cottage. The prisoner within was still pouring forth a stream of words,
and moaning from time to time like a man in pain. These words resolved
themselves, as I approached, into prayers--shrill, voluble prayers,
pattered forth with the intense earnestness of one who sees impending
and imminent danger. There was to me something inexpressibly awesome in
this gush of solemn entreaty from the lonely sufferer, meant for no
human ear, and jarring upon the silence of the night. I was still
pondering whether I should mix myself in the affair or not, when I heard
in the distance the sound of the surgeon's returning footfall. At that I
drew myself up quickly by the iron bars and glanced in through the
diamond-paned window. The interior of the cottage was lighted up by a
lurid glow, coming from what I afterward discovered to be a chemical
furnace. By its rich light I could distinguish a great litter of
retorts, test tubes and condensers, which sparkled over the table, and
threw strange, grotesque shadows on the wall. On the further side of the
room was a wooden framework resembling a hencoop, and in this, still
absorbed in prayer, knelt the man whose voice I heard. The red glow
beating upon his upturned face made it stand out from the shadow like a
painting from Rembrandt, showing up every wrinkle upon the
parchment-like skin. I had but time for a fleeting glance; then,
dropping from the window, I made off through the rocks and the heather,
nor slackened my pace until I found myself back in my cabin once more.
There I threw myself upon my couch, more disturbed and shaken than I had
ever thought to feel again.
Such doubts as I might have had as to whether I had indeed seen my
former fellow-lodger upon the night of the thunderstorm were resolved
the next morning. Strolling along down the path which led to the fell, I
saw in one spot where the ground was soft the impressions of a foot--the
small, dainty foot of a well-booted woman. That tiny heel and high
in-step could have belonged to none other than my companion of
Kirkby-Malhouse. I followed her trail for some distance, till it still
pointed, so far as I could discern it, to the lonely and ill-omened
cottage. What power could there be to draw this tender girl, through
wind and rain and darkness, across the fearsome moors to that strange
rendezvous?
I have said that a little beck flowed down the valley and past my very
door. A week or so after the doings which I have described, I was seated
by my window when I perceived something white drifting slowly down the
stream. My first thought was that it was a drowning sheep; but picking
up my stick, I strolled to the bank and hooked it ashore. On examination
it prove to be a large sheet, torn and tattered, with the initials J. C.
in the corner. What gave it its sinister significance, however, was that
from hem to hem it was all dabbled and discoloured.
Shutting the door of my cabin, I set off up the glen in the direction of
the surgeon's cabin. I had not gone far before I perceived the very man
himself. He was walking rapidly along the hillside, beating the furze
bushes with a cudgel and bellowing like a madman. Indeed, at the sight
of him, the doubts as to his sanity which had risen in my mind were
strengthened and confirmed.
As he approached I noticed that his left arm was suspended in a sling.
On perceiving me he stood irresolute, as though uncertain whether to
come over to me or not. I had no desire for an interview with him,
however, so I hurried past him, on which he continued on his way, still
shouting and striking about with his club. When he had disappeared over
the fells, I made my way down to his cottage, determined to find some
clue to what occurred. I was surprised, on reaching it, to find the
iron-plated door flung wide open. The ground immediately outside it was
marked with the signs of a struggle. The chemical apparatus within and
the furniture were all dashed about and shattered. Most suggestive of
all, the sinister wooden cage was stained with blood-marks, and its
unfortunate occupant had disappeared. My heart was heavy for the little
man, for I was assured I should never see him in this world more.
There was nothing in the cabin to throw any light upon the identity of
my neighbours. The room was stuffed with chemical instruments. In one
corner a small bookcase contained a choice selection of works of
science. In another was a pile of geological specimens collected from
the limestone.
I caught no glimpse of the surgeon upon my homeward journey; but when I
reached my cottage I was astonished and indignant to find that somebody
had entered it in my absence. Boxes had been pulled out from under the
bed, the curtains disarranged, the chairs drawn out from the wall. Even
my study had not been safe from this rough intruder, for the prints of a
heavy boot were plainly visible on the ebony-black carpet.
IV: OF THE MAN WHO CAME IN THE NIGHT
The night set in gusty and tempestuous, and the moon was all girt with
ragged clouds. The wind blew in melancholy gusts, sobbing and sighing
over the moor, and setting all the gorse bushes agroaning. From time to
time a little sputter of rain pattered up against the window-pane. I sat
until near midnight, glancing over the fragment on immortality by
Iamblichus, the Alexandrian platonist, of whom the Emperor Julian said
that he was posterior to Plato in time but not in genius. At last,
shutting up my book, I opened my door and took a last look at the dreary
fell and still more dreary sky. As I protruded my head, a swoop of wind
caught me and sent the red ashes of my pipe sparkling and dancing
through the darkness. At the same moment the moon shone brilliantly out
from between two clouds and I saw, sitting on the hillside, not two
hundred yards from my door, the man who called himself the surgeon of
Gaster Fell. He was squatted among the heather, his elbows upon his
knees, and his chin resting upon his hands, as motionless as a stone,
with his gaze fixed steadily upon the door of my dwelling.
At the sight of this ill-omened sentinel, a chill of horror and of fear
shot through me, for his gloomy and mysterious associations had cast a
glamour round the man, and the hour and place were in keeping with his
sinister presence. In a moment, however, a manly glow of resentment and
self-confidence drove this petty emotion from my mind, and I strode
fearlessly in his direction. He rose as I approached and faced me, with
the moon shining on his grave, bearded face and glittering on his
eyeballs. "What is the meaning of this?" I cried, as I came upon him.
"What right have you to play the spy on me?"
I could see the flush of anger rise on his face. "Your stay in the
country has made you forget your manners," he said. "The moor is free to
all."
"You will say next that my house is free to all," I said, hotly. "You
have had the impertinence to ransack it in my absence this afternoon."
He started, and his features showed the most intense excitement. "I
swear to you that I had no hand in it!" he cried. "I have never set foot
in your house in my life. Oh, sir, sir, if you will but believe me,
there is a danger hanging over you, and you would do well to be
careful."
"I have had enough of you," I said. "I saw that cowardly blow you struck
when you thought no human eye rested upon you. I have been to your
cottage, too, and know all that it has to tell. If there is a law in
England, you shall hang for what you have done. As to me, I am an old
soldier, sir, and I am armed. I shall not fasten my door. But if you or
any other villain attempt to cross my threshold it shall be at your own
risk." With these words, I swung round upon my heel and strode into my
cabin.
For two days the wind freshened and increased, with constant squalls of
rain until on the third night the most furious storm was raging which I
can ever recollect in England. I felt that it was positively useless to
go to bed, nor could I concentrate my mind sufficiently to read a book.
I turned my lamp half down to moderate the glare, and leaning back in my
chair, I gave myself up to reverie. I must have lost all perception of
time, for I have no recollection how long I sat there on the borderland
betwixt thought and slumber. At last, about 3 or possibly 4 o'clock, I
came to myself with a start--not only came to myself, but with every
sense and nerve upon the strain. Looking round my chamber in the dim
light, I could not see anything to justify my sudden trepidation. The
homely room, the rain-blurred window and the rude wooden door were all
as they had been. I had begun to persuade myself that some half-formed
dream had sent that vague thrill through my nerves, when in a moment I
became conscious of what it was. It was a sound--the sound of a human
step outside my solitary cottage.
Amid the thunder and the rain and the wind I could hear it--a dull,
stealthy footfall, now on the grass, now on the stones--occasionally
stopping entirely, then resumed, and ever drawing nearer. I sat
breathlessly, listening to the eerie sound. It had stopped now at my
very door, and was replaced by a panting and gasping, as of one who has
travelled fast and far.
By the flickering light of the expiring lamp I could see that the latch
of my door was twitching, as though a gentle pressure was exerted on it
from without. Slowly, slowly, it rose, until it was free of the catch,
and then there was a pause of a quarter minute or more, while I still
sat silent with dilated eyes and drawn sabre. Then, very slowly, the
door began to revolve upon its hinges, and the keen air of the night
came whistling through the slit. Very cautiously it was pushed open, so
that never a sound came from the rusty hinges. As the aperture enlarged,
I became aware of a dark, shadowy figure upon my threshold, and of a
pale face that looked in at me. The features were human, but the eyes
were not. They seemed to burn through the darkness with a greenish
brilliancy of their own; and in their baleful, shifty glare I was
conscious of the very spirit of murder. Springing from my chair, I had
raised my naked sword, when, with a wild shouting, a second figure
dashed up to my door. At its approach my shadowy visitant uttered a
shrill cry, and fled away across the fells, yelping like a beaten hound.
Tingling with my recent fear, I stood at my door, peering through the
night with the discordant cry of the fugitives still ringing in my ears.
At that moment a vivid flash of lightning illuminated the whole
landscape and made it as clear as day. By its light I saw far away upon
the hillside two dark figures pursuing each other with extreme rapidity
across the fells. Even at that distance the contrast between them forbid
all doubt as to their identity. The first was the small, elderly man,
whom I had supposed to be dead; the second was my neighbour, the
surgeon. For an instant they stood out clear and hard in the unearthly
light; in the next, the darkness had closed over them, and they were
gone. As I turned to re-enter my chamber, my foot rattled against
something on my threshold. Stooping, I found it was a straight knife,
fashioned entirely of lead, and so soft and brittle that it was a
strange choice for a weapon. To render it more harmless, the top had
been cut square off. The edge, however, had been assiduously sharpened
against a stone, as was evident from the markings upon it, so that it
was still a dangerous implement in the grasp of a determined man.
And what was the meaning of it all? you ask. Many a drama which I have
come across in my wandering life, some as strange and as striking as
this one, has lacked the ultimate explanation which you demand. Fate is
a grand weaver of tales; but she ends them, as a rule, in defiance of
all artistic laws, and with an unbecoming want of regard for literary
propriety. As it happens, however, I have a letter before me as I write
which I may add without comment, and which will clear all that may
remain dark.
"KIRKBY LUNATIC ASYLUM,
"_September 4th_, 1885.
"SIR,--I am deeply conscious that some apology and explanation
is due to you for the very startling and, in your eyes,
mysterious events which have recently occurred, and which have
so seriously interfered with the retired existence which you
desire to lead. I should have called upon you on the morning
after the recapture of my father, but my knowledge of your
dislike to visitors and also of--you will excuse my saying
it--your very violent temper, led me to think that it was
better to communicate with you by letter.
"My poor father was a hard-working general practitioner in
Birmingham, where his name is still remembered and respected.
About ten years ago he began to show signs of mental
aberration, which we were inclined to put down to overwork and
the effects of a sunstroke. Feeling my own incompetence to
pronounce upon a case of such importance, I at once sought the
highest advice in Birmingham and London. Among others we
consulted the eminent alienist, Mr. Fraser Brown, who
pronounced my father's case to be intermittent in its nature,
but dangerous during the paroxysms. 'It may take a homicidal,
or it may take a religious turn,' he said; 'or it may prove to
be a mixture of both. For months he may be as well as you or I,
and then in a moment he may break out. You will incur a great
responsibility if you leave him without supervision.'
"I need say no more, sir. You will understand the terrible task
which has fallen upon my poor sister and me in endeavoring to
save my father from the asylum which in his sane moments filled
him with horror. I can only regret that your peace has been
disturbed by our misfortunes, and I offer you in my sister's
name and my own our apologies.
"Yours truly,
"J. CAMERON."
III
BORROWED SCENES
"It cannot be done. People really would not stand it. I know
because I have tried."--_Extract from an unpublished paper upon
George Borrow and his writings._
Yes, I tried and my experience may interest other people. You must
imagine, then, that I am soaked in George Borrow, especially in his
_Lavengro_ and his _Romany Rye_, that I have modelled both my thoughts,
my speech and my style very carefully upon those of the master, and that
finally I set forth one summer day actually to lead the life of which I
had read. Behold me, then, upon the country road which leads from the
railway-station to the Sussex village of Swinehurst.
As I walked, I entertained myself by recollections of the founders of
Sussex, of Cerdic that mighty sea-rover, and of Ella his son, said by
the bard to be taller by the length of a spear-head than the tallest of
his fellows. I mentioned the matter twice to peasants whom I met upon
the road. One, a tallish man with a freckled face, sidled past me and
ran swiftly towards the station. The other, a smaller and older man,
stood entranced while I recited to him that passage of the Saxon
Chronicle which begins, "Then came Leija with longships forty-four, and
the fyrd went out against him." I was pointing out to him that the
Chronicle had been written partly by the monks of Saint Albans and
afterwards by those of Peterborough, but the fellow sprang suddenly over
a gate and disappeared.
The village of Swinehurst is a straggling line of half-timbered houses
of the early English pattern. One of these houses stood, as I observed,
somewhat taller than the rest, and seeing by its appearance and by the
sign which hung before it that it was the village inn, I approached it,
for indeed I had not broken my fast since I had left London. A stoutish
man, five foot eight perhaps in height, with black coat and trousers of
a greyish shade, stood outside, and to him I talked in the fashion of
the master.
"Why a rose and why a crown?" I asked as I pointed upwards.
He looked at me in a strange manner. The man's whole appearance was
strange. "Why not?" he answered, and shrank a little backwards.
"The sign of a king," said I.
"Surely," said he. "What else should we understand from a crown?"
"And which king?" I asked.
"You will excuse me," said he, and tried to pass.
"Which king?" I repeated.
"How should I know?" he asked.
"You should know by the rose," said I, "which is the symbol of that
Tudor-ap-Tudor, who, coming from the mountains of Wales, yet seated his
posterity upon the English throne. Tudor," I continued, getting between
the stranger and the door of the inn, through which he appeared to be
desirous of passing, "was of the same blood as Owen Glendower, the
famous chieftain, who is by no means to be confused with Owen Gwynedd,
the father of Madoc of the Sea, of whom the bard made the famous cnylyn,
which runs in the Welsh as follows:--"
I was about to repeat the famous stanza of Dafydd-ap-Gwilyn when the
man, who had looked very fixedly and strangely at me as I spoke, pushed
past me and entered the inn. "Truly," said I aloud, "it is surely
Swinehurst to which I have come, since the same means the grove of the
hogs." So saying I followed the fellow into the bar parlour, where I
perceived him seated in a corner with a large chair in front of him.
Four persons of various degrees were drinking beer at a central table,
whilst a small man of active build, in a black, shiny suit, which seemed
to have seen much service, stood before the empty fireplace. Him I took
to be the landlord, and I asked him what I should have for my dinner.
He smiled, and said that he could not tell.
"But surely, my friend," said I, "you can tell me what is ready?"
"Even that I cannot do," he answered; "but I doubt not that the landlord
can inform us." On this he rang the bell, and a fellow answered, to whom
I put the same question.
"What would you have?" he asked.
I thought of the master, and I ordered a cold leg of pork to be washed
down with tea and beer.
"Did you say tea _and_ beer?" asked the landlord.
"I did."
"For twenty-five years have I been in business," said the landlord, "and
never before have I been asked for tea and beer."
"The gentleman is joking," said the man with the shining coat.
"Or else----" said the elderly man in the corner.
"Or what, sir?" I asked.
"Nothing," said he--"nothing." There was something very strange in this
man in the corner--him to whom I had spoken of Dafydd-ap-Gwilyn.
"Then you are joking," said the landlord.
I asked him if he had read the works of my master, George Borrow. He
said that he had not. I told him that in those five volumes he would
not, from cover to cover, find one trace of any sort of a joke. He would
also find that my master drank tea and beer together. Now it happens
that about tea I have read nothing either in the sagas or in the bardic
cnylynions, but, whilst the landlord had departed to prepare my meal, I
recited to the company those Icelandic stanzas which praise the beer of
Gunnar, the long-haired son of Harold the Bear. Then, lest the language
should be unknown to some of them, I recited my own translation, ending
with the line--
"If the beer be small, then let the mug be large."
I then asked the company whether they went to church or to chapel. The
question surprised them, and especially the strange man in the corner,
upon whom I now fixed my eye. I had read his secret, and as I looked at
him he tried to shrink behind the clock-case.
"The church or the chapel?" I asked him.
"The church," he gasped.
"_Which_ church?" I asked.
He shrank farther behind the clock. "I have never been so questioned,"
he cried.
I showed him that I knew his secret. "Rome was not built in a day," said
I.
"He! He!" he cried. Then, as I turned away, he put his head from behind
the clock-case, and tapped his forehead with his fore-finger. So also
did the man with the shiny coat, who stood before the empty fireplace.
Having eaten the cold leg of pork--where is there a better dish, save
only boiled mutton with capers?--and having drunk both the tea and the
beer, I told the company that such a meal had been called "to box Harry"
by the master, who had observed it to be in great favour with commercial
gentlemen out of Liverpool. With this information and a stanza or two
from Lopez de Vega I left the Inn of the Rose and Crown behind me,
having first paid my reckoning. At the door the landlord asked me for my
name and address.
"And why?" I asked.
"Lest there should be inquiry for you," said the landlord.
"But why should they enquire for me?"
"Ah, who knows?" said the landlord, musing. And so I left him at the
door of the Inn of the Rose and Crown, whence came, I observed, a great
tumult of laughter. "Assuredly," thought I, "Rome was not built in a
day."
Having walked down the main street of Swinehurst, which, as I have
observed, consists of half-timbered buildings in the ancient style, I
came out upon the country road, and proceeded to look for those wayside
adventures, which are, according to the master, as thick as blackberries
for those who seek them upon an English highway. I had already received
some boxing lessons before leaving London, so it seemed to me that if I
should chance to meet some traveller whose size and age seemed such as
to encourage the venture, I would ask him to strip off his coat and
settle any differences which we could find in the old English fashion. I
waited, therefore, by a stile for any one who should chance to pass, and
it was while I stood there that the screaming horror came upon me, even
as it came upon the master in the dingle. I gripped the bar of the
stile, which was of good British oak. Oh, who can tell the terrors of
the screaming horror! That was what I thought as I grasped the oaken bar
of the stile. Was it the beer--or was it the tea? Or was it that the
landlord was right and that other, the man with the black, shiny coat,
he who had answered the sign of the strange man in the corner? But the
master drank tea with beer. Yes, but the master also had the screaming
horror. All this I thought as I grasped the bar of British oak, which
was the top of the stile. For half an hour the horror was upon me. Then
it passed, and I was left feeling very weak and still grasping the oaken
bar.
I had not moved from the stile, where I had been seized by the screaming
horror, when I heard the sound of steps behind me, and turning round I
perceived that a pathway led across the field upon the farther side of
the stile. A woman was coming towards me along this pathway, and it was
evident to me that she was one of those gipsy Rias, of whom the master
has said so much. Looking beyond her, I could see the smoke of a fire
from a small dingle, which showed where her tribe were camping. The
woman herself was of a moderate height, neither tall nor short, with a
face which was much sunburned and freckled. I must confess that she was
not beautiful, but I do not think that any one, save the master, has
found very beautiful women walking about upon the high-roads of England.
Such as she was I must make the best of her, and well I knew how to
address her, for many times had I admired the mixture of politeness and
audacity which should be used in such a case. Therefore, when the woman
had come to the stile, I held out my hand and helped her over.
"What says the Spanish poet Calderon?" said I. "I doubt not that you
have read the couplet which has been thus Englished:
'Oh, maiden, may I humbly pray
That I may help you on your way.'"
The woman blushed, but said nothing.
"Where," I asked, "are the Romany chals and the Romany chis?"
She turned her head away and was silent.
"Though I am a gorgio," said I, "I know something of the Romany lil,"
and to prove it I sang the stanza--
"Coliko, coliko saulo wer
Apopli to the farming ker
Will wel and mang him mullo,
Will wel and mang his truppo."
The girl laughed, but said nothing. It appeared to me from her
appearance that she might be one of those who make a living at telling
fortunes or "dukkering," as the master calls it, at racecourses and
other gatherings of the sort.
"Do you dukker?" I asked.
She slapped me on the arm. "Well, you _are_ a pot of ginger!" said she.
I was pleased at the slap, for it put me in mind of the peerless Belle.
"You can use Long Melford," said I, an expression which, with the
master, meant fighting.
"Get along with your sauce!" said she, and struck me again.
"You are a very fine young woman," said I, "and remind me of Grunelda,
the daughter of Hjalmar, who stole the golden bowl from the King of the
Islands."
She seemed annoyed at this. "You keep a civil tongue, young man," said
she.
"I meant no harm, Belle. I was but comparing you to one of whom the saga
says her eyes were like the shine of sun upon icebergs."
This seemed to please her, for she smiled. "My name ain't Belle," she
said at last.
"What is your name?"
"Henrietta."
"The name of a queen," I said aloud.
"Go on," said the girl.
"Of Charles's queen," said I, "of whom Waller the poet (for the English
also have their poets, though in this respect far inferior to the
Basques)--of whom, I say, Waller the poet said:
'That she was Queen was the Creator's act,
Belated man could but endorse the fact.'"
"I say!" cried the girl. "How you do go on!"