Some weeks later Dr Porhoët was sitting among his books in the quiet,
low room that overlooked the Seine. He had given himself over to a
pleasing melancholy. The heat beat down upon the noisy streets of
Paris, and the din of the great city penetrated even to his fastness in
the Île Saint Louis. He remembered the cloud-laden sky of the country
where he was born, and the south-west wind that blew with a salt
freshness. The long streets of Brest, present to his fancy always in a
drizzle of rain, with the lights of _cafés_ reflected on the wet
pavements, had a familiar charm. Even in foul weather the sailor-men
who trudged along them gave one a curious sense of comfort. There was
delight in the smell of the sea and in the freedom of the great
Atlantic. And then he thought of the green lanes and of the waste
places with their scented heather, the fair broad roads that led from
one old sweet town to another, of the _Pardons_ and their gentle, sad
crowds. Dr Porhoët gave a sigh.
“It is good to be born in the land of Brittany,” he smiled.
But his _bonne_ showed Susie in, and he rose with a smile to greet her.
She had been in Paris for some time, and they had seen much of one
another. He basked in the gentle sympathy with which she interested
herself in all the abstruse, quaint matters on which he spent his time;
and, divining her love for Arthur, he admired the courage with which
she effaced herself. They had got into the habit of eating many of
their meals together in a quiet house opposite the Cluny called La
Reine Blanche, and here they had talked of so many things that their
acquaintance was grown into a charming friendship.
“I’m ashamed to come here so often,” said Susie, as she entered.
“Matilde is beginning to look at me with a suspicious eye.”
“It is very good of you to entertain a tiresome old man,” he smiled, as
he held her hand. “But I should have been disappointed if you had
forgotten your promise to come this afternoon, for I have much to tell
you.”
“Tell me at once,” she said, sitting down.
“I have discovered an MS. at the library of the Arsenal this morning
that no one knew anything about.”
He said this with an air of triumph, as though the achievement were of
national importance. Susie had a tenderness for his innocent mania;
and, though she knew the work in question was occult and
incomprehensible, congratulated him heartily.
“It is the original version of a book by Paracelsus. I have not read it
yet, for the writing is most difficult to decipher, but one point
caught my eye on turning over the pages. That is the gruesome fact that
Paracelsus fed the _homunculi_ he manufactured on human blood. One
wonders how he came by it.”
Susie gave a little start, which Dr Porhoët noticed.
“What is the matter with you?”
“Nothing,” she said quickly.
He looked at her for a moment, then proceeded with the subject that
strangely fascinated him.
“You must let me take you one day to the library of the Arsenal. There
is no richer collection in the world of books dealing with the occult
sciences. And of course you know that it was at the Arsenal that the
tribunal sat, under the suggestive name of _chambre ardente_, to deal
with cases of sorcery and magic?”
“I didn’t,” smiled Susie.
“I always think that these manuscripts and queer old books, which are
the pride of our library, served in many an old trial. There are
volumes there of innocent appearance that have hanged wretched men and
sent others to the stake. You would not believe how many persons of
fortune, rank, and intelligence, during the great reign of Louis XIV,
immersed themselves in these satanic undertakings.”
Susie did not answer. She could not now deal with these matters in an
indifferent spirit. Everything she heard might have some bearing on the
circumstances which she had discussed with Dr Porhoët times out of
number. She had never been able to pin him down to an affirmation of
faith. Certain strange things had manifestly happened, but what the
explanation of them was, no man could say. He offered analogies from
his well-stored memory. He gave her books to read till she was
saturated with occult science. At one moment, she was inclined to throw
them all aside impatiently, and, at another, was ready to believe that
everything was possible.
Dr Porhoët stood up and stretched out a meditative finger. He spoke in
that agreeably academic manner which, at the beginning of their
acquaintance, had always entertained Susie, because it contrasted so
absurdly with his fantastic utterances.
“It was a strange dream that these wizards cherished. They sought to
make themselves beloved of those they cared for and to revenge
themselves on those they hated; but, above all, they sought to become
greater than the common run of men and to wield the power of the gods.
They hesitated at nothing to gain their ends. But Nature with
difficulty allows her secrets to be wrested from her. In vain they lit
their furnaces, and in vain they studied their crabbed books, called up
the dead, and conjured ghastly spirits. Their reward was disappointment
and wretchedness, poverty, the scorn of men, torture, imprisonment, and
shameful death. And yet, perhaps after all, there may be some particle
of truth hidden away in these dark places.”
“You never go further than the cautious perhaps,” said Susie. “You
never give me any definite opinion.”
“In these matters it is discreet to have no definite opinion,” he
smiled, with a shrug of the shoulders. “If a wise man studies the
science of the occult, his duty is not to laugh at everything, but to
seek patiently, slowly, perseveringly, the truth that may be concealed
in the night of these illusions.”
The words were hardly spoken when Matilde, the ancient _bonne_, opened
the door to let a visitor come in. It was Arthur Burdon. Susie gave a
cry of surprise, for she had received a brief note from him two days
before, and he had said nothing of crossing the Channel.
“I’m glad to find you both here,” said Arthur, as he shook hands with
them.
“Has anything happened?” cried Susie.
His manner was curiously distressing, and there was a nervousness about
his movements that was very unexpected in so restrained a person.
“I’ve seen Margaret again,” he said.
“Well?”
He seemed unable to go on, and yet both knew that he had something
important to tell them. He looked at them vacantly, as though all he
had to say was suddenly gone out of his mind.
“I’ve come straight here,” he said, in a dull, bewildered fashion. “I
went to your hotel, Susie, in the hope of finding you; but when they
told me you were out, I felt certain you would be here.”
“You seem worn out, _cher ami_,” said Dr Porhoët, looking at him. “Will
you let Matilde make you a cup of coffee?”
“I should like something,” he answered, with a look of utter weariness.
“Sit still for a minute or two, and you shall tell us what you want to
when you are a little rested.”
Dr Porhoët had not seen Arthur since that afternoon in the previous
year when, in answer to Haddo’s telegram, he had gone to the studio in
the Rue Campagne Première. He watched him anxiously while Arthur drank
his coffee. The change in him was extraordinary; there was a cadaverous
exhaustion about his face, and his eyes were sunken in their sockets.
But what alarmed the good doctor most was that Arthur’s personality
seemed thoroughly thrown out of gear. All that he had endured during
these nine months had robbed him of the strength of purpose, the
matter-of-fact sureness, which had distinguished him. He was now
unbalanced and neurotic.
Arthur did not speak. With his eyes fixed moodily on the ground, he
wondered how much he could bring himself to tell them. It revolted him
to disclose his inmost thoughts, yet he was come to the end of his
tether and needed the doctor’s advice. He found himself obliged to deal
with circumstances that might have existed in a world of nightmare, and
he was driven at last to take advantage of his friend’s peculiar
knowledge.
Returning to London after Margaret’s flight, Arthur Burdon had thrown
himself again into the work which for so long had been his only solace.
It had lost its savour; but he would not take this into account, and he
slaved away mechanically, by perpetual toil seeking to deaden his
anguish. But as the time passed he was seized on a sudden with a
curious feeling of foreboding, which he could in no way resist; it grew
in strength till it had all the power of an obsession, and he could not
reason himself out of it. He was sure that a great danger threatened
Margaret. He could not tell what it was, nor why the fear of it was so
persistent, but the idea was there always, night and day; it haunted
him like a shadow and pursued him like remorse. His anxiety increased
continually, and the vagueness of his terror made it more tormenting.
He felt quite certain that Margaret was in imminent peril, but he did
not know how to help her. Arthur supposed that Haddo had taken her back
to Skene; but, even if he went there, he had no chance of seeing her.
What made it more difficult still, was that his chief at St Luke’s was
away, and he was obliged to be in London in case he should be suddenly
called upon to do some operation. But he could think of nothing else.
He felt it urgently needful to see Margaret. Night after night he
dreamed that she was at the point of death, and heavy fetters prevented
him from stretching out a hand to help her. At last he could stand it
no more. He told a brother surgeon that private business forced him to
leave London, and put the work into his hands. With no plan in his
head, merely urged by an obscure impulse, he set out for the village of
Venning, which was about three miles from Skene.
It was a tiny place, with one public-house serving as a hotel to the
rare travellers who found it needful to stop there, and Arthur felt
that some explanation of his presence was necessary. Having seen at the
station an advertisement of a large farm to let, he told the
inquisitive landlady that he had come to see it. He arrived late at
night. Nothing could be done then, so he occupied the time by trying to
find out something about the Haddos.
Oliver was the local magnate, and his wealth would have made him an
easy topic of conversation even without his eccentricity. The landlady
roundly called him insane, and as an instance of his queerness told
Arthur, to his great dismay, that Haddo would have no servants to sleep
in the house: after dinner everyone was sent away to the various
cottages in the park, and he remained alone with his wife. It was an
awful thought that Margaret might be in the hands of a raving madman,
with not a soul to protect her. But if he learnt no more than this of
solid fact, Arthur heard much that was significant. To his amazement
the old fear of the wizard had grown up again in that lonely place, and
the garrulous woman gravely told him of Haddo’s evil influence on the
crops and cattle of farmers who had aroused his anger. He had had an
altercation with his bailiff, and the man had died within a year. A
small freeholder in the neighbourhood had refused to sell the land
which would have rounded off the estate of Skene, and a disease had
attacked every animal on his farm so that he was ruined. Arthur was
impressed because, though she reported these rumours with mock
scepticism as the stories of ignorant yokels and old women, the
innkeeper had evidently a terrified belief in their truth. No one could
deny that Haddo had got possession of the land he wanted; for, when it
was put up to auction, no one would bid against him, and he bought it
for a song.
As soon as he could do so naturally, Arthur asked after Margaret. The
woman shrugged her shoulders. No one knew anything about her. She never
came out of the park gates, but sometimes you could see her wandering
about inside by herself. She saw no one. Haddo had long since
quarrelled with the surrounding gentry; and though one old lady, the
mother of a neighbouring landowner, had called when Margaret first
came, she had not been admitted, and the visit was never returned.
“She’ll come to no good, poor lady,” said the hostess of the inn. “And
they do say she’s a perfect picture to look at.”
Arthur went to his room. He longed for the day to come. There was no
certain means of seeing Margaret. It was useless to go to the park
gates, since even the tradesmen were obliged to leave their goods at
the lodge; but it appeared that she walked alone, morning and
afternoon, and it might be possible to see her then. He decided to
climb into the park and wait till he came upon her in some spot where
they were not likely to be observed.
Next day the great heat of the last week was gone, and the melancholy
sky was dark with lowering clouds. Arthur inquired for the road which
led to Skene, and set out to walk the three miles which separated him
from it. The country was grey and barren. There was a broad waste of
heath, with gigantic boulders strewn as though in pre-historic times
Titans had waged there a mighty battle. Here and there were trees, but
they seemed hardly to withstand the fierce winds of winter; they were
old and bowed before the storm. One of them attracted his attention. It
had been struck by lightning and was riven asunder, leafless; but the
maimed branches were curiously set on the trunk so that they gave it
the appearance of a human being writhing in the torture of infernal
agony. The wind whistled strangely. Arthur’s heart sank as he walked
on. He had never seen a country so desolate.
He came to the park gates at last and stood for some time in front of
them. At the end of a long avenue, among the trees, he could see part
of a splendid house. He walked along the wooden palisade that
surrounded the park. Suddenly he came to a spot where a board had been
broken down. He looked up and down the road. No one was in sight. He
climbed up the low, steep bank, wrenched down a piece more of the
fence, and slipped in.
He found himself in a dense wood. There was no sign of a path, and he
advanced cautiously. The bracken was so thick and high that it easily
concealed him. Dead owners had plainly spent much care upon the place,
for here alone in the neighbourhood were trees in abundance; but of
late it had been utterly neglected. It had run so wild that there were
no traces now of its early formal arrangement; and it was so hard to
make one’s way, the vegetation was so thick, that it might almost have
been some remnant of primeval forest. But at last he came to a grassy
path and walked along it slowly. He stopped on a sudden, for he heard a
sound. But it was only a pheasant that flew heavily through the low
trees. He wondered what he should do if he came face to face with
Oliver. The innkeeper had assured him that the squire seldom came out,
but spent his days locked in the great attics at the top of the house.
Smoke came from the chimneys of them, even in the hottest days of
summer, and weird tales were told of the devilries there committed.
Arthur went on, hoping in the end to catch sight of Margaret, but he
saw no one. In that grey, chilly day the woods, notwithstanding their
greenery, were desolate and sad. A sombre mystery seemed to hang over
them. At last he came to a stone bench at a cross-way among the trees,
and, since it was the only resting-place he had seen, it struck him
that Margaret might come there to sit down. He hid himself in the
bracken. He had forgotten his watch and did not know how the time
passed; he seemed to be there for hours.
But at length his heart gave a great beat against his ribs, for all at
once, so silently that he had not heard her approach, Margaret came
into view. She sat on the stone bench. For a moment he dared not move
in case the sound frightened her. He could not tell how to make his
presence known. But it was necessary to do something to attract her
attention, and he could only hope that she would not cry out.
“Margaret,” he called softly.
She did not move, and he repeated her name more loudly. But still she
made no sign that she had heard. He came forward and stood in front of
her.
“Margaret.”
She looked at him quietly. He might have been someone she had never set
eyes on, and yet from her composure she might have expected him to be
standing there.
“Margaret, don’t you know me?”
“What do you want?” she answered placidly.
He was so taken aback that he did not know what to say. She kept gazing
at him steadfastly. On a sudden her calmness vanished, and she sprang
to her feet.
“Is it you really?” she cried, terribly agitated. “I thought it was
only a shape that mimicked you.”
“Margaret, what do you mean? What has come over you?”
She stretched out her hand and touched him.
“I’m flesh and blood all right,” he said, trying to smile.
She shut her eyes for a moment, as though in an effort to collect
herself.
“I’ve had hallucinations lately,” she muttered. “I thought it was some
trick played upon me.”
Suddenly she shook herself.
“But what are you doing here? You must go. How did you come? Oh, why
won’t you leave me alone?”
“I’ve been haunted by a feeling that something horrible was going to
happen to you. I was obliged to come.”
“For God’s sake, go. You can do me no good. If he finds out you’ve been
here—”
She stopped, and her eyes were dilated with terror. Arthur seized her
hands.
“Margaret, I can’t go—I can’t leave you like this. For Heaven’s sake,
tell me what is the matter. I’m so dreadfully frightened.”
He was aghast at the difference wrought in her during the two months
since he had seen her last. Her colour was gone, and her face had the
greyness of the dead. There were strange lines on her forehead, and her
eyes had an unnatural glitter. Her youth had suddenly left her. She
looked as if she were struck down by mortal illness.
“What is that matter with you?” he asked.
“Nothing.” She looked about her anxiously. “Oh, why don’t you go? How
can you be so cruel?”
“I must do something for you,” he insisted.
She shook her head.
“It’s too late. Nothing can help me now.” She paused; and when she
spoke again it was with a voice so ghastly that it might have come from
the lips of a corpse. “I’ve found out at last what he’s going to do
with me He wants me for his great experiment, and the time is growing
shorter.”
“What do you mean by saying he wants you?”
“He wants—my life.”
Arthur gave a cry of dismay, but she put up her hand.
“It’s no use resisting. It can’t do any good—I think I shall be glad
when the moment comes. I shall at least cease to suffer.”
“But you must be mad.”
“I don’t know. I know that he is.”
“But if your life is in danger, come away for God’s sake. After all,
you’re free. He can’t stop you.”
“I should have to go back to him, as I did last time,” she answered,
shaking her head. “I thought I was free then, but gradually I knew that
he was calling me. I tried to resist, but I couldn’t. I simply had to
go to him.”
“But it’s awful to think that you are alone with a man who’s
practically raving mad.”
“I’m safe for today,” she said quietly. “It can only be done in the
very hot weather. If there’s no more this year, I shall live till next
summer.”
“Oh, Margaret, for God’s sake don’t talk like that. I love you—I want
to have you with me always. Won’t you come away with me and let me take
care of you? I promise you that no harm shall come to you.”
“You don’t love me any more; you’re only sorry for me now.”
“It’s not true.”
“Oh yes it is. I saw it when we were in the country. Oh, I don’t blame
you. I’m a different woman from the one you loved. I’m not the Margaret
you knew.”
“I can never care for anyone but you.”
She put her hand on his arm.
“If you loved me, I implore you to go. You don’t know what you expose
me to. And when I’m dead you must marry Susie. She loves you with all
her heart, and she deserves your love.”
“Margaret, don’t go. Come with me.”
“And take care. He will never forgive you for what you did. If he can,
he will kill you.”
She started violently, as though she heard a sound. Her face was
convulsed with sudden fear.
“For God’s sake go, go!”
She turned from him quickly, and, before he could prevent her, had
vanished. With heavy heart he plunged again into the bracken.
When Arthur had given his friends some account of this meeting, he
stopped and looked at Dr Porhoët. The doctor went thoughtfully to his
bookcase.
“What is it you want me to tell you?” he asked.
“I think the man is mad,” said Arthur. “I found out at what asylum his
mother was, and by good luck was able to see the superintendent on my
way through London. He told me that he had grave doubts about Haddo’s
sanity, but it was impossible at present to take any steps. I came
straight here because I wanted your advice. Granting that the man is
out of his mind, is it possible that he may be trying some experiment
that entails a sacrifice of human life?”
“Nothing is more probable,” said Dr Porhoët gravely.
Susie shuddered. She remembered the rumour that had reached her ears in
Monte Carlo.
“They said there that he was attempting to make living creatures by a
magical operation.” She glanced at the doctor, but spoke to Arthur.
“Just before you came in, our friend was talking of that book of
Paracelsus in which he speaks of feeding the monsters he has made on
human blood.”
Arthur gave a horrified cry.
“The most significant thing to my mind is that fact about Margaret
which we are certain of,” said Dr Porhoët. “All works that deal with
the Black Arts are unanimous upon the supreme efficacy of the virginal
condition.”
“But what is to be done?” asked Arthur is desperation. “We can’t leave
her in the hands of a raving madman.” He turned on a sudden deathly
white. “For all we know she may be dead now.”
“Have you ever heard of Gilles de Rais?” said Dr Porhoët, continuing
his reflections. “That is the classic instance of human sacrifice. I
know the country in which he lived; and the peasants to this day dare
not pass at night in the neighbourhood of the ruined castle which was
the scene of his horrible crimes.”
“It’s awful to know that this dreadful danger hangs over her, and to be
able to do nothing.”
“We can only wait,” said Dr Porhoët.
“And if we wait too long, we may be faced by a terrible catastrophe.”
“Fortunately we live in a civilized age. Haddo has a great care of his
neck. I hope we are frightened unduly.”
It seemed to Susie that the chief thing was to distract Arthur, and she
turned over in her mind some means of directing his attention to other
matters.
“I was thinking of going down to Chartres for two days with Mrs
Bloomfield,” she said. “Won’t you come with me? It is the most lovely
cathedral in the world, and I think you will find it restful to wander
about it for a little while. You can do no good, here or in London.
Perhaps when you are calm, you will be able to think of something
practical.”
Dr Porhoët saw what her plan was, and joined his entreaties to hers
that Arthur should spend a day or two in a place that had no
associations for him. Arthur was too exhausted to argue, and from sheer
weariness consented. Next day Susie took him to Chartres. Mrs
Bloomfield was no trouble to them, and Susie induced him to linger for
a week in that pleasant, quiet town. They passed many hours in the
stately cathedral, and they wandered about the surrounding country.
Arthur was obliged to confess that the change had done him good, and a
certain apathy succeeded the agitation from which he had suffered so
long. Finally Susie persuaded him to spend three or four weeks in
Brittany with Dr Porhoët, who was proposing to revisit the scenes of
his childhood. They returned to Paris. When Arthur left her at the
station, promising to meet her again in an hour at the restaurant where
they were going to dine with Dr Porhoët, he thanked her for all she had
done.
“I was in an absurdly hysterical condition,” he said, holding her hand.
“You’ve been quite angelic. I knew that nothing could be done, and yet
I was tormented with the desire to do something. Now I’ve got myself in
hand once more. I think my common sense was deserting me, and I was on
the point of believing in the farrago of nonsense which they call
magic. After all, it’s absurd to think that Haddo is going to do any
harm to Margaret. As soon at I get back to London, I’ll see my lawyers,
and I daresay something can be done. If he’s really mad, we’ll have to
put him under restraint, and Margaret will be free. I shall never
forget your kindness.”
Susie smiled and shrugged her shoulders.
She was convinced that he would forget everything if Margaret came back
to him. But she chid herself for the bitterness of the thought. She
loved him, and she was glad to be able to do anything for him.
She returned to the hotel, changed her frock, and walked slowly to the
Chien Noir. It always exhilarated her to come back to Paris; and she
looked with happy, affectionate eyes at the plane trees, the yellow
trams that rumbled along incessantly, and the lounging people. When she
arrived, Dr Porhoët was waiting, and his delight at seeing her again
was flattering and pleasant. They talked of Arthur. They wondered why
he was late.
In a moment he came in. They saw at once that something quite
extraordinary had taken place.
“Thank God, I’ve found you at last!” he cried.
His face was moving strangely. They had never seen him so discomposed.
“I’ve been round to your hotel, but I just missed you. Oh, why did you
insist on my going away?”
“What on earth’s the matter?” cried Susie.
“Something awful has happened to Margaret.”
Susie started to her feet with a sudden cry of dismay.
“How do you know?” she asked quickly.
He looked at them for a moment and flushed. He kept his eyes upon them,
as though actually to force his listeners into believing what he was
about to say.
“I feel it,” he answered hoarsely.
“What do you mean?”
“It came upon me quite suddenly, I can’t explain why or how. I only
know that something has happened.”
He began again to walk up and down, prey to an agitation that was
frightful to behold. Susie and Dr Porhoët stared at him helplessly.
They tried to think of something to say that would calm him.
“Surely if anything had occurred, we should have been informed.”
He turned to Susie angrily.
“How do you suppose we could know anything? She was quite helpless. She
was imprisoned like a rat in a trap.”
“But, my dear friend, you mustn’t give way in this fashion,” said the
doctor. “What would you say of a patient who came to you with such a
story?”
Arthur answered the question with a shrug of the shoulders.
“I should say he was absurdly hysterical.”
“Well?”
“I can’t help it, the feeling’s there. If you try all night you’ll
never be able to argue me out of it. I feel it in every bone of my
body. I couldn’t be more certain if I saw Margaret lying dead in front
of me.”
Susie saw that it was indeed useless to reason with him. The only
course was to accept his conviction and make the best of it.
“What do you want us to do?” she asked.
“I want you both to come to England with me at once. If we start now we
can catch the evening train.”
Susie did not answer, but she got up. She touched the doctor on the
arm.
“Please come,” she whispered.
He nodded and untucked the napkin he had already arranged over his
waistcoat.
“I’ve got a cab at the door,” said Arthur.
“And what about clothes for Miss Susie?” said the doctor.
“Oh, we can’t wait for that,” cried Arthur. “For God’s sake, come
quickly.”
Susie knew that there was plenty of time to fetch a few necessary
things before the train started, but Arthur’s impatience was too great
to be withstood.
“It doesn’t matter,” she said. “I can get all I want in England.”
He hurried them to the door and told the cabman to drive to the station
as quickly as ever he could.
“For Heaven’s sake, calm down a little,” said Susie. “You’ll be no good
to anyone in that state.”
“I feel certain we’re too late.”
“Nonsense! I’m convinced that you’ll find Margaret safe and sound.”
He did not answer. He gave a sigh of relief as they drove into the
courtyard of the station.