“I told you it was my own, but that was a lie. I copied it, word for

word. You have been very much mistaken in me. I am a wicked worthless

woman, and have always deceived you.”

The scholar shook his head with a wondering smile, and answered her,

“Are we not all foolish, dear sister? We are not the masters of

ourselves. He who is wisest among us is but a copyist. We poets sing

as the influence directs. The song is not our own, because nothing

that we have is ours. The tongue is a loan, and the mind itself but

the tenant of a short-lived body. There is truth therefore in your

sublime humility. Your verses are copies, and so are mine; but let us

console ourselves with the knowledge that to few is given even

sufficient power to repeat an old tale well. No, you shall not answer

me. No barrier of false humility should be raised between a brother

and sister of Mount Parnassus.”

“You will not understand,” she cried. “I have no learning--none at

all. I could not even understand the meaning of those lines I read to

you.”

“Still upon that strain,” he murmured. “Why then, I must answer you.

By your definition I too am false. I am unable to comprehend the great

realities which move around us and bend us to their will. I too have

no learning, because when I take up that which I have written the

finite mind, which has merely suggested the theme, refuses to add an

understanding of the meaning. We aim at the clear sky, and find we

have only struck the earth. The most inspired poet cannot soar higher

than the clouds.”

As he spoke Drayton entered, and standing just within the door asked

in a scarcely intelligible voice, “What is the first stage of tragedy

according to the classical model?”

“The prologue,” answered the scholar with his head down. “Why do you

ask?”

“We propose to give a representation of Comedy in this house

to-night,” said Drayton in the same low voice. “I only desire to know

the various stages in which tragic destiny moves, so that I may know

what to expect. This is the prologue. Well?”

“Followed by the entry of the chorus and the first continuous song,”

went on the scholar. “Then the first entry of a principal character

followed by the second song, and so on, the entry and song

alternating, until all the characters have been introduced. Later

comes the tragic dirge, sung between a principal and the chorus;

finally the solemn marching out.”

Drayton bent his head, inclining his ear as though to listen for the

repetition of some distant sound, and withdrew, muttering to himself.

His voice died away into the house, and the wind and the rain made the

continuous song.

“I have forgotten why I came,” said Maude, resting her white forehead

upon her hand. “I am miserable. I know I have done wrong, and I cannot

see how to make amends. I do not even know who it is that I have

wronged.”

“You have wronged me a little,” said the voice of the poet.

“I have deceived you. I have made you believe I am good and clever.”

“Cease from this perversity,” he cried. “You have wronged me by not

confiding in me, by keeping me at a distance, and in withdrawing, as

you have done lately, the light of your learning from my work. Do you

not see how we suffer when separated, what peace we enjoy when

together? Souls are joined by a look of the eyes and the word

exchanged. For a week I have been idle, and you--confess now you too

have put aside the pen. See how unprofitable the parting has been.”

“No, no,” she cried. “I have tried to think of my duty.”

“Which is twofold,” he urged. “The duty of song and the duty of love.

By neglecting both you have wronged yourself and me. Do you not

remember our first meeting on the warm hillside? I worshipped you then

as you appeared before me in clinging white, with the fire of poetry

in your eyes. My heart sang to you and yours answered. Let our songs

be lyrics always. Let us not descend. Be to me now, as then, as you

stood in the sun on the side of the hill.”

“What is this?” she murmured, half rising and sinking back.

“It is spiritual love. Perfect love,” the poet whispered.

“Tragic love,” she cried.

The wind came moaning into the house and the dry leaves were whirled

about the hall, and after that a door closed with a hollow sound. Both

dreamers were awakened. Both saw themselves. What the man saw was a

cold empty life spent among books, with eyes on crabbed characters and

fingers upon pen, a life which had never tasted the heady wine of

passion nor sought after companionship, an unprofitable life of

body-starving, of brain-glutting, of groping after communion with

unseen powers.

And the woman saw the wasted heartless career of a butterfly, flitting

from flower to flower, neglecting all things but pleasure, making no

provision for the future. She saw her husband, knowing that he was her

husband, bent by work and lined with care, starting from his

occupation of business when she spoke scoldingly, and answering with a

kindly word; she saw her little daughter playing alone, asking often

in the perplexing manner of childhood why her mother never came. This

was a part of her punishment. First the Strath had shown her what

might have occurred, had she allowed the evil in her to mature fully;

now it put before her the simple truth, shedding across it its own

sombre light. Still she saw the captured butterfly struggling to

escape, and as she looked all its bright plumage was rubbed away, and

there escaped a grey little creature, which somehow seemed a more

beautiful object than the pink and white beauty which had been held

and bruised.

“It is the love of the soul,” a voice said into her ear; and the door

fluttered as though with the touch of the eager tragic wind.

“Let me go,” she cried. “It is getting late, and it is dark.”

“You cannot see the light which you shed around,” answered the scholar

in rapt tones. “And what is time with us? We are lovers, and for us

time and place are of no account. This shall become our brightest day,

in spite of the wind and the rain. Beloved, do not tell me you are

blind. You have seen in my eyes what I have seen in yours. Together we

shall tell the love-tales of the past. And now you shall hear my tale,

and I will listen to yours.”

“Mine you know,” she said.

“I would hear it from your lips.”

“You shall,” Maude cried coldly and sternly, rising and standing in

the darkened room between the masks. “I know a man whose every action

is unselfish, whose only fault is that he loves me. That man has

permitted me to drive him as I would. He has repaid my scorn of him by

kindliness. When I rejected some plan which he made for my comfort he

has immediately taken the blame upon himself.”

“You did not love this man?” he interrupted in his ringing voice.

“I did not.”

“Because his soul could never be in tune with yours. Destiny had never

ordained that you and he should meet. The same destiny brought you to

me.”

“I have a husband,” she said. “And of him I was speaking.”

“Have you not a soul also? That is mine. Day and night it has spoken

to me. You have joined your body to a husband, but your soul you shall

join with mine. There is no mystery in that union. The body wedded to

a body lives under the cypress. The soul united to its affinity soars

above the earth.”

“Once I might have listened to you,” she said.

“You have come out of the darkness, and the first glimpse of the day

bewilders you.”

“I know myself,” she replied. “I have wronged you deeply. I have

flattered you and led you on with lies. I have made you believe I am a

poetess, while I am, as you see me, a very weak and ignorant woman

with nothing to my credit that is good. Pardon my wickedness. I will

go out of your life to-day, and face my duty, and you shall never be

troubled with me again.”

A shudder went through the house as the lyres and flutes of the wind

and rain changed from strophe to final antistrophe.

“You and I at discord,” the scholar muttered. “Would you throw your

life out of tune and mar the harmony of mine? You may go from me, but

you shall not forget me. You will come back to me when I call.”

“You too have neglected your duty,” she said. “You have lived among

the dead and forgotten the living. By much study you have lost the

body. Wake as I awake, and know that you are still a man treading the

stage of life, not a disembodied spirit flying among the hills of

Athens or along the valley of Colonus.”

These were strange words from ignorant Maude.

He came and seized her hands. She was cold and he was burning, and

both were shivering. There was a light in his eyes which she had not

seen there before, and she shrank from the sight, because it seemed to

her that the man and the mind were drifting apart. She struggled a

little, and as her eyes groped into the gloom she saw the door opening

very slowly and noiselessly, and she heard the worm-eaten floor giving

beneath foot-steps. Then Juxon walked in, pale and bent, with his

hands clasped behind.

How ill he looked, she thought. His clothes were hanging to him

loosely, and there was upon his face that grey expression which speaks

of midnight sleeplessness coupled with days of anxiety. His eyes

appeared to glance between them, passing from one mask to the other.

There was the knife, the emblem of tragedy, and this was not the time

to don the cap and bells. How, Maude wildly wondered, would the new

character play his part? There was no good reason for the doubt. Juxon

had maintained a high standard of living; he had not rebelled against

the dramatic laws; therefore the frown of the tragic mask was not for

him.

Dr. Berry looked round when he beheld a hand upon his sleeve. From his

height he looked down upon the man, whom he recognised, neither as the

husband of the woman near him, nor as a principal character. “Who are

you?” he asked sharply. “What brings you here?”

“A caprice,” said the stockbroker. “Fortune has been hard upon me of

late. While I have sat alone during the night a voice has been with

me, calling me to the Strath. Is not this the Strath?”

“I do not know,” said the scholar querulously. “Let us have light that

I may see you.”

Juxon stepped forward and lighted a candle. Maude saw his agitated

face and marked the trembling of his hands. She called him in a low

voice, but he did not appear to hear. He lifted his head and faced the

scholar who watched him with hard unreasoning eyes.

“I must ask your forgiveness,” said Juxon. “You believe my wife has

done you wrong, but I assure you no blame is to be attached to her.

What she has done she did unwillingly, indeed upon compulsion. I am

the one who has injured you.”

The scholar said nothing. There was vengeance on his face as he looked

round the walls for some weapon, with which he might strike the man

who stood between him and the desire of his soul.

“You may ask why I should wrong one who has never sought to harm me,”

Juxon went on in a steady voice. “Attribute it to the evil which is in

all of us, to an inexplicable longing to make a fellow-creature

suffer. I have only to confess my sin and clear the character of my

wife.”

While he spoke the man was battling with the horrible inclination,

which bade him fling himself upon his enemy. He steadied himself by a

great effort. All his determination and strength were required. Had he

spent in the past an evil life nothing could have saved him then.

“My wife came here to recover her health,” he went on hoarsely. “In

her letters she told me of you, describing you as a clever poet,

completely enwrapped in yourself and your work. I was brutal enough to

ask her if she thought she could lure you sufficiently out of your

work to make you admire her, and she replied, yet only in jest you

must understand, that she believed it would be possible.”

Maude comprehended her husband’s plan. It was correct. The drama

required it. He was sacrificing himself for her.

“In an idle moment I made a wager with a friend, who knew my wife, to

the effect that she would succeed in making you believe she possessed

knowledge equal to yours. My friend, averring it to be impossible,

accepted the wager. I wrote to my wife and entreated her to make the

attempt, instructing her to flatter and admire you--in short to make a

fool of you--until she had attained my object. I need hardly say she

was horrified at the suggestion. She begged me not to press her. The

idea was utterly distasteful to her loyal mind. But I refused to spare

her. She yielded at last, with what results you know. I won my wager

at the cost of my wife’s reputation. I dare not ask you to forgive me.

I know it must be impossible for you to feel anything but hatred for

so mean a creature as he who stands before you. All that I ask is your

forgiveness for my wife.”

Juxon broke off with a gasp. Dr. Berry towered above him, his face

malignant, and its features contorted into a horrid semblance of one

of the hanging masks. Suddenly he darted forward, and seizing a

candlestick hurled it at the stockbroker. Juxon started aside, and as

the missile clattered into a corner snatched his wife’s hand and

pulled her to the door. The scholar hurled himself against it and the

rotten panels shivered into fragments; but the Juxons were gone, into

the garden and the wind.

Scene II.--MASQUE

And let the Masquers, or any other, that are to come down from the

Scene, have some motions, upon the Scene itself, before their comming

down: For it drawes the Eye strangely, and makes it with great

pleasure, to desire to see that, it cannot perfectly

discerne.--_Bacon_.

The squire of Kingsmore and the rector of Thorlund stood in the

latter’s study. The clock pointed to forty minutes past seven. Mr.

Price looked more solemn than usual, while his companion was haggard

and agitated.

“I know now you have spoken the truth,” the scholar was saying. “All

along you have maintained that the Strath was haunted by an unholy

influence, and I would not believe, because I could not feel it. What

has come to me now I do not know. I am afraid of the place.”

He turned and striding across the room snatched a volume of old

English poetry from a shelf. “I was drawn there this afternoon. The

house fought against me,” he went on. “I was punished there. I was

warned that with the falling of the house I too must fall.”

“Berry,” muttered the old squire. “During all the years of our

acquaintance you have strained your brain upon thankless work. I do

not know what to say about the Strath. One time I am certain it is

badly haunted. Another time I have my doubts. Nothing has frightened

me when I have been there, so far as I know, but--and this is the

point--after leaving the place it has been impossible to remember what

has happened there.”

The scholar was not listening. He bent the book of poetry open, so

roughly that the binding broke, and cried, “‘Go, bid the world with

all its trash farewell.’ Do you hear that? She has deceived me,

laughed at me, mocked me. ‘Leave it, I say, and bid the world

farewell.’ I trusted her. Can you not tell me what happened in the

Strath this afternoon?”

“I can tell you one thing,” said the squarson. “You are doing yourself

a lot of harm. Leave your poetry and get out into the air. Why, man,

you are shivering from head to foot.”

“I am going to the Strath,” Dr. Berry muttered.

“I don’t like it,” said Mr. Price. “I don’t want to go, and Flora does

not want to go either. My sister has the excuse of rheumatism, and she

is the best off. It’s a regular wild night, dark as pitch, with a

howling wind. If there are phantoms at the Strath they will show

themselves to-night. I’ll order the carriage and go home. Flora!” he

called, going to the door. “Here, Flora! We will go back.”

The girl came out of the drawing-room with a mask dangling from her

gloved hand.

“I want to go now, uncle,” she said firmly. “Besides we must. There

will be nobody there except ourselves, and Maude--and Dr. Berry.” She

added the scholar’s name as he revealed himself.

“He must not go,” said Mr. Price decidedly. “He is going to bed. I’ll

tell Mr. Conway he is not well.”

“I am coming,” said the poet.

It was, as the old squire had said, a wild night, full of wind and

strange cries. They groped through the churchyard, found the door in

the wall, and entered the garden. A heavy beam of light fell from the

house and guided their steps. The bridge across the moat swayed

perceptibly. The hall door stood ajar. They passed in and saw candles

glowing in the saloon. Nance was kneeling in the great hall, warming

her hands by a fire of logs, and looking up met Flora’s eyes without

flinching.

“The wind is rough,” said Mr. Price in a melodramatic voice,

responding as far as his simple nature allowed to the dominant

influence.

As he spoke a tall figure crossed the hall, passing from one room to

another, clad in close-fitting black with ruffles of yellow lace at

its wrists and throat, its face hidden behind a brown mask. This

tragic figure went towards the saloon with a dejected step, casting

furtive glances to right and left as it disappeared.

“Abandoned and accursed,” muttered Dr. Berry. He turned and strode

away into the silence of the house.

“Come aside with me,” said Flora in a thrilling voice, seizing her

uncle and drawing him back. “Put on your mask,” she whispered. “They

must not suspect who we are. I can trust you? You are my relative. You

will not fail me?”

“I will serve you as I can,” said the old gentleman, with a wild

shiver. “But let us be discreet, let us be watchful. Methinks our

plans may be overheard. We will go to some more secret place, but let

us carry ourselves boldly, so that no one may suspect we have anything

on hand.” He stepped away from her and bowed low. “Will it please you

to walk with me and study the pictures?” he said; and when she had

accepted his invitation they walked away into the gloom, two tragic

puppets, like all the other beings who were to cross, or had crossed,

the threshold of the house that night.

Presently a little lady in Arcadian costume appeared, and beside her a

stout man closely muffled. They were the Juxons. They had been called

and could not refuse to come. Strange had been the feeling between

husband and wife during the drive homeward after that remarkable

meeting at the Strath. On Maude’s side there was a novel content; upon

Juxon’s a sense of happiness. He understood that his wife had changed.

While they rattled through the wind she talked, with none of the empty

vivaciousness of former days; and had never a scolding word, nor any

impatient frown. She inquired after his health with genuine

solicitude, and asked fondly after Peggy, stating her intention of

returning forthwith to devote herself to her child. And he, jealous of

this new-found happiness, did not venture to confess that he had no

home, that his business was almost ruined.

She had gained in beauty, he thought, with that pale seriousness. As

he felt the wind sweeping in life-giving strength across the hills, he

made for the hundredth time the resolution of another effort for her

sake. His pretty little wife should have all that she had been

accustomed to. As for the scene which had so recently closed it was

gone from them both; but Maude knew that Dr. Berry would never

fascinate her again. Juxon was not aware that he had been put to the

ordeal, that his nature had triumphed, that his character had stood

firm for his wife’s defence. He only knew that he had gone to the

Strath, in obedience to the message, and that his wife had been

restored to him there.

The group of tragic characters made a sombre party. The actors were

six in number, for the two wearers of the brown masks had ceased to be

human entities. They had become conflicting influences. The guests,

who had been led to the house under the pretext of a dance, found

themselves playing the part of conspirators. They instinctively

mistrusted one another. In the saloon Mr. Price was gambling with the

figure of tragedy. Upstairs Dr. Berry paced the corridors, biting his

fingers, and planning vengeance. Juxon, the object of his hatred,

stood with his dazed wife near the fireplace in the hall.

He had told her everything, and to his story of defeat and failure

added the words:

“I have played my last card. There is nothing left with which to start

afresh. I understand it all now,” he went on firmly. “No man can

struggle against destiny. It was never intended that I should be

wealthy, and though riches were for the time forced upon me it was

only that they might be taken away. I am a poor man now, with only

these hands, a clear conscience, and a strong head left to aid me in

the struggle for existence.”

“And I have been a hindrance to you,” said Maude gently.

“If we have failed to agree perfectly in the past it was the fault of

neither of us,” said Juxon. “Riches have been a curse, both to you and

to me. For the future there will be no barrier to hold us apart.”

“Herbert,” she whispered, with a shudder. “You must go your way alone.

The warning comes to me now that I have not much longer to live. I am

to be punished for my heartlessness.”

“Hush,” said the man, almost fiercely.

“Only stay with me,” Maude entreated. “There is danger here for you,

as well as for me.”

“There is horror in the very air,” Juxon shivered. “Let us go into the

light.”

They crossed the hall with stealthy movements, and crept into the

saloon, there to discover Mr. Price upon his knees, playing his cards

madly, while the tragic figure opposite shook with laughter as it won

again and again. The squire of Kingsmore had never gambled in his life

before, and now he was losing everything he possessed, his invested

capital, house, farm, and lands. The perspiration stood upon his face.

“I have an assignation which I must not fail to keep,” he cried. “But

I will beat you first.”

Maude seated herself at the harpsichord, and drew from its loose keys

and clogged wires some fantastic sounds, while her husband leaned

beside her, watching and listening, all his faculties keenly alert.

As Mr. Price sent up his defiant cry Flora rushed into the supper

room. Filling a glass with wine, she searched in all the cabinets,

then snatching up the glass turned to the door. A figure appeared

before her with a jingling of bells, a short figure clad in many

colours, with a cap like a cock’s comb upon its head, a flute in its

hand, and the leering mask of Comedy enveloping its face.

“Let me pass,” she screamed.

“What do you seek?” demanded the motley figure.

“Poison,” she cried.

With his flute he struck the glass from her hand. “You are one of my

enemies,” he laughed. “You have set before your mind unnatural ideas,

and sought to follow them. You have a friend who has been heartless,

but she has submitted of her own free-will and shall be happy. You

continue to resist and shall be broken. You shall harm no one while I

am near.”

Flora could not recognise the voice of Drayton beneath the comic mask;

but when the figure turned, and the light of the candles fell across

the brown face, she shrank from the shape. Was that a mask? If so, it

was a mask controlled by muscles, trembling with life, heated by

blood: a mask that had grown upon the face like skin, moulding the

features that bore it into its own grinning shape.

Dr. Berry was creeping cat-like about the house. He heard a sound of

music and the wild ejaculations of the man who believed himself

ruined. A smile crossed his face, and he murmured cunningly, “Extreme

circumspection is necessary. I will hide in the ante-room, and behold

what is taking place.” Stealthily descending the stairs he passed

through a side door. An antique lamp was burning low upon a table

which was littered with sheets of manuscript. The curtains which

divided this room from the saloon were closed. The poet halted on the

threshold. It seemed to him that he was standing upon the brink of an

open grave.

Four of the rotten planks which comprised the flooring had been broken

away. Taking the lamp he went to his knees, and lowering the light

perceived a small cellar bricked in like a vault. The damp walls shone

when the light flashed across them. The lamp-bearer saw two iron hooks

driven into the crumbling cement; and to one of them clung a twisted

fragment of what might have been leather, or rope, or even muscle.

“The grave is prepared,” he said craftily. “It remains with me to

supply an occupant.”

He replaced the lamp, and sat in wild thought beside the table. Some

sheets of manuscript lay beneath his eyes. Recognising a portion of

Drayton’s Tragedy, he bent his head to read a fragment, which had been

marked by the author’s hand, “Written when Comedy was in the

ascendant, and therefore worthless.” The fragment ran thus:--

_St. James’s. A room in the palace. Enter the King, led by a page,

singing, and beating time with a roll of music._

_King._

They say I’m not the King.

Here, scapegrace! powder-head! let me hear truth!

Who is he whom you lead?

_Page._

His Gracious Majesty George the Third, by the Grace of God King of

Great Britain and Ireland, Defender of the Faith--

_King._

Defender. Ha! Defender is my name.

Old George was not afraid. He mocked the Pope,

Witheld all justice from the Catholics,

Broke up their churches, chased the cunning priests

Back to their Roman cells. He beat them all.

Did he not, boy?

_Page._

Yes, your Majesty.

_King._

Bah! I do hate great men:

These politicians, with their quips and cranks;

These big-wigs, with their tape and rhetoric,

Brass trumpets of sedition. I stand

Free of the highwaymen, that Pitt, that Burke.

I’ll stand alone to fight. I will be king,

Though I lose Colonies. Shall a king kneel,

To beg a favour of his ministers?

A king bow down to seek his subjects’ will,

And crave their gracious leave to wear his crown?

Will he not rather drive the rabble forth,

And swear to all the rout he is the law?

Boy, how long have I reigned?

_Page._

’Tis fifty-five years, your Majesty.

_King._

Has any King of England reigned so long?

_Page._

No, your Majesty.

_King._

Then get you out,

And call the guard, and bid them cheer the King.

_Exit Page. King goes to a harpsichord and sings a hymn, accompanying

himself._

_The Queen enters, kneels at his side, and sings with him. A cheer

from the palace yard, and shouts, God save the King._

_King._

Bid them be silent. They have spoilt my hymn.

I am no king. I am a tired old man,

Weighed down with grief. My darling is so quiet!

They snatched her from me. I can smell the flowers

They heaped upon her, and I feel the arms

Of those who drew me from her bed of earth.

That day I lost my crown.

He lifteth up the lowly, and casts down

The great ones to the dust.

_Another cheer._

Hark, how they mock me there! Long live the King.

Now let me speak--God grant the King may die.

_An uproar in the street. Loud cries of_ “_Victory_” _and_

“_Wellington._” _Queen closes the window._

_King._

’Tis time to hold my court. See there the troops,

Who fought in Flanders, waiting for review;

A noble band. Soldiers, I’m proud of you.

Fine fellows are ye, disciplined and bold.

March past, my guards; march past, and sound your drums.

_Claps his hands as the ghosts pass._

Right, Left! Right, Left! Aye, that’s the English swing,

The tread that startled Louis and his French,

The march that shook the Spaniards. Where are ye?

Gone past already. Soft! What have we here?

I know those faces and those powdered heads:

My House of Commons. I’ll see to them straight!

The stubborn knaves, who would have broke my will.

Oppose me if ye dare. I know the means

To break your party, to unseat each man,

And drive him cringing to his rural poll.

I’ll do it, if ye force me, and refuse

To aid my plans. Traitor is every man

Who power denies to kings.

Out, villains! Out from here!

What! Must I drive ye forth?

_Runs among the ghosts, beating at them._

_Noise in the street continues._

Away, place-seekers! Out of this my court.

I will not hear ye. Look now how they come!

Fawning and sighing, each to kiss my hand,

And seek a favour. Bishops sleek in lawn,

Clergy corrupt, and politicians smooth,

Two-faced, four-handed, Jacobite at night,

Cringing before the man in power by day.

They come on, more and more.

_Noise increases._

And here we have bespangled generals,

Savage for titles. Here bold Whig-patched dames

Crowd on the stairs, and push some favourite up,

To pay his hollow vows to win a post.

Is this a Court? Call it a market-place,

And me a merchant. Hear those whispered words,

“Give me a Bishopric, and loyal I’ll be,”

Or, “Grant me office, and I’ll be your man,”

And there again, “Hand me authority,

And I will preach the justice of the king.”

Is there not here a man? Are these but masks,

Stamped with some semblance of humanity?

Are truth and honour dead and gone? Away,

Trumpets and heraldry, and power and pomp,

And find me here some loyal flesh and blood.

Away, ye mummers! Out, ye titled clowns!

And hide yourselves in graves. I’m still the King.

_Bursts into tears and falls, fainting. The Queen bears him up. Enter

an officer noisily._

_Officer._

Great news, Your Majesties! Napoleon

Has met defeat. His army is destroyed

By the allies, and he, a fugitive,

Must soon be taken.

_Queen._

Go with your tales of battle,

And shout to them that live.

_Officer goes out sneering. Queen goes to window and opens it._

_Queen._

They do not look this way. For fifty years

I’ve been the Queen of England. They forget.

The Prince goes on his way to Carlton House;

The crowds close round his carriage, crying out,

“God save the King,” and “Victory.” The King!

There lies the King.

The curtains were drawn apart. The reader started up to behold a

fearful face with drooping mouth, cruel and thin-lipped, narrow

forehead and sunken checks, quivering and palpitating with all the

passions of evil. It was the figure of Conway; but the face was the

face of Tragedy.

“I have ruined the old man yonder,” he mouthed. “Hear him howl! I have

won everything that he possessed, and now all he asks for is a pistol

that he may shoot himself. Tell me, friend, where I may find that

young woman who lately entered this house. I would decoy her outside

to a lonely part of this garden, and there--nay, but I was ever too

free with my tongue.”

“I need your assistance,” muttered the scholar.

“It is yours,” came the answer. “I see you are a brave fellow,

accustomed to use the knife.”

“See that man!” exclaimed the other, pointing out Juxon through a rent

in the curtain. “He has made me a laughing-stock.”

“Trust in me, friend. We will despatch him together. Do you go into

the long corridor and conceal yourself, while I engage the man in

conversation. Presently I will bring him that way, and as we pass do

you leap out upon him. I will have him held. He shall not have time to

shout.”

“I will procure a knife,” the poet chuckled.

The garden of the Strath was plunged in total darkness outside the

shafts of light proceeding from the windows. There was no rain, but

the wind howled and worked havoc among the trees and shrubs. The few

labourers of the hamlet, safe inside their shuttered cottages, were

convinced that the Strath had never been so noisy before.

October blasts had howled as fiercely over Thorlund; but the grim

influence of the house had never predominated as upon that night when

all the ways were shaded.

The miserable squire of Kingsmore rushed into the hall, shouting the

one word, “Ruined!” He saw himself a dishonoured man, deprived of the

lands and house which his family had held for generations. He was

half-mad to know that he should have come to this in his old age. True

there were rumours in his family of an ancestor upon whose career the

gambling element had been plainly marked; but even he was never so

deeply dipped as to have forfeited the estate. He hung to Juxon and

implored him for a loan upon easy terms, and when refused sought Dr.

Berry with a like request. The scholar pushed him back with a curse.

When Flora came to him, the miserable old man snatched her hand and

tried to drag the bracelet from her wrist. She caught his hand and

whispered a fierce reminder into his ear.

“Ha! I had forgotten,” he gasped. “Say, child, has she money? Let us

go in search of the trollop.”

A sound of flute-playing entered their ears. They looked up to see

Comedy descending the stairs. Recognising an enemy they shrank back

against the draperies. He cast his grinning eyes upon them and cried,

“Do your will. Do your worst. You shall find me near.”

That instant Tragedy came out and stopped, shivering with fear and

fury, when it saw the motley. During that moment, while the two masks

were glaring at each other, the hearts of the watchers seemed to

cease. Then the fiend slunk abjectly away, and the merry flute piped

onwards like a bird.

The Juxons were alone in the saloon. Maude was clinging to her

husband, still haunted by the terrible prospect of death by violence.

Beside them the table was overturned and the cards were scattered

about the floor. While Juxon was attempting to calm her fears with

words of consolation Nance fled into the saloon pale with terror, and

screaming for help. Flora and Mr. Price pursued her with murder upon

their faces. They caught the girl as she reached the Juxons and bore

her to the floor; but as the old gentleman, whom his own sister could

not then have recognised, hissed out, “Strangle her!” a tinkling of

bells was heard, and Comedy jumped through the curtains with his

mocking laugh. The tragic characters fell back. The figure in motley

lifted the girl and led her away, leering upon the baulked couple and

saying, “Did I not promise I would follow you?”

“We are foiled, child,” muttered the old gentleman with a ghastly

smile. “But no matter. We can bide our time.”

The atmosphere of the Strath was charged like the thunder-cloud which

is about to break. The two forces, through which destiny works her

will, were fighting for supremacy. In the presence of Comedy, Tragedy

had so far been powerless. Wherever the spirit of destruction went

with its frown, the spirit of protection followed with its laugh. It

was a battle between despair and happiness. It did not occur to any of

the characters that safety might be found in flight. By the laws of

the drama, they were compelled to remain upon the scene, until the

entry of the final character and the exodic march.

A dark figure glided into the saloon. Taking its stand beside the

Juxons, it engaged them in conversation with the subtility of

Mephistopheles. Its tongue was full of flattery, and they yielded to

it. There was a picture in the corridor above which deserved their

attention, and he, the soft speaker, sought the privilege of

conducting them there, having some poor knowledge of the arts, that he

might point out its merits and its beauty. They went with him, and as

the figure stopped in the dimly-lighted corridor and pointed with a

horrible laugh towards a dark copy of The Plague at Athens, Juxon was

held and a cry of exultation rang down the house.

“Blunderer! The knife,” hissed Tragedy.

But the bells again jingled. Through the gloom of the house danced

Comedy, to strike down their hands with his flute and to hunt his

enemy before him; and with the dark figure fled the scholar hand in

hand.

For the greater part of another hour the struggle continued. Maude and

her husband were also absorbed into the maelstrom and sought to be

avenged. The Strath was occupied with conspiracies and stealthily

moving creatures filled with the lust of slaughter. The dark spirit of

tragedy hounded them on. And whenever the blow appeared certain to

fall the bells jingled. Amid the frowns and screams and muttered words

sounded the laugh of the flute-player. And the wind howled and beat

upon the house in a wild chorus heralding the approach of the final

character.

Apart from that final entry the supremacy of one of the opposing

powers was inevitable. Although Tragedy feared its rival, the time

came when repeated defeats goaded it to fury; until it dared to attack

the motley figure, and the characters drew round to watch the fight.

The wind fell and there was silence throughout the garden. The old

house seemed to be aware that its last hour had come. A stranger had

passed through the gates, one who was able for a time to resist the

influence, because he understood the secret of the power and his mind

was not open to receive impressions but resolutely set upon the

removal of the cause. This was the final character, who came in

ignorance as to what was taking place at the crucial moment ordained

by the dramatic laws.

The spectators of the struggle between the rival powers marvelled at

the courage displayed by the last principal character of the drama

when he entered and drove them aside to pass and fling himself upon

the figure of Tragedy. The stranger’s body seemed to them a mere frame

of bones, and his arms were like wire-ropes for strength and

thickness. He held the dark shape upon the floor, one hand clutching

its throat, the fingers of the other tearing at the hot palpitating

mask, raising it by the edges where it adhered less powerfully to the

skin, dragging and peeling it away. Off came the limp horrible face;

and the stranger pressed it upon the fire and held it down, until the

room was full of odours and a nauseous soot, and all its occupants

shivered and grew sick, and the house seemed to thrill with groans.

Then came the turn of comedy; and with the consigning of that mask

also to the flames the power fled from the house, the influence came

to an end; and the two men who had been controlled that night by those

rival influences, which beat with fierce activity upon actors on and

off the stage, were lying unconscious upon the floor, their faces

blistered and their limbs rigid.

Then the wind arose and with it came a noise of thunder. A portion of

the roof had fallen in. The Strath was a rotten carcase. It had lost

its power of evil and its power of good. Biron, for he it was who had

reached Thorlund at the time appointed, turned to the astounded

guests, introduced himself, and briefly explained why he was there,

and how he had served them.

“Destroyed the masks!” exclaimed Mr. Price feebly. “What masks? God

bless my soul! what has been happening?”

PROSCENIUM

Tragedy is an imitation, not only of a completed action, but also of

an action exciting pity and terror.--_Aristotle_.

Drayton and Conway were carried into the hall where they could receive

the benefit of the cold wind. The little party abandoned the saloon in

silence, Flora being supported by her uncle. Biron, after bending once

more over the charred remains in the fire, joined them, closing and

fastening the door behind him. The late mummers regarded each other

with a curious suspicion, scarcely daring to speak, and feeling as

though they had awakened from a drugged sleep. Already one of the

company was missing. Dr. Berry had gone back to his solitude; and

after a short interval the Juxons followed.

At last the survivors were able to regard the Strath with undistorted

judgment. It appeared to them an impossible residence, damp, windy,

and tottering. It had no more romance than an old barn filled with

curiosities; it was a tumbledown museum, filled with draughts and

dust, a place for owls and rats like the ruined parsonage house of

Queensmore.

Drayton was the first to recover and stand upon his feet. Several more

minutes elapsed before Conway was restored to consciousness. Both were

depressed, troubled by nausea, and tormented by blistered faces.

Neither had the slightest recollection of what he had undergone.

Indeed the entire life of those past months remained a blank sheet

unwritten on by time. There were memories of a dream-like nature,

which could not be framed in words.

Refreshments were placed in the dining-room, and there the company

betook itself, sane, human, and no longer theatrical. Presently Mr.

Biron gave the tale, as he knew it, of the masks, from their creation

by Joseph Falk, toy-maker of Nuremberg, to his own unexpected and

dramatic arrival that night. He told them how his great-grandfather

had entombed the horrible things in the vault--where, owing to decay

of the flooring in the ante-room, Drayton had discovered them--and

then had disappeared leaving the Strath to become impregnated with the

rival influences. “From certain records handed down to me,” Biron

proceeded, “I am convinced that these masks must have exerted a

fearful power. They would have influenced not only this house and

garden, but the surrounding country and its inhabitants also.”

“You have told us a strange story. You must forgive me when I say it

is not easy to accept,” said Mr. Price in a bewildered voice. “I knew

there was something unnatural here, indeed everybody knew that, but

the curious part about it was that no one ever thought of organizing

any active crusade against the Strath. I do not know what has been

going on to-night. I am only painfully conscious of my aching limbs.”

“Do you suggest that my friend and myself have been under the control

of these masks all the summer?” asked Conway.

“I say also you may consider yourselves fortunate in having escaped,”

Biron answered. “Fine weather would have been favourable to you.

During the long dark nights of winter you might have lost your reason

and committed suicide. I speak from my small knowledge of the masks.”

“What brought you here in time to save us?”

“I can answer that,” said Drayton, coming forward, his face still

bearing the comedian’s leer. “I pawned the masks which used to hang in

your room in town. I wanted to tell you, but for some reason or other

could not. It was a mean thing to do, but I wanted to reach you, and

had no money.”

“You could not have rendered your friend a better service,” said

Biron. “It is owing to your action I am here. I had offered a reward

for information which might lead to the discovery of the originals. It

was the least I could do to atone for my ancestor’s irresponsible

conduct--I do him the credit of believing it to have been so.

Unfortunately I was away from my home in Naples when the information

was sent, or I should have been here much earlier.”

“You are right when you suggest that this neighbourhood has suffered,”

said Mr. Price thoughtfully. “Everyone has left it, except those who

are tied to the land. A little village yonder called Queensmore lies

in ruins. Sheep-farming has been a failure. As for this valley of

Thorlund, it has remained indifferent to everything. The villagers

could talk of nothing but the Strath.”

Conway moved across to the wall and taking down the wooden copies of

the masks turned them thoughtfully between his hands.

“They are harmless,” said Biron with his cadaverous smile.

Conway made no reply. Removing one of the logs he placed the masks in

the hottest part of the fire and savagely watched the process of

immolation.

“Flora, we must go,” said the old squire, lifting himself stiffly.

“Take your last look at the inside of the Strath, for I doubt if you

will ever see it again.”

“Indeed you may not, Miss Neill,” said the owner. “The house is coming

down, and the wilderness outside shall be reclaimed.”

As the uncle and niece were about to take their departure Biron bent

his bony figure to whisper into the squire’s ear, “If this young lady

has been much under the influence of the masks I should advise you to

send her away for a change of scene.”

At that warning the old gentleman looked at his niece and noticed the

heaviness of her eyes. He dimly wondered what would have befallen her,

and himself, had the masks been permitted to live, but dismissed the

thought because it was not a pleasant one. He wished the men

good-night and turned to leave the house for ever.

But Flora as she shook hands with Conway could not refrain from

confessing in a low voice, “I think I have learnt something here.”

Biron, who was near, overheard and said, “I have always believed that

there was good as well as evil in the power--or shall I call it the

teaching?--of the masks. Unfortunately they could only impart that

teaching, or we could only receive it, in a manner that was full of

danger both to body and mind.”

“And we never knew anything about it,” said Mr. Price solemnly. “That

is the strangest thing of all.”

“We know nothing of the influence which controls us in the state

before birth or in the conditions after bodily death,” said Biron. “I

have discharged the duty of my life,” he went on. “The masks are

destroyed. Results must live after them, but I am content to know they

cannot claim any more victims. I rejoice with all my heart at your

escape.”

When Mr. Price and Flora had gone the three men continued to speak

upon the subject which was uppermost in their minds; and presently it

was Biron’s turn to listen while Conway spoke upon his uncle’s fate.

When he had concluded, having indeed very little to state, the

attenuated man took up the matter with interest.

“You tell me your uncle was found dead in this place, under conditions

which precluded the possibility of anyone having placed violent hands

upon him. You say also that the police, after making every effort to

discover a murderer, were forced to relinquish their search for lack

of material upon which to work. But surely the truth is obvious. Your

poor uncle came to Joseph Falk’s end. He destroyed himself.”

“No,” cried both the listeners together, and Conway added, “it was

shown at the inquest he had been strangled.”

“Not hanged?”

“He was discovered lying across the threshold of the hall-door.”

“Then here we have a mystery,” said Biron. “Some material influence

must have been brought into requisition that night. You must give me

time to think over it. And now with your permission, I will walk

through the house.”

“We will go with you. It will be as new to us as to you,” said the

owner grimly.

They made a tour of inspection throughout the Strath from cellars to

attics. Upstairs the walls were mildewed and gaping with cracks. Room

after room of the dead house they examined, scarcely venturing to

speak during that solemn survey; until they entered a bedroom which

contained an immense four-post bedstead hung about with a filthy

valance. Part of the wall had broken away, and the wind howled inward,

lashing the ivy against the loosening brickwork. Upon a table they saw

a floriated cross and near it a book in shagreen covers. Conway picked

up the book, and glanced through it idly, and pushed it into his

pocket. Biron drew back the draperies and looked into the bed which

was piled with clothes half-eaten by grubs. “My faith,” he muttered,

“There should be some remote influence haunting this house even now.”

“I will tell you what I know of its history, if you will come

downstairs,” said the owner. Then he turned to his friend and asked,

“Drayton, do you think we have been living here without anyone to look

after us? You may remember, but I cannot.”

“Wasn’t there a girl, or an old woman?” said the writer dubiously. “I

seem to remember a tall girl, with a very serious brown face and

quantity of black hair, and an old woman who was always grumbling.”

Upon going downstairs part of the mystery was solved; for they found

in the kitchen the rachitic dame, who had served them, fast asleep in

a crazy chair. Nancy Reed had gone, and at that time was running with

the wind back to her late home at Kingsmore, a wild girl again, and

her mind in borderland.

Venturing to re-enter the saloon the men found that the atmosphere had

cleared. The fire which had destroyed the last remains of the criminal

and the mountebank was burning low. More logs were piled upon the

rotten irons, and then Conway gave his visitor a true account of the

history of the Strath down to the end of the eighteenth century,

mentioning what he knew of Sir John Hooper’s villainous career and

punishment, and the story of his daughter’s misery. “This book, which

I picked up in the bedroom above, seems to be Winifred Hooper’s

journal,” he concluded.

The guest reached out his arm and having taken the tragic record

passed his eyes hurriedly across its pages. Presently he began to read

extracts aloud. Their interest increased. Biron lingered over a page,

and from that point read on continuously, wherever the writing was

legible. The two men drew closer and leaning forward listened

intently, while the candles guttered down to their sockets, and the

fire burnt to an angry red.

It was midnight, and the wild wind was at its height, rushing overhead

and howling down the passages. Still the three men sat motionless, and

Biron’s voice, enriched by its foreign accent, read on, lifting as it

neared the last pages because of the noises in the house. Occasionally

Conway started, or Drayton averted his eyes hurriedly from the black

window. For the first time the Strath appeared to them haunted indeed.

The shadowy visitor’s voice faltered once, then sounded strongly as it

read:

“And now I am alone with the God who called me upon this scene. My dog

is dead. He has been ailing for many days, and this evening, when I

went to care for him as my poor skill permitted, he lifted his head

and licked my hand, shivered and moaned and died. The body lies beside

me. No longer will he spring up and growl when a footfall sounds along

my passage. No longer will he stand before me to protect me from my

father, snarling and showing his white teeth when he beholds the whip

which is not for him. Dear faithful friend, good-night.

“It is strange that while we cannot by any means foretell the future

we may yet feel the approach of calamity. During this last week, when

listening in the silence of this room, I have felt the nearness of

disaster. Will the omen fail? It matters so little. I am able to bear

misfortune because accustomed to it, but any unexpected happiness

might stop my heart for ever. Were Geoffrey to stand before me now I

should neither laugh nor speak. Like my poor dog I could only kiss his

hand and die. I would embrace a phantom were it his. I am a

philosopher, and my crucible is filled with adversity out of which I

strive all night to win knowledge, not of the world, nor of its hidden

forces, nor of the stars which shine above, but an answer to my heart

which goes on asking, ‘What is love?’ Is it a morning cloud melted by

the sun, or a flower scattered by the breeze, or is it a rock which

defies the storm? Is it made of dreams, loose-clinging stuff, falling

from the body at a touch? Or is it an immortal essence, imbruing the

soul through time and space and change?

“None can answer me, and indeed I care not. I doubt whether

to-morrow’s sun will rise upon the hills. I fail when I try to trust

in life eternal. I resign my confidence in ministering spirits and my

hope in Heaven. I am not even assured of my own existence. I pass to

and fro, without sound, with so little substance, haunting this house

like some unhappy ghost. Have I indeed ceased to be material? Is there

anything that I may believe in? Yes, there is one thing. I believe in

the reality of fear.

“Geoffrey is but the memory of a long past time. I must speak to that

I see and feel and hear, to the indifferent and unresponsive objects

of this daily prison, to the drifting clouds and the whirling wind.

There is life in the wind and strength. It passes on, the same, yet

not the same, changing its cry, now howling, now falling to a sob, now

rushing like a madman, now crawling snake-like. And I can hear the

trees roaring like the sea. So I address the wind, and the trees, and

my poor friend’s body, and all else that I can see and hear, because

faith can do no more.

“It must be hard on midnight. I dare not think what may be taking

place outside. The house is filled with shadows. It is like a cave

beaten by the waves. Walking in the garden to-day I heard voices

beyond the wall, and three strange men rode beside the gates, cloaked

and long-booted, and one had a deep scar along his cheek, and all were

armed. One muttered, as he nodded to this garden, ‘We may trap the old

fox to-night.’ They passed on, along the high road in the direction of

Kingsmore, and I knew it was I who had brought them. The villagers

will not warn my father, because they hate him. His fate rests with

me, his only child, and he is condemned for Geoffrey’s sake.

“I have been to the head of the stairs because I thought I heard a

disturbance. Old Deborah is walking about the hall, beating her hands

together. Deborah loves my father, because she nursed him as a boy.

She saw me, and frowned, and began to snuff the candles that she might

persuade me she was not anxious. She muttered, ‘’Tis a mighty wind,

and bad luck to him who’s caught in it.’ Then she went to the door and

I heard her say, ‘That’s the coach. And that’s the noise of--get you

to your room,’ she cried, starting back and shaking her hand at me.

‘Get you away.’ So I came back, and am now straining my ears at every

sound.

“Now I could hear were I stone deaf. The end has come. The terrible

night! First the noise of furious galloping. There was the clang of

the iron gate, the galloping again, and voices shouting; and after

that a lantern flashed its light upon the side of the house. One horse

crossed this light, my father’s mare flecked with foam, then another

and that was Reed’s big grey, and then a third. What have they done?

There has been murder upon the highway. The third horse carried a body

slung across the saddle. They passed, were gone, and then a voice I

know too well shouted, ‘Rub the mare dry, unsaddle her, and turn her

into the field. Here, fool, you have dropped your mask. Burn it, and

throw these pistols into the moat, and clean that sword. Then come

into the house, for you and I must have a word together.’

“I can hear the beating of my heart. The awful night! Why did I not

escape. Better the cold plantation than my father’s fury. All is

silent now, apart from the wind--but there! It is the door. A wild

voice shouts, ‘Deborah, bring brandy-wine and plenty of hot water.’

God grant he may forget me.

“Again I have listened in the passage. The hall-door was pushed open

and the man Reed entered--I knew him by his oaths. He was breathing

thickly and struggling with some burden, which he let down upon the

floor, or dropped it rather, for I heard it roll and settle with

dreadful heaviness.”

As Biron spoke that last word, there came from above the sound of a

body, falling heavily, so as to shake the house. Without lifting his

eyes, or moving in his seat, he read calmly on:

“Then a brawling began between the man and the master. Their words I

could not often catch, but I heard my father’s voice, shaking with

fear and rage. ‘Burn it,’ he shouted. ‘Or, if there be not time, hide

it away in the girl’s bedroom.’ What Reed replied I could not hear,

but I imagine he told my father there could be no cause for hurry, as

he is a dense besotted creature, with a mind set upon strong liquors,

a man too incapable of feeling to know fear. Their voices became

hoarse mutterings, and now I hear the clinking of glasses and the

rattling of flasks. I can write almost unmoved, and yet that horrible

feeling of calamity impending remains, and when I look upon my bed I

seem to see a cold sheet, and a shape, and a solemn candle burning at

the head. Is that the shape of the poor wretch they have murdered

to-night? No, it is too thin and small, and I think I discover a lock

of fair hair upon the pillow. Well, there is but one more page

remaining to this book.

“Again I hear the note of disagreement. They have always been violent

in their cups. The voices are raised higher. There is none here they

need fear. Still no sound from without. They have been favoured by the

wind and the darkness of the night, and thus have again escaped. But

there--a blow. Surely a blow, and now, ‘Traitor! Spy! Informer!’ There

is death in that voice. The clash of swords! Oh God! they are fighting

like beasts. Let me not be the cause of any man’s death, be he

highwayman or murderer. Now I understand the reason of that fight

which must end in death. My father knows that his guilt has been

discovered. His return was a flight. Those cloaked long-booted men are

perhaps even now upon his track, and he believes that his companion

has betrayed him, and, half-drunk, half-mad, cannot listen to denial.

And I am the informer. And I dare not go down, dare not face him as he

is, dare not tell him that his accomplice is innocent, dare not tell

him it was I. Oh, the clamour, the ringing, the clashing of those

swords! The shrieks of the wind, and that awful breathing! Silence,

but the whole house seems to be shuddering. There is a hollow sound in

the hall, rising and swelling along the passage, louder every moment,

and now, ‘Open, in the King’s name.’

“Torches are flaring in the garden. The house is surrounded. That

beating upon the door continues, or is it the beating of my heart? But

the same stern voice demands admission, and my wretched father shouts

in terror, as he feels the shadow of the gallows creeping across his

head, and blunders about the saloon, and now into the hall, past the

rebounding door, and now he is upon the stairs, and I can hear a

dragging and a heaving and two dead heels rattling from step to step.

Oh, merciful God! He is coming here to hide the body, and I cannot

bear it, I cannot look upon it. They are breaking down the door,

battering it in with a heavy log, and won it gives with a noise of

thunder, and the avengers rush in shouting at their loudest,

‘Surrender, in the King’s name!’”

The three men started fearfully, but not a sound escaped their lips,

when there rose above the wind a terrific noise in the neighbourhood

of the hall-door, a crashing thunderous riot, as though that door had

indeed been crushed inwards and the human hounds were hunting in the

house. The reader’s thin face quivered, as his tongue concluded the

last wild words upon the final page:

“Let them seize him upon the stairs. He has reached the corridor,

gasping in his terror. He is dragging no longer, but carrying. He

enters this passage, shouting my name. They hear him. The house rocks

as they rush up the stairs. ‘I have brought him. Take him. Hide him

away.’ What does he mean? Will he reach the roof and fling himself

down? He is here, panting outside my door. Again he is dragging the

dreadful thing, and now I must look upon that, and upon him. He flings

himself against the door…”

As the record ended with that blotted word, a fearful crash shook the

ground, the house tottered, and suddenly the saloon wall opened

peacefully, and men caught glimpses of a wild watery moon between two

lack shuddering fringes of ivy.

“Run!” shouted Biron, dropping his hands and the time-worn book. “The

house is falling upon us.”

EXODE

He had no brains for the Royal Diadem to cover; and if Zeus should

give him his Lightning and Thunder, he would be no more Zeus for

that.--_Plutarch_.

The vacarme had ceased and the Strath was abandoned to its decay. The

influence had done its work upon the minds of those brought beneath

its sway. Punishment, sharp and summary, had been meted out upon Henry

Reed with the cruelty for which Nature is notorious. A like punishment

was to fall upon Dr. Berry. Both were weak men, although in other

respects eminently dissimilar; the one a dull material creature, the

other a sensitive spiritual being. The former attempted to arrest the

working of the influence, while the latter essayed the equally

impossible task of establishing himself as an active principle of that

power. The active and hostile scepticism of the one was no whit more

dangerous than the complete resignation of the other.

Mr. Price, a man of very simple nature who clung to his belief, never

adding to it nor subtracting from it, emerged from the ordeal

unchanged. Juxon found himself equipped with a knowledge which had

come unsought. He was further rewarded by the affection and constancy

of his wife. Even when wealth came to him, and he was pointed out with

some awe as a man endowed with uncanny gifts, little Maude kept her

head and her resolutions. The Strath had been kind to her, because her

faults had sprung from weakness and vanity, not, as in Flora’s case,

from a malignant growth. The latter was punished by being compelled to

know herself; and that punishment endured.

Conway had been shown that idleness and debauchery are serious

infringements of the laws of nature. He carried away with him from the

ruined Strath a bitter hatred of his former life. As for Drayton, when

his inheritance came, late in life, he knew he had not himself to

thank. He had always done his best, but the parrot-like nature of his

former labours had stunted his mind, and poverty had sapped his

physical powers. He acknowledged to himself, when his fame as a

dramatic writer became fully established, that those ideas which

enriched his brain had been born in him during the weeks of dream and

languor spent in the garden of the Strath.

After those days of the change Conway found for Lone Nance a congenial

home and a kindly guardianship. In that condition her wild beauty

increased and her face softened, although her mind never recovered the

even balance to which it had attained during her stay in the Strath.

It was Maude’s last day in the country, and she walked--donkeys, cart,

and silver bells having been consigned to the auctioneer--to

Kingsmore, that she might say good-bye to Mr. Price, also to Flora and

her mother who were about to leave. The little lady had sobered down

her exuberance of colour; she wore a grey skirt with coat to match,

and a black hat, where a trace of the old Eve survived in the shape of

a small pink bow nestling as though ashamed beneath the brim. Her

husband had gone away, full of confidence, by reason of the new

strength which had been vouchsafed to him at the Strath; and Maude was

about to follow, having a wild desire to live in two rooms, and cook

her husband’s dinner with her own ignorant hands, and be nurse to

Peggy, and lady of work generally. “For I am going to be a wife now,

Herbert,” she had declared. “And not a caricature. I am very stupid

and shall have to learn everything. If you will just be as good to me

as you have always been, I don’t mind getting old and I won’t be

afraid to lose my looks.” Such was Maude’s new and liberal doctrine.

The squire came riding in from the farm as the little lady entered the

drive and seeing her lowered himself stiffly from his horse. She

noticed for the first time that he was looking old and fragile; his

legs, crooked by years of riding, were weak and unsteady, his

shoulders were bending, his cheeks were growing hollow, and the fringe

of hair above the nape of his neck was as white as wool. She ran

forward and offered him her arm with a pretty smile.

“Why, young lady!” he cried in his hearty manner. “I did not recognise

you at first. So you have come to say good-bye. Well, I am sorry to

hear that, because at my age it is a serious matter to say farewell.

Do you mean to say you have walked all the way? Come into the house

and rest yourself. Flora is not well, I’m afraid. She will be glad to

see you, and you may cheer her up. There is something on her mind, but

she won’t tell me what it is. I hope and pray she is not going into

religious mania, like my poor eldest sister who went and made a

useless nun of herself. In my young days girls were not allowed to

have opinions. They were given their religion, just as they were given

their husbands, and very much happier and more useful they were.”

“Flora wants a change,” said Maude. “Autumn is so depressing.”

“You don’t look particularly downcast,” said the old gentleman. “The

autumn seems to agree with you.”

“That is because I have made a heap of resolutions, and I am going to

stick to them,” said the little lady. “I have done nothing all my

life, except dress and laugh, and now it’s time to work.”

The squire was about to chaff her, but one glance at her face

convinced him that she meant what she had said.

“There is nothing like work,” he said, with more feeling than was

usual with him. “There is no happiness in life without work. The

preacher, who advised his fellow-creatures to follow the example of

the ant, knew what he was talking about, even if he hadn’t the sense

to put his teaching into practice. I lose money every year over my

farm, but it gives me plenty of healthy work, and it affords a living

to the people of my village. I hope to go on working to the day of my

death and to pass from the saddle to the grave. That is how my

grandfather went. He came in from the hunt at six o’clock, and was

dead by dinner-time.”

“Don’t,” said Maude gently.

“Ah, you think we are here for ever,” said the squire. “We all think

so when we are young. But when past seventy we feel the ravages of

time and lose our roast-beef stomachs, as somebody once said. Fill in

your years unselfishly, child. Fill them in with work and laughter,

help those who are in trouble, and do your duty elsewhere, and you

will be happy when you’re old.”

The old man tramped away, gave his horse to a boy, then went round the

yard, ferreting out eggs from the hen-houses, poking his riding-crop

into the sides of fattening porkers, an replacing the hay which

wasteful cows had tugged from their rack and were trampling underfoot.

As he stood in the raw autumn afternoon, with his dogs jumping round

him, and the pigeons fluttering down for a portion of the grain he

always carried in his pockets, he looked what he was, the last of the

plain old squires.

Flora was alone in the drawing-room, lying on a sofa, reading a book,

which she tried to smuggle away when her friend was announced; but

Maude jumped upon the volume and secured it. She merely opened her

eyes a trifle wider when she read the title, “Plato’s education of the

young,” and dropped the book without a word.

“I thought you would come, Maude,” said Flora in a heavy voice. “I am

going to Italy with mother next week. I may very likely never see you

again.”

“My girl!” cried Maude. “What do you mean? Why, of course we shall

meet again. Do you know I am going to learn housekeeping--yes, it is

rather late in the day--and when I am proficient you shall come and

stay with me, and I will give you lessons. Herbert is fearfully hard

up just now, but he is going to make heaps of money presently.”

“I may stop in Italy,” said Flora, in the same dull voice.

“Then I shall come and worry you,” said Maude with decision. “But, my

dear, you won’t. You will come back in the spring, and marry a nice

husband, and be a nice wife. And then you will be as happy as I am.”

“Are you happy?” said Flora. “Really happy?”

“Happy enough to whistle on a foggy day,” said the grey lady.

“You have changed, Maude.”

“I have found out Herbert’s good points, and some of my bad ones,”

said Maude. “And you have changed since that day when we sat in the

punt on the river, and you tried to persuade me you were horrid and

unnatural. You have changed all that, haven’t you, girl?”

Flora flushed a little, and by way of reply introduced a fresh topic.

“I have received a letter since I last saw you,” she said hurriedly.

“It is from--well, I need only say that I led him on, he proposed, and

I refused. He must be fond of me if he wants me still.”

“You will say yes?” said Maude softly.

“I have said no.”

“You shall, you must, change your mind. Write the letter now. Or let

me send a telegram as I go back through the village. You would be

happy if you were married. And if you had a little girl like my Peggy,

you would be so proud of yourself you would turn up your nose if you

met all the queens in the world at a street-corner.”

Flora had never been demonstrative, therefore when she suddenly flung

her arm round Maude’s neck the little lady was considerably

astonished; but this was nothing compared to her consternation when

she heard the communication which the fair-haired girl proceeded to

whisper into her ear.

“Flora!” she exclaimed. “It is not true. You have always been

imaginative. That is your idea because you are not well. When you get

away from here you will soon change all that.”

“Don’t you know that the neglected faculty dies for want of use?” came

the answer. “I cannot love now. The power is not in me. And without

love I will not marry. I am as cold as any stone and my heart will not

respond. When I read that letter not a pulse in me stirred. I have

repelled the blind boy too long, and now he has left me for ever.”

“He will come back,” said Maude earnestly. “He will come back in the

spring and shoot a sharp arrow right through your poor little heart,

and then you will forget all that has passed, and be a good wife--a

much better one than I have ever been.”

“I called myself an asymptote and tried to live up to the part,” went

on the girl. “Now I am the curve, and Cupid plays the asymptote. And

yet it really matters very little,” she added firmly. “Love and

marriage are, after all, only incidents in life. There is so much

besides.”

“Oh, my dear! Take away love, and life is a tragedy. But I don’t know

how to preach,” said the little lady with a laugh. “I will just hand

you over to the mercies of time. Only promise that you will come and

stay with me when you return.”

“If I return I will,” replied Flora; and with that delphic utterance

Maude had to be content.

She never saw her friend again. The following year Flora offered her

services to a missionary society, was accepted, and sent to Ceylon to

work among the natives. There she became a Buddhist, accepting the

religion she had gone out to fight against, an action which was

typical of her. Maude gasped with horror when she heard, through Mr.

Price, the news, for Buddhism and cannibalism were with her synonymous

terms. She wrote several frantic letters to Flora, entreating her to

leave the savage state and return to civilization. No answer came.

Mrs. Neill lapsed ungrammatically to the grave; Mr. Price, with tears

in his simple eyes, altered his will; and Flora, the original and

strong-minded, was never heard of again.

Two characters remained upon the scene, the former leader of the

dramatic mysteries, and he who had entered last. Biron would not leave

until the whole of his duty had been accomplished. He conceived it

incumbent upon himself to unravel the mystery of Reed’s end, that he

might atone as completely as possible for the trouble brought upon the

place by his great-grandfather’s actions. The day after Conway’s

departure he drove to Thorlund and entered the dripping garden. There,

hard by the sundial, he encountered the rector, closely muffled, and

walking slowly with the aid of a stick. They greeted one another and

fell into a conversation, which Biron quickly turned towards the

subject he had at heart.

“This is a mournful sight,” he said, indicating what had been the

house.

“And this a hateful wilderness,” replied the scholar weakly, waving

his stick across the garden. “Once, I believe, I loved it.”

There was little remaining to inspire affection. The Strath had

fallen. All that was left of the standing ruins were two blank walls,

one gable, and a mass of ivy. Beyond were heaps of bricks, torn

draperies smeared with mud, and shattered furniture. The unsupported

walls appeared to sway gently, waiting for the blast which should

level them with the ground; and the saloon window, still bearing the

unbroken escutcheon of the Hooper family, stared vacantly across the

unromantic tangle of garden. Illusion had left that haunted ground for

ever.

“I can tell you nothing,” said the scholar, in answer to his

companion’s question concerning Reed’s death. “Perhaps there are

circumstances which later on I may recall, but at this present time my

mind refuses to work. I have been very ill. There is a pain in my head

as though my brain was wounded. It is strange to know that I was once

so happy here. Now the whole place repels me.”

“It is certain that Reed came to a violent end,” urged Biron. “It is

equally certain that no one was suspected of the crime of murder. I

imagined that you, being in this garden so often, might have formed

some theory.”

“He afforded an instance of a man whose folly brought its own

punishment,” answered the rector. “I warned him that it would so

happen, but he laughed at me. I do not believe that any man had a hand

in his death. His life was removed by supernatural powers.”

“Those powers of which you speak can only work their will through

human agency,” said Biron. “The masks might have supplied the

influence, but the act could only have been consummated by material

hands.”

“Come back with me,” said the scholar restlessly. “This damp wind cuts

through my head.”

The fire was burning low when they entered the study where the scholar

had dreamed his life away. So soon as Biron had seated himself his

host emptied two drawers of a quantity of manuscript, and this mass he

piled upon the glowing cinders, laughing foolishly when the flames

blazed up. “Draw your chair near,” he cried to his guest. “That log of

dry wood will soon warm the room.”

“Log of wood!” Biron muttered, with a quick glance at the scholar’s

white face. “Do you call that paper wood?”

“Paper or wood, the chemical constituents of the two are alike,” came

the answer. “Fire reduces each to carbon. I have finished my work,” he

went on, with a touch of the old dreaminess. “I have nothing more to

do. It is a false heat we find in poetry after all.”

“You have burnt your work?” suggested the other, his eyes fixed upon

the stooping figure.

“It is wood that is burning there,” said the poet irritably. “Dry,

rotten wood. Let me show you my books. I have some rare books here.”

The short autumnal day drew on, but the visitor did not rise to go.

His host was talking wildly, yet never mentioning the Strath, nor its

owners, nor his own griefs. Psychology was the subject he dilated

upon. So great was his tongue’s activity that Biron was given no

opportunity for replying to the distorted theories which tumbled one

upon the other from the scholar’s mind. He conjured up all manner of

phantasies, delighting himself with them as the child happy with new

toys, diving far into abstruse beliefs, passing from one problem to

another, his mind never seeking after cause, never pausing to grope

for a solution, but glancing off lightly and speeding into fresh

whirlpools of theory. The accumulated learning of a life burst from

his brain, deluging the ears of his listener, who sat amid a library

of books which had been piled around him.

At length Biron was given a chance of speaking. Seizing the

opportunity he opened his lips hastily to put the question, “What are

your theories regarding involuntary action and the secondary

personality?”

Straightway the scholar was started upon fresh roads leading into

stranger realms; but as he talked unceasingly the words “bodily

insensibility” detached themselves from the general outpour and struck

Biron’s ears with a sinister sound. Also the word “sleep” became

bracketed constantly with the phrase “unconscious action,” and the

word “premeditated,” came with an ominous ring in conjunction with

such expressions as “natural fear” and “subliminal self.”

As darkness crept into the room and the firelight grew more pronounced

Dr. Berry’s eloquence failed and he sank back exhausted in his chair.

Then Biron began to talk, but his mood was neither argumentative nor

controversial; he spoke gently and soothingly, avoiding the subject of

the Strath, merely describing certain of the places he had visited in

the course of a life mainly devoted to travel, Venice, the Campagna,

the secret ways of mediæval cities, the ancient castles of the Rhine;

and when he saw that his purpose was likely to be fulfilled his

musical voice went on to picture Athens, the calm Aegean, and the

tombs of Grecian heroes. His voice sank into a whisper when he

understood that the poet had succumbed.

Fifteen minutes passed--thirty, but the sleeper made no sign. Biron

watched the white face with its sealed eyes until a mist formed before

his own. Outside, darkness had settled. Within a long flame darted

from the midst of the burnt paper flashing across that set face and

brightening the silvered hair. Forty-five minutes, and no movement,

although the bony watcher still exercised the hypnotic power. When the

hour was proclaimed by a little marble clock some sense of shame

entered Biron’s mind. The knowledge that he was grievously abusing the

laws of hospitality forced itself upon him. Half rising he called

gently, “Doctor Berry,” then sank back with a thrill. The poet was

standing upright before him, his hands swaying loosely at his sides,

his eyes wide open.

“Show me what took place upon that night when Reed died,” said the

hypnotist firmly.

Dr. Berry moved to the writing table, and his fingers rustled among

some papers. Then he turned to the window, put out his arms, and at

once evinced what might have been surprise or annoyance when he found

it closed. Biron approached the casements and flung them open. They

passed out, one after the other, the scholar taking the well-trodden

path through the churchyard which led to the Strath, walking quickly

and without hesitation, while Biron groped and blundered behind.

The ragged wall streaming with ivy lifted before them. They reached

the muddy moat, choked with dead leaves and rotting branches, but as

they neared the edge Biron saw that the bridge had disappeared. The

sleeper was walking on. The hypnotist sprang forward and seized him;

there was a slight struggle, and Dr. Berry awoke.

He did not show any surprise at finding himself in that place. He had

in the past awakened beside the sun-dial, or in the orchard, without

any remembrance of having left his study; but he was clearly dismayed

to see the ruins looming out of the gloom, and he was irritated at

discovering Biron close to him, pointing to the handkerchief which he

had twisted like a rope. He laughed unpleasantly when Biron addressed

him, and turned away still laughing; but the traveller stood before

him whichever way he would have gone.

“What would you do with that handkerchief?” he demanded. “Why have you

twisted it?”

“To beat back those who follow me,” the scholar shouted, with a sudden

burst of anger, stepping out and flicking Biron across the face. “Why

are you with me now?” Then he laughed again, and said quietly, “Go

your own way, my friend, and I will go mine. The Strath has fallen. I

had resolved never to come here again.”

Biron seized the speaker’s wrists in his bony fingers. “You have much

to forgive my family,” he muttered. “Had my great-grandfather not

lived those masks would never have been here. Had you only been strong

enough to abstain from this garden your mind would not have suffered.

Had Reed not incurred your ill-will he might have been alive to-day.”

“Folly,” cried Dr. Berry angrily. “That Reed was a monster, who wanted

to turn this place into a farm and keep pigs and poultry. But the

Strath was well able to take care of itself.”

Biron gulped down the answer which was ready on his tongue. “I entreat

you,” he said loudly, “I implore you to leave Thorlund, and that

quickly, and try to forget all that has taken place here.”

Dr. Berry’s laughter ceased. Taking a match from his pocket he struck

it, and held it above his head without moving, until the flame burnt

his fingers. Then he dropped the glowing fragments, and said in a

choking voice, “Go away! You have frightened me.”

Biron made one step back, then hesitated. Again he advanced and

muttered, “After all there may be nothing to forget. You have been all

these years under the influence of the masks. You are not guilty. It

was the eighteenth century monster Cagliari who controlled your body

and made use of your hands. He alone is guilty, and no man can call

him to account.”

“Go!” shouted the scholar. “You white-faced shivering creature, you

bone-faced ghost!”

He stumbled forward with threatening motions, and Biron backed away,

his feet ploughing through the leaves. That moment the dark clouds

parted and a glimpse of moonlight passed, revealing the wild features

of the one man and the bony face of the other. Suddenly Biron started

round and ran towards the road, alive to the knowledge that alone he

would be unable to restrain the scholar, who began then to comprehend

how that garden and fallen house had used his mind and brain.

Many minutes passed before the rector presented himself at the iron

gates, and passed from that scene for ever. The moon had vanished; the

muddy road wound away like a black river; there was not any creature

in sight, nor within hearing of his mumbled complaint; and upon the

hills all was silent. He walked out. From the gates, beside the

lichened wall, and so round to his home, was a distance of three

hundred yards, past some ruined barns, a deserted farmyard, a standing

pool, and the worn patchwork of turf and mud known as the green; and

so to the churchyard and the mossy little Bethel which was his

official, but had never been his spiritual, charge.

He paced along the centre of this road, his fingers knotted together.

And as he went there flickered across his vision a fantastic object,

something which resembled a small white tassel, shaken violently at

the corner of his eye. When he turned it was gone, but only that it

might appear upon the other side. And opposite the pool his foot trod

upon and snapped a rotten stick, which cried out to him as though in

pain. And when near the churchyard a phantasm started from the wall of

the Strath, and walked beside him. At the lich-gate this apparition

vanished, and the ghostly tassel quivered wildly between his eyes.

Later the old housekeeper of the rectory heard strange noises in the

house and a voice which she could not recognise. Lifting the lamp, she

left the kitchen. The study was unoccupied. The sounds proceeded from

the dining-room. And there she discovered her master. He had placed a

chair upon the table, and was seated upon it, with a paper crown on

his head and a ruler in his hand. And as she stood and trembled before

him he bade her have no fear, because he was Zeus, king of gods and of

men, sitting in judgment upon the world.

“Open that door which leads down to the world and you shall hear the

din of cries ascending to me,” he cried. “All are asking for riches,

honour, or long life. Not a single voice supplicates me for wisdom or

for charity. Do you not wonder how I restrain my anger and allow my

thunderbolts to lie idle?”

In the grey of the morning, when the wet hills were wrapped in mist

and the valley was full of gossamers, a closed carriage entered

Thorlund, Biron accompanying it, and presently rolled away, removing

Dr. Berry from his charge. The scholar was seated between two grave

black-coated men, who held their hands upon his wrists and only spoke

to humour him. The poet’s mind, which had always sought to soar above

the world, had left it altogether. He was equal with the gods. He was

destiny, able to use men and women according to his will. He had been

lifted to the stars. “I will teach you,” he murmured from time to

time, as the carriage wheels jolted through the mud. “I will lead you

into the ways of happiness. I will be merciful, for I know how weak

you are. I was once a man myself.”

Exeunt Omnes

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES

Minor spelling inconsistencies (e.g. countryfolk/country-folk,

herb-garden/herb garden, etc.) have been preserved.

Alterations to the text:

Add ToC.

Punctuation: quotation mark pairings/nestings, missing periods and

commas, sentences that ended in commas, etc.

[Interlude]

Change “intended originally to be in _comunication_ with bells” to

_communication_.

[Act II./Scene I.]

“because he resented any allusion to his _pecularities_” to

_peculiarities_.

[Act II./Scene II.]

“shall open at the one hundred and _nintieth_ page” to _ninetieth_.

[Act II./Scene III.]

“The prosaic figure of a coachman appeared _starlingly_” to

_startlingly_.

[Act III./Scene II.]

“for the delectation of a fat _kittten_” to _kitten_.

[Act III. /Scene III.]

“voice still sounding in _hid_ ears. When he came near the

grass-_filles_ road” to _his_ and _filled_, respectively.

[Act III./Scene IV.]

“and saying atrocious things about your _nieghbours_” to

_neighbours_.

[Act III./Scene V.]

“while wiseacres nodded heads of clay _an_ recalled predictions” to

_and_.

[Act III. /Scene VI.]

“I have _ask_ him to come and visit us” to _asked_.

[Act III./Scene VII.]

“delighted in consuming _her-baceous_ plants” to _herbaceous_.

“One great poet _fo_ the past heard a gentle fluttering” to _of_.

“Dear sister, put your hands for one moment upon _mnie_” to _mine_.

[Act IV./Scene I.]

“He dropped _he_ pen and rose, opening and closing” to _the_.

[Act IV./Scene II.]

“The ground _alloted_ to me was small, but beyond” to _allotted_.

[Act V./Scene II.]

“as far as his simple nature allowed to the _dominan_ influence” to

_dominant_.

[Exode]

“The masks might have supplied the _influeuce_, but the act could” to

_influence_.

[End of text]