The final line, as typewritten by Davidson, contained only a few words.
My eyes found it:
"RUTHVEN (placing his hand on Mary's head):"
And no more than that. There was place for a speech after the stage
direction, apparently the monster's involuntary cry for blessing upon
the brave girl, but Davidson had not set down such a speech.
Amazed and in some unaccountable way uneasy, I walked around the corner
of the lodge to where Martha Vining, seated on the door-step, also
studied her lines. Before I had finished my first question, she nodded
violently.
"It's the same way on my script," she informed me. "You mean, the last
speech missing. I noticed last night, and mentioned it before breakfast
to Miss Holgar. She has no last line, either."
A soft chuckle drifted down upon us. Varduk had come to the open door.
"Davidson must have made a careless omission," he said. "Of course,
there is only one typescript of the play, with carbon copies. Well, if
the last line is missing, isn't it a definite sign that we should not
speak it in rehearsal?"
He rested his heavy gaze upon me, then upon Martha Vining, smiled to
conclude the discussion, and drew back into the hallway and beyond our
sight.
Perhaps I may be excused for not feeling completely at rest on the
subject.
Judge Pursuivant arrived for lunch, dressed comfortably in flannels and
a tweed jacket, and his performance at table was in healthy contrast to
Varduk, who, as usual, ate hardly anything. In the early afternoon I
induced the judge to come for a stroll up the slope and along the main
road. As soon as we were well away from the lodge, I told him of Jake's
adventure, the outcome of the sword-accident at rehearsal, and the air
of mystery that deepened around the omitted final speech of the play.
"Perhaps I'm being nervous and illusion-ridden," I began to apologize
in conclusion, but he shook his great head.
"You're being nothing of the sort, Connatt. Apparently my semi-psychic
intuition was good as gold. I did perfectly right in following this
drama and its company out here into the wilderness."
"You came deliberately?" I asked, and he nodded.
"My friend's cabin in the neighborhood was a stroke of good luck, and
I more than half courted the invitation to occupy it. I'll be frank,
Connatt, and say that from the outset I have felt a definite and occult
challenge from Varduk and his activities."
He chopped at a weed with his big malacca stick, pondered a moment,
then continued.
"Your Mr. Varduk is a mysterious fellow. I need not enlarge on that,
though I might remind you of the excellent reason for his strange
character and behavior."
"Byron's blood?"
"Exactly. And Byron's curse."
I stopped in mid-stride and turned to face the judge. He smiled
somewhat apologetically.
"I know, Connatt," he said, "that modern men and women think such
things impossible. They think it equally impossible that anyone of
good education and normal mind should take occultism seriously. But I
disprove the latter impossibility, at least--I hold degrees from three
world-famous universities, and my behavior, at least, shows that I am
neither morbid nor shallow."
"Certainly not," I assented, thinking of his hearty appetite, his
record of achievement in many fields, his manifest kindness and
sincerity.
"Then consent to hear my evidence out." He resumed his walk, and I fell
into step with him. "It's only circumstantial evidence, I fear, and as
such must not be entirely conclusive. Yet here it is:
"Byron was the ideal target for a curse, not only personally but
racially. His forebears occupied themselves with revolution, dueling,
sacrilege and lesser sins--they were the sort who attract and merit
disaster. As for his immediate parents, it would be difficult to
choose a more depraved father than Captain 'Mad Jack' Byron, or a more
unnatural mother than Catherine Gordon of Gight. Brimstone was bred
into the child's very soul by those two. Follow his career, and what is
there? Pride, violence, orgy, disgrace. Over his married life hangs a
shocking cloud, an unmentionable accusation--rightly or not we cannot
say. As for his associates, they withered at his touch. His children,
lawful and natural, died untimely and unhappy. His friends found ruin
or death. Even Doctor Polidori, plagiarist of the _Ruthven_ story,
committed suicide. Byron himself, when barely past his first youth,
perished alone and far from home and friends. Today his bright fame is
blurred and tarnished by a wealth of legend that can be called nothing
less than diabolic."
"Yet he wasn't all unlucky," I sought to remind my companion. "His
beauty and brilliance, his success as a poet----"
"All part of the curse. When could he be thankful for a face that drew
the love of Lady Caroline Lamb and precipitated one of London's most
fearful scandals? As for his poetry, did it not mark him for envy,
spite and, eventually, a concerted attack? I daresay Byron would have
been happier as a plain-faced mechanic or grocer."
I felt inclined to agree, and said as much. "If a curse exists," I
added, "would it affect Varduk as a descendant of Byron?"
"I think that it would, and that his recent actions prove at once the
existence of a curse and the truth of his claim to descent. A shadow
lies on that man, Connatt."
"The rest of the similarity holds," I responded. "The charm and the
genius. I have wondered why Miss Holgar agrees to this play. It is
archaic, in some degree melodramatic, and her part is by no means
dominant. Yet she seems delighted with the rôle and the production in
general."
"I have considered the same apparent lapse of her judgment," said
Pursuivant, "and came to the conclusion that you are about to
suggest--that Varduk has gained some sort of influence over Miss
Holgar."
"Perhaps, then, you feel that such an influence would be dangerous to
her and to others?"
"Exactly."
"What to do, then?"
"Do nothing, gentlemen," said someone directly behind us.
We both whirled in sudden surprize. It was Elmo Davidson.
_9. Davidson Gives a Warning_
I scowled at Davidson in surprized protest at his intrusion. Judge
Pursuivant did not scowl, but I saw him lift his walking-stick with his
left hand, place his right upon the curved handle, and gave it a little
twist and jerk, as though preparing to draw a cork from a bottle.
Davidson grinned placatingly.
"Please, gentlemen! I didn't mean to eavesdrop, or to do anything else
sneaking. It was only that I went for a walk, too, saw the pair of
you ahead, and hurried to catch up. I couldn't help but hear the final
words you were saying, and I couldn't help but warn you."
We relaxed, but Judge Pursuivant repeated "Warn?" in a tone deeply
frigid.
"May I amplify? First of all, Varduk certainly does not intend to
harm either of you. Second, he isn't the sort of man to be crossed in
anything."
"I suppose not," I rejoined, trying to be casual. "You must be pretty
sure, Davidson, of his capabilities and character."