\nher outstretched hand, squeezing it, as he passed her up. \"There's a\nfigure, remember,\" she said hurriedly, turning to gain her husband's\nattention, as when she touched wood at home. \"A figure is seen; that's\npart of the story. The figure of a man.\" She gave a tiny shiver of\npleasurable, half-imagined alarm as she took his arm.\n\n\"I hope we shall see it,\" he mentioned prosaically.\n\n\"I hope we shan't,\" she replied with emphasis. \"It's only seen\nbefore--something happens.\" Her husband said nothing, while Mortimer\nremarked facetiously that it would be a pity if they had their trouble\nfor nothing. \"Something can hardly happen to all three of us,\" he said\nlightly, as they entered a large room where the paper-hangers had\nconveniently left a rough table of bare planks. Mrs. Burley, busy with\nher own thoughts, began to unpack the sandwiches and wine. Her husband\nstrolled over to the window. He seemed restless.\n\n\"So this,\" his deep voice startled her, \"is where one of us\"--he looked\nround him--\"is to----\"\n\n\"John!\" She stopped him sharply, with impatience. \"Several times already\nI've begged you.\" Her voice rang rather shrill and querulous in the\nempty room, a new note in it. She was beginning to feel the atmosphere\nof the place, perhaps. On the sunny lawn it had not touched her, but\nnow, with the fall of night, she was aware of it, as shadow called to\nshadow and the kingdom of darkness gathered power. Like a great\nwhispering gallery, the whole house listened.\n\n\"Upon my word, Nancy,\" he said with contrition, as he came and sat down\nbeside her, \"I quite forgot again. Only I cannot take it seriously. It's\nso utterly unthinkable to me that a man----\"\n\n\"But why evoke the idea at all?\" she insisted in a lowered voice, that\nsnapped despite its faintness. \"Men, after all, don't do such things for\nnothing.\"\n\n\"We don't know everything in the universe, do we?\" Mortimer put in,\ntrying clumsily to support her. \"All I know just now is that I'm\nfamished and this veal and ham pie is delicious.\" He was very busy with\nhis knife and fork. His foot rested lightly on her own beneath the\ntable; he could not keep his eyes off her face; he was continually\npassing new edibles to her.\n\n\"No,\" agreed John Burley, \"not everything. You're right there.\"\n\nShe kicked the younger man gently, flashing a warning with her eyes as\nwell, while her husband, emptying his glass, his head thrown back,\nlooked straight at them over the rim, apparently seeing nothing. They\nsmoked their cigarettes round the table, Burley lighting a big cigar.\n\"Tell us about the figure, Nancy?\" he inquired. \"At least there's no\nharm in that. It's new to me. I hadn't heard about a figure.\" And\nshe did so willingly, turning her chair sideways from the dangerous,\nreckless feet. Mortimer could now no longer touch her. \"I know very\nlittle,\" she confessed; \"only what the paper said. It's a man.... And he\nchanges.\"\n\n\"How changes?\" asked her husband. \"Clothes, you mean, or what?\"\n\nMrs. Burley laughed, as though she was glad to laugh. Then she answered:\n\"According to the story, he shows himself each time to the man----\"\n\n\"The man who----?\"\n\n\"Yes, yes, of course. He appears to the man who dies--as himself.\"\n\n\"H'm,\" grunted her husband, naturally puzzled. He stared at her.\n\n\"Each time the chap saw his own double\"--Mortimer came this time\nusefully to the rescue--\"before he did it.\"\n\nConsiderable explanation followed, involving much psychic jargon from\nMrs. Burley, which fascinated and impressed the sailor, who thought her\nas wonderful as she was lovely, showing it in his eyes for all to see.\nJohn Burley's attention wandered. He moved over to the window, leaving\nthem to finish the discussion between them; he took no part in it, made\nno comment even, merely listening idly and watching them with an air of\nabsent-mindedness through the cloud of cigar smoke round his head. He\nmoved from window to window, ensconcing himself in turn in each deep\nembrasure, examining the fastenings, measuring the thickness of the\nstonework with his handkerchief. He seemed restless, bored, obviously\nout of place in this ridiculous expedition. On his big massive face lay\na quiet, resigned expression his wife had never seen before. She noticed\nit now as, the discussion ended, the pair tidied away the _debris_ of\ndinner, lit the spirit lamp for coffee and laid out a supper which would\nbe very welcome with the dawn. A draught passed through the room, making\nthe papers flutter on the table. Mortimer turned down the smoking lamps\nwith care.\n\n\"Wind's getting up a bit--from the south,\" observed Burley from his\nniche, closing one-half of the casement window as he said it. To do\nthis, he turned his back a moment, fumbling for several seconds with the\nlatch, while Mortimer, noting it, seized his sudden opportunity with the\nfoolish abandon of his age and temperament. Neither he nor his victim\nperceived that, against the outside darkness, the interior of the room\nwas plainly reflected in the window-pane. One reckless, the other\nterrified, they snatched the fearful joy, which might, after all, have\nbeen lengthened by another full half-minute, for the head they feared,\nfollowed by the shoulders, pushed through the side of the casement still\nopen, and remained outside, taking in the night.\n\n\"A grand air,\" said his deep voice, as the head drew in again, \"I'd like\nto be at sea a night like this.\" He left the casement open and came\nacross the room towards them. \"Now,\" he said cheerfully, arranging a\nseat for himself, \"let's get comfortable for the night. Mortimer, we\nexpect stories from you without ceasing, until dawn or the ghost\narrives. Horrible stories of chains and headless men, remember. Make it\na night we shan't forget in a hurry.\" He produced his gust of laughter.\n\nThey arranged their chairs, with other chairs to put their feet on, and\nMortimer contrived a footstool by means of a hamper for the smallest\nfeet; the air grew thick with tobacco smoke; eyes flashed and answered,\nwatched perhaps as well; ears listened and perhaps grew wise;\noccasionally, as a window shook, they started and looked round; there\nwere sounds about the house from time to time, when the entering wind,\nusing broken or open windows, set loose objects rattling.\n\nBut Mrs. Burley vetoed horrible stories with decision. A big, empty\nmansion, lonely in the country, and even with the comfort of John Burley\nand a lover in it, has its atmosphere. Furnished rooms are far less\nghostly. This atmosphere now came creeping everywhere, through spacious\nhalls and sighing corridors, silent, invisible, but all-pervading, John\nBurley alone impervious to it, unaware of its soft attack upon the\nnerves. It entered possibly with the summer night wind, but possibly it\nwas always there.... And Mrs. Burley looked often at her husband,\nsitting near her at an angle; the light fell on his fine strong face;\nshe felt that, though apparently so calm and quiet, he was really very\nrestless; something about him was a little different; she could not\ndefine it; his mouth seemed set as with an effort; he looked, she\nthought curiously to herself, patient and very dignified; he was rather\na dear after all. Why did she think the face inscrutable? Her thoughts\nwandered vaguely, unease, discomfort among them somewhere, while the\nheated blood--she had taken her share of wine--seethed in her.\n\nBurley turned to the sailor for more stories. \"Sea and wind in them,\"\nhe asked. \"No horrors, remember!\" and Mortimer told a tale about the\nshortage of rooms at a Welsh seaside place where spare rooms fetched\nfabulous prices, and one man alone refused to let--a retired captain\nof a South Seas trader, very poor, a bit crazy apparently. He had two\nfurnished rooms in his house worth twenty guineas a week. The rooms\nfaced south; he kept them full of flowers; but he would not let. An\nexplanation of his unworldly obstinacy was not forthcoming until\nMortimer--they fished together--gained his confidence. \"The South Wind\nlives in them,\" the old fellow told him. \"I keep them free for her.\"\n\n\"For _her_?\"\n\n\"It was on the South Wind my love came to me,\" said the\nother softly; \"and it was on the South Wind that she left----\"\n\nIt was an odd tale to tell in such company, but he told it well.\n\n\"Beautiful,\" thought Mrs. Burley. Aloud she said a quiet, \"Thank you. By\n'left,' I suppose he meant she died or ran away?\"\n\nJohn Burley looked up with a certain surprise. \"We ask for a story,\" he\nsaid, \"and you give us a poem.\" He laughed. \"You're in love, Mortimer,\"\nhe informed him, \"and with my wife probably.\"\n\n\"Of course I am, sir,\" replied the young man gallantly. \"A sailor's\nheart, you know,\" while the face of the woman turned pink, then white.\nShe knew her husband more intimately than Mortimer did, and there was\nsomething in his tone, his eyes, his words, she did not like. Harry was\nan idiot to choose such a tale. An irritated annoyance stirred in her,\nclose upon dislike. \"Anyhow, it's better than horrors,\" she said\nhurriedly.\n\n\"Well,\" put in her husband, letting forth a minor gust of laughter,\n\"it's possible, at any rate. Though one's as crazy as the other.\" His\nmeaning was not wholly clear. \"If a man really loved,\" he added in his\nblunt fashion, \"and was tricked by her, I could almost conceive his----\"\n\n\"Oh, don't preach, John, for Heaven's sake. You're so dull in the\npulpit.\" But the interruption only served to emphasize the sentence\nwhich, otherwise, might have been passed over.\n\n\"Could conceive his finding life so worthless,\" persisted the other,\n\"that----\" He hesitated. \"But there, now, I promised I wouldn't,\" he\nwent on, laughing good-humouredly. Then, suddenly, as though in spite of\nhimself, driven it seemed: \"Still, under such conditions, he might show\nhis contempt for human nature and for life by----\"\n\nIt was a tiny stifled scream that stopped him this time.\n\n\"John, I hate, I loathe you, when you talk like that. And you've broken\nyour word again.\" She was more than petulant; a nervous anger sounded in\nher voice. It was the way he had said it, looking from them towards the\nwindow, that made her quiver. She felt him suddenly as a man; she felt\nafraid of him.\n\nHer husband made no reply; he rose and looked at his watch, leaning\nsideways towards the lamp, so that the expression of his face was\nshaded. \"Two o'clock,\" he remarked. \"I think I'll take a turn through\nthe house. I may find a workman asleep or something. Anyhow, the light\nwill soon come now.\" He laughed; the expression of his face, his tone of\nvoice, relieved her momentarily. He went out. They heard his heavy tread\nechoing down the carpetless long corridor.\n\nMortimer began at once. \"Did he mean anything?\" he asked breathlessly.\n\"He doesn't love you the least little bit, anyhow. He never did. I do.\nYou're wasted on him. You belong to me.\" The words poured out. He\ncovered her face with kisses. \"Oh, I didn't mean _that_,\" he caught\nbetween the kisses.\n\nThe sailor released her, staring. \"What then?\" he whispered. \"Do you\nthink he saw us on the lawn?\" He paused a moment, as she made no reply.\nThe steps were audible in the distance still. \"I know!\" he exclaimed\nsuddenly. \"It's the blessed house he feels. That's what it is. He\ndoesn't like it.\"\n\nA wind sighed through the room, making the papers flutter; something\nrattled; and Mrs. Burley started. A loose end of rope swinging from the\npaperhanger's ladder caught her eye. She shivered slightly.\n\n\"He's different,\" she replied in a low voice, nestling very close again,\n\"and so restless. Didn't you notice what he said just now--that under\ncertain conditions he could understand a man\"--she hesitated--\"doing\nit,\" she concluded, a sudden drop in her voice. \"Harry,\" she looked full\ninto his eyes, \"that's not like him. He didn't say that for nothing.\"\n\n\"Nonsense! He's bored to tears, that's all. And the house is getting on\nyour nerves, too.\" He kissed her tenderly. Then, as she responded, he\ndrew her nearer still and held her passionately, mumbling incoherent\nwords, among which \"nothing to be afraid of\" was distinguishable.\nMeanwhile, the steps were coming nearer. She pushed him away. \"You must\nbehave yourself. I insist. You shall, Harry,\" then buried herself in his\narms, her face hidden against his neck--only to disentangle herself the\nnext instant and stand clear of him. \"I hate you, Harry,\" she exclaimed\nsharply, a look of angry annoyance flashing across her face. \"And I\n_hate_ myself. Why do you treat me----?\" She broke off as the steps came\ncloser, patted her hair straight, and stalked over to the open window.\n\n\"I believe after all you're only playing with me,\" he said viciously. He\nstared in surprised disappointment, watching her. \"It's him you really\nlove,\" he added jealously. He looked and spoke like a petulant spoilt\nboy.\n\nShe did not turn her head. \"He's always been fair to me, kind and\ngenerous. He never blames me for anything. Give me a cigarette and don't\nplay the stage hero. My nerves are on edge, to tell you the truth.\" Her\nvoice jarred harshly, and as he lit her cigarette he noticed that her\nlips were trembling; his own hand trembled too. He was still holding the\nmatch, standing beside her at the window-sill, when the steps crossed\nthe threshold and John Burley came into the room. He went straight up to\nthe table and turned the lamp down. \"It was smoking,\" he remarked.\n\"Didn't you see?\"\n\n\"I'm sorry, sir,\" and Mortimer sprang forward, too late to help him. \"It\nwas the draught as you pushed the door open.\" The big man said, \"Ah!\"\nand drew a chair over, facing them. \"It's just _the_ very house,\" he\ntold them. \"I've been through every room on this floor. It will make a\nsplendid Home, with very little alteration, too.\" He turned round in his\ncreaking wicker chair and looked up at his wife, who sat swinging her\nlegs and smoking in the window embrasure. \"Lives will be saved inside\nthese old walls. It's a good investment,\" he went on, talking rather to\nhimself it seemed. \"People will die here, too----\"\n\n\"Hark!\" Mrs. Burley interrupted him. \"That noise--what is it?\" A faint\nthudding sound in the corridor or in the adjoining room was audible,\nmaking all three look round quickly, listening for a repetition, which\ndid not come. The papers fluttered on the table, the lamps smoked an\ninstant.\n\n\"Wind,\" observed Burley calmly, \"our little friend, the South Wind.\nSomething blown over again, that's all.\" But, curiously, the three of\nthem stood up. \"I'll go and see,\" he continued. \"Doors and windows are\nall open to let the paint dry.\" Yet he did not move; he stood there\nwatching a white moth that dashed round and round the lamp, flopping\nheavily now and again upon the bare deal table.\n\n\"Let me go, sir,\" put in Mortimer eagerly. He was glad of the chance;\nfor the first time he, too, felt uncomfortable. But there was another\nwho, apparently, suffered a discomfort greater than his own and was\naccordingly even more glad to get away. \"I'll go,\" Mrs. Burley\nannounced, with decision. \"I'd like to. I haven't been out of this room\nsince we came. I'm not an atom afraid.\"\n\nIt was strange that for a moment she did not make a move either; it\nseemed as if she waited for something. For perhaps fifteen seconds no\none stirred or spoke. She knew by the look in her lover's eyes that he\nhad now become aware of the slight, indefinite change in her husband's\nmanner, and was alarmed by it. The fear in him woke her contempt; she\nsuddenly despised the youth, and was conscious of a new, strange\nyearning towards her husband; against her worked nameless pressures,\ntroubling her being. There was an alteration in the room, she thought;\nsomething had come in. The trio stood listening to the gentle wind\noutside, waiting for the sound to be repeated; two careless, passionate\nyoung lovers and a man stood waiting, listening, watching in that room;\nyet it seemed there were five persons altogether and not three, for two\nguilty consciences stood apart and separate from their owners. John\nBurley broke the silence.\n\n\"Yes, you go, Nancy. Nothing to be afraid of--there. It's only wind.\" He\nspoke as though he meant it.\n\nMortimer bit his lips. \"I'll come with you,\" he said instantly. He was\nconfused. \"Let's all three go. I don't think we ought to be separated.\"\nBut Mrs. Burley was already at the door. \"I insist,\" she said, with a\nforced laugh. \"I'll call if I'm frightened,\" while her husband, saying\nnothing, watched her from the table.\n\n\"Take this,\" said the sailor, flashing his electric torch as he went\nover to her. \"Two are better than one.\" He saw her figure exquisitely\nsilhouetted against the black corridor beyond; it was clear she wanted\nto go; any nervousness in her was mastered by a stronger emotion still;\nshe was glad to be out of their presence for a bit. He had hoped to\nsnatch a word of explanation in the corridor, but her manner stopped\nhim. Something else stopped him, too.\n\n\"First door on the left,\" he called out, his voice echoing down the\nempty length. \"That's the room where the noise came from. Shout if you\nwant us.\"\n\nHe watched her moving away, the light held steadily in front of her, but\nshe made no answer, and he turned back to see John Burley lighting his\ncigar at the lamp chimney, his face thrust forward as he did so. He\nstood a second, watching him, as the lips sucked hard at the cigar to\nmake it draw; the strength of the features was emphasized to sternness.\nHe had meant to stand by the door and listen for the least sound from\nthe adjoining room, but now found his whole attention focused on the\nface above the lamp. In that minute he realized that Burley had\nwished--had meant--his wife to go. In that minute also he forgot his\nlove, his shameless, selfish little mistress, his worthless, caddish\nlittle self. For John Burley looked up. He straightened slowly, puffing\nhard and quickly to make sure his cigar was lit, and faced him. Mortimer\nmoved forward into the room, self-conscious, embarrassed, cold.\n\n\"Of course it was only wind,\" he said lightly, his one desire being to\nfill the interval while they were alone with commonplaces. He did not\nwish the other to speak, \"Dawn wind, probably.\" He glanced at his\nwrist-watch. \"It's half-past two already, and the sun gets up at a\nquarter to four. It's light by now, I expect. The shortest night is\nnever quite dark.\" He rambled on confusedly, for the other's steady,\nsilent stare embarrassed him. A faint sound of Mrs. Burley moving in the\nnext room made him stop a moment. He turned instinctively to the door,\neager for an excuse to go.\n\n\"That's nothing,\" said Burley, speaking at last and in a firm quiet\nvoice. \"Only my wife, glad to be alone--my young and pretty wife. She's\nall right. I know her better than you do. Come in and shut the door.\"\n\nMortimer obeyed. He closed the door and came close to the table, facing\nthe other, who at once continued.\n\n\"If I thought,\" he said, in that quiet deep voice, \"that you two were\nserious\"--he uttered his words very slowly, with emphasis, with intense\nseverity--\"do you know what I should do? I will tell you, Mortimer. I\nshould like one of us two--you or myself--to remain in this house,\ndead.\"\n\nHis teeth gripped his cigar tightly; his hands were clenched; he went on\nthrough a half-closed mouth. His eyes blazed steadily.\n\n\"I trust her so absolutely--understand me?--that my belief in women, in\nhuman beings, would go. And with it the desire to live. Understand me?\"\n\nEach word to the young careless fool was a blow in the face, yet it was\nthe softest blow, the flash of a big deep heart, that hurt the most. A\ndozen answers--denial, explanation, confession, taking all guilt upon\nhimself--crowded his mind, only to be dismissed. He stood motionless and\nsilent, staring hard into the other's eyes. No word passed his lips;\nthere was no time in any case. It was in this position that Mrs. Burley,\nentering at that moment, found them. She saw her husband's face; the\nother man stood with his back to her. She came in with a little nervous\nlaugh. \"A bell-rope swinging in the wind and hitting a sheet of metal\nbefore the fireplace,\" she informed them. And all three laughed together\nthen, though each laugh had a different sound. \"But I hate this house,\"\nshe added. \"I wish we had never come.\"\n\n\"The moment there's light in the sky,\" remarked her husband quietly, \"we\ncan leave. That's the contract; let's see it through. Another half-hour\nwill do it. Sit down, Nancy, and have a bite of something.\" He got up\nand placed a chair for her. \"I think I'll take another look round.\" He\nmoved slowly to the door. \"I may go out on to the lawn a bit and see\nwhat the sky is doing.\"\n\nIt did not take half a minute to say the words, yet to Mortimer it\nseemed as though the voice would never end. His mind was confused and\ntroubled. He loathed himself, he loathed the woman through whom he had\ngot into this awkward mess.\n\nThe situation had suddenly become extremely painful; he had never\nimagined such a thing; the man he had thought blind had after all seen\neverything--known it all along, watched them, waited. And the woman, he\nwas now certain, loved her husband; she had fooled him, Mortimer, all\nalong, amusing herself.\n\n\"I'll come with you, sir. Do let me,\" he said suddenly. Mrs. Burley\nstood pale and uncertain between them. She looked scared. What has\nhappened, she was clearly wondering.\n\n\"No, no, Harry\"--he called him \"Harry\" for the first time--\"I'll be back\nin five minutes at most. My wife mustn't be alone either.\" And he went\nout.\n\nThe young man waited till the footsteps sounded some distance down the\ncorridor, then turned, but he did not move forward; for the first time\nhe let pass unused what he called \"an opportunity.\" His passion had left\nhim; his love, as he once thought it, was gone. He looked at the pretty\nwoman near him, wondering blankly what he had ever seen there to attract\nhim so wildly. He wished to Heaven he was out of it all. He wished he\nwere dead. John Burley's words suddenly appalled him.\n\nOne thing he saw plainly--she was frightened. This opened his lips.\n\n\"What's the matter?\" he asked, and his hushed voice shirked the familiar\nChristian name. \"Did you see anything?\" He nodded his head in the\ndirection of the adjoining room. It was the sound of his own voice\naddressing her coldly that made him abruptly see himself as he really\nwas, but it was her reply, honestly given, in a faint even voice, that\ntold him she saw her own self too with similar clarity. God, he thought,\nhow revealing a tone, a single word can be!\n\n\"I saw--nothing. Only I feel uneasy--dear.\" That \"dear\" was a call for\nhelp.\n\n\"Look here,\" he cried, so loud that she held up a warning finger,\n\"I'm--I've been a damned fool, a cad! I'm most frightfully ashamed. I'll\ndo anything--_anything_ to get it right.\" He felt cold, naked, his\nworthlessness laid bare; she felt, he knew, the same. Each revolted\nsuddenly from the other. Yet he knew not quite how or wherefore this\ngreat change had thus abruptly come about, especially on her side. He\nfelt that a bigger, deeper emotion than he could understand was working\non them, making mere physical relationships seem empty, trivial, cheap\nand vulgar. His cold increased in face of this utter ignorance.\n\n\"Uneasy?\" he repeated, perhaps hardly knowing exactly why he said it.\n\"Good Lord, but he can take care of himself----\"\n\n\"Oh, _he_ is a man,\" she interrupted; \"yes.\"\n\nSteps were heard, firm, heavy steps, coming back along the corridor. It\nseemed to Mortimer that he had listened to this sound of steps all\nnight, and would listen to them till he died. He crossed to the lamp and\nlit a cigarette, carefully this time, turning the wick down afterwards.\nMrs. Burley also rose, moving over towards the door, away from him. They\nlistened a moment to these firm and heavy steps, the tread of a man,\nJohn Burley. A man ... and a philanderer, flashed across Mortimer's\nbrain like fire, contrasting the two with fierce contempt for himself.\nThe tread became less audible. There was distance in it. It had turned\nin somewhere.\n\n\"There!\" she exclaimed in a hushed tone. \"He's gone in.\"\n\n\"Nonsense! It passed us. He's going out on to the lawn.\"\n\nThe pair listened breathlessly for a moment, when the sound of steps\ncame distinctly from the adjoining room, walking across the boards,\napparently towards the window.\n\n\"There!\" she repeated. \"He did go in.\" Silence of perhaps a minute\nfollowed, in which they heard each other's breathing. \"I don't like his\nbeing alone--in there,\" Mrs. Burley said in a thin faltering voice, and\nmoved as though to go out. Her hand was already on the knob of the door,\nwhen Mortimer stopped her with a violent gesture.\n\n\"Don't! For God's sake, don't!\" he cried, before she could turn it.\nHe darted forward. As he laid a hand upon her arm a thud was audible\nthrough the wall. It was a heavy sound, and this time there was no wind\nto cause it.\n\n\"It's only that loose swinging thing,\" he whispered thickly, a dreadful\nconfusion blotting out clear thought and speech.\n\n\"There was no loose swaying thing at all,\" she said in a failing voice,\nthen reeled and swayed against him. \"I invented that. There was\nnothing.\" As he caught her, staring helplessly, it seemed to him that a\nface with lifted lids rushed up at him. He saw two terrified eyes in a\npatch of ghastly white. Her whisper followed, as she sank into his arms.\n\"It's John. He's----\"\n\nAt which instant, with terror at its climax, the sound of steps suddenly\nbecame audible once more--the firm and heavy tread of John Burley coming\nout again into the corridor. Such was their amazement and relief that\nthey neither moved nor spoke. The steps drew nearer. The pair seemed\npetrified; Mortimer did not remove his arms, nor did Mrs. Burley attempt\nto release herself. They stared at the door and waited. It was pushed\nwider the next second, and John Burley stood beside them. He was so\nclose he almost touched them--there in each other's arms.\n\n\"Jack, dear!\" cried his wife, with a searching tenderness that made her\nvoice seem strange.\n\nHe gazed a second at each in turn. \"I'm going out on to the lawn for a\nmoment,\" he said quietly. There was no expression on his face; he did\nnot smile, he did not frown; he showed no feeling, no emotion--just\nlooked into their eyes, and then withdrew round the edge of the door\nbefore either could utter a word in answer. The door swung to behind\nhim. He was gone.\n\n\"He's going to the lawn. He said so.\" It was Mortimer speaking, but his\nvoice shook and stammered. Mrs. Burley had released herself. She stood\nnow by the table, silent, gazing with fixed eyes at nothing, her lips\nparted, her expression vacant. Again she was aware of an alteration in\nthe room; something had gone out.... He watched her a second, uncertain\nwhat to say or do. It was the face of a drowned person, occurred to\nhim. Something intangible, yet almost visible stood between them in that\nnarrow space. Something had ended, there before his eyes, definitely\nended. The barrier between them rose higher, denser. Through this\nbarrier her words came to him with an odd whispering remoteness.\n\n\"Harry.... You saw? You noticed?\"\n\n\"What d'you mean?\" he said gruffly. He tried to feel angry,\ncontemptuous, but his breath caught absurdly.\n\n\"Harry--he was different. The eyes, the hair, the\"--her face grew like\ndeath--\"the twist in his face----\"\n\n\"What on earth are you saying? Pull yourself together.\" He saw that she\nwas trembling down the whole length of her body, as she leaned against\nthe table for support. His own legs shook. He stared hard at her.\n\n\"Altered, Harry ... altered.\" Her horrified whisper came at him like\na knife. For it was true. He, too, had noticed something about the\nhusband's appearance that was not quite normal. Yet, even while they\ntalked, they heard him going down the carpetless stairs; the sounds\nceased as he crossed the hall; then came the noise of the front door\nbanging, the reverberation even shaking the room a little where they\nstood.\n\nMortimer went over to her side. He walked unevenly.\n\n\"My dear! For God's sake--this is sheer nonsense. Don't let yourself go\nlike this. I'll put it straight with him--it's all my fault.\" He saw by\nher face that she did not understand his words; he was saying the wrong\nthing altogether; her mind was utterly elsewhere. \"He's all right,\" he\nwent on hurriedly. \"He's out on the lawn now----\"\n\nHe broke off at the sight of her. The horror that fastened on her brain\nplastered her face with deathly whiteness.\n\n\"That was not John at all!\" she cried, a wail of misery and terror in\nher voice. She rushed to the window and he followed. To his immense\nrelief a figure moving below was plainly visible. It was John Burley.\nThey saw him in the faint grey of the dawn, as he crossed the lawn,\ngoing away from the house. He disappeared.\n\n\"There you are! See?\" whispered Mortimer reassuringly. \"He'll be back\nin----\" when a sound in the adjoining room, heavier, louder than before,\ncut appallingly across his words, and Mrs. Burley, with that wailing\nscream, fell back into his arms. He caught her only just in time, for\nshe stiffened into ice, daft with the uncomprehended terror of it all,\nand helpless as a child.\n\n\"Darling, my darling--oh, God!\" He bent, kissing her face wildly. He was\nutterly distraught.\n\n\"Harry! Jack--oh, oh!\" she wailed in her anguish. \"It took on his\nlikeness. It deceived us ... to give him time. He's done it.\"\n\nShe sat up suddenly. \"Go,\" she said, pointing to the room beyond, then\nsank fainting, a dead weight in his arms.\n\nHe carried her unconscious body to a chair, then entering the adjoining\nroom he flashed his torch upon the body of her husband hanging from a\nbracket in the wall. He cut it down five minutes too late.\n\n\n\n\nX\n\nTHE MAN WHO FOUND OUT (A NIGHTMARE)\n\n\n1\n\nProfessor Mark Ebor, the scientist, led a double life, and the only\npersons who knew it were his assistant, Dr. Laidlaw, and his publishers.\nBut a double life need not always be a bad one, and, as Dr. Laidlaw\nand the gratified publishers well knew, the parallel lives of this\nparticular man were equally good, and indefinitely produced would\ncertainly have ended in a heaven somewhere that can suitably contain\nsuch strangely opposite characteristics as his remarkable personality\ncombined.\n\nFor Mark Ebor, F.R.S., etc., etc., was that unique combination hardly\never met with in actual life, a man of science and a mystic.\n\nAs the first, his name stood in the gallery of the great, and as the\nsecond--but there came the mystery! For under the pseudonym of \"Pilgrim\"\n(the author of that brilliant series of books that appealed to so many),\nhis identity was as well concealed as that of the anonymous writer of\nthe weather reports in a daily newspaper. Thousands read the sanguine,\noptimistic, stimulating little books that issued annually from the pen\nof \"Pilgrim,\" and thousands bore their daily burdens better for having\nread; while the Press generally agreed that the author, besides being an\nincorrigible enthusiast and optimist, was also--a woman; but no one ever\nsucceeded in penetrating the veil of anonymity and discovering that\n\"Pilgrim\" and the biologist were one and the same person.\n\nMark Ebor, as Dr. Laidlaw knew him in his laboratory, was one man; but\nMark Ebor, as he sometimes saw him after work was over, with rapt eyes\nand ecstatic face, discussing the possibilities of \"union with God\" and\nthe future of the human race, was quite another.\n\n\"I have always held, as you know,\" he was saying one evening as he sat\nin the little study beyond the laboratory with his assistant and\nintimate, \"that Vision should play a large part in the life of the\nawakened man--not to be regarded as infallible, of course, but to be\nobserved and made use of as a guide-post to possibilities----\"\n\n\"I am aware of your peculiar views, sir,\" the young doctor put in\ndeferentially, yet with a certain impatience.\n\n\"For Visions come from a region of the consciousness where observation\nand experiment are out of the question,\" pursued the other with\nenthusiasm, not noticing the interruption, \"and, while they should be\nchecked by reason afterwards, they should not be laughed at or ignored.\nAll inspiration, I hold, is of the nature of interior Vision, and all\nour best knowledge has come--such is my confirmed belief--as a sudden\nrevelation to the brain prepared to receive it----\"\n\n\"Prepared by hard work first, by concentration, by the closest possible\nstudy of ordinary phenomena,\" Dr. Laidlaw allowed himself to observe.\n\n\"Perhaps,\" sighed the other; \"but by a process, none the less, of\nspiritual illumination. The best match in the world will not light a\ncandle unless the wick be first suitably prepared.\"\n\nIt was Laidlaw's turn to sigh. He knew so well the impossibility of\narguing with his chief when he was in the regions of the mystic, but at\nthe same time the respect he felt for his tremendous attainments was so\nsincere that he always listened with attention and deference, wondering\nhow far the great man would go and to what end this curious combination\nof logic and \"illumination\" would eventually lead him.\n\n\"Only last night,\" continued the elder man, a sort of light coming into\nhis rugged features, \"the vision came to me again--the one that has\nhaunted me at intervals ever since my youth, and that will not be\ndenied.\"\n\nDr. Laidlaw fidgeted in his chair.\n\n\"About the Tablets of the Gods, you mean--and that they lie somewhere\nhidden in the sands,\" he said patiently. A sudden gleam of interest came\ninto his face as he turned to catch the professor's reply.\n\n\"And that I am to be the one to find them, to decipher them, and to give\nthe great knowledge to the world----\"\n\n\"Who will not believe,\" laughed Laidlaw shortly, yet interested in spite\nof his thinly-veiled contempt.\n\n\"Because even the keenest minds, in the right sense of the word, are\nhopelessly--unscientific,\" replied the other gently, his face positively\naglow with the memory of his vision. \"Yet what is more likely,\" he\ncontinued after a moment's pause, peering into space with rapt eyes that\nsaw things too wonderful for exact language to describe, \"than that\nthere should have been given to man in the first ages of the world some\nrecord of the purpose and problem that had been set him to solve? In a\nword,\" he cried, fixing his shining eyes upon the face of his perplexed\nassistant, \"that God's messengers in the far-off ages should have given\nto His creatures some full statement of the secret of the world, of the\nsecret of the soul, of the meaning of life and death--the explanation of\nour being here, and to what great end we are destined in the ultimate\nfullness of things?\"\n\nDr. Laidlaw sat speechless. These outbursts of mystical enthusiasm he\nhad witnessed before. With any other man he would not have listened to\na single sentence, but to Professor Ebor, man of knowledge and profound\ninvestigator, he listened with respect, because he regarded this\ncondition as temporary and pathological, and in some sense a reaction\nfrom the intense strain of the prolonged mental concentration of many\ndays.\n\nHe smiled, with something between sympathy and resignation as he met the\nother's rapt gaze.\n\n\"But you have said, sir, at other times, that you consider the ultimate\nsecrets to be screened from all possible----\"\n\n\"The _ultimate_ secrets, yes,\" came the unperturbed reply; \"but that\nthere lies buried somewhere an indestructible record of the secret\nmeaning of life, originally known to men in the days of their pristine\ninnocence, I am convinced. And, by this strange vision so often\nvouchsafed to me, I am equally sure that one day it shall be given to\nme to announce to a weary world this glorious and terrific message.\"\n\nAnd he continued at great length and in glowing language to describe the\nspecies of vivid dream that had come to him at intervals since earliest\nchildhood, showing in detail how he discovered these very Tablets of the\nGods, and proclaimed their splendid contents--whose precise nature was\nalways, however, withheld from him in the vision--to a patient and\nsuffering humanity.\n\n\"The _Scrutator_, sir, well described 'Pilgrim' as the Apostle of Hope,\"\nsaid the young doctor gently, when he had finished; \"and now, if that\nreviewer could hear you speak and realize from what strange depths comes\nyour simple faith----\"\n\nThe professor held up his hand, and the smile of a little child broke\nover his face like sunshine in the morning.\n\n\"Half the good my books do would be instantly destroyed,\" he said\nsadly; \"they would say that I wrote with my tongue in my cheek. But\nwait,\" he added significantly; \"wait till I find these Tablets of the\nGods! Wait till I hold the solutions of the old world-problems in my\nhands! Wait till the light of this new revelation breaks upon confused\nhumanity, and it wakes to find its bravest hopes justified! Ah, then, my\ndear Laidlaw----\"\n\nHe broke off suddenly; but the doctor, cleverly guessing the thought in\nhis mind, caught him up immediately.\n\n\"Perhaps this very summer,\" he said, trying hard to make the suggestion\nkeep pace with honesty; \"in your explorations in Assyria--your digging\nin the remote civilization of what was once Chaldea, you may find--what\nyou dream of----\"\n\nThe professor held up his hand, and the smile of a fine old face.\n\n\"Perhaps,\" he murmured softly, \"perhaps!\"\n\nAnd the young doctor, thanking the gods of science that his leader's\naberrations were of so harmless a character, went home strong in the\ncertitude of his knowledge of externals, proud that he was able to refer\nhis visions to self-suggestion, and wondering complaisantly whether in\nhis old age he might not after all suffer himself from visitations of\nthe very kind that afflicted his respected chief.\n\nAnd as he got into bed and thought again of his master's rugged face,\nand finely shaped head, and the deep lines traced by years of work and\nself-discipline, he turned over on his pillow and fell asleep with a\nsigh that was half of wonder, half of regret.\n\n\n2\n\nIt was in February, nine months later, when Dr. Laidlaw made his way to\nCharing Cross to meet his chief after his long absence of travel and\nexploration. The vision about the so-called Tablets of the Gods had\nmeanwhile passed almost entirely from his memory.\n\nThere were few people in the train, for the stream of traffic was now\nrunning the other way, and he had no difficulty in finding the man he\nhad come to meet. The shock of white hair beneath the low-crowned felt\nhat was alone enough to distinguish him by easily.\n\n\"Here I am at last!\" exclaimed the professor, somewhat wearily, clasping\nhis friend's hand as he listened to the young doctor's warm greetings\nand questions. \"Here I am--a little older, and _much_ dirtier than when\nyou last saw me!\" He glanced down laughingly at his travel-stained\ngarments.\n\n\"And _much_ wiser,\" said Laidlaw, with a smile, as he bustled about the\nplatform for porters and gave his chief the latest scientific news.\n\nAt last they came down to practical considerations.\n\n\"And your luggage--where is that? You must have tons of it, I suppose?\"\nsaid Laidlaw.\n\n\"Hardly anything,\" Professor Ebor answered. \"Nothing, in fact, but what\nyou see.\"\n\n\"Nothing but this hand-bag?\" laughed the other, thinking he was joking.\n\n\"And a small portmanteau in the van,\" was the quiet reply. \"I have no\nother luggage.\"\n\n\"You have no other luggage?\" repeated Laidlaw, turning sharply to see if\nhe were in earnest.\n\n\"Why should I need more?\" the professor added simply.\n\nSomething in the man's face, or voice, or manner--the doctor hardly knew\nwhich--suddenly struck him as strange. There was a change in him, a\nchange so profound--so little on the surface, that is--that at first he\nhad not become aware of it. For a moment it was as though an utterly\nalien personality stood before him in that noisy, bustling throng. Here,\nin all the homely, friendly turmoil of a Charing Cross crowd, a curious\nfeeling of cold passed over his heart, touching his life with icy\nfinger, so that he actually trembled and felt afraid.\n\nHe looked up quickly at his friend, his mind working with startled and\nunwelcome thoughts.\n\n\"Only this?\" he repeated, indicating the bag. \"But where's all the stuff\nyou went away with? And--have you brought nothing home--no treasures?\"\n\n\"This is all I have,\" the other said briefly. The pale smile that went\nwith the words caused the doctor a second indescribable sensation of\nuneasiness. Something was very wrong, something was very queer; he\nwondered now that he had not noticed it sooner.\n\n\"The rest follows, of course, by slow freight,\" he added tactfully, and\nas naturally as possible. \"But come, sir, you must be tired and in want\nof food after your long journey. I'll get a taxi at once, and we can see\nabout the other luggage afterwards.\"\n\nIt seemed to him he hardly knew quite what he was saying; the change\nin his friend had come upon him so suddenly and now grew upon him more\nand more distressingly. Yet he could not make out exactly in what it\nconsisted. A terrible suspicion began to take shape in his mind,\ntroubling him dreadfully.\n\n\"I am neither very tired, nor in need of food, thank you,\" the professor\nsaid quietly. \"And this is all I have. There is no luggage to follow. I\nhave brought home nothing--nothing but what you see.\"\n\nHis words conveyed finality. They got into a taxi, tipped the porter,\nwho had been staring in amazement at the venerable figure of the\nscientist, and were conveyed slowly and noisily to the house in the\nnorth of London where the laboratory was, the scene of their labours of\nyears.\n\nAnd the whole way Professor Ebor uttered no word, nor did Dr. Laidlaw\nfind the courage to ask a single question.\n\nIt was only late that night, before he took his departure, as the two\nmen were standing before the fire in the study--that study where they\nhad discussed so many problems of vital and absorbing interest--that\nDr. Laidlaw at last found strength to come to the point with direct\nquestions. The professor had been giving him a superficial and desultory\naccount of his travels, of his journeys by camel, of his encampments\namong the mountains and in the desert, and of his explorations among the\nburied temples, and, deeper, into the waste of the pre-historic sands,\nwhen suddenly the doctor came to the desired point with a kind of\nnervous rush, almost like a frightened boy.\n\n\"And you found----\" he began stammering, looking hard at the other's\ndreadfully altered face, from which every line of hope and cheerfulness\nseemed to have been obliterated as a sponge wipes markings from a\nslate--\"you found----\"\n\n\"I found,\" replied the other, in a solemn voice, and it was the voice of\nthe mystic rather than the man of science--\"I found what I went to seek.\nThe vision never once failed me. It led me straight to the place like a\nstar in the heavens. I found--the Tablets of the Gods.\"\n\nDr. Laidlaw caught his breath, and steadied himself on the back of a\nchair. The words fell like particles of ice upon his heart. For the\nfirst time the professor had uttered the well-known phrase without the\nglow of light and wonder in his face that always accompanied it.\n\n\"You have--brought them?\" he faltered.\n\n\"I have brought them home,\" said the other, in a voice with a ring like\niron; \"and I have--deciphered them.\"\n\nProfound despair, the bloom of outer darkness, the dead sound of a\nhopeless soul freezing in the utter cold of space seemed to fill in the\npauses between the brief sentences. A silence followed, during which Dr.\nLaidlaw saw nothing but the white face before him alternately fade and\nreturn. And it was like the face of a dead man.\n\n\"They are, alas, indestructible,\" he heard the voice continue, with its\neven, metallic ring.\n\n\"Indestructible,\" Laidlaw repeated mechanically, hardly knowing what he\nwas saying.\n\nAgain a silence of several minutes passed, during which, with a creeping\ncold about his heart, he stood and stared into the eyes of the man he\nhad known and loved so long--aye, and worshipped, too; the man who had\nfirst opened his own eyes when they were blind, and had led him to the\ngates of knowledge, and no little distance along the difficult path\nbeyond; the man who, in another direction, had passed on the strength\nof his faith into the hearts of thousands by his books.\n\n\"I may see them?\" he asked at last, in a low voice he hardly recognized\nas his own. \"You will let me know--their message?\"\n\nProfessor Ebor kept his eyes fixedly upon his assistant's face as he\nanswered, with a smile that was more like the grin of death than a\nliving human smile.\n\n\"When I am gone,\" he whispered; \"when I have passed away. Then you\nshall find them and read the translation I have made. And then, too,\nin your turn, you must try, with the latest resources of science at\nyour disposal to aid you, to compass their utter destruction.\" He\npaused a moment, and his face grew pale as the face of a corpse.\n\"Until that time,\" he added presently, without looking up, \"I must ask\nyou not to refer to the subject again--and to keep my confidence\nmeanwhile--_ab--so--lute--ly_.\"\n\n\n3\n\nA year passed slowly by, and at the end of it Dr. Laidlaw had found it\nnecessary to sever his working connexion with his friend and one-time\nleader. Professor Ebor was no longer the same man. The light had gone\nout of his life; the laboratory was closed; he no longer put pen to\npaper or applied his mind to a single problem. In the short space of a\nfew months he had passed from a hale and hearty man of late middle life\nto the condition of old age--a man collapsed and on the edge of\ndissolution. Death, it was plain, lay waiting for him in the shadows of\nany day--and he knew it.\n\nTo describe faithfully the nature of this profound alteration in his\ncharacter and temperament is not easy, but Dr. Laidlaw summed it up\nto himself in three words: _Loss of Hope_. The splendid mental powers\nremained indeed undimmed, but the incentive to use them--to use them for\nthe help of others--had gone. The character still held to its fine and\nunselfish habits of years, but the far goal to which they had been the\nleading strings had faded away. The desire for knowledge--knowledge for\nits own sake--had died, and the passionate hope which hitherto had\nanimated with tireless energy the heart and brain of this splendidly\nequipped intellect had suffered total eclipse. The central fires had\ngone out. Nothing was worth doing, thinking, working for. There _was_\nnothing to work for any longer!\n\nThe professor's first step was to recall as many of his books as\npossible; his second to close his laboratory and stop all research. He\ngave no explanation, he invited no questions. His whole personality\ncrumbled away, so to speak, till his daily life became a mere mechanical\nprocess of clothing the body, feeding the body, keeping it in good\nhealth so as to avoid physical discomfort, and, above all, doing nothing\nthat could interfere with sleep. The professor did everything he could\nto lengthen the hours of sleep, and therefore of forgetfulness.\n\nIt was all clear enough to Dr. Laidlaw. A weaker man, he knew, would\nhave sought to lose himself in one form or another of sensual\nindulgence--sleeping-draughts, drink, the first pleasures that came to\nhand. Self-destruction would have been the method of a little bolder\ntype; and deliberate evil-doing, poisoning with his awful knowledge all\nhe could, the means of still another kind of man. Mark Ebor was none of\nthese. He held himself under fine control, facing silently and without\ncomplaint the terrible facts he honestly believed himself to have\nbeen unfortunate enough to discover. Even to his intimate friend and\nassistant, Dr. Laidlaw, he vouchsafed no word of true explanation or\nlament. He went straight forward to the end, knowing well that the end\nwas not very far away.\n\nAnd death came very quietly one day to him, as he was sitting in the\narm-chair of the study, directly facing the doors of the laboratory--the\ndoors that no longer opened. Dr. Laidlaw, by happy chance, was with him\nat the time, and just able to reach his side in response to the sudden\npainful efforts for breath; just in time, too, to catch the murmured\nwords that fell from the pallid lips like a message from the other side\nof the grave.\n\n\"Read them, if you must; and, if you can--destroy. But\"--his\nvoice sank so low that Dr. Laidlaw only just caught the dying\nsyllables--\"but--never, never--give them to the world.\"\n\nAnd like a grey bundle of dust loosely gathered up in an old garment the\nprofessor sank back into his chair and expired.\n\nBut this was only the death of the body. His spirit had died two years\nbefore.\n\n\n4\n\nThe estate of the dead man was small and uncomplicated, and Dr. Laidlaw,\nas sole executor and residuary legatee, had no difficulty in settling it\nup. A month after the funeral he was sitting alone in his upstairs\nlibrary, the last sad duties completed, and his mind full of poignant\nmemories and regrets for the loss of a friend he had revered and loved,\nand to whom his debt was so incalculably great. The last two years,\nindeed, had been for him terrible. To watch the swift decay of the\ngreatest combination of heart and brain he had ever known, and to\nrealize he was powerless to help, was a source of profound grief to him\nthat would remain to the end of his days.\n\nAt the same time an insatiable curiosity possessed him. The study of\ndementia was, of course, outside his special province as a specialist,\nbut he knew enough of it to understand how small a matter might be the\nactual cause of how great an illusion, and he had been devoured from the\nvery beginning by a ceaseless and increasing anxiety to know what the\nprofessor had found in the sands of \"Chaldea,\" what these precious\nTablets of the Gods might be, and particularly--for this was the real\ncause that had sapped the man's sanity and hope--what the inscription\nwas that he had believed to have deciphered thereon.\n\nThe curious feature of it all to his own mind was, that whereas his\nfriend had dreamed of finding a message of glorious hope and comfort, he\nhad apparently found (so far as he had found anything intelligible at\nall, and not invented the whole thing in his dementia) that the secret\nof the world, and the meaning of life and death, was of so terrible a\nnature that it robbed the heart of courage and the soul of hope. What,\nthen, could be the contents of the little brown parcel the professor had\nbequeathed to him with his pregnant dying sentences?\n\nActually his hand was trembling as he turned to the writing-table and\nbegan slowly to unfasten a small old-fashioned desk on which the small\ngilt initials \"M.E.\" stood forth as a melancholy memento. He put the key\ninto the lock and half turned it. Then, suddenly, he stopped and looked\nabout him. Was that a sound at the back of the room? It was just as\nthough someone had laughed and then tried to smother the laugh with a\ncough. A slight shiver ran over him as he stood listening.\n\n\"This is absurd,\" he said aloud; \"too absurd for belief--that I should\nbe so nervous! It's the effect of curiosity unduly prolonged.\" He smiled\na little sadly and his eyes wandered to the blue summer sky and the\nplane trees swaying in the wind below his window. \"It's the reaction,\"\nhe continued. \"The curiosity of two years to be quenched in a single\nmoment! The nervous tension, of course, must be considerable.\"\n\nHe turned back to the brown desk and opened it without further delay.\nHis hand was firm now, and he took out the paper parcel that lay inside\nwithout a tremor. It was heavy. A moment later there lay on the table\nbefore him a couple of weather-worn plaques of grey stone--they looked\nlike stone, although they felt like metal--on which he saw markings of\na curious character that might have been the mere tracings of natural\nforces through the ages, or, equally well, the half-obliterated\nhieroglyphics cut upon their surface in past centuries by the more or\nless untutored hand of a common scribe.\n\nHe lifted each stone in turn and examined it carefully. It seemed to him\nthat a faint glow of heat passed from the substance into his skin, and\nhe put them down again suddenly, as with a gesture of uneasiness.\n\n\"A very clever, or a very imaginative man,\" he said to himself, \"who\ncould squeeze the secrets of life and death from such broken lines as\nthose!\"\n\nThen he turned to a yellow envelope lying beside them in the desk, with\nthe single word on the outside in the writing of the professor--the word\n_Translation_.\n\n\"Now,\" he thought, taking it up with a sudden violence to conceal his\nnervousness, \"now for the great solution. Now to learn the meaning of\nthe worlds, and why mankind was made, and why discipline is worth while,\nand sacrifice and pain the true law of advancement.\"\n\nThere was the shadow of a sneer in his voice, and yet something in him\nshivered at the same time. He held the envelope as though weighing it in\nhis hand, his mind pondering many things. Then curiosity won the day,\nand he suddenly tore it open with the gesture of an actor who tears open\na letter on the stage, knowing there is no real writing inside at all.\n\nA page of finely written script in the late scientist's handwriting lay\nbefore him. He read it through from beginning to end, missing no word,\nuttering each syllable distinctly under his breath as he read.\n\nThe pallor of his face grew ghastly as he neared the end. He began to\nshake all over as with ague. His breath came heavily in gasps. He still\ngripped the sheet of paper, however, and deliberately, as by an intense\neffort of will, read it through a second time from beginning to end. And\nthis time, as the last syllable dropped from his lips, the whole face of\nthe man flamed with a sudden and terrible anger. His skin became deep,\ndeep red, and he clenched his teeth. With all the strength of his\nvigorous soul he was struggling to keep control of himself.\n\nFor perhaps five minutes he stood there beside the table without\nstirring a muscle. He might have been carved out of stone. His eyes were\nshut, and only the heaving of the chest betrayed the fact that he was a\nliving being. Then, with a strange quietness, he lit a match and applied\nit to the sheet of paper he held in his hand. The ashes fell slowly\nabout him, piece by piece, and he blew them from the window-sill into\nthe air, his eyes following them as they floated away on the summer wind\nthat breathed so warmly over the world.\n\nHe turned back slowly into the room. Although his actions and movements\nwere absolutely steady and controlled, it was clear that he was on the\nedge of violent action. A hurricane might burst upon the still room any\nmoment. His muscles were tense and rigid. Then, suddenly, he whitened,\ncollapsed, and sank backwards into a chair, like a tumbled bundle of\ninert matter. He had fainted.\n\nIn less than half an hour he recovered consciousness and sat up. As\nbefore, he made no sound. Not a syllable passed his lips. He rose\nquietly and looked about the room.\n\nThen he did a curious thing.\n\nTaking a heavy stick from the rack in the corner he approached the\nmantlepiece, and with a heavy shattering blow he smashed the clock to\npieces. The glass fell in shivering atoms.\n\n\"Cease your lying voice for ever,\" he said, in a curiously still, even\ntone. \"There is no such thing as _time_!\"\n\nHe took the watch from his pocket, swung it round several times by the\nlong gold chain, smashed it into smithereens against the wall with a\nsingle blow, and then walked into his laboratory next door, and hung its\nbroken body on the bones of the skeleton in the corner of the room.\n\n\"Let one damned mockery hang upon another,\" he said smiling oddly.\n\"Delusions, both of you, and cruel as false!\"\n\nHe slowly moved back to the front room. He stopped opposite the bookcase\nwhere stood in a row the \"Scriptures of the World,\" choicely bound and\nexquisitely printed, the late professor's most treasured possession, and\nnext to them several books signed \"Pilgrim.\"\n\nOne by one he took them from the shelf and hurled them through the open\nwindow.\n\n\"A devil's dreams! A devil's foolish dreams!\" he cried, with a vicious\nlaugh.\n\nPresently he stopped from sheer exhaustion. He turned his eyes slowly\nto the wall opposite, where hung a weird array of Eastern swords and\ndaggers, scimitars and spears, the collections of many journeys. He\ncrossed the room and ran his finger along the edge. His mind seemed to\nwaver.\n\n\"No,\" he muttered presently; \"not that way. There are easier and better\nways than that.\"\n\nHe took his hat and passed downstairs into the street.\n\n\n5\n\nIt was five o'clock, and the June sun lay hot upon the pavement. He felt\nthe metal door-knob burn the palm of his hand.\n\n\"Ah, Laidlaw, this is well met,\" cried a voice at his elbow; \"I was in\nthe act of coming to see you. I've a case that will interest you, and\nbesides, I remembered that you flavoured your tea with orange\nleaves!--and I admit----\"\n\nIt was Alexis Stephen, the great hypnotic doctor.\n\n\"I've had no tea to-day,\" Laidlaw said, in a dazed manner, after staring\nfor a moment as though the other had struck him in the face. A new idea\nhad entered his mind.\n\n\"What's the matter?\" asked Dr. Stephen quickly. \"Something's wrong with\nyou. It's this sudden heat, or overwork. Come, man, let's go inside.\"\n\nA sudden light broke upon the face of the younger man, the light of a\nheaven-sent inspiration. He looked into his friend's face, and told a\ndirect lie.\n\n\"Odd,\" he said, \"I myself was just coming to see you. I have something\nof great importance to test your confidence with. But in _your_ house,\nplease,\" as Stephen urged him towards his own door--\"in your house. It's\nonly round the corner, and I--I cannot go back there--to my rooms--till\nI have told you.\"\n\n\"I'm your patient--for the moment,\" he added stammeringly as soon as\nthey were seated in the privacy of the hypnotist's sanctum, \"and I\nwant--er----\"\n\n\"My dear Laidlaw,\" interrupted the other, in that soothing voice of\ncommand which had suggested to many a suffering soul that the cure for\nits pain lay in the powers of its own reawakened will, \"I am always at\nyour service, as you know. You have only to tell me what I can do for\nyou, and I will do it.\" He showed every desire to help him out. His\nmanner was indescribably tactful and direct.\n\nDr. Laidlaw looked up into his face.\n\n\"I surrender my will to you,\" he said, already calmed by the other's\nhealing presence, \"and I want you to treat me hypnotically--and at once.\nI want you to suggest to me\"--his voice became very tense--\"that I shall\nforget--forget till I die--everything that has occurred to me during the\nlast two hours; till I die, mind,\" he added, with solemn emphasis, \"till\nI die.\"\n\nHe floundered and stammered like a frightened boy. Alexis Stephen looked\nat him fixedly without speaking.\n\n\"And further,\" Laidlaw continued, \"I want you to ask me no questions. I\nwish to forget for ever something I have recently discovered--something\nso terrible and yet so obvious that I can hardly understand why it is\nnot patent to every mind in the world--for I have had a moment of\nabsolute _clear vision_--of merciless clairvoyance. But I want no one\nelse in the whole world to know what it is--least of all, old friend,\nyourself.\"\n\nHe talked in utter confusion, and hardly knew what he was saying. But\nthe pain on his face and the anguish in his voice were an instant\npassport to the other's heart.\n\n\"Nothing is easier,\" replied Dr. Stephen, after a hesitation so slight\nthat the other probably did not even notice it. \"Come into my other room\nwhere we shall not be disturbed. I can heal you. Your memory of the last\ntwo hours shall be wiped out as though it had never been. You can trust\nme absolutely.\"\n\n\"I know I can,\" Laidlaw said simply, as he followed him in.\n\n\n6\n\nAn hour later they passed back into the front room again. The sun was\nalready behind the houses opposite, and the shadows began to gather.\n\n\"I went off easily?\" Laidlaw asked.\n\n\"You were a little obstinate at first. But though you came in like a\nlion, you went out like a lamb. I let you sleep a bit afterwards.\"\n\nDr. Stephen kept his eyes rather steadily upon his friend's face.\n\n\"What were you doing by the fire before you came here?\" he asked,\npausing, in a casual tone, as he lit a cigarette and handed the case to\nhis patient.\n\n\"I? Let me see. Oh, I know; I was worrying my way through poor old\nEbor's papers and things. I'm his executor, you know. Then I got weary\nand came out for a whiff of air.\" He spoke lightly and with perfect\nnaturalness. Obviously he was telling the truth. \"I prefer specimens to\npapers,\" he laughed cheerily.\n\n\"I know, I know,\" said Dr. Stephen, holding a lighted match for the\ncigarette. His face wore an expression of content. The experiment had\nbeen a complete success. The memory of the last two hours was wiped out\nutterly. Laidlaw was already chatting gaily and easily about a dozen\nother things that interested him. Together they went out into the\nstreet, and at his door Dr. Stephen left him with a joke and a wry face\nthat made his friend laugh heartily.\n\n\"Don't dine on the professor's old papers by mistake,\" he cried, as he\nvanished down the street.\n\nDr. Laidlaw went up to his study at the top of the house. Half way down\nhe met his housekeeper, Mrs. Fewings. She was flustered and excited, and\nher face was very red and perspiring.\n\n\"There've been burglars here,\" she cried excitedly, \"or something funny!\nAll your things is just anyhow, sir. I found everything all about\neverywhere!\" She was very confused. In this orderly and very precise\nestablishment it was unusual to find a thing out of place.\n\n\"Oh, my specimens!\" cried the doctor, dashing up the rest of the stairs\nat top speed. \"Have they been touched or----\"\n\nHe flew to the door of the laboratory. Mrs. Fewings panted up heavily\nbehind him.\n\n\"The labatry ain't been touched,\" she explained, breathlessly, \"but they\nsmashed the libry clock and they've 'ung your gold watch, sir, on the\nskelinton's hands. And the books that weren't no value they flung out er\nthe window just like so much rubbish. They must have been wild drunk,\nDr. Laidlaw, sir!\"\n\nThe young scientist made a hurried examination of the rooms. Nothing of\nvalue was missing. He began to wonder what kind of burglars they were.\nHe looked up sharply at Mrs. Fewings standing in the doorway. For a\nmoment he seemed to cast about in his mind for something.\n\n\"Odd,\" he said at length. \"I only left here an hour ago and everything\nwas all right then.\"\n\n\"Was it, sir? Yes, sir.\" She glanced sharply at him. Her room looked\nout upon the courtyard, and she must have seen the books come crashing\ndown, and also have heard her master leave the house a few minutes\nlater.\n\n\"And what's this rubbish the brutes have left?\" he cried, taking up two\nslabs of worn gray stone, on the writing-table. \"Bath brick, or\nsomething, I do declare.\"\n\nHe looked very sharply again at the confused and troubled housekeeper.\n\n\"Throw them on the dust heap, Mrs. Fewings, and--and let me know if\nanything is missing in the house, and I will notify the police this\nevening.\"\n\nWhen she left the room he went into the laboratory and took his watch\noff the skeleton's fingers. His face wore a troubled expression, but\nafter a moment's thought it cleared again. His memory was a complete\nblank.\n\n\"I suppose I left it on the writing-table when I went out to take the\nair,\" he said. And there was no one present to contradict him.\n\nHe crossed to the window and blew carelessly some ashes of burned paper\nfrom the sill, and stood watching them as they floated away lazily over\nthe tops of the trees.\n\n\n\n\nXI\n\nTHE EMPTY SLEEVE\n\n\n1\n\nThe Gilmer brothers were a couple of fussy and pernickety old bachelors\nof a rather retiring, not to say timid, disposition. There was grey in\nthe pointed beard of John, the elder, and if any hair had remained to\nWilliam it would also certainly have been of the same shade. They\nhad private means. Their main interest in life was the collection\nof violins, for which they had the instinctive _flair_ of true\nconnoisseurs. Neither John nor William, however, could play a single\nnote. They could only pluck the open strings. The production of tone,\nso necessary before purchase, was done vicariously for them by another.\n\nThe only objection they had to the big building in which they occupied\nthe roomy top floor was that Morgan, liftman and caretaker, insisted on\nwearing a billycock with his uniform after six o'clock in the evening,\nwith a result disastrous to the beauty of the universe. For \"Mr.\nMorgan,\" as they called him between themselves, had a round and pasty\nface on the top of a round and conical body. In view, however, of the\nman's other rare qualities--including his devotion to themselves--this\nobjection was not serious.\n\nHe had another peculiarity that amused them. On being found fault with,\nhe explained nothing, but merely repeated the words of the complaint.\n\n\"Water in the bath wasn't really hot this morning, Morgan!\"\n\n\"Water in the bath not reely 'ot, wasn't it, sir?\"\n\nOr, from William, who was something of a faddist:\n\n\"My jar of sour milk came up late yesterday, Morgan.\"\n\n\"Your jar sour milk come up late, sir, yesterday?\"\n\nSince, however, the statement of a complaint invariably resulted in its\nremedy, the brothers had learned to look for no further explanation.\nNext morning the bath _was_ hot, the sour milk _was_ \"brortup\"\npunctually. The uniform and billycock hat, though, remained an eyesore\nand source of oppression.\n\nOn this particular night John Gilmer, the elder, returning from a\nMasonic rehearsal, stepped into the lift and found Mr. Morgan with his\nhand ready on the iron rope.\n\n\"Fog's very thick outside,\" said Mr. John pleasantly; and the lift\nwas a third of the way up before Morgan had completed his customary\nrepetition: \"Fog very thick outside, yes, sir.\" And Gilmer then asked\ncasually if his brother were alone, and received the reply that Mr.\nHyman had called and had not yet gone away.\n\nNow this Mr. Hyman was a Hebrew, and, like themselves, a connoisseur in\nviolins, but, unlike themselves, who only kept their specimens to look\nat, he was a skilful and exquisite player. He was the only person they\never permitted to handle their pedigree instruments, to take them from\nthe glass cases where they reposed in silent splendour, and to draw\nthe sound out of their wondrous painted hearts of golden varnish. The\nbrothers loathed to see his fingers touch them, yet loved to hear\ntheir singing voices in the room, for the latter confirmed their sound\njudgment as collectors, and made them certain their money had been well\nspent. Hyman, however, made no attempt to conceal his contempt and\nhatred for the mere collector. The atmosphere of the room fairly pulsed\nwith these opposing forces of silent emotion when Hyman played and the\nGilmers, alternately writhing and admiring, listened. The occasions,\nhowever, were not frequent. The Hebrew only came by invitation,\nand both brothers made a point of being in. It was a very formal\nproceeding--something of a sacred rite almost.\n\nJohn Gilmer, therefore, was considerably surprised by the information\nMorgan had supplied. For one thing, Hyman, he had understood, was away\non the Continent.\n\n\"Still in there, you say?\" he repeated, after a moment's reflection.\n\n\"Still in there, Mr. John, sir.\" Then, concealing his surprise from the\nliftman, he fell back upon his usual mild habit of complaining about the\nbillycock hat and the uniform.\n\n\"You really should try and remember, Morgan,\" he said, though kindly.\n\"That hat does _not_ go well with that uniform!\"\n\nMorgan's pasty countenance betrayed no vestige of expression. \"'At\ndon't go well with the yewniform, sir,\" he repeated, hanging up the\ndisreputable bowler and replacing it with a gold-braided cap from the\npeg. \"No, sir, it don't, do it?\" he added cryptically, smiling at the\ntransformation thus effected.\n\nAnd the lift then halted with an abrupt jerk at the top floor. By\nsomebody's carelessness the landing was in darkness, and, to make things\nworse, Morgan, clumsily pulling the iron rope, happened to knock the\nbillycock from its peg so that his sleeve, as he stooped to catch it,\nstruck the switch and plunged the scene in a moment's complete\nobscurity.\n\nAnd it was then, in the act of stepping out before the light was turned\non again, that John Gilmer stumbled against something that shot along\nthe landing past the open door. First he thought it must be a child,\nthen a man, then--an animal. Its movement was rapid yet stealthy.\nStarting backwards instinctively to allow it room to pass, Gilmer\ncollided in the darkness with Morgan, and Morgan incontinently screamed.\nThere was a moment of stupid confusion. The heavy framework of the lift\nshook a little, as though something had stepped into it and then as\nquickly jumped out again. A rushing sound followed that resembled\nfootsteps, yet at the same time was more like gliding--someone in soft\nslippers or stockinged feet, greatly hurrying. Then came silence again.\nMorgan sprang to the landing and turned up the electric light. Mr.\nGilmer, at the same moment, did likewise to the switch in the lift.\nLight flooded the scene. Nothing was visible.\n\n\"Dog or cat, or something, I suppose, wasn't it?\" exclaimed Gilmer,\nfollowing the man out and looking round with bewildered amazement upon\na deserted landing. He knew quite well, even while he spoke, that the\nwords were foolish.\n\n\"Dog or cat, yes, sir, or--something,\" echoed Morgan, his eyes narrowed\nto pin-points, then growing large, but his face stolid.\n\n\"The light should have been on.\" Mr. Gilmer spoke with a touch of\nseverity. The little occurrence had curiously disturbed his equanimity.\nHe felt annoyed, upset, uneasy.\n\nFor a perceptible pause the liftman made no reply, and his employer,\nlooking up, saw that, besides being flustered, he was white about the\njaws. His voice, when he spoke, was without its normal assurance. This\ntime he did not merely repeat. He explained.\n\n\"The light _was_ on, sir, when last _I_ come up!\" he said, with\nemphasis, obviously speaking the truth. \"Only a moment ago,\" he added.\n\nMr. Gilmer, for some reason, felt disinclined to press for explanations.\nHe decided to ignore the matter.\n\nThen the lift plunged down again into the depths like a diving-bell into\nwater; and John Gilmer, pausing a moment first to reflect, let himself\nin softly with his latch-key, and, after hanging up hat and coat in the\nhall, entered the big sitting-room he and his brother shared in common.\n\nThe December fog that covered London like a dirty blanket had\npenetrated, he saw, into the room. The objects in it were half shrouded\nin the familiar yellowish haze.\n\n\n2\n\nIn dressing-gown and slippers, William Gilmer, almost invisible in his\narmchair by the gas-stove across the room, spoke at once. Through the\nthick atmosphere his face gleamed, showing an extinguished pipe hanging\nfrom his lips. His tone of voice conveyed emotion, an emotion he sought\nto suppress, of a quality, however, not easy to define.\n\n\"Hyman's been here,\" he announced abruptly. \"You must have met him. He's\nthis very instant gone out.\"\n\nIt was quite easy to see that something had happened, for \"scenes\" leave\ndisturbance behind them in the atmosphere. But John made no immediate\nreference to this. He replied that he had seen no one--which was\nstrictly true--and his brother thereupon, sitting bolt upright in the\nchair, turned quickly and faced him. His skin, in the foggy air, seemed\npaler than before.\n\n\"That's odd,\" he said nervously.\n\n\"What's odd?\" asked John.\n\n\"That you didn't see--anything. You ought to have run into one another\non the doorstep.\" His eyes went peering about the room. He was\ndistinctly ill at ease. \"You're positive you saw no one? Did Morgan\ntake him down before you came? Did Morgan see him?\" He asked several\nquestions at once.\n\n\"On the contrary, Morgan told me he was still here with you. Hyman\nprobably walked down, and didn't take the lift at all,\" he replied.\n\"That accounts for neither of us seeing him.\" He decided to say nothing\nabout the occurrence in the lift, for his brother's nerves, he saw\nplainly, were on edge.\n\nWilliam then stood up out of his chair, and the skin of his face changed\nits hue, for whereas a moment ago it was merely pale, it had now\naltered to a tint that lay somewhere between white and a livid grey. The\nman was fighting internal terror. For a moment these two brothers of\nmiddle age looked each other straight in the eye. Then John spoke:\n\n\"What's wrong, Billy?\" he asked quietly. \"Something's upset you. What\nbrought Hyman in this way--unexpectedly? I thought he was still in\nGermany.\"\n\nThe brothers, affectionate and sympathetic, understood one another\nperfectly. They had no secrets. Yet for several minutes the younger one\nmade no reply. It seemed difficult to choose his words apparently.\n\n\"Hyman played, I suppose--on the fiddles?\" John helped him, wondering\nuneasily what was coming. He did not care much for the individual in\nquestion, though his talent was of such great use to them.\n\nThe other nodded in the affirmative, then plunged into rapid speech,\ntalking under his breath as though he feared someone might overhear.\nGlancing over his shoulder down the foggy room, he drew his brother\nclose.\n\n\"Hyman came,\" he began, \"unexpectedly. He hadn't written, and I hadn't\nasked him. You hadn't either, I suppose?\"\n\nJohn shook his head.\n\n\"When I came in from the dining-room I found him in the passage. The\nservant was taking away the dishes, and he had let himself in while the\nfront door was ajar. Pretty cool, wasn't it?\"\n\n\"He's an original,\" said John, shrugging his shoulders. \"And you\nwelcomed him?\" he asked.\n\n\"I asked him in, of course. He explained he had something glorious for\nme to hear. Silenski had played it in the afternoon, and he had bought\nthe music since. But Silenski's 'Strad' hadn't the power--it's thin\non the upper strings, you remember, unequal, patchy--and he said no\ninstrument in the world could do it justice but our 'Joseph'-the small\nGuarnerius, you know, which he swears is the most perfect in the world.\"\n\n\"And what was it? Did he play it?\" asked John, growing more uneasy as he\ngrew more interested. With relief he glanced round and saw the matchless\nlittle instrument lying there safe and sound in its glass case near the\ndoor.\n\n\"He played it--divinely: a Zigeuner Lullaby, a fine, passionate, rushing\nbit of inspiration, oddly misnamed 'lullaby.' And, fancy, the fellow had\nmemorized it already! He walked about the room on tiptoe while he played\nit, complaining of the light----\"\n\n\"Complaining of the light?\"\n\n\"Said the thing was crepuscular, and needed dusk for its full effect. I\nturned the lights out one by one, till finally there was only the glow\nof the gas logs. He insisted. You know that way he has with him? And\nthen he got over me in another matter: insisted on using some special\nstrings he had brought with him, and put them on, too, himself--thicker\nthan the A and E _we_ use.\"\n\nFor though neither Gilmer could produce a note, it was their pride that\nthey kept their precious instruments in perfect condition for playing,\nchoosing the exact thickness and quality of strings that suited the\ntemperament of each violin; and the little Guarnerius in question always\n\"sang\" best, they held, with thin strings.\n\n\"Infernal insolence,\" exclaimed the listening brother, wondering what\nwas coming next. \"Played it well, though, didn't he, this Lullaby\nthing?\" he added, seeing that William hesitated. As he spoke he went\nnearer, sitting down close beside him in a leather chair.\n\n\"Magnificent! Pure fire of genius!\" was the reply with enthusiasm, the\nvoice at the same time dropping lower. \"Staccato like a silver hammer;\nharmonics like flutes, clear, soft, ringing; and the tone--well, the G\nstring was a baritone, and the upper registers creamy and mellow as a\nboy's voice. John,\" he added, \"that Guarnerius is the very pick of the\nperiod and\"--again he hesitated--\"Hyman loves it. He'd give his soul to\nhave it.\"\n\nThe more John heard, the more uncomfortable it made him. He had always\ndisliked this gifted Hebrew, for in his secret heart he knew that he had\nalways feared and distrusted him. Sometimes he had felt half afraid\nof him; the man's very forcible personality was too insistent to be\npleasant. His type was of the dark and sinister kind, and he possessed\na violent will that rarely failed of accomplishing its desire.\n\n\"Wish I'd heard the fellow play,\" he said at length, ignoring his\nbrother's last remark, and going on to speak of the most matter-of-fact\ndetails he could think of. \"Did he use the Dodd bow, or the Tourte? That\nDodd I picked up last month, you know, is the most perfectly balanced I\nhave ever----\"\n\nHe stopped abruptly, for William had suddenly got upon his feet and was\nstanding there, searching the room with his eyes. A chill ran down\nJohn's spine as he watched him.\n\n\"What is it, Billy?\" he asked sharply. \"Hear anything?\"\n\nWilliam continued to peer about him through the thick air.\n\n\"Oh, nothing, probably,\" he said, an odd catch in his voice; \"only---- I\nkeep feeling as if there was somebody listening. Do you think,\nperhaps\"--he glanced over his shoulder--\"there is someone at the door?\nI wish--I wish you'd have a look, John.\"\n\nJohn obeyed, though without great eagerness. Crossing the room slowly,\nhe opened the door, then switched on the light. The passage leading past\nthe bathroom towards the bedrooms beyond was empty. The coats hung\nmotionless from their pegs.\n\n\"No one, of course,\" he said, as he closed the door and came back to the\nstove. He left the light burning in the passage. It was curious the way\nboth brothers had this impression that they were not alone, though only\none of them spoke of it.\n\n\"Used the Dodd or the Tourte, Billy--which?\" continued John in the most\nnatural voice he could assume.\n\nBut at that very same instant the water started to his eyes. His\nbrother, he saw, was close upon the thing he really had to tell. But he\nhad stuck fast.\n\n\n3\n\nBy a great effort John Gilmer composed himself and remained in his\nchair. With detailed elaboration he lit a cigarette, staring hard at his\nbrother over the flaring match while he did so. There he sat in his\ndressing-gown and slippers by the fireplace, eyes downcast, fingers\nplaying idly with the red tassel. The electric light cast heavy shadows\nacross the face. In a flash then, since emotion may sometimes express\nitself in attitude even better than in speech, the elder brother\nunderstood that Billy was about to tell him an unutterable thing.\n\nBy instinct he moved over to his side so that the same view of the room\nconfronted him.\n\n\"Out with it, old man,\" he said, with an effort to be natural. \"Tell me\nwhat you saw.\"\n\nBilly shuffled slowly round and the two sat side by side, facing the\nfog-draped chamber.\n\n\"It was like this,\" he began softly, \"only I was standing instead of\nsitting, looking over to that door as you and I do now. Hyman moved to\nand fro in the faint glow of the gas logs against the far wall, playing\nthat 'crepuscular' thing in his most inspired sort of way, so that the\nmusic seemed to issue from himself rather than from the shining bit\nof wood under his chin, when--I noticed something coming over me that\nwas\"--he hesitated, searching for words--\"that wasn't _all_ due to the\nmusic,\" he finished abruptly.\n\n\"His personality put a bit of hypnotism on you, eh?\"\n\nWilliam shrugged his shoulders.\n\n\"The air was thickish with fog and the light was dim, cast upwards upon\nhim from the stove,\" he continued. \"I admit all that. But there wasn't\nlight enough to throw shadows, you see, and----\"\n\n\"Hyman looked queer?\" the other helped him quickly.\n\nBilly nodded his head without turning.\n\n\"Changed there before my very eyes\"--he whispered it--\"turned\nanimal----\"\n\n\"Animal?\" John felt his hair rising.\n\n\"That's the only way I can put it. His face and hands and body turned\notherwise than usual. I lost the sound of his feet. When the bow-hand or\nthe fingers on the strings passed into the light, they were\"--he uttered\na soft, shuddering little laugh--\"furry, oddly divided, the fingers\nmassed together. And he paced stealthily. I thought every instant the\nfiddle would drop with a crash and he would spring at me across the\nroom.\"\n\n\"My dear chap----\"\n\n\"He moved with those big, lithe, striding steps one sees\"--John held his\nbreath in the little pause, listening keenly--\"one sees those big brutes\nmake in the cages when their desire is aflame for food or escape, or--or\nfierce, passionate desire for anything they want with their whole\nnature----\"\n\n\"The big felines!\" John whistled softly.\n\n\"And every minute getting nearer and nearer to the door, as though he\nmeant to make a sudden rush for it and get out.\"\n\n\"With the violin! Of course you stopped him?\"\n\n\"In the end. But for a long time, I swear to you, I found it difficult\nto know what to do, even to move. I couldn't get my voice for words of\nany kind; it was like a spell.\"\n\n\"It _was_ a spell,\" suggested John firmly.\n\n\"Then, as he moved, still playing,\" continued the other, \"he seemed to\ngrow smaller; to shrink down below the line of the gas. I thought I\nshould lose sight of him altogether. I turned the light up suddenly.\nThere he was over by the door--crouching.\"\n\n\"Playing on his knees, you mean?\"\n\nWilliam closed his eyes in an effort to visualize it again.\n\n\"Crouching,\" he repeated, at length, \"close to the floor. At least, I\nthink so. It all happened so quickly, and I felt so bewildered, it was\nhard to see straight. But at first I could have sworn he was half his\nnatural size. I called to him, I think I swore at him--I forget exactly,\nbut I know he straightened up at once and stood before me down there in\nthe light\"--he pointed across the room to the door--\"eyes gleaming, face\nwhite as chalk, perspiring like midsummer, and gradually filling out,\nstraightening up, whatever you like to call it, to his natural size and\nappearance again. It was the most horrid thing I've ever seen.\"\n\n\"As an--animal, you saw him still?\"\n\n\"No; human again. Only much smaller.\"\n\n\"What did he say?\"\n\nBilly reflected a moment.\n\n\"Nothing that I can remember,\" he replied. \"You see, it was all over in\na few seconds. In the full light, I felt so foolish, and nonplussed at\nfirst. To see him normal again baffled me. And, before I could collect\nmyself, he had let himself out into the passage, and I heard the front\ndoor slam. A minute later--the same second almost, it seemed--you came\nin. I only remember grabbing the violin and getting it back safely under\nthe glass case. The strings were still vibrating.\"\n\nThe account was over. John asked no further questions. Nor did he say a\nsingle word about the lift, Morgan, or the extinguished light on the\nlanding. There fell a longish silence between the two men; and then,\nwhile they helped themselves to a generous supply of whisky-and-soda\nbefore going to bed, John looked up and spoke:\n\n\"If you agree, Billy,\" he said quietly, \"I think I might write and\nsuggest to Hyman that we shall no longer have need for his services.\"\n\nAnd Billy, acquiescing, added a sentence that expressed something of the\nsingular dread lying but half concealed in the atmosphere of the room,\nif not in their minds as well:\n\n\"Putting it, however, in a way that need not offend him.\"\n\n\"Of course. There's no need to be rude, is there?\"\n\nAccordingly, next morning the letter was written; and John, saying\nnothing to his brother, took it round himself by hand to the Hebrew's\nrooms near Euston. The answer he dreaded was forthcoming:\n\n\"Mr. Hyman's still away abroad,\" he was told. \"But we're forwarding\nletters; yes. Or I can give you 'is address if you'll prefer it.\" The\nletter went, therefore, to the number in Koenigstrasse, Munich, thus\nobtained.\n\nThen, on his way back from the insurance company where he went to\nincrease the sum that protected the small Guarnerius from loss by fire,\naccident, or theft, John Gilmer called at the offices of certain musical\nagents and ascertained that Silenski, the violinist, was performing at\nthe time in Munich. It was only some days later, though, by diligent\ninquiry, he made certain that at a concert on a certain date the famous\nvirtuoso had played a Zigeuner Lullaby of his own composition--the very\ndate, it turned out, on which he himself had been to the Masonic\nrehearsal at Mark Masons' Hall.\n\nJohn, however, said nothing of these discoveries to his brother William.\n\n\n4\n\nIt was about a week later when a reply to the letter came from Munich--a\nletter couched in somewhat offensive terms, though it contained neither\nwords nor phrases that could actually be found fault with. Isidore Hyman\nwas hurt and angry. On his return to London a month or so later, he\nproposed to call and talk the matter over. The offensive part of the\nletter lay, perhaps, in his definite assumption that he could persuade\nthe brothers to resume the old relations. John, however, wrote a brief\nreply to the effect that they had decided to buy no new fiddles; their\ncollection being complete, there would be no occasion for them to invite\nhis services as a performer. This was final. No answer came, and the\nmatter seemed to drop. Never for one moment, though, did it leave the\nconsciousness of John Gilmer. Hyman had said that he would come, and\ncome assuredly he would. He secretly gave Morgan instructions that he\nand his brother for the future were always \"out\" when the Hebrew\npresented himself.\n\n\"He must have gone back to Germany, you see, almost at once after his\nvisit here that night,\" observed William--John, however, making no\nreply.\n\nOne night towards the middle of January the two brothers came home\ntogether from a concert in Queen's Hall, and sat up later than usual in\ntheir sitting-room discussing over their whisky and tobacco the merits\nof the pieces and performers. It must have been past one o'clock when\nthey turned out the lights in the passage and retired to bed. The air\nwas still and frosty; moonlight over the roofs--one of those sharp and\ndry winter nights that now seem to visit London rarely.\n\n\"Like the old-fashioned days when we were boys,\" remarked William,\npausing a moment by the passage window and looking out across the miles\nof silvery, sparkling roofs.\n\n\"Yes,\" added John; \"the ponds freezing hard in the fields, rime on the\nnursery windows, and the sound of a horse's hoofs coming down the road\nin the distance, eh?\" They smiled at the memory, then said good night,\nand separated. Their rooms were at opposite ends of the corridor; in\nbetween were the bathroom, dining-room, and sitting-room. It was a long,\nstraggling flat. Half an hour later both brothers were sound asleep, the\nflat silent, only a dull murmur rising from the great city outside, and\nthe moon sinking slowly to the level of the chimneys.\n\nPerhaps two hours passed, perhaps three, when John Gilmer, sitting up\nin bed with a start, wide-awake and frightened, knew that someone was\nmoving about in one of the three rooms that lay between him and his\nbrother. He had absolutely no idea why he should have been frightened,\nfor there was no dream or nightmare-memory that he brought over from\nunconsciousness, and yet he realized plainly that the fear he felt was\nby no means a foolish and unreasoning fear. It had a cause and a reason.\nAlso--which made it worse--it was fully warranted. Something in his\nsleep, forgotten in the instant of waking, had happened that set\nevery nerve in his body on the watch. He was positive only of two\nthings--first, that it was the entrance of this person, moving so\nquietly there in the flat, that sent the chills down his spine; and,\nsecondly, that this person was _not_ his brother William.\n\nJohn Gilmer was a timid man. The sight of a burglar, his eyes\nblack-masked, suddenly confronting him in the passage, would most likely\nhave deprived him of all power of decision--until the burglar had either\nshot him or escaped. But on this occasion some instinct told him that it\nwas no burglar, and that the acute distress he experienced was not due\nto any message of ordinary physical fear. The thing that had gained\naccess to his flat while he slept had first come--he felt sure of\nit--into his room, and had passed very close to his own bed, before\ngoing on. It had then doubtless gone to his brother's room, visiting\nthem both stealthily to make sure they slept. And its mere passage\nthrough his room had been enough to wake him and set these drops of cold\nperspiration upon his skin. For it was--he felt it in every fibre of\nhis body--something hostile.\n\nThe thought that it might at that very moment be in the room of his\nbrother, however, brought him to his feet on the cold floor, and set him\nmoving with all the determination he could summon towards the door. He\nlooked cautiously down an utterly dark passage; then crept on tiptoe\nalong it. On the wall were old-fashioned weapons that had belonged to\nhis father; and feeling a curved, sheathless sword that had come from\nsome Turkish campaign of years gone by, his fingers closed tightly round\nit, and lifted it silently from the three hooks whereon it lay. He\npassed the doors of the bathroom and dining-room, making instinctively\nfor the big sitting-room where the violins were kept in their glass\ncases. The cold nipped him. His eyes smarted with the effort to see in\nthe darkness. Outside the closed door he hesitated.\n\nPutting his ear to the crack, he listened. From within came a faint\nsound of someone moving. The same instant there rose the sharp, delicate\n\"ping\" of a violin-string being plucked; and John Gilmer, with nerves\nthat shook like the vibrations of that very string, opened the door wide\nwith a fling and turned on the light at the same moment. The plucked\nstring still echoed faintly in the air.\n\nThe sensation that met him on the threshold was the well-known one\nthat things had been going on in the room which his unexpected arrival\nhad that instant put a stop to. A second earlier and he would have\ndiscovered it all in the act. The atmosphere still held the feeling of\nrushing, silent movement with which the things had raced back to their\nnormal, motionless positions. The immobility of the furniture was a mere\nattitude hurriedly assumed, and the moment his back was turned the whole\nbusiness, whatever it might be, would begin again. With this presentment\nof the room, however--a purely imaginative one--came another, swiftly on\nits heels.\n\nFor one of the objects, less swift than the rest, had not quite regained\nits \"attitude\" of repose. It still moved. Below the window curtains on\nthe right, not far from the shelf that bore the violins in their glass\ncases, he made it out, slowly gliding along the floor. Then, even as his\neye caught it, it came to rest.\n\nAnd, while the cold perspiration broke out all over him afresh, he knew\nthat this still moving item was the cause both of his waking and of his\nterror. This was the disturbance whose presence he had divined in the\nflat without actual hearing, and whose passage through his room, while\nhe yet slept, had touched every nerve in his body as with ice. Clutching\nhis Turkish sword tightly, he drew back with the utmost caution against\nthe wall and watched, for the singular impression came to him that\nthe movement was not that of a human being crouching, but rather of\nsomething that pertained to the animal world. He remembered, flash-like,\nthe movements of reptiles, the stealth of the larger felines, the\nundulating glide of great snakes. For the moment, however, it did not\nmove, and they faced one another.\n\nThe other side of the room was but dimly lighted, and the noise he made\nclicking up another electric lamp brought the thing flying forward\nagain--towards himself. At such a moment it seemed absurd to think of\nso small a detail, but he remembered his bare feet, and, genuinely\nfrightened, he leaped upon a chair and swished with his sword through\nthe air about him. From this better point of view, with the increased\nlight to aid him, he then saw two things--first, that the glass case\nusually covering the Guarnerius violin had been shifted; and, secondly,\nthat the moving object was slowly elongating itself into an upright\nposition. Semi-erect, yet most oddly, too, like a creature on its hind\nlegs, it was coming swiftly towards him. It was making for the door--and\nescape.\n\nThe confusion of ghostly fear was somehow upon him so that he was too\nbewildered to see clearly, but he had sufficient self-control, it\nseemed, to recover a certain power of action; for the moment the\nadvancing figure was near enough for him to strike, that curved scimitar\nflashed and whirred about him, with such misdirected violence, however,\nthat he not only failed to strike it even once, but at the same\ntime lost his balance and fell forward from the chair whereon he\nperched--straight into it.\n\nAnd then came the most curious thing of all, for as he dropped, the\nfigure also dropped, stooped low down, crouched, dwindled amazingly in\nsize, and rushed past him close to the ground like an animal on all\nfours. John Gilmer screamed, for he could no longer contain himself.\nStumbling over the chair as he turned to follow, cutting and slashing\nwildly with his sword, he saw halfway down the darkened corridor beyond\nthe scuttling outline of, apparently, an enormous--cat!\n\nThe door into the outer landing was somehow ajar, and the next second\nthe beast was out, but not before the steel had fallen with a crashing\nblow upon the front disappearing leg, almost severing it from the body.\n\nIt was dreadful. Turning up the lights as he went, he ran after it to\nthe outer landing. But the thing he followed was already well away, and\nhe heard, on the floor below him, the same oddly gliding, slithering,\nstealthy sound, yet hurrying, that he had heard weeks before when\nsomething had passed him in the lift and Morgan, in his terror, had\nlikewise cried aloud.\n\nFor a time he stood there on that dark landing, listening, thinking,\ntrembling; then turned into the flat and shut the door. In the\nsitting-room he carefully replaced the glass case over the treasured\nviolin, puzzled to the point of foolishness, and strangely routed in his\nmind. For the violin itself, he saw, had been dragged several inches\nfrom its cushioned bed of plush.\n\nNext morning, however, he made no allusion to the occurrence of the\nnight. His brother apparently had not been disturbed.\n\n\n5\n\nThe only thing that called for explanation--an explanation not fully\nforthcoming--was the curious aspect of Mr. Morgan's countenance. The\nfact that this individual gave notice to the owners of the building, and\nat the end of the month left for a new post, was, of course, known to\nboth brothers; whereas the story he told in explanation of his face was\nknown only to the one who questioned him about it--John. And John, for\nreasons best known to himself, did not pass it on to the other. Also,\nfor reasons best known to himself, he did not cross-question the liftman\nabout those singular marks, or report the matter to the police.\n\nMr. Morgan's pasty visage was badly scratched, and there were red lines\nrunning from the cheek into the neck that had the appearance of having\nbeen produced by sharp points viciously applied--claws. He had been\ndisturbed by a noise in the hall, he said, about three in the morning, a\nscuffle had ensued in the darkness, but the intruder had got clear\naway....\n\n\"A cat or something of the kind, no doubt,\" suggested John Gilmer at the\nend of the brief recital. And Morgan replied in his usual way: \"A cat,\nor something of the kind, Mr. John, no doubt.\"\n\nAll the same, he had not cared to risk a second encounter, but had\ndeparted to wear his billycock and uniform in a building less haunted.\n\nHyman, meanwhile, made no attempt to call and talk over his dismissal.\nThe reason for this was only apparent, however, several months later\nwhen, quite by chance, coming along Piccadilly in an omnibus, the\nbrothers found themselves seated opposite to a man with a thick black\nbeard and blue glasses. William Gilmer hastily rang the bell and got\nout, saying something half intelligible about feeling faint. John\nfollowed him.\n\n\"Did you see who it was?\" he whispered to his brother the moment they\nwere safely on the pavement.\n\nJohn nodded.\n\n\"Hyman, in spectacles. He's grown a beard, too.\"\n\n\"Yes, but did you also notice----\"\n\n\"What?\"\n\n\"He had an empty sleeve.\"\n\n\"An empty sleeve?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said William; \"he's lost an arm.\"\n\nThere was a long pause before John spoke. At the door of their club the\nelder brother added:\n\n\"Poor devil! He'll never again play on\"--then, suddenly changing the\npreposition--\"_with_ a pedigree violin!\"\n\nAnd that night in the flat, after William had gone to bed, he looked up\na curious old volume he had once picked up on a second-hand bookstall,\nand read therein quaint descriptions of how the \"desire-body of a\nviolent man\" may assume animal shape, operate on concrete matter even at\na distance; and, further, how a wound inflicted thereon can reproduce\nitself upon its physical counterpart by means of the mysterious\nso-called phenomenon of \"re-percussion.\"\n\n\n\n\nXII\n\nWIRELESS CONFUSION\n\n\n\"Good night, Uncle,\" whispered the child, as she climbed on to his knee\nand gave him a resounding kiss. \"It's time for me to disappop into\nbed--at least, so mother says.\"\n\n\"Disappop, then,\" he replied, returning her kiss, \"although I doubt....\"\n\nHe hesitated. He remembered the word was her father's invention,\ndescriptive of the way rabbits pop into their holes and disappear, and\nthe way _good_ children should leave the room the instant bed-time was\nannounced. The father--his twin brother--seemed to enter the room and\nstand beside them. \"Then give me another kiss, and disappop!\" he said\nquickly. The child obeyed the first part of his injunction, but had not\nobeyed the second when the queer thing happened. She had not left his\nknee; he was still holding her at the full stretch of both arms; he was\nstaring into her laughing eyes, when she suddenly went far away into an\nextraordinary distance. She retired. Minute, tiny, but still in perfect\nproportion and clear as before, she was withdrawn in space till she was\nsmall as a doll. He saw his own hands holding her, and they too were\nminute. Down this long corridor of space, as it were, he saw her\ndiminutive figure.\n\n\"Uncle!\" she cried, yet her voice was loud as before, \"but what a funny\nface! You're pretending you've seen a ghost\"--and she was gone from his\nknee and from the room, the door closing quietly behind her. He saw her\ncross the floor, a tiny figure. Then, just as she reached the door, she\nbecame of normal size again, as if she crossed a line.\n\nHe felt dizzy. The loud voice close to his ear issuing from a diminutive\nfigure half a mile away had a distressing effect upon him. He knew a\ncurious qualm as he sat there in the dark. He heard the wind walking\nround the house, trying the doors and windows. He was troubled by a\nmemory he could not seize.\n\nYet the emotion instantly resolved itself into one of personal anxiety:\nsomething had gone wrong with his eyes. Sight, his most precious\npossession as an artist, was of course affected. He was conscious of a\nlittle trembling in him, as he at once began trying his sight at various\nobjects--his hands, the high ceiling, the trees dim in the twilight on\nthe lawn outside. He opened a book and read half a dozen lines, at\nchanging distances; finally he stared carefully at the second hand of\nhis watch. \"Right as a trivet!\" he exclaimed aloud. He emitted a long\nsigh; he was immensely relieved. \"Nothing wrong with my eyes.\"\n\nHe thought about the actual occurrence a great deal--he felt as puzzled\nas any other normal person must have felt. While he held the child\nactually in his arms, gripping her with both hands, he had seen her\nsuddenly half a mile away. \"Half a mile!\" he repeated under his breath,\n\"why it was even more, it was easily a mile.\" It had been exactly as\nthough he suddenly looked at her down the wrong end of a powerful\ntelescope. It had really happened; he could not explain it; there was no\nmore to be said.\n\nThis was the first time it happened to him.\n\nAt the theatre, a week later, when the phenomenon was repeated, the\nstage he was watching fixedly at the moment went far away, as though he\nsaw it from a long way off. The distance, so far as he could judge, was\nthe same as before, about a mile. It was an Eastern scene, realistically\ncostumed and produced, that without an instant's warning withdrew. The\nentire stage went with it, although he did not actually see it go. He\ndid not see movement, that is. It was suddenly remote, while yet the\nactors' voices, the orchestra, the general hubbub retained their normal\nvolume. He experienced again the distressing dizziness; he closed his\neyes, covering them with his hand, then rubbing the eyeballs slightly;\nand when he looked up the next minute, the world was as it should be, as\nit had been, at any rate. Unwilling to experience a repetition of the\nthing in a public place, however, and fortunately being alone, he left\nthe theatre at the end of the act.\n\nTwice this happened to him, once with an individual, his brother's\nchild, and once with a landscape, an Eastern stage scene. Both\noccurrences were within the week, during which time he had been\nconsidering a visit to the oculist, though without putting his decision\ninto execution. He was the kind of man that dreaded doctors, dentists,\noculists, always postponing, always finding reasons for delay. He found\nreasons now, the chief among them being an unwelcome one--that it was\nperhaps a brain specialist, rather than an oculist, he ought to consult.\nThis particular notion hung unpleasantly about his mind, when, the day\nafter the theatre visit, the thing recurred, but with a startling\ndifference.\n\nWhile idly watching a blue-bottle fly that climbed the window-pane with\nremorseless industry, only to slip down again at the very instant when\nescape into the open air was within its reach, the fly grew abruptly\ninto gigantic proportions, became blurred and indistinct as it did so,\ncovered the entire pane with its furry, dark, ugly mass, and frightened\nhim so that he stepped back with a cry and nearly lost his balance\naltogether. He collapsed into a chair. He listened with closed eyes. The\nmetallic buzzing was audible, a small, exasperating sound, ordinarily\nunable to stir any emotion beyond a mild annoyance. Yet it was terrible;\nthat so huge an insect should make so faint a sound seemed to him\nterrible.\n\nAt length he cautiously opened his eyes. The fly was of normal size\nonce more. He hastily flicked it out of the window.\n\nAn hour later he was talking with the famous oculist in Harley Street\n... about the advisability of starting reading-glasses. He found it\ndifficult to relate the rest. A curious shyness restrained him.\n\n\"Your optic nerves might belong to a man of twenty,\" was the verdict.\n\"Both are perfect. But at your age it is wise to save the sight as much\nas possible. There is a slight astigmatism....\" And a prescription for\nthe glasses was written out. It was only when paying the fee, and as a\nmeans of drawing attention from the awkward moment, that his story found\nexpression. It seemed to come out in spite of himself. He made light of\nit even then, telling it without conviction. It seemed foolish suddenly\nas he told it. \"How very odd,\" observed the oculist vaguely, \"dear me,\nyes, curious indeed. But that's nothing. H'm, h'm!\" Either it was no\nconcern of his, or he deemed it negligible.... His only other confidant\nwas a friend of psychological tendencies who was interested and eager to\nexplain. It is on the instant plausible explanation of anything and\neverything that the reputation of such folk depends; this one was true\nto type: \"A spontaneous invention, my dear fellow--a pictorial rendering\nof your thought. You are a painter, aren't you? Well, this is merely a\nrendering in picture-form of\"--he paused for effect, the other hung upon\nhis words--\"of the odd expression 'disappop.'\"\n\n\"Ah!\" exclaimed the painter.\n\n\"You see everything pictorially, of course, don't you?\"\n\n\"Yes--as a rule.\"\n\n\"There you have it. Your painter's psychology saw the child\n'disappopping.' That's all.\"\n\n\"And the fly?\" but the fly was easily explained, since it was merely the\nprocess reversed. \"Once a process has established itself in your mind,\nyou see, it may act in either direction. When a madman says 'I'm afraid\nSmith will do me an injury,' it means, 'I will do an injury to Smith,'\"\nAnd he repeated with finality, \"That's it.\"\n\nThe explanations were not very satisfactory, the illustration even\ntactless, but then the problem had not been stated quite fully. Neither\nto the oculist nor to the other had _all_ the facts been given. The same\nshyness had been a restraining influence in both cases; a detail had\nbeen omitted, and this detail was that he connected the occurrences\nsomehow with his brother whom the war had taken.\n\nThe phenomenon made one more appearance--the last--before its character,\nits field of action rather, altered. He was reading a book when the\nprint became now large, now small; it blurred, grew remote and tiny,\nthen so huge that a single word, a letter even, filled the whole page.\nHe felt as if someone were playing optical tricks with the mechanism of\nhis eyes, trying first one, then another focus.\n\nMore curious still, the meaning of the words themselves became\nuncertain; he did not understand them any more; the sentences lost their\nmeaning, as though he read a strange language, or a language little\nknown. The flash came then--someone was using his eyes--someone else was\nlooking through them.\n\nNo, it was not his brother. The idea was preposterous in any case. Yet\nhe shivered again, as when he heard the walking wind, for an uncanny\nconviction came over him that it was someone who did not understand eyes\nbut was manipulating their mechanism experimentally. With the conviction\ncame also this: that, while not his brother, it was someone connected\nwith his brother.\n\nHere, moreover, was an explanation of sorts, for if the supernatural\nexisted--he had never troubled his head about it--he could accept this\nodd business as a manifestation, and leave it at that. He did so, and\nhis mind was eased. This was his attitude: \"The supernatural _may_\nexist. Why not? We cannot know. But we can watch.\" His eyes and brain,\nat any rate, were proved in good condition.\n\nHe watched. No change of focus, no magnifying or diminishing, came\nagain. For some weeks he noticed nothing unusual of any kind, except\nthat his mind often filled now with Eastern pictures. Their sudden\nirruption caught his attention, but no more than that; they were\nsometimes blurred and sometimes vivid; he had never been in the East;\nhe attributed them to his constant thinking of his brother, missing in\nMesopotamia these six months. Photographs in magazines and newspapers\nexplained the rest. Yet the persistence of the pictures puzzled him:\ntents beneath hot cloudless skies, palms, a stretch of desert, dry\nwatercourses, camels, a mosque, a minaret--typical snatches of this kind\nflashed into his mind with a sense of faint familiarity often. He knew,\nagain, the return of a fugitive memory he could not seize.... He kept\na note of the dates, all of them subsequent to the day he read his\nbrother's fate in the official Roll of Honour: \"Believed missing; now\nkilled.\" Only when the original phenomenon returned, but in its altered\nform, did he stop the practice. The change then affected his life too\nfundamentally to trouble about mere dates and pictures.\n\nFor the phenomenon, shifting its field of action, abruptly became\nmental, and the singular change of focus took place now in his mind.\nEvents magnified or contracted themselves out of all relation with their\nintrinsic values, sense of proportion went hopelessly astray. Love, hate\nand fear experienced sudden intensification, or abrupt dwindling into\nnothing; the familiar everyday emotions, commonplace daily acts,\nsuffered exaggerated enlargement, or reduction into insignificance, that\nthreatened the stability of his personality. Fortunately, as stated,\nthey were of brief duration; to examine them in detail were to touch the\npainful absurdities of incipient mania almost; that a lost collar stud\ncould block his exasperated mind for hours, filling an entire day with\nemotion, while a deep affection of long standing could ebb towards\ncomplete collapse suddenly without apparent cause...!\n\nIt was the unexpected suddenness of Turkey's spectacular defeat that\nclosed the painful symptoms. The Armistice saw them go. He knew a quick\nrelief he was unable to explain. The telegram that his brother was alive\nand safe came _after_ his recovery of mental balance. It was a shock.\nBut the phenomena had ceased before the shock.\n\nIt was in the light of his brother's story that he reviewed the puzzling\nphenomena described. The story was not more curious than many another,\nperhaps, yet the details were queer enough. That a wounded Turk to whom\nhe gave water should have remembered gratitude was likely enough, for\nall travellers know that these men are kindly gentlemen at times;\nbut that this Mohammedan peasant should have been later a member\nof a prisoner's escort and have provided the means of escape and\nconcealment--weeks in a dry watercourse and months in a hut outside the\ntown--seemed an incredible stroke of good fortune. \"He brought me food\nand water three times a week. I had no money to give him, so I gave him\nmy Zeiss glasses. I taught him a bit of English too. But he liked the\nglasses best. He was never tired of playing with 'em--making big and\nlittle, as he called it. He learned precious little English....\"\n\n\"My pair, weren't they?\" interrupted his brother. \"My old climbing\nglasses.\"\n\n\"Your present to me when I went out, yes. So really you helped me to\nsave my life. I told the old Turk that. I was always thinking about\nyou.\"\n\n\"And the Turk?\"\n\n\"No doubt.... Through _my_ mind, that is. At any rate, he asked a lot of\nquestions about you. I showed him your photo. He died, poor chap--at\nleast they told me so. Probably they shot him.\"\n\n\n\n\nXIII\n\nCONFESSION\n\n\nThe fog swirled slowly round him, driven by a heavy movement of its own,\nfor of course there was no wind. It hung in poisonous thick coils and\nloops; it rose and sank; no light penetrated it directly from street\nlamp or motor-car, though here and there some big shop-window shed a\nglimmering patch upon its ever-shifting curtain.\n\nO'Reilly's eyes ached and smarted with the incessant effort to see\na foot beyond his face. The optic nerve grew tired, and sight,\naccordingly, less accurate. He coughed as he shuffled forward cautiously\nthrough the choking gloom. Only the stifled rumble of crawling traffic\npersuaded him he was in a crowded city at all--this, and the vague\noutlines of groping figures, hugely magnified, emerging suddenly and\ndisappearing again, as they fumbled along inch by inch towards uncertain\ndestinations.\n\nThe figures, however were human beings; they were real. That much he\nknew. He heard their muffled voices, now close, now distant, strangely\nsmothered always. He also heard the tapping of innumerable sticks,\nfeeling for iron railings or the kerb. These phantom outlines\nrepresented living people. He was not alone.\n\nIt was the dread of finding himself _quite_ alone that haunted him, for\nhe was still unable to cross an open space without assistance. He had\nthe physical strength, it was the mind that failed him. Midway the\npanic terror might descend upon him, he would shake all over, his will\ndissolve, he would shriek for help, run wildly--into the traffic\nprobably--or, as they called it in his North Ontario home, \"throw a\nfit\" in the street before advancing wheels. He was not yet entirely\ncured, although under ordinary conditions he was safe enough, as Dr.\nHenry had assured him.\n\nWhen he left Regent's Park by Tube an hour ago the air was clear, the\nNovember sun shone brightly, the pale blue sky was cloudless, and the\nassumption that he could manage the journey across London Town alone was\njustified. The following day he was to leave for Brighton for the week\nof final convalescence: this little preliminary test of his powers on a\nbright November afternoon was all to the good. Doctor Henry furnished\nminute instructions: \"You change at Piccadilly Circus--without leaving\nthe underground station, mind--and get out at South Kensington. You know\nthe address of your V.A.D. friend. Have your cup of tea with her, then\ncome back the same way to Regent's Park. Come back before dark--say six\no'clock at latest. It's better.\" He had described exactly what turns to\ntake after leaving the station, so many to the right, so many to the\nleft; it was a little confusing, but the distance was short. \"You can\nalways ask. You can't possibly go wrong.\"\n\nThe unexpected fog, however, now blurred these instructions in a\nconfused jumble in his mind. The failure of outer sight reacted upon\nmemory. The V.A.D. besides had warned him her address was \"not easy to\nfind the first time. The house lies in a backwater. But with your\n'backwoods' instincts you'll probably manage it better than any\nLondoner!\" She, too, had not calculated upon the fog.\n\nWhen O'Reilly came up the stairs at South Kensington Station, he emerged\ninto such murky darkness that he thought he was still underground. An\nimpenetrable world lay round him. Only a raw bite in the damp atmosphere\ntold him he stood beneath an open sky. For some little time he stood and\nstared--a Canadian soldier, his home among clear brilliant spaces, now\nface to face for the first time in his life with that thing he had so\noften read about--a bad London fog. With keenest interest and surprise\nhe \"enjoyed\" the novel spectacle for perhaps ten minutes, watching the\npeople arrive and vanish, and wondering why the station lights stopped\ndead the instant they touched the street--then, with a sense of\nadventure--it cost an effort--he left the covered building and plunged\ninto the opaque sea beyond.\n\nRepeating to himself the directions he had received--first to the right,\nsecond to the left, once more to the left, and so forth--he checked each\nturn, assuring himself it was impossible to go wrong. He made correct if\nslow progress, until someone blundered into him with an abrupt and\nstartling question: \"Is this right, do you know, for South Kensington\nStation?\"\n\nIt was the suddenness that startled him; one moment there was no one,\nthe next they were face to face, another, and the stranger had vanished\ninto the gloom with a courteous word of grateful thanks. But the little\nshock of interruption had put memory out of gear. Had he already turned\ntwice to the right, or had he not? O'Reilly realized sharply he had\nforgotten his memorized instructions. He stood still, making strenuous\nefforts at recovery, but each effort left him more uncertain than\nbefore. Five minutes later he was lost as hopelessly as any townsman who\nleaves his tent in the backwoods without blazing the trees to ensure\nfinding his way back again. Even the sense of direction, so strong in\nhim among his native forests, was completely gone. There were no stars,\nthere was no wind, no smell, no sound of running water. There was\nnothing anywhere to guide him, nothing but occasional dim outlines,\ngroping, shuffling, emerging and disappearing in the eddying fog, but\nrarely coming within actual speaking, much less touching, distance. He\nwas lost utterly; more, he was alone.\n\nYet not _quite_ alone--the thing he dreaded most. There were figures\nstill in his immediate neighborhood. They emerged, vanished, reappeared,\ndissolved. No, he was not quite alone. He saw these thickenings of the\nfog, he heard their voices, the tapping of their cautious sticks, their\nshuffling feet as well. They were real. They moved, it seemed, about him\nin a circle, never coming very close.\n\n\"But they're real,\" he said to himself aloud, betraying the weak point\nin his armour. \"They're human beings right enough. I'm positive of\nthat.\"\n\nHe had never argued with Dr. Henry--he wanted to get well; he had obeyed\nimplicitly, believing everything the doctor told him--up to a point. But\nhe had always had his own idea about these \"figures,\" because, among\nthem, were often enough his own pals from the Somme, Gallipoli, the\nMespot horror, too. And he ought to know his own pals when he saw them!\nAt the same time he knew quite well he had been \"shocked,\" his being\ndislocated; half dissolved as it were, his system pushed into some\nlopsided condition that meant inaccurate registration. True. He grasped\nthat perfectly. But, in that shock and dislocation, had he not possibly\npicked up another gear? Were there not gaps and broken edges, pieces\nthat no longer dovetailed, fitted as usual, interstices, in a word?\nYes, that was the word--interstices. Cracks, so to speak, between his\nperception of the outside world and his inner interpretation of\nthese? Between memory and recognition? Between the various states of\nconsciousness that usually dovetailed so neatly that the joints were\nnormally imperceptible?\n\nHis state, he well knew, was abnormal, but were his symptoms on that\naccount unreal? Could not these \"interstices\" be used by--others? When\nhe saw his \"figures,\" he used to ask himself: \"Are not these the real\nones, and the others--the human beings--unreal?\"\n\nThis question now revived in him with a new intensity. Were these\nfigures in the fog real or unreal? The man who had asked the way to the\nstation, was he not, after all, a shadow merely?\n\nBy the use of his cane and foot and what of sight was left to him he\nknew that he was on an island. A lamppost stood up solid and straight\nbeside him, shedding its faint patch of glimmering light. Yet there were\nrailings, however, that puzzled him, for his stick hit the metal rods\ndistinctly in a series. And there should be no railings round an island.\nYet he had most certainly crossed a dreadful open space to get where he\nwas. His confusion and bewilderment increased with dangerous rapidity.\nPanic was not far away.\n\nHe was no longer on an omnibus route. A rare taxi crawled past\noccasionally, a whitish patch at the window indicating an anxious human\nface; now and again came a van or cart, the driver holding a lantern as\nhe led the stumbling horse. These comforted him, rare though they were.\nBut it was the figures that drew his attention most. He was quite sure\nthey were real. They were human beings like himself.\n\nFor all that, he decided he might as well be positive on the point. He\ntried one accordingly--a big man who rose suddenly before him out of the\nvery earth.\n\n\"Can you give me the trail to Morley Place?\" he asked.\n\nBut his question was drowned by the other's simultaneous inquiry in a\nvoice much louder than his own.\n\n\"I say, is this right for the Tube station, d'you know? I'm utterly\nlost. I want South Ken.\"\n\nAnd by the time O'Reilly had pointed the direction whence he himself had\njust come, the man was gone again, obliterated, swallowed up, not so\nmuch as his footsteps audible, almost as if--it seemed again--he never\nhad been there at all.\n\nThis left an acute unpleasantness in him, a sense of bewilderment\ngreater than before. He waited five minutes, not daring to move a step,\nthen tried another figure, a woman this time who, luckily, knew the\nimmediate neighbourhood intimately. She gave him elaborate instructions\nin the kindest possible way, then vanished with incredible swiftness\nand ease into the sea of gloom beyond. The instantaneous way she\nvanished was disheartening, upsetting; it was so uncannily abrupt and\nsudden. Yet she comforted him. Morley Place, according to her version,\nwas not two hundred yards from where he stood. He felt his way forward,\nstep by step, using his cane, crossing a giddy open space kicking the\nkerb with each boot alternately, coughing and choking all the time as he\ndid so.\n\n\"They were real, I guess, anyway,\" he said aloud. \"They were both real\nenough all right. And it may lift a bit soon!\" He was making a great\neffort to hold himself in hand. He was already fighting, that is. He\nrealized this perfectly. The only point was--the reality of the figures.\n\"It may lift now any minute,\" he repeated louder. In spite of the cold,\nhis skin was sweating profusely.\n\nBut, of course, it did not lift. The figures, too, became fewer. No\ncarts were audible. He had followed the woman's directions carefully,\nbut now found himself in some by-way, evidently, where pedestrians at\nthe best of times were rare. There was dull silence all about him. His\nfoot lost the kerb, his cane swept the empty air, striking nothing\nsolid, and panic rose upon him with its shuddering, icy grip. He was\nalone, he knew himself alone, worse still--he was in another open space.\n\nIt took him fifteen minutes to cross that open space, most of the way\nupon his hands and knees, oblivious of the icy slime that stained his\ntrousers, froze his fingers, intent only upon feeling solid support\nagainst his back and spine again. It was an endless period. The moment\nof collapse was close, the shriek already rising in his throat, the\nshaking of the whole body uncontrollable, when--his outstretched fingers\nstruck a friendly kerb, and he saw a glimmering patch of diffused\nradiance overhead. With a great, quick effort he stood upright, and an\ninstant later his stick rattled along an area railing. He leaned against\nit, breathless, panting, his heart beating painfully while the street\nlamp gave him the further comfort of its feeble gleam, the actual flame,\nhowever, invisible. He looked this way and that; the pavement was\ndeserted. He was engulfed in the dark silence of the fog.\n\nBut Morley Place, he knew, must be very close by now. He thought of the\nfriendly little V.A.D. he had known in France, of a warm bright fire, a\ncup of tea and a cigarette. One more effort, he reflected, and all these\nwould be his. He pluckily groped his way forward again, crawling slowly\nby the area railings. If things got really bad again, he would ring a\nbell and ask for help, much as he shrank from the idea. Provided he had\nno more open spaces to cross, provided he saw no more figures emerging\nand vanishing like creatures born of the fog and dwelling within it as\nwithin their native element--it was the figures he now dreaded more than\nanything else, more even than the loneliness--provided the panic\nsense----\n\nA faint darkening of the fog beneath the next lamp caught his eye and\nmade him start. He stopped. It was not a figure this time, it was the\nshadow of the pole grotesquely magnified. No, it moved. It moved towards\nhim. A flame of fire followed by ice flowed through him. It was a\nfigure--close against his face. It was a woman.\n\nThe doctor's advice came suddenly back to him, the counsel that had\ncured him of a hundred phantoms:\n\n\"Do not ignore them. Treat them as real. Speak and go with them. You\nwill soon prove their unreality then. And they will leave you....\"\n\nHe made a brave, tremendous effort. He was shaking. One hand clutched\nthe damp and icy area railing.\n\n\"Lost your way like myself, haven't you, ma'am?\" he said in a voice that\ntrembled. \"Do you know where we are at all? Morley Place _I_'m looking\nfor----\"\n\nHe stopped dead. The woman moved nearer and for the first time he saw\nher face clearly. Its ghastly pallor, the bright, frightened eyes that\nstared with a kind of dazed bewilderment into his own, the beauty above\nall, arrested his speech midway. The woman was young, her tall figure\nwrapped in a dark fur coat.\n\n\"Can I help you?\" he asked impulsively, forgetting his own terror for\nthe moment. He was more than startled. Her air of distress and pain\nstirred a peculiar anguish in him. For a moment she made no answer,\nthrusting her white face closer as if examining him, so close, indeed,\nthat he controlled with difficulty his instinct to shrink back a little.\n\n\"Where am I?\" she asked at length, searching his eyes intently. \"I'm\nlost--I've lost myself. I can't find my way back.\" Her voice was low, a\ncurious wailing in it that touched his pity oddly. He felt his own\ndistress merging in one that was greater.\n\n\"Same here,\" he replied more confidently. \"I'm terrified of being alone,\ntoo. I've had shell-shock, you know. Let's go together. We'll find a way\ntogether----\"\n\n\"Who are you!\" the woman murmured, still staring at him with her big\nbright eyes, their distress, however, no whit lessened. She gazed at him\nas though aware suddenly of his presence.\n\nHe told her briefly. \"And I'm going to tea with a V.A.D. friend in\nMorley Place. What's your address? Do you know the name of the street?\"\n\nShe appeared not to hear him, or not to understand exactly; it was as if\nshe was not listening again.\n\n\"I came out so suddenly, so unexpectedly,\" he heard the low voice with\npain in every syllable; \"I can't find my home again. Just when I was\nexpecting him too----\" She looked about her with a distraught expression\nthat made O'Reilly long to carry her in his arms to safety then and\nthere. \"He may be there now--waiting for me at this very moment--and I\ncan't get back.\" And so sad was her voice that only by an effort did\nO'Reilly prevent himself putting out his hand to touch her. More and\nmore he forgot himself in his desire to help her. Her beauty, the wonder\nof her strange bright eyes in the pallid face, made an immense appeal.\nHe became calmer. This woman was real enough. He asked again the\naddress, the street and number, the distance she thought it was. \"Have\nyou any idea of the direction, ma'am, any idea at all? We'll go together\nand----\"\n\nShe suddenly cut him short. She turned her head as if to listen, so that\nhe saw her profile a moment, the outline of the slender neck, a glimpse\nof jewels just below the fur.\n\n\"Hark! I hear him calling! I remember...!\" And she was gone from his\nside into the swirling fog.\n\nWithout an instant's hesitation O'Reilly followed her, not only because\nhe wished to help, but because he dared not be left alone. The presence\nof this strange, lost woman comforted him; he must not lose sight of\nher, whatever happened. He had to run, she went so rapidly, ever just in\nfront, moving with confidence and certainty, turning right and left,\ncrossing the street, but never stopping, never hesitating, her companion\nalways at her heels in breathless haste, and with a growing terror that\nhe might lose her any minute. The way she found her direction through\nthe dense fog was marvellous enough, but O'Reilly's only thought was to\nkeep her in sight, lest his own panic redescend upon him with its\ninevitable collapse in the dark and lonely street. It was a wild and\npanting pursuit, and he kept her in view with difficulty, a dim fleeting\noutline always a few yards ahead of him. She did not once turn her head,\nshe uttered no sound, no cry; she hurried forward with unfaltering\ninstinct. Nor did the chase occur to him once as singular; she was his\nsafety, and that was all he realized.\n\nOne thing, however, he remembered afterwards, though at the actual time\nhe no more than registered the detail, paying no attention to it--a\ndefinite perfume she left upon the atmosphere, one, moreover, that he\nknew, although he could not find its name as he ran. It was associated\nvaguely, for him, with something unpleasant, something disagreeable. He\nconnected it with misery and pain. It gave him a feeling of uneasiness.\nMore than that he did not notice at the moment, nor could he\nremember--he certainly did not try--where he had known this particular\nscent before.\n\nThen suddenly the woman stopped, opened a gate and passed into a small\nprivate garden--so suddenly that O'Reilly, close upon her heels, only\njust avoided tumbling into her. \"You've found it?\" he cried. \"May I come\nin a moment with you? Perhaps you'll let me telephone to the doctor.\"\n\nShe turned instantly. Her face close against his own, was livid.\n\n\"Doctor!\" she repeated in an awful whisper. The word meant terror to\nher. O'Reilly stood amazed. For a second or two neither of them moved.\nThe woman seemed petrified.\n\n\"Dr. Henry, you know,\" he stammered, finding his tongue again. \"I'm in\nhis care. He's in Harley Street.\"\n\nHer face cleared as suddenly as it had darkened, though the original\nexpression of bewilderment and pain still hung in her great eyes. But\nthe terror left them, as though she suddenly forgot some association\nthat had revived it.\n\n\"My home,\" she murmured. \"My home is somewhere here. I'm near it. I must\nget back--in time--for him. I must. He's coming to me.\" And with these\nextraordinary words she turned, walked up the narrow path, and stood\nupon the porch of a two-storey house before her companion had recovered\nfrom his astonishment sufficiently to move or utter a syllable in reply.\nThe front door, he saw, was ajar. It had been left open.\n\nFor five seconds, perhaps for ten, he hesitated; it was the fear that\nthe door would close and shut him out that brought the decision to his\nwill and muscles. He ran up the steps and followed the woman into a dark\nhall where she had already preceded him, and amid whose blackness she\nnow had finally vanished. He closed the door, not knowing exactly why\nhe did so, and knew at once by an instinctive feeling that the house he\nnow found himself in with this unknown woman was empty and unoccupied.\nIn a house, however, he felt safe. It was the open streets that were his\ndanger. He stood waiting, listening a moment before he spoke; and he\nheard the woman moving down the passage from door to door, repeating to\nherself in her low voice of unhappy wailing some words he could not\nunderstand:\n\n\"Where is it? Oh, where is it? I must get back....\"\n\nO'Reilly then found himself abruptly stricken with dumbness, as though,\nwith these strange words, a haunting terror came up and breathed against\nhim in the darkness.\n\n\"Is she after all a figure?\" ran in letters of fire across his numbed\nbrain. \"Is she unreal--or real?\"\n\nSeeking relief in action of some kind, he put out a hand automatically,\nfeeling along the wall for an electric switch, and though he found it by\nsome miraculous chance, no answering glow responded to the click.\n\nAnd the woman's voice from the darkness: \"Ah! Ah! At last I've found it.\nI'm home again--at last...!\" He heard a door open and close upstairs. He\nwas on the ground-floor now--alone. Complete silence followed.\n\nIn the conflict of various emotions--fear for himself lest his panic\nshould return, fear for the woman who had led him into this empty\nhouse and now deserted him upon some mysterious errand of her own that\nmade him think of madness--in this conflict that held him a moment\nspell-bound, there was a yet bigger ingredient demanding instant\nexplanation, but an explanation that he could not find. Was the woman\nreal or was she unreal? Was she a human being or a \"figure\"? The horror\nof doubt obsessed him with an acute uneasiness that betrayed itself in a\nreturn of that unwelcome inner trembling he knew was dangerous.\n\nWhat saved him from a _crise_ that must have had most dangerous results\nfor his mind and nervous system generally, seems to have been the\noutstanding fact that he felt more for the woman than for himself. His\nsympathy and pity had been deeply moved; her voice, her beauty, her\nanguish and bewilderment, all uncommon, inexplicable, mysterious, formed\ntogether a claim that drove self into the background. Added to this was\nthe detail that she had left him, gone to another floor without a word,\nand now, behind a closed door in a room upstairs, found herself face to\nface at last with the unknown object of her frantic search--with \"it,\"\nwhatever \"it\" might be. Real or unreal, figure or human being, the\novermastering impulse of his being was that he must go to her.\n\nIt was this clear impulse that gave him decision and energy to do what\nhe then did. He struck a match, he found a stump of candle, he made his\nway by means of this flickering light along the passage and up the\ncarpetless stairs. He moved cautiously, stealthily, though not knowing\nwhy he did so. The house, he now saw, was indeed untenanted; dust-sheets\ncovered the piled-up furniture; he glimpsed through doors ajar, pictures\nwere screened upon the walls, brackets draped to look like hooded heads.\nHe went on slowly, steadily, moving on tiptoe as though conscious of\nbeing watched, noting the well of darkness in the hall below, the\ngrotesque shadows that his movements cast on walls and ceiling. The\nsilence was unpleasant, yet, remembering that the woman was \"expecting\"\nsomeone, he did not wish it broken. He reached the landing and stood\nstill. Closed doors on both sides of a corridor met his sight, as he\nshaded the candle to examine the scene. Behind which of these doors, he\nasked himself, was the woman, figure or human being, now alone with\n\"it\"?\n\nThere was nothing to guide him, but an instinct that he must not delay\nsent him forward again upon his search. He tried a door on the right--an\nempty room, with the furniture hidden by dust-sheets, and the mattress\nrolled up on the bed. He tried a second door, leaving the first one\nopen behind him, and it was, similarly, an empty bedroom. Coming out\ninto the corridor again he stood a moment waiting, then called aloud in\na low voice that yet woke echoes unpleasantly in the hall below: \"Where\nare you? I want to help--which room are you in?\"\n\nThere was no answer; he was almost glad he heard no sound, for he knew\nquite well that he was waiting really for another sound--the steps of\nhim who was \"expected.\" And the idea of meeting with this unknown\nthird sent a shudder through him, as though related to an interview he\ndreaded with his whole heart, and must at all costs avoid. Waiting\nanother moment or two, he noted that his candle-stump was burning low,\nthen crossed the landing with a feeling, at once of hesitation and\ndetermination, towards a door opposite to him. He opened it; he did\nnot halt on the threshold. Holding the candle at arm's length, he went\nboldly in.\n\nAnd instantly his nostrils told him he was right at last, for a whiff\nof the strange perfume, though this time much stronger than before,\ngreeted him, sending a new quiver along his nerves. He knew now why it\nwas associated with unpleasantness, with pain, with misery, for he\nrecognized it--the odour of a hospital. In this room a powerful\nanaesthetic had been used--and recently.\n\nSimultaneously with smell, sight brought its message too. On the large\ndouble bed behind the door on his right lay, to his amazement, the woman\nin the dark fur coat. He saw the jewels on the slender neck; but the\neyes he did not see, for they were closed--closed, too, he grasped at\nonce, in death. The body lay stretched at full length, quite motionless.\nHe approached. A dark thin streak that came from the parted lips and\npassed downwards over the chin, losing itself then in the fur collar,\nwas a trickle of blood. It was hardly dry. It glistened.\n\nStrange it was perhaps that, while imaginary fears had the power to\nparalyse him, mind and body, this sight of something real had the effect\nof restoring confidence. The sight of blood and death, amid conditions\noften ghastly and even monstrous, was no new thing to him. He went up\nquietly, and with steady hand he felt the woman's cheek, the warmth of\nrecent life still in its softness. The final cold had not yet mastered\nthis empty form whose beauty, in its perfect stillness, had taken on the\nnew strange sweetness of an unearthly bloom. Pallid, silent, untenanted,\nit lay before him, lit by the flicker of his guttering candle. He lifted\nthe fur coat to feel for the unbeating heart. A couple of hours ago at\nmost, he judged, this heart was working busily, the breath came through\nthose parted lips, the eyes were shining in full beauty. His hand\nencountered a hard knob--the head of a long steel hat-pin driven through\nthe heart up to its hilt.\n\nHe knew then which was the figure--which was the real and which the\nunreal. He knew also what had been meant by \"it.\"\n\nBut before he could think or reflect what action he must take, before he\ncould straighten himself even from his bent position over the body on\nthe bed, there sounded through the empty house below the loud clang of\nthe front door being closed. And instantly rushed over him that other\nfear he had so long forgotten--fear for himself. The panic of his own\nshaken nerves descended with irresistible onslaught. He turned,\nextinguishing the candle in the violent trembling of his hand, and tore\nheadlong from the room.\n\nThe following ten minutes seemed a nightmare in which he was not master\nof himself and knew not exactly what he did. All he realized was that\nsteps already sounded on the stairs, coming quickly nearer. The flicker\nof an electric torch played on the banisters, whose shadows ran swiftly\nsideways along the wall as the hand that held the light ascended. He\nthought in a frenzied second of police, of his presence in the house, of\nthe murdered woman. It was a sinister combination. Whatever happened, he\nmust escape without being so much as even seen. His heart raced madly.\nHe darted across the landing into the room opposite, whose door he had\nluckily left open. And by some incredible chance, apparently, he was\nneither seen nor heard by the man who, a moment later, reached the\nlanding, entered the room where the body of the woman lay, and closed\nthe door carefully behind him.\n\nShaking, scarcely daring to breathe lest his breath be audible,\nO'Reilly, in the grip of his own personal terror, remnant of his uncured\nshock of war, had no thought of what duty might demand or not demand of\nhim. He thought only of himself. He realized one clear issue--that he\nmust get out of the house without being heard or seen. Who the new-comer\nwas he did not know, beyond an uncanny assurance that it was _not_ him\nwhom the woman had \"expected,\" but the murderer himself, and that it was\nthe murderer, in his turn, who was expecting this third person. In that\nroom with death at his elbow, a death he had himself brought about but\nan hour or two ago, the murderer now hid in waiting for his second\nvictim. And the door was closed.\n\nYet any minute it might open again, cutting off retreat.\n\nO'Reilly crept out, stole across the landing, reached the head of the\nstairs, and began, with the utmost caution, the perilous descent.\nEach time the bare boards creaked beneath his weight, no matter how\nstealthily this weight was adjusted, his heart missed a beat. He tested\neach step before he pressed upon it, distributing as much of his weight\nas he dared upon the banisters. It was a little more than half-way down\nthat, to his horror, his foot caught in a projecting carpet tack; he\nslipped on the polished wood, and only saved himself from falling\nheadlong by a wild clutch at the railing, making an uproar that seemed\nto him like the explosion of a hand-grenade in the forgotten trenches.\nHis nerves gave way then, and panic seized him. In the silence that\nfollowed the resounding echoes he heard the bedroom door opening on the\nfloor above.\n\nConcealment was now useless. It was impossible, too. He took the last\nflight of stairs in a series of leaps, four steps at a time, reached the\nhall, flew across it, and opened the front door, just as his pursuer,\nelectric torch in hand, covered half the stairs behind him. Slamming the\ndoor, he plunged headlong into the welcome, all-obscuring fog outside.\n\nThe fog had now no terrors for him, he welcomed its concealing mantle;\nnor did it matter in which direction he ran so long as he put distance\nbetween him and the house of death. The pursuer had, of course, not\nfollowed him into the street. He crossed open spaces without a tremor.\nHe ran in a circle nevertheless, though without being aware he did so.\nNo people were about, no single groping shadow passed him; no boom of\ntraffic reached his ears, when he paused for breath at length against an\narea railing. Then for the first time he made the discovery that he had\nno hat. He remembered now. In examining the body, partly out of respect,\npartly perhaps unconsciously, he had taken it off and laid it--on the\nvery bed.\n\nIt was there, a tell-tale bit of damning evidence, in the house of\ndeath. And a series of probable consequences flashed through his mind\nlike lightning. It was a new hat fortunately; more fortunate still, he\nhad not yet written name or initials in it; but the maker's mark was\nthere for all to read, and the police would go immediately to the shop\nwhere he had bought it only two days before. Would the shop-people\nremember his appearance? Would his visit, the date, the conversation be\nrecalled? He thought it was unlikely; he resembled dozens of men; he had\nno outstanding peculiarity. He tried to think, but his mind was confused\nand troubled, his heart was beating dreadfully, he felt desperately ill.\nHe sought vainly for some story to account for his being out in the fog\nand far from home without a hat. No single idea presented itself. He\nclung to the icy railings, hardly able to keep upright, collapse very\nnear--when suddenly a figure emerged from the fog, paused a moment to\nstare at him, put out a hand and caught him, and then spoke:\n\n\"You're ill, my dear sir,\" said a man's kindly voice. \"Can I be of any\nassistance? Come, let me help you.\" He had seen at once that it was not\na case of drunkenness. \"Come, take my arm, won't you? I'm a physician.\nLuckily, too, you are just outside my very house. Come in.\" And he half\ndragged, half pushed O'Reilly, now bordering on collapse, up the steps\nand opened the door with his latch-key.\n\n\"Felt ill suddenly--lost in the fog ... terrified, but be all right\nsoon, thanks awfully----\" the Canadian stammered his gratitude, but\nalready feeling better. He sank into a chair in the hall, while the\nother put down a paper parcel he had been carrying, and led him\npresently into a comfortable room; a fire burned brightly; the electric\nlamps were pleasantly shaded; a decanter of whisky and a siphon stood on\na small table beside a big arm-chair; and before O'Reilly could find\nanother word to say the other had poured him out a glass and bade him\nsip it slowly, without troubling to talk till he felt better.\n\n\"That will revive you. Better drink it slowly. You should never have\nbeen out a night like this. If you've far to go, better let me put you\nup----\"\n\n\"Very kind, very kind, indeed,\" mumbled O'Reilly, recovering rapidly in\nthe comfort of a presence he already liked and felt even drawn to.\n\n\"No trouble at all,\" returned the doctor. \"I've been at the front, you\nknow. I can see what your trouble is--shell-shock, I'll be bound.\"\n\nThe Canadian, much impressed by the other's quick diagnosis, noted also\nhis tact and kindness. He had made no reference to the absence of a hat,\nfor instance.\n\n\"Quite true,\" he said. \"I'm with Dr. Henry, in Harley Street,\" and he\nadded a few words about his case. The whisky worked its effect, he\nrevived more and more, feeling better every minute. The other handed\nhim a cigarette; they began to talk about his symptoms and recovery;\nconfidence returned in a measure, though he still felt badly frightened.\nThe doctor's manner and personality did much to help, for there was\nstrength and gentleness in the face, though the features showed unusual\ndetermination, softened occasionally by a sudden hint as of suffering in\nthe bright, compelling eyes. It was the face, thought O'Reilly, of a\nman who had seen much and probably been through hell, but of a man who\nwas simple, good, sincere. Yet not a man to trifle with; behind his\ngentleness lay something very stern. This effect of character and\npersonality woke the other's respect in addition to his gratitude. His\nsympathy was stirred.\n\n\"You encourage me to make another guess,\" the man was saying, after a\nsuccessful reading of the impromptu patient's state, \"that you have had,\nnamely, a severe shock quite recently, and\"--he hesitated for the merest\nfraction of a second--\"that it would be a relief to you,\" he went on,\nthe skilful suggestion in the voice unnoticed by his companion, \"it\nwould be wise as well, if you could unburden yourself to--someone--who\nwould understand.\" He looked at O'Reilly with a kindly and very pleasant\nsmile. \"Am I not right, perhaps?\" he asked in his gentle tone.\n\n\"Someone who would understand,\" repeated the Canadian. \"That's my\ntrouble exactly. You've hit it. It's all so incredible.\"\n\nThe other smiled. \"The more incredible,\" he suggested, \"the greater your\nneed for expression. Suppression, as you may know, is dangerous in cases\nlike this. You think you have hidden it, but it bides its time and comes\nup later, causing a lot of trouble. Confession, you know\"--he emphasized\nthe word--\"confession is good for the soul!\"\n\n\"You're dead right,\" agreed the other.\n\n\"Now if you can, bring yourself to tell it to someone who will listen\nand believe--to myself, for instance. I am a doctor, familiar with such\nthings. I shall regard all you say as a professional confidence, of\ncourse; and, as we are strangers, my belief or disbelief is of no\nparticular consequence. I may tell you in advance of your story,\nhowever--I think I can promise it--that I shall believe all you have to\nsay.\"\n\nO'Reilly told his story without more ado, for the suggestion of the\nskilled physician had found easy soil to work in. During the recital his\nhost's eyes never once left his own. He moved no single muscle of his\nbody. His interest seemed intense.\n\n\"A bit tall, isn't it?\" said the Canadian, when his tale was finished.\n\"And the question is----\" he continued with a threat of volubility which\nthe other checked instantly.\n\n\"Strange, yes, but incredible, no,\" the doctor interrupted. \"I see no\nreason to disbelieve a single detail of what you have just told me.\nThings equally remarkable, equally incredible, happen in all large\ntowns, as I know from personal experience. I could give you instances.\"\nHe paused a moment, but his companion, staring into his eyes with\ninterest and curiosity, made no comment. \"Some years ago, in fact,\"\ncontinued the other, \"I knew of a very similar case--strangely similar.\"\n\n\"Really! I should be immensely interested----\"\n\n\"So similar that it seems almost a coincidence. _You_ may find it hard,\nin your turn, to credit it.\" He paused again, while O'Reilly sat forward\nin his chair to listen. \"Yes,\" pursued the doctor slowly, \"I think\neveryone connected with it is now dead. There is no reason why I should\nnot tell it, for one confidence deserves another, you know. It happened\nduring the Boer War--as long ago as that,\" he added with emphasis. \"It\nis really a very commonplace story in one way, though very dreadful in\nanother, but a man who has served at the front will understand and--I'm\nsure--will sympathize.\"\n\n\"I'm sure of that,\" offered the other readily.\n\n\"A colleague of mine, now dead, as I mentioned--a surgeon, with a big\npractice, married a young and charming girl. They lived happily\ntogether for several years. His wealth made her very comfortable. His\nconsulting-room, I must tell you, was some distance from his house--just\nas this might be--so that she was never bothered with any of his\ncases. Then came the war. Like many others, though much over age, he\nvolunteered. He gave up his lucrative practice and went to South Africa.\nHis income, of course, stopped; the big house was closed; his wife found\nher life of enjoyment considerably curtailed. This she considered a\ngreat hardship, it seems. She felt a bitter grievance against him.\nDevoid of imagination, without any power of sacrifice, a selfish type,\nshe was yet a beautiful, attractive woman--and young. The inevitable\nlover came upon the scene to console her. They planned to run away\ntogether. He was rich. Japan they thought would suit them. Only, by some\nill luck, the husband got wind of it and arrived in London just in the\nnick of time.\"\n\n\"Well rid of her,\" put in O'Reilly, \"_I_ think.\"\n\nThe doctor waited a moment. He sipped his glass. Then his eyes fixed\nupon his companion's face somewhat sternly.\n\n\"Well rid of her, yes,\" he continued, \"only he determined to make that\nriddance final. He decided to kill her--and her lover. You see, he loved\nher.\"\n\nO'Reilly made no comment. In his own country this method with a\nfaithless woman was not unknown. His interest was very concentrated. But\nhe was thinking, too, as he listened, thinking hard.\n\n\"He planned the time and place with care,\" resumed the other in a lower\nvoice, as though he might possibly be overheard. \"They met, he knew, in\nthe big house, now closed, the house where he and his young wife had\npassed such happy years during their prosperity. The plan failed,\nhowever, in an important detail--the woman came at the appointed hour,\nbut without her lover. She found death waiting for her--it was a\npainless death. Then her lover, who was to arrive half an hour later,\ndid not come at all. The door had been left open for him purposely. The\nhouse was dark, its rooms shut up, deserted; there was no caretaker\neven. It was a foggy night, just like this.\"\n\n\"And the other?\" asked O'Reilly in a failing voice. \"The lover----\"\n\n\"A man did come in,\" the doctor went on calmly, \"but it was not the\nlover. It was a stranger.\"\n\n\"A stranger?\" the other whispered. \"And the surgeon--where was he all\nthis time?\"\n\n\"Waiting outside to see him enter--concealed in the fog. He saw the man\ngo in. Five minutes later he followed, meaning to complete his\nvengeance, his act of justice, whatever you like to call it. But the man\nwho had come in was a stranger--he came in by chance--just as you might\nhave done--to shelter from the fog--or----\"\n\nO'Reilly, though with a great effort, rose abruptly to his feet. He had\nan appalling feeling that the man facing him was mad. He had a keen\ndesire to get outside, fog or no fog, to leave this room, to escape from\nthe calm accents of this insistent voice. The effect of the whisky was\nstill in his blood. He felt no lack of confidence. But words came to him\nwith difficulty.\n\n\"I think I'd better be pushing off now, doctor,\" he said clumsily. \"But\nI feel I must thank you very much for all your kindness and help.\" He\nturned and looked hard into the keen eyes facing him. \"Your friend,\" he\nasked in a whisper, \"the surgeon--I hope--I mean, was he ever caught?\"\n\n\"No,\" was the grave reply, the doctor standing up in front of him, \"he\nwas never caught.\"\n\nO'Reilly waited a moment before he made another remark. \"Well,\" he said\nat length, but in a louder tone than before, \"I think--I'm glad.\" He\nwent to the door without shaking hands.\n\n\"You have no hat,\" mentioned the voice behind him. \"If you'll wait a\nmoment I'll get you one of mine. You need not trouble to return it.\" And\nthe doctor passed him, going into the hall. There was a sound of tearing\npaper, O'Reilly left the house a moment later with a hat upon his head,\nbut it was not till he reached the Tube station half an hour afterwards\nthat he realized it was his own.\n\n\n\n\nXIV\n\nTHE LANE THAT RAN EAST AND WEST\n\n\nI\n\nThe curving strip of lane, fading into invisibility east and west, had\nalways symbolized life to her. In some minds life pictures itself a\nstraight line, uphill, downhill, flat, as the case may be; in hers it\nhad been, since childhood, this sweep of country lane that ran past her\ncottage door. In thick white summer dust, she invariably visualized it,\nblue and yellow flowers along its untidy banks of green. It flowed, it\nglided, sometimes it rushed. Without a sound it ran along past the nut\ntrees and the branches where honeysuckle and wild roses shone. With\nevery year now its silent speed increased.\n\nFrom either end she imagined, as a child, that she looked over into\nouter space--from the eastern end into the infinity before birth, from\nthe western into the infinity that follows death. It was to her of real\nimportance.\n\nFrom the veranda the entire stretch was visible, not more than five\nhundred yards at most; from the platform in her mind, whence she viewed\nexistence, she saw her own life, similarly, as a white curve of\nflowering lane, arising she knew not whence, gliding whither she could\nnot tell. At eighteen she had paraphrased the quatrain with a smile upon\nher red lips, her chin tilted, her strong grey eyes rather wistful with\nyearning--\n\n    _Into this little lane, and why not knowing,\n    Nor whence, like water willy-nilly flowing,\n    And out again--like dust along the waste,\n    I know not whither, willy-nilly blowing._\n\nAt thirty she now repeated it, the smile still there, but the lips not\nquite so red, the chin a trifle firmer, the grey eyes stronger, clearer,\nbut charged with a more wistful and a deeper yearning.\n\nIt was her turn of mind, imaginative, introspective, querulous perhaps,\nthat made the bit of running lane significant. Food with the butcher's\nand baker's carts came to her from its eastern, its arriving end, as she\ncalled it; news with the postman, adventure with rare callers. Youth,\nhope, excitement, all these came from the sunrise. Thence came likewise\nspring and summer, flowers, butterflies, the swallows. The fairies, in\nher childhood, had come that way too, their silver feet and gossamer\nwings brightening the summer dawns; and it was but a year ago that Dick\nMessenger, his car stirring a cloud of thick white dust, had also come\ninto her life from the space beyond the sunrise.\n\nShe sat thinking about him now--how he had suddenly appeared out of\nnothing that warm June morning, asked her permission about some\nengineering business on the neighbouring big estate over the hill, given\nher a dog-rose and a bit of fern-leaf, and eventually gone away with her\npromise when he left. Out of the eastern end he appeared; into the\nwestern end he vanished.\n\nFor there was this departing end as well, where the lane curved out of\nsight into the space behind the yellow sunset. In this direction went\nall that left her life. Her parents, each in turn, had taken that way to\nthe churchyard. Spring, summer, the fading butterflies, the restless\nswallows, all left her round that western curve. Later the fairies\nfollowed them, her dreams one by one, the vanishing years as well--and\nnow her youth, swifter, ever swifter, into the region where the sun\ndipped nightly among pale rising stars, leaving her brief strip of life\ncolder, more and more unlit.\n\nJust beyond this end she imagined shadows.\n\nShe saw Dick's car whirling towards her, whirling away again, making for\ndistant Mexico, where his treasure lay. In the interval he had found\nthat treasure and realized it. He was now coming back again. He had\nlanded in England yesterday.\n\nSeated in her deck-chair on the veranda, she watched the sun sink to the\nlevel of the hazel trees. The last swallows already flashed their dark\nwings against the fading gold. Over that western end to-morrow or the\nnext day, amid a cloud of whirling white dust, would emerge, again out\nof nothingness, the noisy car that brought Dick Messenger back to her,\nback from the Mexican expedition that ensured his great new riches, back\ninto her heart and life. In the other direction she would depart a week\nor so later, her life in his keeping, and his in hers ... and the feet\nof their children, in due course, would run up and down the mysterious\nlane in search of flowers, butterflies, excitement, in search of life.\n\nShe wondered ... and as the light faded her wondering grew deeper.\nQuestions that had lain dormant for twelve months became audible\nsuddenly. Would Dick be satisfied with this humble cottage which meant\nso much to her that she felt she could never, never leave it? Would not\nhis money, his new position, demand palaces elsewhere? He was ambitious.\nCould his ambitions set an altar of sacrifice to his love? And\nshe--could she, on the other hand, walk happy and satisfied along the\nwestern curve, leaving her lane finally behind her, lost, untravelled,\nforgotten? Could she face this sacrifice for him? Was he, in a word,\n_the_ man whose appearance out of the sunrise she had been watching and\nwaiting for all these hurrying, swift years?\n\nShe wondered. Now that the decisive moment was so near, unhappy doubts\nassailed her. Her wondering grew deeper, spread, enveloped, penetrated\nher being like a gathering darkness. And the sun sank lower, dusk crept\nalong the hedgerows, the flowers closed their little burning eyes.\nShadows passed hand in hand along the familiar bend that was so short,\nso soon travelled over and left behind that a mistake must ruin all its\nsweetest joy. To wander down it with a companion to whom its flowers,\nits butterflies, its shadows brought no full message, must turn it\nchill, dark, lonely, colourless.... Her thoughts slipped on thus into a\nsoft inner reverie born of that scented twilight hour of honeysuckle and\nwild roses, born too of her deep self-questioning, of wonder, of\nyearning unsatisfied.\n\nThe lane, meanwhile, produced its customary few figures, moving\nhomewards through the dusk. She knew them well, these familiar figures\nof the countryside, had known them from childhood onwards--labourers,\nhedgers, ditchers and the like, with whom now, even in her reverie, she\nexchanged the usual friendly greetings across the wicket-gate. This\ntime, however, she gave but her mind to them, her heart absorbed with\nits own personal and immediate problem.\n\nMelancey had come and gone; old Averill, carrying his hedger's\nsickle-knife, had followed; and she was vaguely looking for Hezekiah\nPurdy, bent with years and rheumatism, his tea-pail always rattling, his\nshuffling feet making a sorry dust, when the figure she did not quite\nrecognize came into view, emerging unexpectedly from the sunrise end.\nWas it Purdy? Yes--no--yet, if not, who was it? Of course it must be\nPurdy. Yet while the others, being homeward bound, came naturally from\nwest to east, with this new figure it was otherwise, so that he was\nhalf-way down the curve before she fully realized him. Out of the\neastern end the man drew nearer, a stranger therefore; out of the\nunknown regions where the sun rose, and where no shadows were, he moved\ntowards her down the deserted lane, perhaps a trespasser, an intruder\npossibly, but certainly an unfamiliar figure.\n\nWithout particular attention or interest, she watched him drift nearer\ndown her little semi-private lane of dream, passing leisurely from east\nto west, the mere fact that he was there establishing an intimacy that\nremained at first unsuspected. It was her eye that watched him, not her\nmind. What was he doing here, where going, whither come, she wondered\nvaguely, the lane both his background and his starting-point? A little\nby-way, after all, this haunted lane. The real world, she knew, swept\ndown the big high-road beyond, unconscious of the humble folk its\nunimportant tributary served. Suddenly the burden of the years assailed\nher. Had she, then, missed life by living here?\n\nThen, with a little shock, her heart contracted as she became aware of\ntwo eyes fixed upon her in the dusk. The stranger had already reached\nthe wicket-gate and now stood leaning against it, staring at her over\nits spiked wooden top. It was certainly not old Purdy. The blood rushed\nback into her heart again as she returned the gaze. He was watching her\nwith a curious intentness, with an odd sense of authority almost, with\nsomething that persuaded her instantly of a definite purpose in his\nbeing there. He was waiting for her--expecting her to come down and\nspeak with him, as she had spoken with the others. Of this, her little\nhabit, he made use, she felt. Shyly, half-nervously, she left her\ndeck-chair and went slowly down the short gravel path between the\nflowers, noticing meanwhile that his clothes were ragged, his hair\nunkempt, his face worn and ravaged as by want and suffering, yet that\nhis eyes were curiously young. His eyes, indeed, were full brown smiling\neyes, and it was the surprise of his youth that impressed her chiefly.\nThat he could be tramp or trespasser left her. She felt no fear.\n\nShe wished him \"Good evening\" in her calm, quiet voice, adding with\nsympathy, \"And who are you, I wonder? You want to ask me something?\" It\nflashed across her that his shabby clothing was somehow a disguise. Over\nhis shoulder hung a faded sack. \"I can do something for you?\" she\npursued inquiringly, as was her kindly custom. \"If you are hungry,\nthirsty, or----\"\n\nIt was the expression of vigour leaping into the deep eyes that stopped\nher. \"If you need clothes,\" she had been going to add. She was not\nfrightened, but suddenly she paused, gripped by a wonder she could not\nunderstand.\n\nAnd his first words justified her wonder. \"_I_ have something for you,\"\nhe said, his voice faint, a kind of stillness in it as though it came\nthrough distance. Also, though this she did not notice, it was an\neducated voice, and it was the absence of surprise that made this detail\ntoo natural to claim attention. She had expected it. \"Something to give\nyou. I have brought it for you,\" the man concluded.\n\n\"Yes,\" she replied, aware, again without comprehension, that her courage\nand her patience were both summoned to support her. \"Yes,\" she repeated\nmore faintly, as though this was all natural, inevitable, expected. She\nsaw that the sack was now lifted from his shoulder and that his hand\nplunged into it, as it hung apparently loose and empty against the gate.\nHis eyes, however, never for one instant left her own. Alarm, she was\nable to remind herself, she did not feel. She only recognized that this\nragged figure laid something upon her spirit she could not fathom, yet\nwas compelled to face.\n\nHis next words startled her. She drew, if unconsciously, upon her\ncourage:\n\n\"A dream.\"\n\nThe voice was deep, yet still with the faintness as of distance in it.\nHis hand, she saw, was moving slowly from the empty sack. A strange\nattraction, mingled with pity, with yearning too, stirred deeply in her.\nThe face, it seemed, turned soft, the eyes glowed with some inner fire\nof feeling. Her heart now beat unevenly.\n\n\"Something--to--sell to me,\" she faltered, aware that his glowing eyes\nupon her made her tremble. The same instant she was ashamed of the\nwords, knowing they were uttered by a portion of her that resisted, and\nthis was not the language he deserved.\n\nHe smiled, and she knew her resistance a vain make-believe he pierced\ntoo easily, though he let it pass in silence.\n\n\"There is, I mean, a price--for every dream,\" she tried to save herself,\nconscious delightfully that her heart was smiling in return.\n\nThe dusk enveloped them, the corncrakes were calling from the fields,\nthe scent of honeysuckle and wild roses lay round her in a warm wave of\nair, yet at the same time she felt as if her naked soul stood side by\nside with this figure in the infinitude of space beyond the sunrise end.\nThe golden stars hung calm and motionless above them. \"That price\"--his\nanswer fell like a summons she had actually expected--\"you pay to\nanother, not to me.\" The voice grew fainter, farther away, dropping\nthrough empty space behind her. \"All dreams are but a single dream. You\npay that price to----\"\n\nHer interruption slipped spontaneously from her lips, its inevitable\ntruth a prophecy:\n\n\"To myself!\"\n\nHe smiled again, but this time he did not answer. His hand, instead, now\nmoved across the gate towards her.\n\nAnd before she quite realized what had happened, she was holding a\nlittle object he had passed across to her. She had taken it, obeying,\nit seemed, an inner compulsion and authority which were inevitable,\nfore-ordained. Lowering her face she examined it in the dusk--a small\ngreen leaf of fern--fingered it with tender caution as it lay in her\npalm, gazed for some seconds closely at the tiny thing.... When she\nlooked up again the stranger, the seller of dreams, as she now imagined\nhim, had moved some yards away from the gate, and was moving still, a\nleisurely quiet tread that stirred no dust, a shadowy outline soft with\ndusk and starlight, moving towards the sunrise end, whence he had first\nappeared.\n\nHer heart gave a sudden leap, as once again the burden of the years\nassailed her. Her words seemed driven out:\n\n\"Who are you? Before you go--your name! What is your name?\"\n\nHis voice, now faint with distance as he melted from sight against the\ndark fringe of hazel trees, reached her but indistinctly, though its\nmeaning was somehow clear:\n\n\"The dream,\" she heard like a breath of wind against her ear, \"shall\nbring its own name with it. I wait....\" Both sound and figure trailed\noff into the unknown space beyond the eastern end, and, leaning against\nthe wicket-gate as usual, the white dust settling about his heavy boots,\nthe tea-pail but just ceased from rattling, was--old Purdy.\n\nUnless the mind can fix the reality of an event in the actual instant of\nits happening, judgment soon dwindles into a confusion between memory\nand argument. Five minutes later, when old Purdy had gone his way again,\nshe found herself already wondering, reflecting, questioning. Yearning\nhad perhaps conjured with emotion to fashion both voice and figure out\nof imagination, out of this perfumed dusk, out of the troubled heart's\ndesire. Confusion in time had further helped to metamorphose old Purdy\ninto some legendary shape that had stolen upon her mood of reverie from\nthe shadows of her beloved lane.... Yet the dream she had accepted from\na stranger hand, a little fern leaf, remained at any rate to shape a\ndelightful certainty her brain might criticize while her heart believed.\nThe fern leaf assuredly was real. A fairy gift! Those who eat of this\nfern-seed, she remembered as she sank into sleep that night, shall see\nthe fairies! And, indeed, a few hours later she walked in dream along\nthe familiar curve between the hedges, her own childhood taking her\nby the hand as she played with the flowers, the butterflies, the glad\nswallows beckoning while they flashed. Without the smallest sense of\nsurprise or unexpectedness, too, she met at the eastern end--two\nfigures. They stood, as she with her childhood stood, hand in hand, the\nseller of dreams and her lover, waiting since time began, she realized,\nwaiting with some great unuttered question on their lips. Neither\naddressed her, neither spoke a word. Dick looked at her, ambition, hard\nand restless, shining in his eyes; in the eyes of the other--dark,\ngentle, piercing, but extraordinarily young for all the ragged hair\nabout the face the shabby clothes, the ravaged and unkempt appearance--a\nbrightness as of the coming dawn.\n\nA choice, she understood, was offered to her; there was a decision she\nmust make. She realized, as though some great wind blew it into her\nfrom outer space, another, a new standard to which her judgment must\ninevitably conform, or admit the purpose of her life evaded finally. The\nsame moment she knew what her decision was. No hesitation touched her.\nCalm, yet trembling, her courage and her patience faced the decision and\naccepted it. The hands then instantly fell apart, unclasped. One figure\nturned and vanished down the lane towards the departing end, but with\nthe other, now hand in hand, she rose floating, gliding without effort,\na strange bliss in her heart, to meet the sunrise.\n\n\"He has awakened ... so he cannot stay,\" she heard, like a breath of\nwind that whispered into her ear. \"I, who bring you this dream--I wait.\"\n\nShe did not wake at once when the dream was ended, but slept on long\nbeyond her accustomed hour, missing thereby Melancey, Averill, old Purdy\nas they passed the wicket-gate in the early hours. She woke, however,\nwith a new clear knowledge of herself, of her mind and heart, to all of\nwhich in simple truth to her own soul she must conform. The fern-seed\nshe placed in a locket attached to a fine gold chain about her neck.\nDuring the long, lonely, expectant yet unsatisfied years that followed\nshe wore it day and night.\n\n\n2\n\nShe had the curious feeling that she remained young. Others grew older,\nbut not she. She watched her contemporaries slowly give the signs,\nwhile she herself held stationary. Even those younger than herself went\npast her, growing older in the ordinary way, whereas her heart, her\nmind, even her appearance, she felt certain, hardly aged at all. In a\nroom full of people she felt pity often as she read the signs in their\nfaces knowing her own unchanged. Their eyes were burning out, but hers\nburned on. It was neither vanity nor delusion, but an inner conviction\nshe could not alter.\n\nThe age she held to was the year she had received the fern-seed from\nold Purdy, or rather, from an imaginary figure her reverie had set\nmomentarily in old Purdy's place. That figure of her reverie, the dream\nthat followed, the subsequent confession to Dick Messenger, meeting his\nown half-way--these marked the year when she stopped growing older. To\nthat year she seemed chained, gazing into the sunrise end--waiting, ever\nwaiting.\n\nWhether in her absent-minded reverie she had actually plucked the bit\nof fern herself, or whether, after all, old Purdy had handed it to\nher, was not a point that troubled her. It was in her locket about her\nneck still, day and night. The seller of dreams was an established\nimaginative reality in her life. Her heart assured her she would meet\nhim again one day. She waited. It was very curious, it was rather\npathetic. Men came and went, she saw her chances pass; her answer was\ninvariably \"No.\"\n\nThe break came suddenly, and with devastating effect. As she was\ndressing carefully for the party, full of excited anticipation like some\nyoung girl still, she saw looking out upon her from the long mirror a\nface of plain middle-age. A blackness rose about her. It seemed the\nmirror shattered. The long, long dream, at any rate, fell in a thousand\nbroken pieces at her feet. It was perhaps the ball dress, perhaps the\nflowers in her hair; it may have been the low-cut gown that betrayed the\nneck and throat, or the one brilliant jewel that proved her eyes now\ndimmed beside it--but most probably it was the tell-tale hands, whose\nageing no artifice ever can conceal. The middle-aged woman, at any rate,\nrushed from the glass and claimed her.\n\nIt was a long time, too, before the signs of tears had been carefully\nobliterated again, and the battle with herself--to go or not to go--was\ndecided by clear courage. She would not send a hurried excuse of\nillness, but would take the place where she now belonged. She saw\nherself, a fading figure, more than half-way now towards the sunset end,\nwithin sight even of the shadowed emptiness that lay beyond the sun's\ndipping edge. She had lingered over-long, expecting a dream to confirm a\ndream; she had been oblivious of the truth that the lane went rushing\njust the same. It was now too late. The speed increased. She had waited,\nwaited for nothing. The seller of dreams was a myth. No man could need\nher as she now was.\n\nYet the chief ingredient in her decision was, oddly enough, itself a\nsign of youth. A party, a ball, is ever an adventure. Fate, with her\ndestined eyes aglow, may be bidden too, waiting among the throng,\nwaiting for that very one who hesitates whether to go or not to go. Who\nknows what the evening may bring forth? It was this anticipation,\nfaintly beckoning, its voice the merest echo of her shadowy youth, that\ntipped the scales between an evening of sleepless regrets at home and\nhours of neglected loneliness, watching the young fulfil the happy\nnight. This and her courage weighed the balance down against the\nafflicting weariness of her sudden disillusion.\n\nTherefore she went, her aunt, in whose house she was a visitor,\naccompanying her. They arrived late, walking under the awning alone into\nthe great mansion. Music, flowers, lovely dresses, and bright happy\nfaces filled the air about them. The dancing feet, the flashing eyes,\nthe swing of the music, the throng of graceful figures expressed one\nword--pleasure. Pleasure, of course, meant youth. Beneath the calm\nsummer stars youth realized itself prodigally, reckless of years to\nfollow. Under the same calm stars, some fifty miles away in Kent, her\nstretch of deserted lane flowed peacefully, never pausing, passing\nrelentlessly out into unknown space beyond the edge of the world. A girl\nand a middle-aged woman bravely watched both scenes.\n\n\"Dreadfully overcrowded,\" remarked her prosaic aunt. \"When I was a young\nthing there was more taste--always room to dance, at any rate.\"\n\n\"It is a rabble rather,\" replied the middle-aged woman, while the girl\nadded, \"but I enjoy it.\" She had enjoyed one duty-dance with an elderly\nman to whom her aunt had introduced her. She now sat watching the rabble\nwhirl and laugh. Her friend, behind unabashed lorgnettes, made\noccasional comments.\n\n\"There's Mabel. Look at her frock, will you--the naked back. The way he\nholds her, too!\"\n\nShe looked at Mabel Messenger, exactly her own age, wife of the\nsuccessful engineer, yet bearing herself almost like a girl.\n\n\"_He's_ away in Mexico, as usual,\" went on her aunt, \"with somebody\nelse, also as usual.\"\n\n\"I don't envy her,\" mentioned the middle-aged woman, while the girl\nadded, \"but she did well for herself, anyhow.\"\n\n\"It's a mistake to wait too long,\" was a suggestion she did not comment\non.\n\nThe host's brother came up and carried off her aunt. She was left alone.\nAn old gentleman dropped into the vacated chair. Only in the centre of\nthe brilliantly lit room was there dancing now; people stood and talked\nin animated throngs, every seat along the walls, every chair and sofa in\nalcove corners occupied. The landing outside the great flung doors was\npacked; some, going on elsewhere, were already leaving, but others\narriving late still poured up the staircase. Her loneliness remained\nunnoticed; with many other women, similarly stationed behind the\nwhirling, moving dancers, she sat looking on, an artificial smile of\nenjoyment upon her face, but the eyes empty and unlit.\n\nTwo pictures she watched simultaneously--the gay ballroom and the lane\nthat ran east and west.\n\nMidnight was past and supper over, though she had not noticed it. Her\naunt had disappeared finally, it seemed. The two pictures filled her\nmind, absorbed her. What she was feeling was not clear, for there was\nconfusion in her between the two scenes somewhere--as though the\nbrilliant ballroom lay set against the dark background of the lane\nbeneath the quiet stars. The contrast struck her. How calm and lovely\nthe night lane seemed against this feverish gaiety, this heat, this\nartificial perfume, these exaggerated clothes. Like a small, rapid\ncinema-picture the dazzling ballroom passed along the dark throat of\nthe deserted lane. A patch of light, alive with whirling animalculae,\nit shone a moment against the velvet background of the midnight\ncountry-side. It grew smaller and smaller. It vanished over the edge\nof the departing end. It was gone.\n\nNight and the stars enveloped her, and her eyes became accustomed to the\nchange, so that she saw the sandy strip of lane, the hazel bushes, the\ndim outline of the cottage. Her naked soul, it seemed again, stood\nfacing an infinitude. Yet the scent of roses, of dew-soaked grass came\nto her. A blackbird was whistling in the hedge. The eastern end showed\nitself now more plainly. The tops of the trees defined themselves. There\ncame a glimmer in the sky, an early swallow flashed past against a\nstreak of pale sweet gold. Old Purdy, his tea-pail faintly rattling, a\nstir of thick white dust about his feet, came slowly round the curve. It\nwas the sunrise.\n\nA deep, passionate thrill ran through her body from head to feet. There\nwas a clap beside her--in the air it seemed--as though the wings of the\nearly swallow had flashed past her very ear, or the approaching sunrise\ncalled aloud. She turned her head--along the brightening lane, but also\nacross the gay ballroom. Old Purdy, straightening up his bent shoulders,\nwas gazing over the wicket-gate into her eyes.\n\nSomething quivered. A shimmer ran fluttering before her sight. She\ntrembled. Over the crowd of intervening heads, as over the spiked top of\nthe little gate, a man was gazing at her.\n\nOld Purdy, however, did not fade, nor did his outline wholly pass. There\nwas this confusion between two pictures. Yet this man who gazed at her\nwas in the London ballroom. He was so tall and straight. The same moment\nher aunt's face appeared below his shoulder, only just visible, and he\nturned his head, but did not turn his eyes, to listen to her. Both\nlooked her way; they moved, threading their way towards her. It meant an\nintroduction coming. He had asked for it.\n\nShe did not catch his name, so quickly, yet so easily and naturally the\nlittle formalities were managed, and she was dancing. The same sweet,\ndim confusion was about her. His touch, his voice, his eyes combined\nextraordinarily in a sense of complete possession to which she yielded\nutterly. The two pictures, moreover, still held their place. Behind the\nglaring lights ran the pale sweet gold of a country dawn; woven like a\nsilver thread among the strings she heard the blackbirds whistling; in\nthe stale, heated air lay the subtle freshness of a summer sunrise.\nTheir dancing feet bore them along in a flowing motion that curved from\neast to west.\n\nThey danced without speaking; one rhythm took them; like a single person\nthey glided over the smooth, perfect floor, and, more and more to her,\nit was as if the floor flowed with them, bearing them along. Such\ndancing she had never known. The strange sweetness of the confusion\nthat half-entranced her increased--almost as though she lay upon her\npartner's arms and that he bore her through the air. Both the sense of\nweight and the touch of her feet on solid ground were gone delightfully.\nThe London room grew hazy, too; the other figures faded; the ceiling,\nhalf transparent, let through a filtering glimmer of the dawn. Her\nthoughts--surely he shared them with her--went out floating beneath this\nbrightening sky. There was a sound of wakening birds, a smell of\nflowers.\n\nThey had danced perhaps five minutes when both stopped abruptly as with\none accord.\n\n\"Shall we sit it out--if you've no objection?\" he suggested in the very\ninstant that the same thought occurred to her. \"The conservatory, among\nthe flowers,\" he added, leading her to the corner among scented blooms\nand plants, exactly as she herself desired. There were leaves and ferns\nabout them in the warm air. The light was dim. A streak of gold in the\nsky showed through the glass. But for one other couple they were alone.\n\n\"I have something to say to you,\" he began. \"You must have thought it\ncurious--I've been staring at you so. The whole evening I've been\nwatching you.\"\n\n\"I--hadn't noticed,\" she said truthfully, her voice, as it were, not\nquite her own. \"I've not been dancing--only once, that is.\"\n\nBut her heart was dancing as she said it. For the first time she became\naware of her partner more distinctly--of his deep, resonant voice, his\nsoldierly tall figure, his deferential, almost protective manner. She\nturned suddenly and looked into his face. The clear, rather penetrating\neyes reminded her of someone she had known.\n\nAt the same instant he used her thought, turning it in his own\ndirection. \"I can't remember, for the life of me,\" he said quietly,\n\"where I have seen you before. Your face is familiar to me, oddly\nfamiliar--years ago--in my first youth somewhere.\"\n\nIt was as though he broke something to her gently--something he was sure\nof and knew positively, that yet might shock and startle her.\n\nThe blood rushed from her heart as she quickly turned her gaze away. The\nwave of deep feeling that rose with a sensation of glowing warmth\ntroubled her voice. \"I find in you, too, a faint resemblance to--someone\nI have met,\" she murmured. Without meaning it she let slip the added\nwords, \"when I was a girl.\"\n\nShe felt him start, but he saved the situation, making it ordinary again\nby obtaining her permission to smoke, then slowly lighting his cigarette\nbefore he spoke.\n\n\"You must forgive me,\" he put in with a smile, \"but your name, when you\nwere kind enough to let me be introduced, escaped me. I did not catch\nit.\"\n\nShe told him her surname, but he asked in his persuasive yet somehow\nmasterful way for the Christian name as well. He turned round instantly\nas she gave it, staring hard at her with meaning, with an examining\nintentness, with open curiosity. There was a question on his lips, but\nshe interrupted, delaying it by a question of her own. Without looking\nat him she knew and feared his question. Her voice just concealed a\ntrembling that was in her throat.\n\n\"My aunt,\" she agreed lightly, \"is incorrigible. Do you know I didn't\ncatch yours either? Oh--I meant your surname,\" she added, confusion\ngaining upon her when he mentioned his first name only.\n\nHe became suddenly more earnest, his voice deepened, his whole manner\ntook on the guise of deliberate intention backed by some profound\nemotion that he could no longer hide. The music, which had momentarily\nceased, began again, and a couple, who had been sitting out diagonally\nacross from them, rose and went out. They were now quite alone. The sky\nwas brighter.\n\n\"I must tell you,\" he went on in a way that compelled her to look up and\nmeet his intent gaze. \"You really must allow me. I feel sure somehow\nyou'll understand. At any rate,\" he added like a boy, \"you won't laugh.\"\n\nShe believes she gave the permission and assurance. Memory fails her a\nlittle here, for as she returned his gaze, it seemed a curious change\ncame stealing over him, yet at first so imperceptibly, so vaguely, that\nshe could not say when it began, nor how it happened.\n\n\"Yes,\" she murmured, \"please----\" The change defined itself. She stopped\ndead.\n\n\"I know now where I've seen you before. I remember.\" His voice vibrated\nlike a wind in big trees. It enveloped her.\n\n\"Yes,\" she repeated in a whisper, for the hammering of her heart made\nboth a louder tone or further words impossible. She knew not what he was\ngoing to say, yet at the same time she knew with accuracy. Her eyes\ngazed helplessly into his. The change absorbed her. Within his outline\nshe watched another outline grow. Behind the immaculate evening clothes\na ragged, unkempt figure rose. A worn, ravaged face with young burning\neyes peered through his own. \"Please, please,\" she whispered again very\nfaintly. He took her hand in his.\n\nHis voice came from very far away, yet drawing nearer, and the scene\nabout them faded, vanished. The lane that curved east and west now\nstretched behind him, and she sat gazing towards the sunrise end, as\nyears ago when the girl passed into the woman first.\n\n\"I knew--a friend of yours--Dick Messenger,\" he was saying in this\ndistant voice that yet was close beside her, \"knew him at school, at\nCambridge, and later in Mexico. We worked in the same mines together,\nonly he was contractor and I was--in difficulties. That made no\ndifference. He--he told me about a girl--of his love and admiration, an\nadmiration that remained, but a love that had already faded.\"\n\nShe saw only the ragged outline within the well-groomed figure of the\nman who spoke. The young eyes that gazed so piercingly into hers\nbelonged to him, the seller of her dream of years before. It was to this\nragged stranger in her lane she made her answer:\n\n\"I, too, now remember,\" she said softly. \"Please go on.\"\n\n\"He gave me his confidence, asking me where his duty lay, and I told him\nthat the real love comes once only; it knows no doubt, no fading. I told\nhim this----\"\n\n\"We both discovered it in time,\" she said to herself, so low it was\nscarcely audible, yet not resisting as he laid his other hand upon the\none he already held.\n\n\"I also told him there was only one true dream,\" the voice continued,\nthe inner face drawing nearer to the outer that contained it. \"I asked\nhim, and he told me--everything. I knew all about this girl. Her\npicture, too, he showed me.\"\n\nThe voice broke off. The flood of love and pity, of sympathy and\nunderstanding that rose in her like a power long suppressed, threatened\ntears, yet happy, yearning tears like those of a girl, which only the\nquick, strong pressure of his hands prevented.\n\n\"The--little painting--yes, I know it,\" she faltered.\n\n\"It saved me,\" he said simply. \"It changed my life. From that moment I\nbegan--living decently again--living for an ideal.\" Without knowing that\nshe did so, the pressure of her hand upon his own came instantly.\n\"He--he gave it to me,\" the voice went on, \"to keep. He said he could\nneither keep it himself nor destroy it. It was the day before he sailed.\nI remember it as yesterday. I said I must give him something in return,\nor it would cut friendship. But I had nothing in the world to give. We\nwere in the hills. I picked a leaf of fern instead. 'Fern-seed,' I told\nhim, 'it will make you see the fairies and find your true dream.' I\nremember his laugh to this day--a sad, uneasy laugh. 'I shall give it to\nher,' he told me, 'when I give her my difficult explanation.' But I\nsaid, 'Give it with my love, and tell her that I wait.' He looked at me\nwith surprise, incredulous. Then he said slowly, 'Why not? If--if only\nyou hadn't let yourself go to pieces like this!'\"\n\nAn immensity of clear emotion she could not understand passed over her\nin a wave. Involuntarily she moved closer against him. With her eyes\nunflinchingly upon his own, she whispered: \"You were hungry, thirsty,\nyou had no clothes.... You waited!\"\n\n\"You're reading my thoughts, as I knew one day you would.\" It seemed as\nif their minds, their bodies too, were one, as he said the words. \"You,\ntoo--you waited.\" His voice was low.\n\nThere came a glow between them as of hidden fire; their faces shone;\nthere was a brightening as of dawn upon their skins, within their eyes,\nlighting their very hair. Out of this happy sky his voice floated to her\nwith the blackbird's song:\n\n\"And that night I dreamed of you. I dreamed I met you in an English\ncountry lane.\"\n\n\"We did,\" she murmured, as though it were quite natural.\n\n\"I dreamed I gave you the fern leaf--across a wicket-gate--and in front\nof a little house that was our home. In my dream--I handed to you--a\ndream----\"\n\n\"You did.\" And as she whispered it the two figures merged into one\nbefore her very eyes. \"See,\" she added softly, \"I have it still. It is\nin my locket at this moment, for I have worn it day and night through\nall these years of waiting.\" She began fumbling at her chain.\n\nHe smiled. \"Such things,\" he said gently, \"are beyond me rather. I have\nfound you. That's all that matters. That\"--he smiled again--\"is real at\nany rate.\"\n\n\"A vision,\" she murmured, half to herself and half to him, \"I can\nunderstand. A dream, though wonderful, is a dream. But the little fern\nyou gave me,\" drawing the fine gold chain from her bosom, \"the actual\nleaf I have worn all these years in my locket!\"\n\nHe smiled as she held the locket out to him, her fingers feeling for the\nlittle spring. He shook his head, but so slightly she did not notice\nit.\n\n\"I will prove it to you,\" she said. \"I must. Look!\" she cried, as with\ntrembling hand she pressed the hidden catch. \"There! There!\"\n\nWith heads close together they bent over. The tiny lid flew open. And as\nhe took her for one quick instant in his arms the sun flashed his first\ngolden shaft upon them, covering them with light. But her exclamation of\nincredulous surprise he smothered with a kiss. For inside the little\nlocket there lay--nothing. It was quite empty.\n\n\n\n\nXV\n\n\"VENGEANCE IS MINE\"\n\n\n1\n\nAn active, vigorous man in Holy orders, yet compelled by heart trouble\nto resign a living in Kent before full middle age, he had found suitable\nwork with the Red Cross in France; and it rather pleased a strain of\ninnocent vanity in him that Rouen, whence he derived his Norman blood,\nshould be the scene of his activities.\n\nHe was a gentle-minded soul, a man deeply read and thoughtful, but\ngoodness perhaps his out-standing quality, believing no evil of others.\nHe had been slow, for instance, at first to credit the German\natrocities, until the evidence had compelled him to face the appalling\nfacts. With acceptance, then, he had experienced a revulsion which other\ngentle minds have probably also experienced--a burning desire, namely,\nthat the perpetrators should be fitly punished.\n\nThis primitive instinct of revenge--he called it a lust--he sternly\nrepressed; it involved a descent to lower levels of conduct\nirreconcilable with the progress of the race he so passionately believed\nin. Revenge pertained to savage days. But, though he hid away the\ninstinct in his heart, afraid of its clamour and persistency, it revived\nfrom time to time, as fresh horrors made it bleed anew. It remained\nalive, unsatisfied; while, with its analysis, his mind strove\nunconsciously. That an intellectual nation should deliberately include\nfrightfulness as a chief item in its creed perplexed him horribly; it\nseemed to him conscious spiritual evil openly affirmed. Some genuine\nworship of Odin, Wotan, Moloch lay still embedded in the German outlook,\nand beneath the veneer of their pretentious culture. He often wondered,\ntoo, what effect the recognition of these horrors must have upon gentle\nminds in other men, and especially upon imaginative minds. How did they\ndeal with the fact that this appalling thing existed in human nature in\nthe twentieth century? Its survival, indeed, caused his belief in\ncivilization as a whole to waver. Was progress, his pet ideal and\ncherished faith, after all a mockery? Had human nature not advanced...?\n\nHis work in the great hospitals and convalescent camps beyond the town\nwas tiring; he found little time for recreation, much less for rest; a\nlight dinner and bed by ten o'clock was the usual way of spending his\nevenings. He had no social intercourse, for everyone else was as busy as\nhimself. The enforced solitude, not quite wholesome, was unavoidable.\nHe found no outlet for his thoughts. First-hand acquaintance with\nsuffering, physical and mental, was no new thing to him, but this close\nfamiliarity, day by day, with maimed and broken humanity preyed\nconsiderably on his mind, while the fortitude and cheerfulness shown by\nthe victims deepened the impression of respectful, yearning wonder made\nupon him. They were so young, so fine and careless, these lads whom the\nGerman lust for power had robbed of limbs, and eyes, of mind, of life\nitself. The sense of horror grew in him with cumulative but unrelieved\neffect.\n\nWith the lengthening of the days in February, and especially when March\nsaw the welcome change to summer time, the natural desire for open air\nasserted itself. Instead of retiring early to his dingy bedroom, he\nwould stroll out after dinner through the ancient streets. When the air\nwas not too chilly, he would prolong these outings, starting at sunset\nand coming home beneath the bright mysterious stars. He knew at length\nevery turn and winding of the old-world alleys, every gable, every\ntower and spire, from the _Vieux Marche_, where Joan of Arc was burnt,\nto the busy quays, thronged now with soldiers from half a dozen\ncountries. He wandered on past grey gateways of crumbling stone that\nmarked the former banks of the old tidal river. An English army, five\ncenturies ago, had camped here among reeds and swamps, besieging the\nNorman capital, where now they brought in supplies of men and material\nupon modern docks, a mighty invasion of a very different kind.\nImaginative reflection was his constant mood.\n\nBut it was the haunted streets that touched him most, stirring some\nchord his ancestry had planted in him. The forest of spires thronged the\nair with strange stone flowers, silvered by moonlight as though white\nfire streamed from branch and petal; the old church towers soared; the\ncathedral touched the stars. After dark the modern note, paramount in\nthe daylight, seemed hushed; with sunset it underwent a definite\nnight-change. Although the darkened streets kept alive in him the menace\nof fire and death, the crowding soldiers, dipped to the face in shadow,\nseemed somehow negligible; the leaning roofs and gables hid them in a\npurple sea of mist that blurred their modern garb, steel weapons, and\nthe like. Shadows themselves, they entered the being of the town; their\nfeet moved silently; there was a hush and murmur; the brooding buildings\nabsorbed them easily.\n\nAncient and modern, that is, unable successfully to mingle, let fall\ngrotesque, incongruous shadows on his thoughts. The spirit of mediaeval\ndays stole over him, exercising its inevitable sway upon a temperament\nalready predisposed to welcome it. Witchcraft and wonder, pagan\nsuperstition and speculation, combined with an ancestral tendency to\nweave a spell, half of acceptance, half of shrinking, about his\nimaginative soul in which poetry and logic seemed otherwise fairly\nbalanced. Too weary for critical judgment to discern clear outlines, his\nmind, during these magical twilight walks, became the playground of\nopposing forces, some power of dreaming, it seems, too easily in the\nascendant. The soul of ancient Rouen, stealing beside his footsteps in\nthe dusk, put forth a shadowy hand and touched him.\n\nThis shadowy spell he denied as far as in him lay, though the resistance\noffered by reason to instinct lacked true driving power. The dice were\nloaded otherwise in such a soul. His own blood harked back unconsciously\nto the days when men were tortured, broken on the wheel, walled up\nalive, and burnt for small offences. This shadowy hand stirred faint\nancestral memories in him, part instinct, part desire. The next step, by\nwhich he saw a similar attitude flowering full blown in the German\nfrightfulness, was too easily made to be rejected. The German horrors\nmade him believe that this ignorant cruelty of olden days threatened the\nworld now in a modern, organized shape that proved its survival in the\nhuman heart. Shuddering, he fought against the natural desire for\nadequate punishment, but forgot that repressed emotions sooner or later\nmust assert themselves. Essentially irrepressible, they may force an\noutlet in distorted fashion. He hardly recognized, perhaps, their actual\nclaim, yet it was audible occasionally. For, owing to his loneliness,\nthe natural outlet, in talk and intercourse, was denied.\n\nThen, with the softer winds, he yearned for country air. The sweet\nspring days had come; morning and evening were divine; above the town\nthe orchards were in bloom. Birds blew their tiny bugles on the hills.\nThe midday sun began to burn.\n\nIt was the time of the final violence, when the German hordes flung\nlike driven cattle against the Western line where free men fought for\nliberty. Fate hovered dreadfully in the balance that spring of 1918;\nAmiens was threatened, and if Amiens fell, Rouen must be evacuated. The\ntown, already full, became now over-full. On his way home one evening he\npassed the station, crowded with homeless new arrivals. \"Got the wind\nup, it seems, in Amiens!\" cried a cheery voice, as an officer he knew\nwent by him hurriedly. And as he heard it the mood of the spring became\nof a sudden uppermost. He reached a decision. The German horror came\nabruptly closer. This further overcrowding of the narrow streets was\nmore than he could face.\n\nIt was a small, personal decision merely, but he _must_ get out among\nwoods and fields, among flowers and wholesome, growing things, taste\nsimple, innocent life again. The following evening he would pack his\nhaversack with food and tramp the four miles to the great _Foret\nVerte_--delicious name!--and spend the night with trees and stars,\nbreathing his full of sweetness, calm and peace. He was too accustomed\nto the thunder of the guns to be disturbed by it. The song of a thrush,\nthe whistle of a blackbird, would easily drown that. He made his plan\naccordingly.\n\nThe next two nights, however, a warm soft rain was falling; only on the\nthird evening could he put his little plan into execution. Anticipatory\nenjoyment, meanwhile, lightened his heart; he did his daily work more\ncompetently, the spell of the ancient city weakened somewhat. The\nshadowy hand withdrew.\n\n\n2\n\nMeanwhile, a curious adventure intervened.\n\nHis good and simple heart, disciplined these many years in the way a man\nshould walk, received upon its imaginative side, a stimulus that, in his\ncase, amounted to a shock. That a strange and comely woman should make\neyes at him disturbed his equilibrium considerably; that he should enjoy\nthe attack, though without at first responding openly--even without full\ncomprehension of its meaning--disturbed it even more. It was, moreover,\nno ordinary attack.\n\nHe saw her first the night after his decision when, in a mood of\ndisappointment due to the rain, he came down to his lonely dinner. The\nroom, he saw, was crowded with new arrivals, from Amiens, doubtless,\nwhere they had \"the wind up.\" The wealthier civilians had fled for\nsafety to Rouen. These interested and, in a measure, stimulated him. He\nlooked at them sympathetically, wondering what dear home-life they had\nso hurriedly relinquished at the near thunder of the enemy guns, and, in\nso doing, he noticed, sitting alone at a small table just in front of\nhis own--yet with her back to him--a woman.\n\nShe drew his attention instantly. The first glance told him that she was\nyoung and well-to-do; the second, that she was unusual. What precisely\nmade her unusual he could not say, although he at once began to study\nher intently. Dignity, atmosphere, personality, he perceived beyond all\nquestion. She sat there with an air. The becoming little hat with its\nchallenging feather slightly tilted, the set of the shoulders, the neat\nwaist and slender outline; possibly, too, the hair about the neck, and\nthe faint perfume that was wafted towards him as the serving girl swept\npast, combined in the persuasion. Yet he felt it as more than a\npersuasion. She attracted him with a subtle vehemence he had never felt\nbefore. The instant he set eyes upon her his blood ran faster. The\nthought rose passionately in him, almost the words that phrased it: \"I\nwish I knew her.\"\n\nThis sudden flash of response his whole being certainly gave--to the\nback of an unknown woman. It was both vehement and instinctive. He lay\nstress upon its instinctive character; he was aware of it before reason\ntold him why. That it was \"in response\" he also noted, for although he\nhad not seen her face and she assuredly had made no sign, he felt that\nattraction which involves also invitation. So vehement, moreover, was\nthis response in him that he felt shy and ashamed the same instant, for\nit almost seemed he had expressed his thought in audible words. He\nflushed, and the flush ran through his body; he was conscious of heated\nblood as in a youth of twenty-five, and when a man past forty knows\nthis touch of fever he may also know, though he may not recognize it,\nthat the danger signal which means possible abandon has been lit.\nMoreover, as though to prove his instinct justified, it was at this very\ninstant that the woman turned and stared at him deliberately. She looked\ninto his eyes, and he looked into hers. He knew a moment's keen\ndistress, a sharpest possible discomfort, that after all he _had_\nexpressed his desire audibly. Yet, though he blushed, he did not lower\nhis eyes. The embarrassment passed instantly, replaced by a thrill of\nstrangest pleasure and satisfaction. He knew a tinge of inexplicable\ndismay as well. He felt for a second helpless before what seemed a\nchallenge in her eyes. The eyes were too compelling. They mastered him.\n\nIn order to meet his gaze she had to make a full turn in her chair, for\nher table was placed directly in front of his own. She did so without\nconcealment. It was no mere attempt to see what lay behind by making a\nhalf-turn and pretending to look elsewhere; no corner of the eye\nbusiness; but a full, straight, direct, significant stare. She looked\ninto his soul as though she called him, he looked into hers as though\nhe answered. Sitting there like a statue, motionless, without a bow,\nwithout a smile, he returned her intense regard unflinchingly and yet\nunwillingly. He made no sign. He shivered again.... It was perhaps ten\nseconds before she turned away with an air as if she had delivered her\nmessage and received his answer, but in those ten seconds a series of\nsingular ideas crowded his mind, leaving an impression that ten years\ncould never efface. The face and eyes produced a kind of intoxication in\nhim. There was almost recognition, as though she said: \"Ah, there you\nare! I was waiting; you'll have to come, of course. You must!\" And just\nbefore she turned away she smiled.\n\nHe felt confused and helpless.\n\nThe face he described as unusual; familiar, too, as with the atmosphere\nof some long forgotten dream, and if beauty perhaps was absent,\ncharacter and individuality were supreme. Implacable resolution was\nstamped upon the features, which yet were sweet and womanly, stirring an\nemotion in him that he could not name and certainly did not recognize.\nThe eyes, slanting a little upwards, were full of fire, the mouth\nvoluptuous but very firm, the chin and jaw most delicately modelled,\nyet with a masculine strength that told of inflexible resolve. The\nresolution, as a whole, was the most relentless he had ever seen upon a\nhuman countenance. It dominated him. \"How vain to resist the will,\" he\nthought, \"that lies behind!\" He was conscious of enslavement; she\nconveyed a message that he must obey, admitting compliance with her\nunknown purpose.\n\nThat some extraordinary wordless exchange was registered thus between\nthem seemed very clear; and it was just at this moment, as if to signify\nher satisfaction, that she smiled. At his feeling of willing compliance\nwith some purpose in her mind, the smile appeared. It was faint, so\nfaint indeed that the eyes betrayed it rather than the mouth and lips;\nbut it was there; he saw it and he thrilled again to this added touch of\nwonder and enchantment. Yet, strangest of all, he maintains that with\nthe smile there fluttered over the resolute face a sudden arresting\ntenderness, as though some wild flower lit a granite surface with its\nmelting loveliness. He was aware in the clear strong eyes of unshed\ntears, of sympathy, of self-sacrifice he called maternal, of clinging\nlove. It was this tenderness, as of a soft and gracious mother, and this\nimplacable resolution, as of a stern, relentless man, that left upon his\nreceptive soul the strange impression of sweetness yet of domination.\n\nThe brief ten seconds were over. She turned away as deliberately as she\nhad turned to look. He found himself trembling with confused emotions\nhe could not disentangle, could not even name; for, with the subtle\nintoxication of compliance in his soul lay also a vigorous protest\nthat included refusal, even a violent refusal given with horror. This\nunknown woman, without actual speech or definite gesture, had lit a\nflame in him that linked on far away and out of sight with the magic of\nthe ancient city's mediaeval spell. Both, he decided, were undesirable,\nboth to be resisted.\n\nHe was quite decided about this. She pertained to forgotten yet unburied\nthings, her modern aspect a mere disguise, a disguise that some deep\nunsatisfied instinct in him pierced with ease.\n\nHe found himself equally decided, too, upon another thing which, in\nspite of his momentary confusion, stood out clearly: the magic of the\ncity, the enchantment of the woman, both attacked a constitutional\nweakness in his blood, a line of least resistance. It wore no physical\naspect, breathed no hint of ordinary romance; the mere male and female,\nmoral or immoral touch was wholly absent; yet passion lurked there,\ntumultuous if hidden, and a tract of consciousness, long untravelled,\nwas lit by sudden ominous flares. His character, his temperament, his\ncalling in life as a former clergyman and now a Red Cross worker, being\nwhat they were, he stood on the brink of an adventure not dangerous\nalone but containing a challenge of fundamental kind that involved his\nvery soul.\n\nNo further thrill, however, awaited him immediately. He left his table\nbefore she did, having intercepted no slightest hint of desired\nacquaintanceship or intercourse. He, naturally, made no advances; she,\nequally, made no smallest sign. Her face remained hidden, he caught no\nflash of eyes, no gesture, no hint of possible invitation. He went\nupstairs to his dingy room, and in due course fell asleep. The next day\nhe saw her not, her place in the dining-room was empty; but in the late\nevening of the following day, as the soft spring sunshine found him\nprepared for his postponed expedition, he met her suddenly on the\nstairs. He was going down with haversack and in walking kit to an early\ndinner, when he saw her coming up; she was perhaps a dozen steps below\nhim; they must meet. A wave of confused, embarrassed pleasure swept\nhim. He realized that this was no chance meeting. She meant to speak to\nhim.\n\nViolent attraction and an equally violent repulsion seized him. There\nwas no escape, nor, had escape been possible, would he have attempted\nit. He went down four steps, she mounted four towards him; then he took\none and she took one. They met. For a moment they stood level, while he\nshrank against the wall to let her pass. He had the feeling that but for\nthe support of that wall he must have lost his balance and fallen into\nher, for the sunlight from the landing window caught her face and lit\nit, and she was younger, he saw, than he had thought, and far more\ncomely. Her atmosphere enveloped him, the sense of attraction and\nrepulsion became intense. She moved past him with the slightest possible\nbow of recognition; then, having passed, she turned.\n\nShe stood a little higher than himself, a step at most, and she thus\nlooked down at him. Her eyes blazed into his. She smiled, and he was\naware again of the domination and the sweetness. The perfume of her near\npresence drowned him; his head swam. \"We count upon you,\" she said in a\nlow firm voice, as though giving a command; \"I know ... we may. We do.\"\nAnd, before he knew what he was saying, trembling a little between deep\npleasure and a contrary impulse that sought to choke the utterance, he\nheard his own voice answering. \"You can count upon me....\" And she was\nalready half-way up the next flight of stairs ere he could move a\nmuscle, or attempt to thread a meaning into the singular exchange.\n\nYet meaning, he well knew, there was.\n\nShe was gone; her footsteps overhead had died away. He stood there\ntrembling like a boy of twenty, yet also like a man of forty in whom\nfires, long dreaded, now blazed sullenly. She had opened the furnace\ndoor, the draught rushed through. He felt again the old unwelcome spell;\nhe saw the twisted streets 'mid leaning gables and shadowy towers of a\nday forgotten; he heard the ominous murmurs of a crowd that thirsted\nfor wheel and scaffold and fire; and, aware of vengeance, sweet and\nterrible, aware, too, that he welcomed it, his heart was troubled and\nafraid.\n\nIn a brief second the impression came and went; following it swiftly,\nthe sweetness of the woman swept him: he forgot his shrinking in a rush\nof wild delicious pleasure. The intoxication in him deepened. She had\nrecognized him! She had bowed and even smiled; she had spoken, assuming\nfamiliarity, intimacy, including him in her secret purposes! It was\nthis sweet intimacy cleverly injected, that overcame the repulsion he\nacknowledged, winning complete obedience to the unknown meaning of her\nwords. This meaning, for the moment, lay in darkness; yet it was a\nportion of his own self, he felt, that concealed it of set purpose. He\nkept it hid, he looked deliberately another way; for, if he faced it\nwith full recognition, he knew that he must resist it to the death. He\nallowed himself to ask vague questions--then let her dominating spell\nconfuse the answers so that he did not hear them. The challenge to his\nsoul, that is, he evaded.\n\nWhat is commonly called sex lay only slightly in his troubled\nemotions; her purpose had nothing that kept step with chance\nacquaintanceship. There lay meaning, indeed, in her smile and voice,\nbut these were no hand-maids to a vulgar intrigue in a foreign hotel.\nHer will breathed cleaner air; her purpose aimed at some graver,\nmightier climax than the mere subjection of an elderly victim like\nhimself. That will, that purpose, he felt certain, were implacable as\ndeath, the resolve in those bold eyes was not a common one. For, in\nsome strange way, he divined the strong maternity in her; the maternal\ninstinct was deeply, even predominantly, involved; he felt positive\nthat a divine tenderness, deeply outraged, was a chief ingredient too.\nIn some way, then, she needed him, yet not she alone, for the pronoun\n\"we\" was used, and there were others with her; in some way, equally, a\npart of him was already her and their accomplice, an unresisting\nslave, a willing co-conspirator.\n\nHe knew one other thing, and it was this that he kept concealed so\ncarefully from himself. His recognition of it was sub-conscious\npossibly, but for that very reason true: her purpose was consistent with\nthe satisfaction at last of a deep instinct in him that clamoured to\nknow gratification. It was for these odd, mingled reasons that he stood\ntrembling when she left him on the stairs, and finally went down to his\nhurried meal with a heart that knew wonder, anticipation, and delight,\nbut also dread.\n\n\n3\n\nThe table in front of him remained unoccupied; his dinner finished, he\nwent out hastily.\n\nAs he passed through the crowded streets, his chief desire was to be\nquickly free of the old muffled buildings and airless alleys with their\nclinging atmosphere of other days. He longed for the sweet taste of the\nheights, the smells of the forest whither he was bound. This _Foret\nVerte_, he knew, rolled for leagues towards the north, empty of houses\nas of human beings; it was the home of deer and birds and rabbits, of\nwild boar too. There would be spring flowers among the brushwood,\nanemones, celandine, oxslip, daffodils. The vapours of the town\noppressed him, the warm and heavy moisture stifled; he wanted space and\nthe sight of clean simple things that would stimulate his mind with\nlighter thoughts.\n\nHe soon passed the Rampe, skirted the ugly villas of modern Bihorel and,\nrising now with every step, entered the _Route Neuve_. He went unduly\nfast; he was already above the Cathedral spire; below him the Seine\nmeandered round the chalky hills, laden with war-barges, and across a\ndip, still pink in the afterglow, rose the blunt Down of Bonsecours with\nits anti-aircraft batteries. Poetry and violent fact crashed everywhere;\nhe longed to top the hill and leave these unhappy reminders of death\nbehind him. In front the sweet woods already beckoned through the\ntwilight. He hastened. Yet while he deliberately fixed his imagination\non promised peace and beauty, an undercurrent ran sullenly in his mind,\nbusy with quite other thoughts. The unknown woman and her singular\nwords, the following mystery of the ancient city, the soft beating\nwonder of the two together, these worked their incalculable magic\npersistently about him. Repression merely added to their power. His mind\nwas a prey to some shadowy, remote anxiety that, intangible, invisible,\nyet knocked with ghostly fingers upon some door of ancient memory.... He\nwatched the moon rise above the eastern ridge, in the west the afterglow\nof sunset still hung red. But these did not hold his attention as they\nnormally must have done. Attention seemed elsewhere. The undercurrent\nbore him down a siding, into a backwater, as it were, that clamoured for\ndischarge.\n\nHe thought suddenly, then, of weather, what he called \"German\nweather\"--that combination of natural conditions which so oddly favoured\nthe enemy always. It had often occurred to him as strange; on sea and\nland, mist, rain and wind, the fog and drying sun worked ever on _their_\nside. The coincidence was odd, to say the least. And now this glimpse of\nrising moon and sunset sky reminded him unpleasantly of the subject.\nLegends of pagan weather-gods passed through his mind like hurrying\nshadows. These shadows multiplied, changed form, vanished and returned.\nThey came and went with incoherence, a straggling stream, rushing from\none point to another, manoeuvring for position, but all unled, unguided\nby his will. The physical exercise filled his brain with blood, and\nthought danced undirected, picture upon picture driving by, so that soon\nhe slipped from German weather and pagan gods to the witchcraft of past\ncenturies, of its alleged association with the natural powers of the\nelements, and thus, eventually, to his cherished beliefs that humanity\nhad advanced.\n\nSuch remnants of primitive days were grotesque superstition, of course.\nBut had humanity advanced? Had the individual progressed after all?\nCivilization, was it not the merest artificial growth? And the old\nperplexity rushed through his mind again--the German barbarity\nand blood-lust, the savagery, the undoubted sadic impulses, the\nfrightfulness taught with cool calculation by their highest minds,\napproved by their professors, endorsed by their clergy, applauded by\ntheir women even--all the unwelcome, undesired thoughts came flocking\nback upon him, escorted by the trooping shadows. They lay, these\nquestions, still unsolved within him; it was the undercurrent, flowing\nmore swiftly now, that bore them to the surface. It had acquired\nmomentum; it was leading somewhere.\n\nThey were a thoughtful, intellectual race, these Germans; their music,\nliterature, philosophy, their science--how reconcile the opposing\nqualities? He had read that their herd-instinct was unusually developed,\nthough betraying the characteristics of a low wild savage type--the\nlupine. It might be true. Fear and danger wakened this collective\ninstinct into terrific activity, making them blind and humourless; they\nfought best, like wolves, in contact; they howled and whined and boasted\nloudly all together to inspire terror; their Hymn of Hate was but an\nelaboration of the wolf's fierce bark, giving them herd-courage; and a\nsavage discipline was necessary to their lupine type.\n\nThese reflections thronged his mind as the blood coursed in his veins\nwith the rapid climbing; yet one and all, the beauty of the evening, the\nmagic of the hidden town, the thoughts of German horror, German weather,\nGerman gods, all these, even the odd detail that they revived a pagan\npractice by hammering nails into effigies and idols--all led finally to\none blazing centre that nothing could dislodge nor anything conceal; a\nwoman's voice and eyes. To these he knew quite well, was due the\nundesired intensification of the very mood, the very emotions, the very\nthoughts he had come out on purpose to escape.\n\n\"It is the night of the vernal equinox,\" occurred to him suddenly, sharp\nas a whispered voice beside him. He had no notion whence the idea was\nborn. It had no particular meaning, so far as he remembered.\n\n\"It had _then_ ...\" said the voice imperiously, rising, it seemed,\ndirectly out of the under-current in his soul.\n\nIt startled him. He increased his pace. He walked very quickly,\nwhistling softly as he went.\n\nThe dusk had fallen when at length he topped the long, slow hill, and\nleft the last of the atrocious straggling villas well behind him. The\nancient city lay far below in murky haze and smoke, but tinged now with\nthe silver of the growing moon.\n\n\n4\n\nHe stood now on the open plateau. He was on the heights at last.\n\nThe night air met him freshly in the face, so that he forgot the fatigue\nof the long climb uphill, taken too fast somewhat for his years. He drew\na deep draught into his lungs and stepped out briskly.\n\nFar in the upper sky light flaky clouds raced through the reddened air,\nbut the wind kept to these higher strata, and the world about him lay\nvery still. Few lights showed in the farms and cottages, for this was\nthe direct route of the Gothas, and nothing that could help the German\nhawks to find the river was visible.\n\nHis mind cleared pleasantly; this keen sweet air held no mystery; he put\nhis best foot foremost, whistling still, but a little more loudly than\nbefore. Among the orchards he saw the daisies glimmer. Also, he heard\nthe guns, a thudding concussion in the direction of the coveted Amiens,\nwhere, some sixty miles as the crow flies, they roared their terror into\nthe calm evening skies. He cursed the sound, in the town below it was\nnot audible. Thought jumped then to the men who fired them, and so to\nthe prisoners who worked on the roads outside the hospitals and camps he\nvisited daily. He passed them every morning and night, and the N.C.O.\ninvariably saluted his Red Cross uniform, a salute he returned, when he\ncould not avoid it, with embarrassment.\n\nOne man in particular stood out clearly in this memory; he had exchanged\nglances with him, noted the expression of his face, the number of his\ngang printed on coat and trousers--\"82.\" The fellow had somehow managed\nto establish a relationship; he would look up and smile or frown; if the\nnews, from his point of view, was good, he smiled; if it was bad, he\nscowled; once, insolently enough--when the Germans had taken Albert,\nPeronne, Bapaume--he grinned.\n\nSomething about the sullen, close-cropped face, typically Prussian, made\nthe other shudder. It was the visage of an animal, neither evil nor\nmalignant, even good-natured sometimes when it smiled, yet of an animal\nthat could be fierce with the lust of happiness, ferocious with delight.\nThe sullen savagery of a human wolf lay in it somewhere. He pictured its\nowner impervious to shame, to normal human instinct as civilized people\nknow these. Doubtless he read his own feelings into it. He could imagine\nthe man doing anything and everything, regarding chivalry and sporting\ninstinct as proof of fear or weakness. He could picture this member of\nthe wolf-pack killing a woman or a child, mutilating, cutting off little\nhands even, with the conscientious conviction that it was right and\nsensible to destroy _any_ individual of an enemy tribe. It was, to him,\nan atrocious and inhuman face.\n\nIt now cropped up with unpleasant vividness, as he listened to the\ndistant guns and thought of Amiens with its back against the wall, its\ninhabitants flying----\n\nAh! Amiens...! He again saw the woman staring into his obedient eyes\nacross the narrow space between the tables. He smelt the delicious\nperfume of her dress and person on the stairs. He heard her commanding\nvoice, her very words: \"We count on you.... I know we can ... we do.\"\nAnd her background was of twisted streets, dark alley-ways and leaning\ngables....\n\nHe hurried, whistling loudly an air that he invented suddenly, using his\nstick like a golf club at every loose stone his feet encountered, making\nas much noise as possible. He told himself he was a parson and a Red\nCross worker. He looked up and saw that the stars were out. The pace\nmade him warm, and he shifted his haversack to the other shoulder. The\nmoon, he observed, now cast his shadow for a long distance on the sandy\nroad.\n\nAfter another mile, while the air grew sharper and twilight surrendered\nfinally to the moon, the road began to curve and dip, the cottages lay\nfarther out in the dim fields, the farms and barns occurred at longer\nintervals. A dog barked now and again; he saw cows lying down for the\nnight beneath shadowy fruit-trees. And then the scent in the air changed\nslightly, and a darkening of the near horizon warned him that the forest\nhad come close.\n\nThis was an event. Its influence breathed already a new perfume; the\nshadows from its myriad trees stole out and touched him. Ten minutes\nlater he reached its actual frontier cutting across the plateau like a\nline of sentries at attention. He slowed down a little. Here, within\nsight and touch of his long-desired objective, he hesitated. It\nstretched, he knew from the map, for many leagues to the north,\nuninhabited, lonely, the home of peace and silence; there were flowers\nthere, and cool sweet spaces where the moonlight fell. Yet here, within\nscent and touch of it, he slowed down a moment to draw breath. A forest\non the map is one thing; visible before the eyes when night has fallen,\nit is another. It is real.\n\nThe wind, not noticeable hitherto, now murmured towards him from the\nserried trees that seemed to manufacture darkness out of nothing. This\nmurmur hummed about him. It enveloped him. Piercing it, another sound\nthat was not the guns just reached him, but so distant that he hardly\nnoticed it. He looked back. Dusk suddenly merged in night. He stopped.\n\n\"How practical the French are,\" he said to himself--aloud--as he looked\nat the road running straight as a ruled line into the heart of the\ntrees. \"They waste no energy, no space, no time. Admirable!\"\n\nIt pierced the forest like a lance, tapering to a faint point in the\nmisty distance. The trees ate its undeviating straightness as though\nthey would smother it from sight, as though its rigid outline marred\ntheir mystery. He admired the practical makers of the road, yet sided,\ntoo, with the poetry of the trees. He stood there staring, waiting,\ndawdling.... About him, save for this murmur of the wind, was silence.\nNothing living stirred. The world lay extraordinarily still. That other\ndistant sound had died away.\n\nHe lit his pipe, glad that the match blew out and the damp tobacco\nneeded several matches before the pipe drew properly. His puttees hurt\nhim a little, he stooped to loosen them. His haversack swung round in\nfront as he straightened up again, he shifted it laboriously to the\nother shoulder. A tiny stone in his right boot caused irritation. Its\nremoval took a considerable time, for he had to sit down, and a log was\nnot at once forthcoming. Moreover, the laces gave him trouble, and his\nfingers had grown thick with heat and the knots were difficult to\ntie....\n\n\"There!\" He said it aloud, standing up again. \"Now at last, I'm ready!\"\nThen added a mild imprecation, for his pipe had gone out while he\nstooped over the recalcitrant boot, and it had to be lighted once again.\n\"Ah!\" he gasped finally with a sigh as, facing the forest for the third\ntime, he shuffled his tunic straight, altered his haversack once more,\nchanged his stick from the right hand to the left--and faced the foolish\ntruth without further pretence.\n\nHe mopped his forehead carefully, as though at the same time trying to\nmop away from his mind a faint anxiety, a very faint uneasiness, that\ngathered there. Was someone standing near him? Had somebody come close?\nHe listened intently. It was the blood singing in his ears, of course,\nthat curious distant noise. For, truth to tell, the loneliness bit just\nbelow the surface of what he found enjoyable. It seemed to him that\nsomebody was coming, someone he could not see, so that he looked back\nover his shoulder once again, glanced quickly right and left, then\npeered down the long opening cut through the woods in front--when there\ncame suddenly a roar and a blaze of dazzling light from behind, so\ninstantaneously that he barely had time to obey the instinct of\nself-preservation and step aside. He actually leapt. Pressed against the\nhedge, he saw a motor-car rush past him like a whirlwind, flooding the\nsandy road with fire; a second followed it; and, to his complete\namazement, then, a third.\n\nThey were powerful, private cars, so-called. This struck him instantly.\nTwo other things he noticed, as they dived down the throat of the long\nwhite road--they showed no tail-lights. This made him wonder. And,\nsecondly, the drivers, clearly seen, were women. They were not even\nin uniform--which made him wonder even more. The occupants, too,\nwere women. He caught the outline of toque and feather--or was it\nflowers?--against the closed windows in the moonlight as the procession\nrushed past him.\n\nHe felt bewildered and astonished. Private motors were rare, and\nmilitary regulations exceedingly strict; the danger of spies dressed in\nFrench uniform was constant; cars armed with machine guns, he knew,\npatrolled the countryside in all directions. Shaken and alarmed, he\nthought of favoured persons fleeing stealthily by night, of treachery,\ndisguise and swift surprise; he thought of various things as he stood\npeering down the road for ten minutes after all sight and sound of the\ncars had died away. But no solution of the mystery occurred to him.\nDown the white throat the motors vanished. His pipe had gone out; he lit\nit, and puffed furiously.\n\nHis thoughts, at any rate, took temporarily a new direction now. The\nroad was not as lonely as he had imagined. A natural reaction set in at\nonce, and this proof of practical, modern life banished the shadows from\nhis mind effectually. He started off once more, oblivious of his former\nhesitation. He even felt a trifle shamed and foolish, pretending that\nthe vanished mood had not existed. The tobacco had been damp. His boot\nhad really hurt him.\n\nYet bewilderment and surprise stayed with him. The swiftness of the\nincident was disconcerting; the cars arrived and vanished with such\nextraordinary rapidity; their noisy irruption into this peaceful spot\nseemed incongruous; they roared, blazed, rushed and disappeared; silence\nresumed its former sway.\n\nBut the silence persisted, whereas the noise was gone.\n\nThis touch of the incongruous remained with him as he now went ever\ndeeper into the heart of the quiet forest. This odd incongruity of\ndreams remained.\n\n\n5\n\nThe keen air stole from the woods, cooling his body and his mind;\nanemones gleamed faintly among the brushwood, lit by the pallid\nmoonlight. There were beauty, calm and silence, the slow breathing of\nthe earth beneath the comforting sweet stars. War, in this haunt of\nancient peace, seemed an incredible anachronism. His thoughts turned to\ngentle happy hopes of a day when the lion and the lamb would yet lie\ndown together, and a little child would lead them without fear. His soul\ndwelt with peaceful longings and calm desires.\n\nHe walked on steadily, until the inflexible straightness of the endless\nroad began to afflict him, and he longed for a turning to the right or\nleft. He looked eagerly about him for a woodland path. Time mattered\nlittle; he could wait for the sunrise and walk home \"beneath the young\ngrey dawn\"; he had food and matches, he could light a fire, and\nsleep---- No!--after all, he would not light a fire, perhaps; he might\nbe accused of signalling to hostile aircraft, or a _garde forestiere_\nmight catch him. He would not bother with a fire. The night was warm, he\ncould enjoy himself and pass the time quite happily without artificial\nheat; probably he would need no sleep at all.... And just then he\nnoticed an opening on his right, where a seductive pathway led in among\nthe trees. The moon, now higher in the sky, lit this woodland trail\nenticingly; it seemed the very opening he had looked for, and with a\nthrill of pleasure he at once turned down it, leaving the ugly road\nbehind him with relief.\n\nThe sound of his footsteps hushed instantly on the leaves and moss; the\nsilence became noticeable; an unusual stillness followed; it seemed that\nsomething in his mind was also hushed. His feet moved stealthily, as\nthough anxious to conceal his presence from surprise. His steps dragged\npurposely; their rustling through the thick dead leaves, perhaps, was\npleasant to him. He was not sure.\n\nThe path opened presently into a clearing where the moonlight made a\npool of silver, the surrounding brushwood fell away; and in the centre\na gigantic outline rose. It was, he saw, a beech tree that dwarfed the\nsurrounding forest by its grandeur. Its bulk loomed very splendid\nagainst the sky, a faint rustle just audible in its myriad tiny leaves.\nDipped in the moonlight, it had such majesty of proportion, such\nsymmetry, that he stopped in admiration. It was, he saw, a multiple\ntree, five stems springing with attempted spirals out of an enormous\ntrunk; it was immense; it had a presence, the space framed it to\nperfection. The clearing, evidently, was a favourite resting place for\nsummer picknickers, a playground, probably, for city children on holiday\nafternoons; woodcutters, too, had been here recently, for he noticed\npiled brushwood ready to be carted. It indicated admirably, he felt,\nthe limits of his night expedition. Here he would rest awhile, eat his\nlate supper, sleep perhaps round a small---- No! again--a fire he need\n_not_ make; a spark might easily set the woods ablaze, it was against\nboth forest and military regulations. This idea of a fire, otherwise so\nnatural, was distasteful, even repugnant, to him. He wondered a little\nwhy it recurred. He noticed this time, moreover, something unpleasant\nconnected with the suggestion of a fire, something that made him shrink;\nalmost a ghostly dread lay hidden in it.\n\nThis startled him. A dozen excellent reasons, supplied by his brain,\nwarned him that a fire was unwise; but the true reason, supplied by\nanother part of him, concealed itself with care, as though afraid that\nreason might detect its nature and fix the label on. Disliking this\nreminder of his earlier mood, he moved forward into the clearing,\nswinging his stick aggressively and whistling. He approached the tree,\nwhere a dozen thick roots dipped into the earth. Admiring, looking\nup and down, he paced slowly round its prodigious girth, then stood\nabsolutely still. His heart stopped abruptly, his blood became\ncongealed. He saw something that filled him with a sudden emptiness of\nterror. On this western side the shadow lay very black; it was between\nthe thick limbs, half stem, half root, where the dark hollows gave easy\nhiding-places, that he was positive he detected movement. A portion of\nthe trunk had moved.\n\nHe stood stock still and stared--not three feet from the trunk--when\nthere came a second movement. Concealed in the shadows there crouched a\nliving form. The movement defined itself immediately. Half reclining,\nhalf standing, a living being pressed itself close against the tree, yet\nfitting so neatly into the wide scooped hollows, that it was scarcely\ndistinguishable from its ebony background. But for the chance movement\nhe must have passed it undetected. Equally, his outstretched fingers\nmight have touched it. The blood rushed from his heart, as he saw this\nsecond movement.\n\nDetaching itself from the obscure background, the figure rose and stood\nbefore him. It swayed a little, then stepped out into the patch of\nmoonlight on his left. Three feet lay between them. The figure then bent\nover. A pallid face with burning eyes thrust forward and peered straight\ninto his own.\n\nThe human being was a woman. The same instant he recognized the eyes\nthat had stared him out of countenance in the dining-room two nights\nago. He was petrified. She stared him out of countenance now.\n\nAnd, as she did so, the under-current he had tried to ignore so long\nswept to the surface in a tumultuous flood, obliterating his normal\nself. Something elaborately built up in his soul by years of artificial\ntraining collapsed like a house of cards, and he knew himself undone.\n\n\"They've got me...!\" flashed dreadfully through his mind. It was, again,\nlike a message delivered in a dream where the significance of acts\nperformed and language uttered, concealed at the moment, is revealed\nmuch later only.\n\n\"After all--they've got me...!\"\n\n\n6\n\nThe dialogue that followed seemed strange to him only when looking back\nupon it. The element of surprise again was negligible if not wholly\nabsent, but the incongruity of dreams, almost of nightmare, became more\nmarked. Though the affair was unlikely, it was far from incredible. So\ncompletely were this man and woman involved in some purpose common to\nthem both that their talk, their meeting, their instinctive sympathy at\nthe time seemed natural. The same stream bore them irresistibly towards\nthe same far sea. Only, as yet, this common purpose remained concealed.\nNor could he define the violent emotions that troubled him. Their exact\ndescription was in him, but so deep that he could not draw it up.\nMoonlight lay upon his thought, merging clear outlines.\n\nDivided against himself, the cleavage left no authoritative self in\ncontrol; his desire to take an immediate decision resulted in a confused\nstruggle, where shame and pleasure, attraction and revulsion mingled\npainfully. Incongruous details tumbled helter-skelter about his mind:\nfor no obvious reason, he remembered again his Red Cross uniform, his\nformer holy calling, his nationality too; he was a servant of mercy, a\nteacher of the love of God; he was an English gentleman. Against which\nrose other details, as in opposition, holding just beyond the reach of\nwords, yet rising, he recognized well enough, from the bed-rock of the\nhuman animal, whereon a few centuries have imposed the thin crust of\nrefinement men call civilization. He was aware of joy and loathing.\n\nIn the first few seconds he knew the clash of a dreadful fundamental\nstruggle, while the spell of this woman's strange enchantment poured\nover him, seeking the reconciliation he himself could not achieve. Yet\nthe reconciliation _she_ sought meant victory or defeat; no compromise\nlay in it. Something imperious emanating from her already dominated\nthe warring elements towards a coherent whole. He stood before her,\nquivering with emotions he dared not name. Her great womanhood he\nrecognized, acknowledging obedience to her undisclosed intentions. And\nthis idea of coming surrender terrified him. Whence came, too, that\nqueenly touch about her that made him feel he should have sunk upon his\nknees?\n\nThe conflict resulted in a curious compromise. He raised his hand; he\nsaluted; he found very ordinary words.\n\n\"You passed me only a short time ago,\" he stammered, \"in the motors.\nThere were others with you----\"\n\n\"Knowing that you would find us and come after. We count on your\npresence and your willing help.\" Her voice was firm as with unalterable\nconviction. It was persuasive too. He nodded, as though acquiescence\nseemed the only course.\n\n\"We need your sympathy; we must have your power too.\"\n\nHe bowed again. \"My power!\" Something exulted in him. But he murmured\nonly. It was natural, he felt; he gave consent without a question.\n\nStrange words he both understood and did not understand. Her voice, low\nand silvery, was that of a gentle, cultured woman, but command rang\nthrough it with a clang of metal, terrible behind the sweetness. She\nmoved a little closer, standing erect before him in the moonlight, her\nfigure borrowing something of the great tree's majesty behind her. It\nwas incongruous, this gentle and yet sinister air she wore. Whence\ncame, in this calm peaceful spot, the suggestion of a wild and savage\nbackground to her? Why were there tumult and oppression in his heart,\npain, horror, tenderness and mercy, mixed beyond disentanglement? Why\ndid he think already, but helplessly, of escape, yet at the same time\nburn to stay? Whence came again, too, a certain queenly touch he felt\nin her?\n\n\"The gods have brought you,\" broke across his turmoil in a half whisper\nwhose breath almost touched his face. \"You belong to us.\"\n\nThe deeps rose in him. Seduced by the sweetness and the power, the\nwarring divisions in his being drew together. His under-self more and\nmore obtained the mastery she willed. Then something in the French she\nused flickered across his mind with a faint reminder of normal things\nagain.\n\n\"Belgian----\" he began, and then stopped short, as her instant rejoinder\nbroke in upon his halting speech and petrified him. In her voice sang\nthat triumphant tenderness that only the feminine powers of the Universe\nmay compass: it seemed the sky sang with her, the mating birds, wild\nflowers, the south wind and the running streams. All these, even the\nsilver birches, lent their fluid, feminine undertones to the two\npregnant words with which she interrupted him and completed his own\nunfinished sentence:\n\n\"---- and mother.\"\n\nWith the dreadful calm of an absolute assurance, she stood and watched\nhim.\n\nHis understanding already showed signs of clearing. She stretched her\nhands out with a passionate appeal, a yearning gesture, the eloquence of\nwhich should explain all that remained unspoken. He saw their grace and\nsymmetry, exquisite in the moonlight, then watched them fold together in\nan attitude of prayer. Beautiful mother hands they were; hands made to\nsmooth the pillows of the world, to comfort, bless, caress, hands that\nlittle children everywhere must lean upon and love-perfect symbol of\nprotective, self-forgetful motherhood.\n\nThis tenderness he noted; he noted next--the strength. In the folded\nhands he divined the expression of another great world-power, fulfilling\nthe implacable resolution of the mouth and eyes. He was aware of\nrelentless purpose, more--of merciless revenge, as by a protective\nmotherhood outraged beyond endurance. Moreover, the gesture held appeal;\nthese hands, so close that their actual perfume reached him, sought his\nown in help. The power in himself as man, as male, as father--this was\nrequired of him in the fulfillment of the unknown purpose to which this\nwoman summoned him. His understanding cleared still more.\n\nThe couple faced one another, staring fixedly beneath the giant beech\nthat overarched them. In the dark of his eyes, he knew, lay growing\nterror. He shivered, and the shiver passed down his spine, making his\nwhole body tremble. There stirred in him an excitement he loathed, yet\nwelcomed, as the primitive male in him, answering the summons, reared up\nwith instinctive, dreadful glee to shatter the bars that civilization\nhad so confidently set upon its freedom. A primal emotion of his\nunder-being, ancient lust that had too long gone hungry and unfed,\nleaped towards some possible satisfaction. It was incredible; it was, of\ncourse, a dream. But judgment wavered; increasing terror ate his will\naway. Violence and sweetness, relief and degradation, fought in his\nsoul, as he trembled before a power that now slowly mastered him. This\nglee and loathing formed their ghastly partnership. He could have\nstrangled the woman where she stood. Equally, he could have knelt and\nkissed her feet.\n\nThe vehemence of the conflict paralysed him.\n\n\"A mother's hands ...\" he murmured at length, the words escaping like\nbubbles that rose to the surface of a seething cauldron and then burst.\n\nAnd the woman smiled as though she read his mind and saw his little\ntrembling. The smile crept down from the eyes towards the mouth; he saw\nher lips part slightly; he saw her teeth.\n\nBut her reply once more transfixed him. Two syllables she uttered in a\nvoice of iron:\n\n\"Louvain.\"\n\n                 *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe sound acted upon him like a Word of Power in some Eastern fairy\ntale. It knit the present to a past that he now recognized could never\ndie. Humanity had _not_ advanced. The hidden source of his secret joy\nbegan to glow. For this woman focused in him passions that life had\nhitherto denied, pretending they were atrophied, and the primitive male,\nthe naked savage rose up, with glee in its lustful eyes and blood upon\nits lips. Acquired civilization, a pitiful mockery, split through its\nthin veneer and fled.\n\n\"Belgian ... Louvain ... Mother ...\" he whispered, yet astonished at the\nvolume of sound that now left his mouth. His voice had a sudden\nfullness. It seemed a cave-man roared the words.\n\nShe touched his hand, and he knew a sudden intensification of life\nwithin him; immense energy poured through his veins; a mediaeval spirit\nused his eyes; great pagan instincts strained and urged against his\nheart, against his very muscles. He longed for action.\n\nAnd he cried aloud: \"I am with you, with you to the end!\"\n\nHer spell had vivified beyond all possible resistance that primitive\nconsciousness which is ever the bed-rock of the human animal.\n\nA racial memory, inset against the forest scenery, flashed suddenly\nthrough the depths laid bare. Below a sinking moon dark figures flew in\nstreaming lines and groups; tormented cries went down the wind; he saw\ntorn, blasted trees that swayed and rocked; there was a leaping fire, a\ngleaming knife, an altar. He saw a sacrifice.\n\nIt flashed away and vanished. In its place the woman stood, with shining\neyes fixed on his face, one arm outstretched, one hand upon his flesh.\nShe shifted slightly, and her cloak swung open. He saw clinging skins\nwound closely about her figure; leaves, flowers and trailing green hung\nfrom her shoulders, fluttering down the lines of her triumphant physical\nbeauty. There was a perfume of wild roses, incense, ivy bloom, whose\nsubtle intoxication drowned his senses. He saw a sparkling girdle round\nthe waist, a knife thrust through it tight against the hip. And his\nsecret joy, the glee, the pleasure of some unlawful and unholy lust\nleaped through his blood towards the abandonment of satisfaction.\n\nThe moon revealed a glimpse, no more. An instant he saw her thus, half\nsavage and half sweet, symbol of primitive justice entering the present\nthrough the door of vanished centuries.\n\nThe cloak swung back again, the outstretched hand withdrew, but from a\nworld he knew had altered.\n\nTo-day sank out of sight. The moon shone pale with terror and delight on\nYesterday.\n\n\n7\n\nAcross this altered world a faint new sound now reached his ears, as\nthough a human wail of anguished terror trembled and changed into the\ncry of some captured helpless animal. He thought of a wolf apart from\nthe comfort of its pack, savage yet abject. The despair of a last appeal\nwas in the sound. It floated past, it died away. The woman moved closer\nsuddenly.\n\n\"All is prepared,\" she said, in the same low, silvery voice; \"we must\nnot tarry. The equinox is come, the tide of power flows. The sacrifice\nis here; we hold him fast. We only awaited you.\" Her shining eyes were\nraised to his. \"Your soul is with us now?\" she whispered.\n\n\"My soul is with you.\"\n\n\"And midnight,\" she continued, \"is at hand. We use, of course, their\nmethods. Henceforth the gods--their old-world gods--shall work on our\nside. They demand a sacrifice, and justice has provided one.\"\n\nHis understanding cleared still more then; the last veil of confusion\nwas drawing from his mind. The old, old names went thundering through\nhis consciousness--Odin, Wotan, Moloch--accessible ever to invocation\nand worship of the rightful kind. It seemed as natural as though he read\nin his pulpit the prayer for rain, or gave out the hymn for those at\nsea. That was merely an empty form, whereas this was real. Sea, storm\nand earthquake, all natural activities, lay under the direction of those\nelemental powers called the gods. Names changed, the principle remained.\n\n\"Their weather shall be ours,\" he cried, with sudden passion, as a\nmemory of unhallowed usages he had thought erased from life burned in\nhim; while, stranger still, resentment stirred--revolt--against the\nsystem, against the very deity he had worshipped hitherto. For these had\nnever once interfered to help the cause of right; their feebleness was\nnow laid bare before his eyes. And a two-fold lust rose in him.\n\"Vengeance is ours!\" he cried in a louder voice, through which this\nsudden loathing of the cross poured hatred. \"Vengeance and justice! Now\nbind the victim! Bring on the sacrifice!\"\n\n\"He is already bound.\" And as the woman moved a little, the curious\nerection behind her caught his eye--the piled brushwood he had imagined\nwas the work of woodmen, picnickers, or playing children. He realized\nits true meaning.\n\nIt now delighted and appalled him. Awe deepened in him, a wind of ice\npassed over him. Civilization made one more fluttering effort. He\ngasped, he shivered; he tried to speak. But no words came. A thin cry,\nas of a frightened child, escaped him.\n\n\"It is the only way,\" the woman whispered softly. \"We steal from them\nthe power of their own deities.\" Her head flung back with a marvellous\ngesture of grace and power; she stood before him a figure of perfect\nwomanhood, gentle and tender, yet at the same time alive and cruel with\nthe passions of an ignorant and savage past. Her folded hands were\nclasped, her face turned heavenwards. \"I am a mother,\" she added, with\namazing passion, her eyes glistening in the moonlight with unshed tears.\n\"We all\"--she glanced towards the forest, her voice rising to a wild and\npoignant cry--\"all, all of us are mothers!\"\n\nIt was then the final clearing of his understanding happened, and he\nrealized his own part in what would follow. Yet before the realization\nhe felt himself not merely ineffective, but powerless. The struggling\nforces in him were so evenly matched that paralysis of the will\nresulted. His dry lips contrived merely a few words of confused and\nfeeble protest.\n\n\"Me!\" he faltered. \"My help----?\"\n\n\"Justice,\" she answered; and though softly uttered, it was as though the\nmediaeval towers clanged their bells. That secret, ghastly joy again rose\nin him; admiration, wonder, desire followed instantly. A fugitive memory\nof Joan of Arc flashed by, as with armoured wings, upon the moonlight.\nSome power similarly heroic, some purpose similarly inflexible, emanated\nfrom this woman, the savour of whose physical enchantment, whose very\nbreath, rose to his brain like incense. Again he shuddered. The spasm of\nsecret pleasure shocked him. He sighed. He felt alert, yet stunned.\n\nHer words went down the wind between them:\n\n\"You are so weak, you English,\" he heard her terrible whisper, \"so nobly\nforgiving, so fine, yet so forgetful. You refuse the weapon _they_ place\nwithin your hands.\" Her face thrust closer, the great eyes blazed upon\nhim. \"If we would save the children\"--the voice rose and fell like\nwind--\"we must worship where they worship, we must sacrifice to their\nsavage deities....\"\n\nThe stream of her words flowed over him with this nightmare magic that\nseemed natural, without surprise. He listened, he trembled, and again he\nsighed. Yet in his blood there was sudden roaring.\n\n\"... Louvain ... the hands of little children ... we have the proof,\" he\nheard, oddly intermingled with another set of words that clamoured\nvainly in his brain for utterance; \"the diary in his own handwriting,\nhis gloating pleasure ... the little, innocent hands....\"\n\n\"Justice is mine!\" rang through some fading region of his now fainting\nsoul, but found no audible utterance.\n\n\"... Mist, rain and wind ... the gods of German Weather.... We all ...\nare mothers....\"\n\n\"I will repay,\" came forth in actual words, yet so low he hardly heard\nthe sound. But the woman heard.\n\n\"_We!_\" she cried fiercely, \"_we_ will repay!\"...\n\n\"God!\" The voice seemed torn from his throat. \"Oh God--_my_ God!\"\n\n\"_Our_ gods,\" she said steadily in that tone of iron, \"are near. The\nsacrifice is ready. And _you_--servant of mercy, priest of a younger\ndeity, and English--you bring the power that makes it effectual. The\ncircuit is complete.\"\n\nIt was perhaps the tears in her appealing eyes, perhaps it was her\nwords, her voice, the wonder of her presence; all combined possibly in\nthe spell that finally then struck down his will as with a single blow\nthat paralysed his last resistance. The monstrous, half-legendary spirit\nof a primitive day recaptured him completely; he yielded to the spell of\nthis tender, cruel woman, mother and avenging angel, whom horror and\nsuffering had flung back upon the practices of uncivilized centuries. A\ncommon desire, a common lust and purpose, degraded both of them. They\nunderstood one another. Dropping back into a gulf of savage worship that\nset up idols in the place of God, they prayed to Odin and his awful\ncrew....\n\nIt was again the touch of her hand that galvanized him. She raised him;\nhe had been kneeling in slavish wonder and admiration at her feet. He\nleaped to do the bidding, however terrible, of this woman who was\npriestess, queen indeed, of a long-forgotten orgy.\n\n\"Vengeance at last!\" he cried, in an exultant voice that no longer\nfrightened him. \"Now light the fire! Bring on the sacrifice!\"\n\nThere was a rustling among the nearer branches, the forest stirred; the\nleaves of last year brushed against advancing feet. Yet before he could\nturn to see, before even the last words had wholly left his lips, the\nwoman, whose hand still touched his fingers, suddenly tossed her cloak\naside, and flinging her bare arms about his neck, drew him with\nimpetuous passion towards her face and kissed him, as with delighted\nfury of exultant passion, full upon the mouth. Her body, in its clinging\nskins, pressed close against his own; her heat poured into him. She held\nhim fiercely, savagely, and her burning kiss consumed his modern soul\naway with the fire of a primal day.\n\n\"The gods have given you to us,\" she cried, releasing him. \"Your soul is\nours!\"\n\nShe turned--they turned together--to look for one upon whose last hour\nthe moon now shed her horrid silver.\n\n\n8\n\nThis silvery moonlight fell upon the scene.\n\nIncongruously he remembered the flowers that soon would know the\ncuckoo's call; the soft mysterious stars shone down; the woods lay\nsilent underneath the sky.\n\nAn amazing fantasy of dream shot here and there. \"I am a man, an\nEnglishman, a padre!\" ran twisting through his mind, as though _she_\nwhispered them to emphasize the ghastly contrast of reality. A memory of\nhis own Kentish village with its Sunday school fled past, his dream of\nthe Lion and the Lamb close after it. He saw children playing on the\ngreen.... He saw their happy little hands....\n\nJustice, punishment, revenge--he could not disentangle them. No longer\ndid he wish to. The tide of violence was at his lips, quenching an\nancient thirst. He drank. It seemed he could drink forever. These tender\npictures only sweetened horror. That kiss had burned his modern soul\naway.\n\nThe woman waved her hand; there swept from the underbrush a score of\nfigures dressed like herself in skins, with leaves and flowers entwined\namong their flying hair. He was surrounded in a moment. Upon each face\nhe noted the same tenderness and terrible resolve that their commander\nwore. They pressed about him, dancing with enchanting grace, yet with\nfull-blooded abandon, across the chequered light and shadow. It was the\nbrimming energy of their movements that swept him off his feet, waking\nthe desire for fierce rhythmical expression. His own muscles leaped and\nached; for this energy, it seemed, poured into him from the tossing arms\nand legs, the shimmering bodies whence hair and skins flung loose,\nsetting the very air awhirl. It flowed over into inanimate objects even,\nso that the trees waved their branches although no wind stirred--hair,\nskins and hands, rushing leaves and flying fingers touched his face, his\nneck, his arms and shoulders, catching him away into this orgy of an\nancient, sacrificial ritual. Faces with shining eyes peered into his,\nthen sped away; grew in a cloud upon the moonlight; sank back in shadow;\nreappeared, touched him, whispered, vanished. Silvery limbs gleamed\neverywhere. Chanting rose in a wave, to fall away again into forest\nrustlings; there were smiles that flashed, then fainted into moonlight,\nred lips and gleaming teeth that shone, then faded out. The secret\nglade, picked from the heart of the forest by the moon, became a torrent\nof tumultuous life, a whirlpool of passionate emotions Time had not\nkilled.\n\nBut it was the eyes that mastered him, for in their yearning, mating so\nincongruously with the savage grace--in the eyes shone ever tears. He\nwas aware of gentle women, of womanhood, of accumulated feminine power\nthat nothing could withstand, but of feminine power in majesty, its\nessential protective tenderness roused, as by tribal instinct, into a\ncollective fury of implacable revenge. He was, above all, aware of\nmotherhood--of mothers. And the man, the male, the father in him rose\nlike a storm to meet it.\n\nFrom the torrent of voices certain sentences emerged; sometimes chanted,\nsometimes driven into his whirling mind as though big whispers thrust\nthem down his ears. \"You are with us to the end,\" he caught. \"We have\nthe proof. And punishment is ours!\"\n\nIt merged in wind, others took its place:\n\n\"We hold him fast. The old gods wait and listen.\"\n\nThe body of rushing whispers flowed like a storm-wind past.\n\nA lovely face, fluttering close against his own, paused an instant, and\nstarry eyes gazed into his with a passion of gratitude, dimming a moment\ntheir stern fury with a mother's tenderness: \"For the little ones ... it\nis necessary, it is the only way.... Our own children....\" The face went\nout in a gust of blackness, as the chorus rose with a new note of awe\nand reverence, and a score of throats uttered in unison a single cry:\n\"The raven! The White Horses! His signs! Great Odin hears!\"\n\nHe saw the great dark bird flap slowly across the clearing, and melt\nagainst the shadow of the giant beech; he heard its hoarse, croaking\nnote; the crowds of heads bowed low before its passage. The White Horses\nhe did not see; only a sound as of considerable masses of air regularly\ndisplaced was audible far overhead. But the veiled light, as though\ngreat thunder-clouds had risen, he saw distinctly. The sky above the\nclearing where he stood, panting and dishevelled, was blocked by a mass\nthat owned unusual outline. These clouds now topped the forest, hiding\nthe moon and stars. The flowers went out like nightlights blown. The\nwind rose slowly, then with sudden violence. There was a roaring in the\ntree-tops. The branches tossed and shook.\n\n\"The White Horses!\" cried the voices, in a frenzy of adoration. \"He is\nhere!\"\n\nIt came swiftly, this collective mass; it was both apt and terrible.\nThere was an immense footstep. It was there.\n\nThen panic seized him, he felt an answering tumult in himself, the Past\nsurged through him like a sea at flood. Some inner sight, peering across\nthe wreckage of To-day, perceived an outline that in its size dwarfed\nmountains, a pair of monstrous shoulders, a face that rolled through\na full quarter of the heavens. Above the ruin of civilization, now\nfulfilled in the microcosm of his own being, the menacing shadow of a\nforgotten deity peered down upon the earth, yet upon one detail of it\nchiefly--the human group that had been wildly dancing, but that now\nchanted in solemn conclave about a forest altar.\n\nFor some minutes a dead silence reigned; the pouring winds left\nemptiness in which no leaf stirred; there was a hush, a stillness that\ncould be felt. The kneeling figures stretched forth a level sea of\narms towards the altar; from the lowered heads the hair hung down in\ntorrents, against which the naked flesh shone white; the skins upon the\nrows of backs gleamed yellow. The obscurity deepened overhead. It was\nthe time of adoration. He knelt as well, arms similarly outstretched,\nwhile the lust of vengeance burned within him.\n\nThen came, across the stillness, the stirring of big wings, a rustling\nas the great bird settled in the higher branches of the beech. The\nominous note broke through the silence; and with one accord the shining\nbacks were straightened. The company rose, swayed, parting into groups\nand lines. Two score voices resumed the solemn chant. The throng of\npallid faces passed to and fro like great fire-flies that shone and\nvanished. He, too, heard his own voice in unison, while his feet, as\nwith instinctive knowledge, trod the same measure that the others trod.\n\nOut of this tumult and clearly audible above the chorus and the rustling\nfeet rang out suddenly, in a sweetly fluting tone, the leader's voice:\n\n\"The Fire! But first the hands!\"\n\nA rush of figures set instantly towards a thicket where the underbrush\nstood densest. Skins, trailing flowers, bare waving arms and tossing\nhair swept past on a burst of perfume. It was as though the trees\nthemselves sped by. And the torrent of voices shook the very air in\nanswer:\n\n\"The Fire! But first--the hands!\"\n\nAcross this roaring volume pierced then, once again, that wailing sound\nwhich seemed both human and non-human--the anguished cry as of some\nlonely wolf in metamorphosis, apart from the collective safety of the\npack, abjectly terrified, feeling the teeth of the final trap, and\nknowing the helpless feet within the steel. There was a crash of rending\nboughs and tearing branches. There was a tumult in the thicket, though\nof brief duration--then silence.\n\nHe stood watching, listening, overmastered by a diabolical sensation of\nexpectancy he knew to be atrocious. Turning in the direction of the cry,\nhis straining eyes seemed filled with blood; in his temples the pulses\nthrobbed and hammered audibly. The next second he stiffened into a\nstone-like rigidity, as a figure, struggling violently yet half\ncollapsed, was borne hurriedly past by a score of eager arms that swept\nit towards the beech tree, and then proceeded to fasten it in an upright\nposition against the trunk. It was a man bound tight with thongs,\nadorned with leaves and flowers and trailing green. The face was hidden,\nfor the head sagged forward on the breast, but he saw the arms forced\nflat against the giant trunk, held helpless beyond all possible escape;\nhe saw the knife, poised and aimed by slender, graceful fingers above\nthe victim's wrists laid bare; he saw the--hands.\n\n\"An eye for an eye,\" he heard, \"a tooth for a tooth!\" It rose in awful\nchorus. Yet this time, although the words roared close about him, they\nseemed farther away, as if wind brought them through the crowding trees\nfrom far off.\n\n\"Light the fire! Prepare the sacrifice!\" came on a following wind; and,\nwhile strange distance held the voices as before, a new faint sound now\naudible was very close. There was a crackling. Some ten feet beyond the\ntree a column of thick smoke rose in the air; he was aware of heat not\nmeant for modern purposes; of yellow light that was not the light of\nstars.\n\nThe figure writhed, and the face swung suddenly sideways. Glaring with\npanic hopelessness past the judge and past the hanging knife, the eyes\nfound his own. There was a pause of perhaps five seconds, but in these\nfive seconds centuries rolled by. The priest of To-day looked down into\nthe well of time. For five hundred years he gazed into those twin\neyeballs, glazed with the abject terror of a last appeal. They\nrecognized one another.\n\nThe centuries dragged appallingly. The drama of civilization, in a\nsluggish stream, went slowly by, halting, meandering, losing itself,\nthen reappearing. Sharpest pains, as of a thousand knives, accompanied\nits dreadful, endless lethargy. Its million hesitations made him suffer\na million deaths of agony. Terror, despair and anger, all futile and\nwithout effect upon its progress, destroyed a thousand times his soul,\nwhich yet some hope--a towering, indestructible hope--a thousand times\nrenewed. This despair and hope alternately broke his being, ever to\nfashion it anew. His torture seemed not of this world. Yet hope\nsurvived. The sluggish stream moved onward, forward....\n\nThere came an instant of sharpest, dislocating torture. The yellow light\ngrew slightly brighter. He saw the eyelids flicker.\n\nIt was at this moment he realized abruptly that he stood alone, apart\nfrom the others, unnoticed apparently, perhaps forgotten; his feet held\nsteady; his voice no longer sang. And at this discovery a quivering\nshock ran through his being, as though the will were suddenly loosened\ninto a new activity, yet an activity that halted between two terrifying\nalternatives.\n\nIt was as though the flicker of those eyelids loosed a spring.\n\nTwo instincts, clashing in his being, fought furiously for the mastery.\nOne, ancient as this sacrifice, savage as the legendary figure brooding\nin the heavens above him, battled fiercely with another, acquired\nmore recently in human evolution, that had not yet crystallized into\npermanence. He saw a child, playing in a Kentish orchard with toys and\nflowers the little innocent hands made living ... he saw a lowly manger,\nfigures kneeling round it, and one star shining overhead in piercing and\nprophetic beauty.\n\nThought was impossible; he saw these symbols only, as the two contrary\ninstincts, alternately hidden and revealed, fought for permanent\npossession of his soul. Each strove to dominate him; it seemed that\nviolent blows were struck that wounded physically; he was bruised, he\nached, he gasped for breath; his body swayed, held upright only, it\nseemed, by the awful appeal in the fixed and staring eyes.\n\nThe challenge had come at last to final action; the conqueror, he well\nknew, would remain an integral portion of his character, his soul.\n\nIt was the old, old battle, waged eternally in every human heart, in\nevery tribe, in every race, in every period, the essential principle\nindeed, behind the great world-war. In the stress and confusion of\nthe fight, as the eyes of the victim, savage in victory, abject in\ndefeat--the appealing eyes of that animal face against the tree stared\nwith their awful blaze into his own, this flashed clearly over him.\nIt was the battle between might and right, between love and hate,\nforgiveness and vengeance, Christ and the Devil. He heard the menacing\nthunder of \"an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth,\" then above its\nangry volume rose suddenly another small silvery voice that pierced with\nsweetness:--\"Vengeance is mine, I will repay ...\" sang through him as\nwith unimaginable hope.\n\nSomething became incandescent in him then. He realized a singular\nmerging of powers in absolute opposition to each other. It was as though\nthey harmonized. Yet it was through this small, silvery voice the\napparent magic came. The words, of course, were his own in memory,\nbut they rose from his modern soul, now reawakening.... He started\npainfully. He noted again that he stood apart, alone, perhaps forgotten\nof the others. The woman, leading a dancing throng about the blazing\nbrushwood, was far from him. Her mind, too sure of his compliance, had\nmomentarily left him. The chain was weakened. The circuit knew a break.\n\nBut this sudden realization was not of spontaneous origin. His heart had\nnot produced it of its own accord. The unholy tumult of the orgy held\nhim too slavishly in its awful sway for the tiny point of his modern\nsoul to have pierced it thus unaided. The light flashed to him from an\noutside, natural source of simple loveliness--the singing of a bird.\nFrom the distance, faint and exquisite, there had reached him the\nsilvery notes of a happy thrush, awake in the night, and telling its\njoy over and over again to itself. The innocent beauty of its song came\nthrough the forest and fell into his soul....\n\nThe eyes, he became aware, had shifted, focusing now upon an object\nnearer to them. The knife was moving. There was a convulsive wriggle of\nthe body, the head dropped loosely forward, no cry was audible. But, at\nthe same moment, the inner battle ceased and an unexpected climax came.\nDid the soul of the bully faint with fear? Did the spirit leave him at\nthe actual touch of earthly vengeance? The watcher never knew. In that\nappalling moment when the knife was about to begin the mission that the\nfire would complete, the roar of inner battle ended abruptly, and\nthat small silvery voice drew the words of invincible power from his\nreawakening soul. \"Ye do it also unto me ...\" pealed o'er the forest.\n\nHe reeled. He acted instantaneously. Yet before he had dashed the knife\nfrom the hand of the executioner, scattered the pile of blazing wood,\nplunged through the astonished worshippers with a violence of strength\nthat amazed even himself; before he had torn the thongs apart and\nloosened the fainting victim from the tree; before he had uttered a\nsingle word or cry, though it seemed to him he roared with a voice of\nthousands--he witnessed a sight that came surely from the Heaven of his\nearliest childhood days, from that Heaven whose God is love and whose\nforgiveness was taught him at his mother's knee.\n\nWith superhuman rapidity it passed before him and was gone. Yet it was\nno earthly figure that emerged from the forest, ran with this incredible\nswiftness past the startled throng, and reached the tree. He saw the\nshape; the same instant it was there; wrapped in light, as though a\nflame from the sacrificial fire flashed past him over the ground. It was\nof an incandescent brightness, yet brightest of all were the little\noutstretched hands. These were of purest gold, of a brilliance\nincredibly shining.\n\nIt was no earthly child that stretched forth these arms of generous\nforgiveness and took the bewildered prisoner by the hand just as the\nknife descended and touched the helpless wrists. The thongs were already\nloosened, and the victim, fallen to his knees, looked wildly this way\nand that for a way of possible escape, when the shining hands were laid\nupon his own. The murderer rose. Another instant and the throng must\nhave been upon him, tearing him limb from limb. But the radiant little\nface looked down into his own; she raised him to his feet; with\nsuperhuman swiftness she led him through the infuriated concourse as\nthough he had become invisible, guiding him safely past the furies into\nthe cover of the trees. Close before his eyes, this happened; he saw the\nwaft of golden brilliance, he heard the final gulp of it, as wind took\nthe dazzling of its fiery appearance into space. They were gone....\n\n\n9\n\nHe stood watching the disappearing motor-cars, wondering uneasily who\nthe occupants were and what their business, whither and why did they\nhurry so swiftly through the night? He was still trying to light his\npipe, but the damp tobacco would not burn.\n\nThe air stole out of the forest, cooling his body and his mind; he saw\nthe anemones gleam; there was only peace and calm about him, the earth\nlay waiting for the sweet, mysterious stars. The moon was higher; he\nlooked up; a late bird sang. Three strips of cloud, spaced far apart,\nwere the footsteps of the South Wind, as she flew to bring more birds\nfrom Africa. His thoughts turned to gentle, happy hopes of a day when\nthe lion and the lamb should lie down together, and a little child\nshould lead them. War, in this haunt of ancient peace, seemed an\nincredible anachronism.\n\nHe did not go farther; he did not enter the forest; he turned back along\nthe quiet road he had come, ate his food on a farmer's gate, and over\na pipe sat dreaming of his sure belief that humanity had advanced. He\nwent home to his hotel soon after midnight. He slept well, and next day\nwalked back the four miles from the hospitals, instead of using the car.\nAnother hospital searcher walked with him. They discussed the news.\n\n\"The weather's better anyhow,\" said his companion. \"In our favour at\nlast!\"\n\n\"That's something,\" he agreed, as they passed a gang of prisoners and\ncrossed the road to avoid saluting.\n\n\"Been another escape, I hear,\" the other mentioned. \"He won't get far.\nHow on earth do they manage it? The M.O. had a yarn that he was helped\nby a motor-car. I wonder what they'll do to him.\"\n\n\"Oh, nothing much. Bread and water and extra work, I suppose?\"\n\nThe other laughed. \"I'm not so sure,\" he said lightly. \"Humanity hasn't\nadvanced very much in that kind of thing.\"\n\nA fugitive memory flashed for an instant through the other's brain as he\nlistened. He had an odd feeling for a second that he had heard this\nconversation before somewhere. A ghostly sense of familiarity brushed\nhis mind, then vanished. At dinner that night the table in front of him\nwas unoccupied. He did not, however, notice that it was unoccupied.\n\n\nTHE END\n\n\n\n\nTranscriber's notes\n\n\nPunctuation errors have been corrected. Also the following changes have\nbeen made, on page\n\n39 \"pleasel\" changed to \"pleased\" (to what dream he pleased.)\n\n107 \"peform\" changed to \"perform\" (father will perform the sacrifice)\n\n124 \"morever\" changed to \"moreover\" (leisure, moreover. Grimwood)\n\n126 \"be\" changed to \"he\" (where had he come from)\n\n182 \"it\" changed to \"is\" (the house is getting on)\n\n190 \"hanging\" changed to \"banging\" (the front door banging)\n\n195 \"saidly\" changed to \"sadly\" (he said sadly)\n\n240 \"implicity\" changed to \"implicitly\" (had obeyed implicitly,\nbelieving everything)\n\n254 \"additioin\" changed to \"addition\" (respect in addition to his\ngratitude.)\n\n256 \"yho\" changed to \"who\" (but a man who has served)\n\n262 \"sunride\" changed to \"sunrise\" (from the sunrise end.)\n\n266 \"has\" changed to \"his\" (Purdy had gone his way again)\n\n278 \"incredudous\" changed to \"incredulous\" (of incredulous surprise)\n\n286 \"deliberatelly\" changed to \"deliberately\" (away as deliberately as\nshe had turned to look\n\n307 \"diety\" changed to \"deity\" (against the very deity he had\nworshipped).\n\nOtherwise the original text has been preserved, including inconsistent\nspelling and hyphenation.","title":"The Wolves of God, and Other Fey Stories","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":103717}