Within the course of the next few days, a strange rumour spread through
Dominey and the district,--from the farm labourer to the farmer, from
the school children to their homes, from the village post-office to the
neighbouring hamlets. A gang of woodmen from a neighbouring county,
with an engine and all the machinery of their craft, had started to work
razing to the ground everything in the shape of tree or shrub at
the north end of the Black Wood. The matter of the war was promptly
forgotten. Before the second day, every man, woman and child in the
place had paid an awed visit to the outskirts of the wood, had listened
to the whirr of machinery, had gazed upon the great bridge of planks
leading into the wood, had peered, in the hope of some strange discovery
into the tents of the men who were camping out. The men themselves were
not communicative, and the first time the foreman had been known to
open his mouth was when Dominey walked down to discuss progress, on the
morning after his arrival.
“It's a dirty bit of work, sir,” he confided. “I don't know as I ever
came across a bit of woodland as was so utterly, hopelessly rotten. Why,
the wood crumbles when you touch it, and the men have to be within reach
of one another the whole of the time, though we've a matter of five
hundred planks down there.”
“Come across anything unusual yet?”
“We ain't come across anything that isn't unusual so far, sir. My men
are all wearing extra leggings to keep them from being bitten by them
adders--as long as my arm, some of 'em. And there's fungus there which,
when you touch it, sends out a smell enough to make a man faint. We
killed a cat the first day, as big and as fierce as a young tigress.
It's a queer job, sir.”
“How long will it take?”
“Matter of three weeks, sir, and when we've got the timber out you'll be
well advised to burn it. It's not worth a snap of the fingers.--Begging
your pardon, sir,” the man went on, “the old lady in the distance there
hangs about the whole of the time. Some of my men are half scared of
her.”
Dominey swung around. On a mound a little distance away in the park,
Rachael Unthank was standing. In her rusty black clothes, unrelieved
by any trace of colour, her white cheeks and strange eyes, even in the
morning light she was a repellent figure. Dominey strolled across to
her.
“You see, Mrs. Unthank,” he began--
She interrupted him. Her skinny hand was stretched out towards the wood.
“What are those men doing, Sir Everard Dominey?” she demanded. “What is
your will with the wood?”
“I am carrying out a determination I came to in the winter,” Dominey
replied. “Those men are going to cut and hew their way from one end of
the Black Wood to the other, until not a tree or a bush remains upright.
As they cut, they burn. Afterwards, I shall have it drained. We may live
to see a field of corn there, Mrs. Unthank.”
“You will dare to do this?” she asked hoarsely.
“Will you dare to tell me why I should not, Mrs. Unthank?”
She relapsed into silence, and Dominey passed on. But that night, as
Rosamund and he were lingering over their dessert, enjoying the strange
quiet and the wonderful breeze which crept in at the open window,
Parkins announced a visitor.
“Mrs. Unthank is in the library, sir,” he announced. “She would be glad
if you could spare her five minutes.”
Rosamund shivered slightly, but nodded as Dominey glanced towards her
enquiringly.
“Don't let me see her, please,” she begged. “You must go, of
course.--Everard!”
“Yes, dear?”
“I know what you are doing out there, although you have never said a
word to me about it,” she continued, with an odd little note of passion
in her tone. “Don't let her persuade you to stop. Let them cut and burn
and hew till there isn't room for a mouse to hide. You promise?”
“I promise,” he answered.
Mrs. Unthank was making every effort to keep under control her fierce
discomposure. She rose as Dominey entered the room and dropped an
old-fashioned curtsey.
“Well, Mrs. Unthank,” he enquired, “what can I do for you?”
“It's about the wood again, sir,” she confessed. “I can't bear it. All
night long I seem to hear those axes, and the calling of the men.”
“What is your objection, Mrs. Unthank, to the destruction of the Black
Wood?” Dominey asked bluntly. “It is nothing more nor less than a
noisome pest-hole. Its very presence there, after all that she has
suffered, is a menace to Lady Dominey's nerves. I am determined to sweep
it from the face of the earth.”
The forced respect was already beginning to disappear from her manner.
“There's evil will come to you if you do, Sir Everard,” she declared
doggedly.
“Plenty of evil has come to me from that wood as it is,” he reminded
her.
“You mean to disturb the spirit of him whose body you threw there?” she
persisted.
Dominey looked at her calmly. Some sort of evil seemed to have lit in
her face. Her lips had shrunk apart, showing her yellow teeth. The fire
in her narrowed eyes was the fire of hatred.
“I am no murderer, Mrs. Unthank,” he said. “Your son stole out from the
shadow of that wood, attacked me in a cowardly manner, and we fought.
He was mad when he attacked me, he fought like a madman, and,
notwithstanding my superior strength, I was glad to get away alive. I
never touched his body. It lay where he fell. If he crept into the wood
and died there, then his death was not at my door. He sought for my life
as I never sought for his.”
“You'd done him wrong,” the woman muttered.
“That again is false. His passion for Lady Dominey was uninvited and
unreciprocated. Her only feeling concerning him was one of fear; that
the whole countryside knows. Your son was a lonely, a morose and an
ill-living man, Mrs. Unthank. If either of us had murder in our hearts,
it was he, not I. And as for you,” Dominey went on, after a moment's
pause, “I think that you have had your revenge, Mrs. Unthank. It was you
who nursed my wife into insanity. It was you who fed her with the
horror of your son's so-called spirit. I think that if I had stayed away
another two years, Lady Dominey would have been in a mad-house to-day.”
“I would to Heaven!” the woman cried, “that you'd rotted to death in
Africa!”
“You carry your evil feelings far, Mrs. Unthank,” he replied. “Take my
advice. Give up this foolish idea that the Black Wood is still the home
of your son's spirit. Go and live on your annuity in another part of the
country and forget.”
He moved across the room to throw open a window. Her eyes followed him
wonderingly.
“I have heard a rumour,” she said slowly; “there has been a word spoken
here and there about you. I've had my doubts sometimes. I have them
again every time you speak. Are you really Everard Dominey?”
He swung around and faced her.
“Who else?”
“There's one,” she went on, “has never believed it, and that's her
ladyship. I've heard strange talk from the people who've come under your
masterful ways. You're a harder man than the Everard Dominey I remember.
What if you should be an impostor?”
“You have only to prove that, Mrs. Unthank,” Dominey replied, “and a
portion, at any rate, of the Black Wood may remain standing. You will
find it a little difficult, though.--You must excuse my ringing the
bell. I see no object in asking you to remain longer.”
She rose unwillingly to her feet. Her manner was sullen and unyielding.
“You are asking for the evil things,” she warned him.
“Be assured,” Dominey answered, “that if they come I shall know how to
deal with them.”
Dominey found Rosamund and Doctor Harrison, who had walked over from the
village, lingering on the terrace. He welcomed the latter warmly.
“You are a godsend, Doctor,” he declared. “I have been obliged to leave
my port untasted for want of a companion. You will excuse us for a
moment Rosamund?”
She nodded pleasantly, and the doctor followed his host into the
dining-room and took his seat at the table where the dessert still
remained.
“Old woman threatening mischief?” the latter asked, with a keen glance
from under his shaggy grey eyebrows.
“I think she means it,” Dominey replied, as he filled his guest's glass.
“Personally,” he went on, after a moment's pause, “the present situation
is beginning to confirm an old suspicion of mine. I am a hard and fast
materialist, you know, Doctor, in certain matters, and I have not the
slightest faith in the vindictive mother, terrified to death lest the
razing of a wood of unwholesome character should turn out into the cold
world the spirit of her angel son.”
“What do you believe?” the doctor asked bluntly.
“I would rather not tell you at the present moment,” Dominey answered.
“It would sound too fantastic.”
“Your note this afternoon spoke of urgency,” the doctor observed.
“The matter is urgent. I want you to do me a great favour--to remain
here all night.”
“You are expecting something to happen?”
“I wish, at any rate, to be prepared.”
“I'll stay, with pleasure,” the doctor promised. “You can lend me some
paraphernalia, I suppose? And give me a shake-down somewhere near Lady
Dominey's. By-the-by,” he began, and hesitated.
“I have followed your advice, or rather your orders,” Dominey
interrupted, a little harshly. “It has not always been easy, especially
in London, where Rosamund is away from these associations.--I am hoping
great things from what may happen to-night, or very soon.”
The doctor nodded sympathetically.
“I shouldn't wonder if you weren't on the right track,” he declared.
Rosamund came in through the window to them and seated herself by
Dominey's side.
“Why are you two whispering like conspirators?” she demanded.
“Because we are conspirators,” he replied lightly. “I have persuaded
Doctor Harrison to stay the night. He would like a room in our wing.
Will you let the maids know, dear?”
She nodded thoughtfully.
“Of course! There are several rooms quite ready. Mrs. Midgeley thought
that we might be bringing down some guests. I am quite sure that we can
make Doctor Harrison comfortable.”
“No doubt about that, Lady Dominey,” the doctor declared. “Let me be as
near to your apartment as possible.”
There was a shade of anxiety in her face.
“You think that to-night something will happen?” she asked.
“To-night, or one night very soon,” Dominey assented. “It is just as
well for you to be prepared. You will not be afraid, dear? You will have
the doctor on one side of you and me on the other.”
“I am only afraid of one thing,” she answered a little enigmatically. “I
have been so happy lately.”
Dominey, changed into ordinary morning clothes, with a thick cord tied
round his body, a revolver in his pocket, and a loaded stick in his
hand, spent the remainder of the night and part of the early morning
concealed behind a great clump of rhododendrons, his eyes fixed upon the
shadowy stretch of park which lay between the house and the Black Wood.
The night was moonless but clear, and when his eyes were once accustomed
to the pale but sombre twilight, the whole landscape and the moving
objects upon it were dimly visible. The habits of his years of bush
life seemed instinctively, in those few hours of waiting, to have
reestablished themselves. Every sense was strained and active; every
night sound--of which the hooting of some owls, disturbed from their
lurking place in the Black Wood, was predominant--heard and accounted
for. And then, just as he had glanced at his watch and found that it was
close upon two o'clock, came the first real intimation that something
was likely to happen. Moving across the park towards him he heard the
sound of a faint patter, curious and irregular in rhythm, which came
from behind a range of low hillocks. He raised himself on his hands and
knees to watch. His eyes were fastened upon a certain spot,--a stretch
of the open park between himself and the hillocks. The patter ceased and
began again. Into the open there came a dark shape, the irregularity of
its movements swiftly explained. It moved at first upon all fours, then
on two legs, then on all fours again. It crept nearer and nearer, and
Dominey, as he watched, laid aside his stick. It reached the terrace,
paused beneath Rosamund's window, now barely half a dozen yards from
where he was crouching. Deliberately he waited, waited for what he knew
must soon come. Then the deep silence of the breathless night was broken
by that familiar, unearthly scream. Dominey waited till even its echoes
had died away. Then he ran a few steps, bent double, and stretched out
his hands. Once more, for the last time, that devil's cry broke the deep
stillness of the August morning, throbbing a little as though with a new
fear, dying away as though the fingers which crushed it back down the
straining throat had indeed crushed with it the last flicker of some
unholy life.
When Doctor Harrison made his hurried appearance, a few moments later,
he found Dominey seated upon the terrace, furiously smoking a cigarette.
On the ground, a few yards away, lay something black and motionless.
“What is it?” the doctor gasped.
For the first time Dominey showed some signs of a lack of self-control.
His voice was choked and uneven.
“Go and look at it, Doctor,” he said. “It's tied up, hand and foot. You
can see where the spirit of Roger Unthank has hidden itself.”
“Bosh!” the doctor answered, with grim contempt. “It's Roger Unthank
himself. The beast!”
A little stream of servants came running out. Dominey gave a few orders
quickly.
“Ring up the garage,” he directed, “and I shall want one of the men to
go into Norwich to the hospital. Doctor, will you go up and see Lady
Dominey?”
The habits of a lifetime broke down. Parkins, the immaculate, the
silent, the perfect automaton, asked an eager question.
“What is it, sir?”
There was the sound of a window opening overhead. At that moment Parkins
would not have asked in vain for an annuity. Dominey glanced at the
little semicircle of servants and raised his voice.
“It is the end, I trust, of these foolish superstitions about Roger
Unthank's ghost. There lies Roger Unthank, half beast, half man. For
some reason or other--some lunatic's reason, of course--he has chosen to
hide himself in the Black Wood all these years. His mother, I presume,
has been his accomplice and taken him food. He is still alive but in a
disgusting state.”
There was a little awed murmur. Dominey's voice had become quite matter
of fact.
“I suppose,” he continued, “his first idea was to revenge himself upon
us and this household, by whom he imagined himself badly treated. The
man, however, was half a madman when he came to the neighbourhood and
has behaved like one ever since.--Johnson,” Dominey continued, singling
out a sturdy footman with sound common sense, “get ready to take this
creature into Norwich Hospital. Say that if I do not come in during the
day, a letter of explanation will follow from me. The rest of you, with
the exception of Parkins, please go to bed.”
With little exclamations of wonder they began to disperse. Then one
of them paused and pointed across the park. Moving with incredible
swiftness came the gaunt, black figure of Rachael Unthank, swaying
sometimes on her feet, yet in their midst before they could realise it.
She staggered to the prostrate body and threw herself upon her knees.
Her hands rested upon the unseen face, her eyes glared across at
Dominey.
“So you've got him at last!” she gasped.
“Mrs. Unthank,” Dominey said sternly, “you are in time to accompany your
son to the hospital at Norwich. The car will be here in two minutes.
I have nothing to say to you. Your own conscience should be sufficient
punishment for keeping that poor creature alive in such a fashion and
ministering during my absence to his accursed desire for vengeance.”
“He would have died if I hadn't brought him food,” she muttered. “I have
wept all the tears a woman's broken heart could wring out, beseeching
him to come back to me.”
“Yet,” Dominey insisted, “you shared his foul plot for vengeance against
a harmless woman. You let him come and make his ghoulish noises, night
by night, under these windows, without a word of remonstrance. You knew
very well what their accursed object was--you, with a delicate woman in
your charge who trusted you. You are an evil pair, but of the two you
are worse than your half-witted son.”
The woman made no reply. She was still on her knees, bending over the
prostrate figure, from whose lips now came a faint moaning. Then the
lights of the car flashed out as it left the garage, passed through the
iron gates and drew up a few yards away.
“Help him in,” Dominey ordered. “You can loosen his cords, Johnson, as
soon as you have started. He has very little strength. Tell them at the
hospital I shall probably be there during the day, or to-morrow.”
With a little shiver the two men stooped to their task. Their prisoner
muttered to himself all the time, but made no resistance. Rachael
Unthank, as she stepped in to take her place by his side, turned once
more to Dominey. She was a broken woman.
“You're rid of us,” she sobbed, “perhaps forever.--You've said harsh
things of both of us. Roger isn't always--so bad. Sometimes he's more
gentle than at others. You'd have thought then that he was just a baby,
living there for love of the wind and the trees and the birds. If he
comes to--”
Her voice broke. Dominey's reply was swift and not unkind. He pointed to
the window above.
“If Lady Dominey recovers, you and your son are forgiven. If she never
recovers, I wish you both the blackest corner of hell.”
The car drove off. Doctor Harrison met Dominey on the threshold as he
turned towards the house.
“Her ladyship is unconscious now,” he announced. “Perhaps that is a good
sign. I never liked that unnatural calm. She'll be unconscious, I think,
for a great many hours. For God's sake, come and get a whisky and soda
and give me one!”
The early morning sunshine lay upon the park when the two men at last
separated. They stood for a moment looking out. From the Black Wood came
the whirr of a saw. The little troop of men had left their tents. The
crash of a fallen tree heralded their morning's work.
“You are still going on with that?” the doctor asked.
“To the very last stump of a tree, to the last bush, to the last cluster
of weeds,” Dominey replied, with a sudden passion in his tone. “I will
have that place razed to the bare level of the earth, and I will have
its poisonous swamps sucked dry. I have hated that foul spot,” he went
on, “ever since I realised what suffering it meant to her. My reign here
may not be long, Doctor--I have my own tragedy to deal with--but those
who come after me will never feel the blight of that accursed place.”
The doctor grunted. His inner thoughts he kept to himself.
“Maybe you're right,” he conceded.