“What!” cried Spring. “You saw the fight?”

“Every round of it! By George! to think that I should have lived to have

had such a fight all to myself! Oh, but it was grand,” he cried, in a

frenzy of delight, “to see his lordship go down like a pithed ox and

her ladyship clapping her hands behind the bush! I guessed there was

something in the wind, and I followed you all the way. When you stopped,

I tethered little Ginger in a grove, and I crept after you through the

wood. It’s as well I did, for the whole parish was up!”

But Tom Spring was sitting gazing at him in blank amazement.

“His lordship!” he gasped.

“No less, my boy. Lord Falconbridge, Chairman of the Bench, Deputy

Lieutenant of the County, Peer of the Realm--that’s your man.”

“Good Lord!”

“And you didn’t know? It’s as well, for maybe you wouldn’t have whacked

it in as hard if you had; and, mind you, if you hadn’t, he’d have beat

you. There’s not a man in this county could stand up to him. He takes

the poachers and gipsies two and three at a time. He’s the terror of the

place. But you did him--did him fair. Oh, man, it was fine!”

Tom Spring was too much dazed by what he heard to do more than sit and

wonder. It was not until he had got back to the comforts of the inn, and

after a bath had partaken of a solid meal, that he sent for Mr. Cordery

the landlord. To him he confided the whole train of events which had led

up to his remarkable experience, and he begged him to throw such light

as he could upon it. Cordery listened with keen interest and many

chuckles to the story. Finally he left the room and returned with a

frayed newspaper in his hand, which he smoothed out upon his knee.

“It’s the _Pantiles Gazette_, Mr. Spring, as gossiping a rag as ever was

printed. I expect there will be a fine column in it if ever it gets its

prying nose into this day’s doings. However, we are mum and her ladyship

is mum, and, my word! his lordship is mum, though he did, in his

passion, raise the hue and cry on you. Here it is, Mr. Spring, and I’ll

read it to you while you smoke your pipe. It’s dated July of last year,

and it goes like this--

“‘FRACAS IN HIGH LIFE.--It is an open secret that the differences which

have for some years been known to exist between Lord F---- and his

beautiful wife have come to a head during the last few days. His

lordship’s devotion to sport, and also, as it is whispered, some

attentions which he has shown to a humbler member of his household,

have, it is said, long alienated Lady F----‘s affection. Of late she

has sought consolation and friendship with a gentleman whom we will

designate as Sir George W----n. Sir George, who is a famous ladykiller,

and as well-proportioned a man as any in England, took kindly to the

task of consoling the disconsolate fair. The upshot, however, was

vastly unfortunate, both for the lady’s feelings and for the gentleman’s

beauty. The two friends were surprised in a rendezvous near the house

by Lord F---- himself at the head of a party of his servants. Lord F----

then and there, in spite of the shrieks of the lady, availed himself of

his strength and skill to administer such punishment to the unfortunate

Lothario as would, in his own parting words, prevent any woman from

loving him again for the sake of his appearance. Lady F---- has left

his lordship and betaken herself to London, where, no doubt, she is now

engaged in nursing the damaged Apollo. It is confidently expected that a

duel will result from the affair, but no particulars have reached us up

to the hour of going to press.’”

The landlord laid down the paper. “You’ve been moving in high life, Mr.

Thomas Spring,” said he.

The pugilist passed his hand over his battered face. “Well, Mr.

Cordery,” said he, “low life is good enough for me.”

OUT OF THE RUNNING

It was on the North Side of Butser on the long swell of the Hampshire

Downs. Beneath, some two miles away, the grey roofs and red houses of

Petersfield peeped out from amid the trees which surrounded it. From

the crest of the low hills downwards the country ran in low, sweeping

curves, as though some green primeval sea had congealed in the midst

of a ground swell and set for ever into long verdant rollers. At the

bottom, just where the slope borders upon the plain, there stood a

comfortable square brick farmhouse, with a grey plume of smoke floating

up from the chimney. Two cowhouses, a cluster of hayricks, and a broad

stretch of fields, yellow with the ripening wheat, formed a fitting

setting to the dwelling of a prosperous farmer.

The green slopes were dotted every here and there with dark clumps of

gorse bushes, all alight with the flaming yellow blossoms. To the left

lay the broad Portsmouth Road curving over the hill, with a line of

gaunt telegraph posts marking its course. Beyond a huge white chasm

opened in the grass, where the great Butser chalk quarry had been sunk.

From its depths rose the distant murmur of voices, and the clinking of

hammers. Just above it, between two curves of green hill, might be seen

a little triangle of leaden-coloured sea, flecked with a single white

sail.

Down the Portsmouth Road two women were walking, one elderly, florid and

stout, with a yellow-brown Paisley shawl and a coarse serge dress,

the other young and fair, with large grey eyes, and a face which was

freckled like a plover’s egg. Her neat white blouse with its trim black

belt, and plain, close-cut skirt, gave her an air of refinement which

was wanting in her companion, but there was sufficient resemblance

between them to show that they were mother and daughter. The one was

gnarled and hardened and wrinkled by rough country work, the other fresh

and pliant from the benign influence of the Board School; but their

step, their slope of the shoulders, and the movement of their hips as

they walked, all marked them as of one blood.

“Mother, I can see father in the five-acre field,” cried the younger,

pointing down in the direction of the farm.

The older woman screwed up her eyes, and shaded them with her hand.

“Who’s that with him?” she asked.

“There’s Bill.”

“Oh, he’s nobody. He’s a-talkin’ to some one.”

“I don’t know, mother. It’s some one in a straw hat. Adam Wilson of the

Quarry wears a straw hat.”

“Aye, of course, it’s Adam sure enough. Well, I’m glad we’re back home

time enough to see him. He’d have been disappointed if he had come over

and you’d been away. Drat this dust! It makes one not fit to be seen.”

The same idea seemed to have occurred to her daughter, for she had taken

out her handkerchief, and was flicking her sleeves and the front of her

dress.

“That’s right, Dolly. There’s some on your flounces. But, Lor’ bless

you, Dolly, it don’t matter to him. It’s not your dress he looks at, but

your face. Now I shouldn’t be very surprised if he hadn’t come over to

ask you from father.”

“I think he’d best begin by asking me from myself,” remarked the girl.

“Ah, but you’ll have him, Dolly, when he does.”

“I’m not so sure of that, mother.” The older woman threw up her hands.

“There! I don’t know what the gals are coming to. I don’t indeed. It’s

the Board Schools as does it. When I was a gal, if a decent young man

came a-courtin’, we gave him a ‘Yes’ or a ‘No.’ We didn’t keep him

hanging on like a half-clipped sheep. Now, here are you with two of them

at your beck, and you can’t give an answer to either of them.”

“Why, mother, that’s it,” cried the daughter, with something between

a laugh and a sob. “May be if they came one at a time I’d know what to

say.”

“What have you agin Adam Wilson?”

“Nothing. But I have nothing against Elias Mason.”

“Nor I, either. But I know which is the most proper-looking young man.”

“Looks isn’t everything, mother. You should hear Elias Mason talk. You

should hear him repeat poetry.”

“Well, then, have Elias.”

“Ah, but I haven’t the heart to turn against Adam.”

“There, now! I never saw such a gal. You’re like a calf betwixt two

hayricks; you have a nibble at the one and a nibble at the other.

There’s not one in a hundred as lucky as you. Here’s Adam with three

pound ten a week, foreman already at the Chalk Works, and likely enough

to be manager if he’s spared. And there’s Elias, head telegraph clerk at

the Post Office, and earning good money too. You can’t keep ‘em both on.

You’ve got to take one or t’other, and it’s my belief you’ll get neither

if you don’t stop this shilly-shally.”

“I don’t care. I don’t want them. What do they want to come bothering

for?”

“It’s human natur’, gal. They must do it. If they didn’t, you’d be the

first to cry out maybe. It’s in the Scriptures. ‘Man is born for woman,

as the sparks fly upwards.’” She looked up out of the corner of her eyes

as if not very sure of her quotation. “Why, here be that dratted Bill.

The good book says as we are all made of clay, but Bill does show it

more than any lad I ever saw.”

They had turned from the road into a narrow, deeply rutted lane, which

led towards the farm. A youth was running towards them, loose-jointed

and long-limbed, with a boyish, lumbering haste, clumping fearlessly

with his great yellow clogs through pool and mire. He wore brown

corduroys, a dingy shirt, and a red handkerchief tied loosely round his

neck. A tattered old straw hat was tilted back upon his shock of coarse,

matted, brown hair. His sleeves were turned up to the elbows, and his

arms and face were both tanned and roughened until his skin looked like

the bark of some young sapling. As he looked up at the sound of the

steps, his face with its blue eyes, brown skin, and first slight down

of a tawny moustache, was not an uncomely one, were it not marred by the

heavy, stolid, somewhat sulky expression of the country yokel.

“Please, mum,” said he, touching the brim of his wreck of a hat,

“measter seed ye coming. He sent to say as ‘ow ‘e were in the five-acre

lot.”

“Run back, Bill, and say that we are coming,” answered the farmer’s

wife, and the awkward figure sped away upon its return journey.

“I say, mother, what is Bill’s other name?” asked the girl, with languid

curiosity.

“He’s not got one.”

“No name?”

“No, Dolly, he’s a found child, and never had no father or mother that

ever was heard of. We had him from the work’us when he was seven, to

chop mangel wurzel, and here he’s been ever since, nigh twelve year. He

was Bill there, and he’s Bill here.”

“What fun! Fancy having only one name. I wonder what they’ll call his

wife?”

“I don’t know. Time to talk of that when he can keep one. But now, Dolly

dear, here’s your father and Adam Wilson comin’ across the field. I want

to see you settled, Dolly. He’s a steady young man. He’s blue ribbon,

and has money in the Post Office.”

“I wish I knew which liked me best,” said her daughter glancing from

under her hat-brim at the approaching figures. “That’s the one I should

like. But it’s all right, mother, and I know how to find out, so don’t

you fret yourself any more.”

The suitor was a well-grown young fellow in a grey suit, with a straw

hat jauntily ribboned in red and black. He was smoking, but as he

approached he thrust his pipe into his breast-pocket, and came forward

with one hand outstretched, and the other gripping nervously at his

watch-chain.

“Your servant, Mrs. Foster. And how are you, Miss Dolly? Another

fortnight of this and you will be starting on your harvest, I suppose.”

“It’s bad to say beforehand what you will do in this country,” said

Farmer Foster, with an apprehensive glance round the heavens.

“It’s all God’s doing,” remarked his wife piously.

“And He does the best for us, of course. Yet He does seem these last

seasons to have kind of lost His grip over the weather. Well, maybe

it will be made up to us this year. And what did you do at Horndean,

mother?”

The old couple walked in front, and the other dropped behind, the young

man lingering, and taking short steps to increase the distance.

“I say, Dolly,” he murmured at last, flushing slightly as he glanced at

her, “I’ve been speaking to your father about--you know what.”

But Dolly didn’t know what. She hadn’t the slightest idea of what.

She turned her pretty little freckled face up to him and was full of

curiosity upon the point.

Adam Wilson’s face flushed to a deeper red. “You know very well,” said

he, impatiently, “I spoke to him about marriage.”

“Oh, then it’s him you want.”

“There, that’s the way you always go on. It’s easy to make fun, but I

tell you that I am in earnest, Dolly. Your father says that he would

have no objection to me in the family. You know that I love you true.”

“How do I know that then?”

“I tell you so. What more can I do?”

“Did you ever do anything to prove it?”

“Set me something and see if I don’t do it.”

“Then you haven’t done anything yet?”

“I don’t know. I’ve done what I could.”

“How about this?” She pulled a little crumpled sprig of dog-rose, such

as grows wild in the wayside hedges, out of her bosom. “Do you know

anything of that?”

He smiled, and was about to answer, when his brows suddenly contracted,

his mouth set, and his eyes flashed angrily as they focussed some

distant object. Following his gaze, she saw a slim, dark figure, some

three fields off, walking swiftly in their direction. “It’s my friend,

Mr. Elias Mason,” said she.

“Your friend!” He had lost his diffidence in his anger. “I know all

about that. What does he want here every second evening?”

“Perhaps he wonders what you want.”

“Does he? I wish he’d come and ask me. I’d let him see what I wanted.

Quick too.”

“He can see it now. He has taken off his hat to me,” Dolly said,

laughing.

Her laughter was the finishing touch. He had meant to be impressive,

and it seemed that he had only been ridiculous. He swung round upon his

heel.

“Very well, Miss Foster,” said he, in a choking voice, “that’s all

right. We know where we are now. I didn’t come here to be made a fool

of, so good day to you.” He plucked at his hat, and walked furiously off

in the direction from which they had come. She looked after him, half

frightened, in the hope of seeing some sign that he had relented, but he

strode onwards with a rigid neck, and vanished at a turn of the lane.

When she turned again her other visitor was close upon her--a thin,

wiry, sharp-featured man with a sallow face, and a quick, nervous

manner.

“Good evening, Miss Foster. I thought that I would walk over as the

weather was so beautiful, but I did not expect to have the good fortune

to meet you in the fields.”

“I am sure that father will be very glad to see you, Mr. Mason. You must

come in and have a glass of milk.”

“No, thank you, Miss Foster, I should very much prefer to stay out here

with you. But I am afraid that I have interrupted you in a chat. Was not

that Mr. Adam Wilson who left you this moment?” His manner was subdued,

but his questioning eyes and compressed lips told of a deeper and more

furious jealousy than that of his rival.

“Yes. It was Mr. Adam Wilson.” There was something about Mason, a

certain concentration of manner, which made it impossible for the girl

to treat him lightly as she had done the other.

“I have noticed him here several times lately.”

“Yes. He is head foreman, you know, at the big quarry.”

“Oh, indeed. He is fond of your society, Miss Foster. I can’t blame him

for that, can I, since I am equally so myself. But I should like to come

to some understanding with you. You cannot have misunderstood what my

feelings are to you? I am in a position to offer you a comfortable home.

Will you be my wife, Miss Foster?”

Dolly would have liked to make some jesting reply, but it was hard to be

funny with those two eager, fiery eyes fixed so intently upon her own.

She began to walk slowly towards the house, while he paced along beside

her, still waiting for his answer.

“You must give me a little time, Mr. Mason,” she said at last. “‘Marry

in haste,’ they say, ‘and repent at leisure.’”

“But you shall never have cause to repent.”

“I don’t know. One hears such things.”

“You shall be the happiest woman in England.”

“That sounds very nice. You are a poet, Mr. Mason, are you not?”

“I am a lover of poetry.”

“And poets are fond of flowers?”

“I am very fond of flowers.”

“Then perhaps you know something of these?” She took out the humble

little sprig, and held it out to him with an arch questioning glance. He

took it and pressed it to his lips.

“I know that it has been near you, where I should wish to be,” said he.

“Good evening, Mr. Mason!” It was Mrs. Foster who had come out to meet

them. “Where’s Mr.----? Oh--ah! Yes, of course. The teapot’s on the

table, and you’d best come in afore it’s over-drawn.”

When Elias Mason left the farmhouse that evening, he drew Dolly aside at

the door.

“I won’t be able to come before Saturday,” said he.

“We shall be glad to see you, Mr. Mason.”

“I shall want my answer then.”

“Oh, I cannot give any promise, you know.”

“But I shall live in hope.”

“Well, no one can prevent you from doing that.” As she came to realize

her power over him she had lost something of her fear, and could answer

him now nearly as freely as if he were simple Adam Wilson.

She stood at the door, leaning against the wooden porch, with the long

trailers of the honeysuckle framing her tall, slight figure. The great

red sun was low in the west, its upper rim peeping over the low hills,

shooting long, dark shadows from the beech-tree in the field, from the

little group of tawny cows, and from the man who walked away from her.

She smiled to see how immense the legs were, and how tiny the body in

the great flat giant which kept pace beside him. In front of her in

the little garden the bees droned, a belated butterfly or an early

moth fluttered slowly over the flower-beds, a thousand little creatures

buzzed and hummed, all busy working out their tiny destinies, as she,

too, was working out hers, and each doubtless looking upon their own

as the central point of the universe. A few months for the gnat, a few

years for the girl, but each was happy now in the heavy summer air. A

beetle scuttled out upon the gravel path and bored onwards, its six legs

all working hard, butting up against stones, upsetting itself on ridges,

but still gathering itself up and rushing onwards to some all-important

appointment somewhere in the grass plot. A bat fluttered up from behind

the beech-tree. A breath of night air sighed softly over the hillside

with a little tinge of the chill sea spray in its coolness. Dolly Foster

shivered, and had turned to go in when her mother came out from the

passage.

“Whatever is that Bill doing there?” she cried.

Dolly looked, and saw for the first time that the nameless farm-labourer

was crouching under the beech, his browns and yellows blending with the

bark behind him.

“You go out o’ that, Bill!” screamed the farmer’s wife.

“What be I to do?” he asked humbly, slouching forward.

“Go, cut chaff in the barn.” He nodded and strolled away, a comical

figure in his mud-crusted boots, his strap-tied corduroys and his

almond-coloured skin.

“Well, then, you’ve taken Elias,” said the mother, passing her hand

round her daughter’s waist. “I seed him a-kissing your flower. Well, I’m

sorry for Adam, for he is a well-grown young man, a proper young man,

blue ribbon, with money in the Post Office. Still some one must suffer,

else how could we be purified. If the milk’s left alone it won’t ever

turn into butter. It wants troubling and stirring and churning. That’s

what we want, too, before we can turn angels. It’s just the same as

butter.”

Dolly laughed. “I have not taken Elias yet,” said she.

“No? What about Adam then?”

“Nor him either.”

“Oh, Dolly girl, can you not take advice from them that is older. I tell

you again that you’ll lose them both.”

“No, no, mother. Don’t you fret yourself. It’s all right. But you can

see how hard it is. I like Elias, for he can speak so well, and is so

sure and masterful. And I like Adam because--well, because I know very

well that Adam loves me.”

“Well, bless my heart, you can’t marry them both. You’d like all the

pears in the basket.”

“No, mother, but I know how to choose. You see this bit of a flower,

dear.”

“It’s a common dog-rose.”

“Well, where d’you think I found it?”

“In the hedge likely.”

“No, but on my window-ledge.”

“Oh, but when?”

“This morning. It was six when I got up, and there it lay fresh and

sweet, and new-plucked. ‘Twas the same yesterday and the day before.

Every morning there it lies. It’s a common flower, as you say, mother,

but it is not so common to find a man who’ll break short his sleep day

after day just to show a girl that the thought of her is in his heart.”

“And which was it?”

“Ah, if I knew! I think it’s Elias. He’s a poet, you know, and poets do

nice things like that.”

“And how will you be sure?”

“I’ll know before morning. He will come again, whichever it is. And

whichever it is he’s the man for me. Did father ever do that for you

before you married?”

“I can’t say he did, dear. But father was always a powerful heavy

sleeper.”

“Well then, mother, you needn’t fret any more about me, for as sure as I

stand here, I’ll tell you to-morrow which of them it is to be.”

That evening the farmer’s daughter set herself to clearing off all those

odd jobs which accumulate in a large household. She polished the dark,

old-fashioned furniture in the sitting-room. She cleared out the cellar,

re-arranged the bins, counted up the cider, made a great cauldron full

of raspberry jam, potted, papered, and labelled it. Long after the whole

household was in bed she pushed on with her self-imposed tasks until the

night was far gone and she very spent and weary. Then she stirred up the

smouldering kitchen fire and made herself a cup of tea, and, carrying

it up to her own room, she sat sipping it and glancing over an old bound

volume of the _Leisure Hour_. Her seat was behind the little dimity

window curtains, whence she could see without being seen.

The morning had broken, and a brisk wind had sprung up with the dawn.

The sky was of the lightest, palest blue, with a scud of flying

white clouds shredded out over the face of it, dividing, coalescing,

overtaking one another, but sweeping ever from the pink of the east to

the still shadowy west. The high, eager voice of the wind whistled and

sang outside, rising from moan to shriek, and then sinking again to a

dull mutter and grumble. Dolly rose to wrap her shawl around her, and as

she sat down again in an instant her doubts were resolved, and she had

seen that for which she had waited.

Her window faced the inner yard, and was some eight feet from the

ground. A man standing beneath it could not be seen from above. But she

saw enough to tell her all that she wished to know. Silently, suddenly,

a hand had appeared from below, had laid a sprig of flower upon her

ledge, and had disappeared. It did not take two seconds; she saw no

face, she heard no sound, but she had seen the hand and she wanted

nothing more. With a smile she threw herself upon the bed, drew a rug

over her, and dropped into a heavy slumber.

She was awakened by her mother plucking at her shoulder.

“It’s breakfast time, Dolly, but I thought you would be weary, so I

brought you lip some bread and coffee. Sit up, like a dearie, and take

it.”

“All right, mother. Thank you. I’m all dressed, so I’ll be ready to come

down soon.”

“Bless the gal, she’s never had her things off! And, dearie me, here’s

the flower outside the window, sure enough! Well, and did you see who

put it there?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Who was it then?”

“It was Adam.”

“Was it now? Well, I shouldn’t have thought that he had it in him. Then

Adam it’s to be. Well, he’s steady, and that’s better than being clever,

yea, seven-and-seventy fold. Did he come across the yard?”

“No, along by the wall.”

“How did you see him then?”

“I didn’t see him.”

“Then how can you tell?”

“I saw his hand.”

“But d’you tell me you know Adam’s hand?”

“It would be a blind man that couldn’t tell it from Elias’ hand. Why,

the one is as brown as that coffee, and the other as white as the cup,

with great blue veins all over it.”

“Well, now I shouldn’t have thought of it, but so it is. Well, it’ll be

a busy day, Dolly. Just hark to the wind!”

It had, indeed, increased during the few hours since dawn to a very

violent tempest. The panes of the window rattled and shook. Glancing

out, Dolly saw cabbage leaves and straw whirling up past the casement.

“The great hayrick is giving. They’re all out trying to prop it up. My,

but it do blow!”

It did indeed! When Dolly came downstairs it was all that she could do

to push her way through the porch. All along the horizon the sky was

brassy-yellow, but above the wind screamed and stormed, and the torn,

hurrying clouds were now huddled together, and now frayed off into

countless tattered streamers. In the field near the house her father

and three or four labourers were working with poles and ropes, hatless,

their hair and beards flying, staving up a great bulging hayrick. Dolly

watched them for a moment, and then, stooping her head and rounding her

shoulders, with one hand up to her little black straw hat, she staggered

off across the fields.

Adam Wilson was at work always on a particular part of the hillside, and

hither it was that she bent her steps. He saw the trim, dapper figure,

with its flying skirts and hat-ribbons, and he came forward to meet her

with a great white crowbar in his hand. He walked slowly, however, and

his eyes were downcast, with the air of a man who still treasures a

grievance.

“Good mornin’, Miss Foster.”

“Good morning, Mr. Wilson. Oh, if you are going to be cross with me, I’d

best go home again.”

“I’m not cross, Miss Foster. I take it very kindly that you should come

out this way on such a day.”

“I wanted to say to you--I wanted to say that I was sorry if I made you

angry yesterday. I didn’t mean to make fun. I didn’t, indeed. It is only

my way of talking. It was so good of you, so noble of you, to let it

make no difference.”

“None at all, Dolly.” He was quite radiant again. “If I didn’t love you

so, I wouldn’t mind what that other chap said or did. And if I could

only think that you cared more for me than for him--”

“I do, Adam.”

“God bless you for saying so! You’ve lightened my heart, Dolly. I have

to go to Portsmouth for the firm today. To-morrow night I’ll come and

see you.”

“Very well, Adam, I--Oh, my God, what’s that!”

A rending breaking noise in the distance, a dull rumble, and a burst of

shouts and cries.

“The rick’s down! There’s been an accident!” They both started running

down the hill.

“Father!” panted the girl, “father!”

“He’s all right!” shouted her companion, “I can see him. But there’s

some one down. They’re lifting him now. And here’s one running like mad

for the doctor.”

A farm-labourer came rushing wildly up the lane. “Don’t you go, Missey,”

he cried. “A man’s hurt.”

“Who?”

“It’s Bill. The rick came down and the ridge-pole caught him across the

back. He’s dead, I think. Leastwise, there’s not much life in him. I’m

off for Doctor Strong!” He bent his shoulder to the wind, and lumbered

off down the road.

“Poor Bill! Thank God it wasn’t father!” They were at the edge of

the field now in which the accident had taken place. The rick lay, a

shapeless mound upon the earth, with a long thick pole protruding from

it, which had formerly supported the tarpaulin drawn across it in case

of rain. Four men were walking slowly away, one shoulder humped, one

hanging, and betwixt them they bore a formless clay-coloured bundle.

He might have been a clod of the earth that he tilled, so passive, so

silent, still brown, for death itself could not have taken the burn from

his skin, but with patient, bovine eyes looking out heavily from under

half-closed lids. He breathed jerkily, but he neither cried out nor

groaned. There was something almost brutal and inhuman in his absolute

stolidity. He asked no sympathy, for his life had been without it. It

was a broken tool rather than an injured man.

“Can I do anything, father?”

“No, lass, no. This is no place for you. I’ve sent for the doctor. He’ll

be here soon.”

“But where are they taking him?”

“To the loft where he sleeps.”

“I’m sure he’s welcome to my room, father.”

“No, no, lass. Better leave it alone.”

But the little group were passing as they spoke, and the injured lad had

heard the girl’s words.

“Thank ye kindly, Missey,” he murmured, with a little flicker of life,

and then sank back again into his stolidity and his silence.

Well, a farm hand is a useful thing, but what is a man to do with one

who has an injured spine and half his ribs smashed. Farmer Foster shook

his head and scratched his chin as he listened to the doctor’s report.

“He can’t get better?”

“No.”

“Then we had better move him.”

“Where to?”

“To the work’us hospital. He came from there just this time eleven

years. It’ll be like going home to him.”

“I fear that he is going home,” said the doctor gravely. “But it’s out

of the question to move him now. He must lie where he is for better or

for worse.”

And it certainly looked for worse rather than for better. In a little

loft above the stable he was stretched upon a tiny blue pallet which

lay upon the planks. Above were the gaunt rafters, hung with saddles,

harness, old scythe blades--the hundred things which droop, like bats,

from inside such buildings. Beneath them upon two pegs hung his own

pitiable wardrobe, the blue shirt and the grey, the stained trousers,

and the muddy coat. A gaunt chaff-cutting machine stood at his head, and

a great bin of the chaff behind it. He lay very quiet, still dumb, still

uncomplaining, his eyes fixed upon the small square window looking out

at the drifting sky, and at this strange world which God has made so

queerly--so very queerly.

An old woman, the wife of a labourer, had been set to nurse him, for the

doctor had said that he was not to be left. She moved about the room,

arranging and ordering, grumbling to herself from time to time at this

lonely task which had been assigned to her. There were some flowers in

broken jars upon a cross-beam, and these, with a touch of tenderness,

she carried over and arranged upon a deal packing-case beside the

patient’s head. He lay motionless, and as he breathed there came a

gritty rubbing sound from somewhere in his side, but he followed his

companion about with his eyes and even smiled once as she grouped the

flowers round him.

He smiled again when he heard that Mrs. Foster and her daughter had been

to ask after him that evening. They had been down to the Post Office

together, where Dolly had sent off a letter which she had very carefully

drawn up, addressed to Elias Mason, Esq., and explaining to that

gentleman that she had formed her plans for life, and that he need spare

himself the pain of coming for his answer on the Saturday. As they came

back they stopped in the stable and inquired through the loft door as

to the sufferer. From where they stood they could hear that horrible

grating sound in his breathing. Dolly hurried away with her face quite

pale under her freckles. She was too young to face the horrid details of

suffering, and yet she was a year older than this poor waif, who lay in

silence, facing death itself.

All night he lay very quiet--so quiet that were it not for that one

sinister sound his nurse might have doubted whether life was still in

him. She had watched him and tended him as well as she might, but she

was herself feeble and old, and just as the morning light began to steal

palely through the small loft window, she sank back in her chair in a

dreamless sleep. Two hours passed, and the first voices of the men as

they gathered for their work aroused her. She sprang to her feet.

Great heaven! the pallet was empty. She rushed down into the stables,

distracted, wringing her hands. There was no sign of him. But the stable

door was open. He must have walked-but how could he walk?--he must have

crawled--have writhed that way. Out she rushed, and as they heard her

tale, the newly risen labourers ran with her, until the farmer with his

wife and daughter were called from their breakfast by the bustle, and

joined also in this strange chase. A whoop, a cry, and they were drawn

round to the corner of the yard on which Miss Dolly’s window opened.

There he lay within a few yards of the window, his face upon the stones,

his feet thrusting out from his tattered night-gown, and his track

marked by the blood from his wounded knees. One hand was thrown out

before him, and in it he held a little sprig of the pink dog-rose.

They carried him back, cold and stiff, to the pallet in the loft, and

the old nurse drew the sheet over him and left him, for there was no

need to watch him now. The girl had gone to her room, and her mother

followed her thither, all unnerved by this glimpse of death.

“And to think,” said she, “that it was only _him_, after all.”

But Dolly sat at the side of her bed, and sobbed bitterly in her apron.

“DE PROFUNDIS”

So long as the oceans are the ligaments which bind together the great

broad-cast British Empire, so long will there be a dash of romance in

our minds. For the soul is swayed by the waters, as the waters are by

the moon, and when the great highways of an empire are along such roads

as these, so full of strange sights and sounds, with danger ever running

like a hedge on either side of the course, it is a dull mind indeed

which does not bear away with it some trace of such a passage. And

now, Britain lies far beyond herself, for the three-mile limit of every

seaboard is her frontier, which has been won by hammer and loom and pick

rather than by arts of war. For it is written in history that neither

king nor army can bar the path to the man who having twopence in his

strong box, and knowing well where he can turn it to threepence, sets

his mind to that one end. And as the frontier has broadened, the mind of

Britain has broadened too, spreading out until all men can see that the

ways of the island are continental, even as those of the Continent are

insular.

But for this a price must be paid, and the price is a grievous one. As

the beast of old must have one young human life as a tribute every year,

so to our Empire we throw from day to day the pick and flower of our

youth. The engine is world-wide and strong, but the only fuel that will

drive it is the lives of British men. Thus it is that in the grey old

cathedrals, as we look round upon the brasses on the walls, we see

strange names, such names as they who reared those walls had never

heard, for it is in Peshawar, and Umballah, and Korti and Fort Pearson

that the youngsters die, leaving only a precedent and a brass behind

them. But if every man had his obelisk, even where he lay, then no

frontier line need be drawn, for a cordon of British graves would ever

show how high the Anglo-Celtic tide had lapped.

This, then, as well as the waters which join us to the world, has done

something to tinge us with romance. For when so many have their loved

ones over the seas, walking amid hillmen’s bullets, or swamp malaria,

where death is sudden and distance great, then mind communes with mind,

and strange stories arise of dream, presentiment or vision, where the

mother sees her dying son, and is past the first bitterness of her grief

ere the message comes which should have broken the news. The learned

have of late looked into the matter and have even labelled it with a

name; but what can we know more of it save that a poor stricken

soul, when hard-pressed and driven, can shoot across the earth some

ten-thousand-mile-distant picture of its trouble to the mind which is

most akin to it. Far be it from me to say that there lies no such power

within us, for of all things which the brain will grasp the last will

be itself; but yet it is well to be very cautious over such matters, for

once at least I have known that which was within the laws of nature seem

to be far upon the further side of them.

John Vansittart was the younger partner of the firm of Hudson and

Vansittart, coffee exporters of the Island of Ceylon, three-quarters

Dutchman by descent, but wholly English in his sympathies. For years I

had been his agent in London, and when in ‘72 he came over to England

for a three months’ holiday, he turned to me for the introductions which

would enable him to see something of town and country life. Armed with

seven letters he left my offices, and for many weeks scrappy notes from

different parts of the country let me know that he had found favour

in the eyes of my friends. Then came word of his engagement to Emily

Lawson, of a cadet branch of the Hereford Lawsons, and at the very tail

of the first flying rumour the news of his absolute marriage, for the

wooing of a wanderer must be short, and the days were already crowding

on towards the date when he must be upon his homeward journey. They

were to return together to Colombo in one of the firm’s own thousand-ton

barque-rigged sailing ships, and this was to be their princely

honeymoon, at once a necessity and a delight.

Those were the royal days of coffee-planting in Ceylon, before a single

season and a rotten fungus drove a whole community through years of

despair to one of the greatest commercial victories which pluck and

ingenuity ever won. Not often is it that men have the heart when their

one great industry is withered to rear up in a few years another as rich

to take its place, and the tea-fields of Ceylon are as true a monument

to courage as is the lion at Waterloo. But in ‘72 there was no cloud

yet above the skyline, and the hopes of the planters were as high and

as bright as the hillsides on which they reared their crops. Vansittart

came down to London with his young and beautiful wife. I was introduced,

dined with them, and it was finally arranged that I, since business

called me also to Ceylon, should be a fellow-passenger with them on the

_Eastern Star_, which was timed to sail on the following Monday.

It was on the Sunday evening that I saw him again. He was shown up

into my rooms about nine o’clock at night, with the air of a man who is

bothered and out of sorts. His hand, as I shook it, was hot and dry.

“I wish, Atkinson,” said he, “that you could give me a little lime juice

and water. I have a beastly thirst upon me, and the more I take the more

I seem to want.”

I rang and ordered a carafe and glasses. “You are flushed,” said I. “You

don’t look the thing.”

“No, I’m clean off colour. Got a touch of rheumatism in my back, and

don’t seem to taste my food. It is this vile London that is choking me.

I’m not used to breathing air which has been used up by four million

lungs all sucking away on every side of you.” He flapped his crooked

hands before his face, like a man who really struggles for his breath.

“A touch of the sea will soon set you right.”

“Yes, I’m of one mind with you there. That’s the thing for me. I want

no other doctor. If I don’t get to sea to-morrow I’ll have an illness.

There are no two ways about it.” He drank off a tumbler of lime juice,

and clapped his two hands with his knuckles doubled up into the small of

his back.

“That seems to ease me,” said he, looking at me with a filmy eye. “Now I

want your help, Atkinson, for I am rather awkwardly placed.”

“As how?”

“This way. My wife’s mother got ill and wired for her. I couldn’t

go--you know best yourself how tied I have been--so she had to go alone.

Now I’ve had another wire to say that she can’t come to-morrow, but that

she will pick up the ship at Falmouth on Wednesday. We put in there,

you know, and in, though I count it hard, Atkinson, that a man should

be asked to believe in a mystery, and cursed if he can’t do it. Cursed,

mind you, no less.” He leaned forward and began to draw a catchy breath

like a man who is poised on the very edge of a sob.

Then first it came to my mind that I had heard much of the hard-drinking

life of the island, and that from brandy came those wild words and

fevered hands. The flushed cheek and the glazing eye were those of one

whose drink is strong upon him. Sad it was to see so noble a young man

in the grip of that most bestial of all the devils.

“You should lie down,” I said, with some severity.

He screwed up his eyes like a man who is striving to wake himself, and

looked up with an air of surprise.

“So I shall presently,” said he, quite rationally. “I felt quite swimmy

just now, but I am my own man again now. Let me see, what was I talking

about? Oh ah, of course, about the wife. She joins the ship at Falmouth.

Now I want to go round by water. I believe my health depends upon it.

I just want a little clean first-lung air to set me on my feet again. I

ask you, like a good fellow, to go to Falmouth by rail, so that in case

we should be late you may be there to look after the wife. Put up at

the Royal Hotel, and I will wire her that you are there. Her sister will

bring her down, so that it will be all plain sailing.”

“I’ll do it with pleasure,” said I. “In fact, I would rather go by

rail, for we shall have enough and to spare of the sea before we reach

Colombo. I believe too that you badly need a change. Now, I should go

and turn in, if I were you.”

“Yes, I will. I sleep aboard tonight. You know,” he continued, as the

film settled down again over his eyes, “I’ve not slept well the last

few nights. I’ve been troubled with theolololog--that is to say,

theolological--hang it,” with a desperate effort, “with the doubts of

theolologicians. Wondering why the Almighty made us, you know, and why

He made our heads swimmy, and fixed little pains into the small of our

backs. Maybe I’ll do better tonight.” He rose and steadied himself with

an effort against the corner of the chair back.

“Look here, Vansittart,” said I, gravely, stepping up to him, and laying

my hand upon his sleeve, “I can give you a shakedown here. You are

not fit to go out. You are all over the place. You’ve been mixing your

drinks.”

“Drinks!” He stared at me stupidly.

“You used to carry your liquor better than this.”

“I give you my word, Atkinson, that I have not had a drain for two days.

It’s not drink. I don’t know what it is. I suppose you think this is

drink.” He took up my hand in his burning grasp, and passed it over his

own forehead.

“Great Lord!” said I.

His skin felt like a thin sheet of velvet beneath which lies a

close-packed layer of small shot. It was smooth to the touch at any one

place, but to a finger passed along it, rough as a nutmeg grater.

“It’s all right,” said he, smiling at my startled face. “I’ve had the

prickly heat nearly as bad.”

“But this is never prickly heat.”

“No, it’s London. It’s breathing bad air. But tomorrow it’ll be all

right. There’s a surgeon aboard, so I shall be in safe hands. I must be

off now.”

“Not you,” said I, pushing him back into a chair. “This is past a joke.

You don’t move from here until a doctor sees you. Just stay where you

are.”

I caught up my hat, and rushing round to the house of a neighbouring

physician, I brought him back with me. The room was empty and Vansittart

gone. I rang the bell. The servant said that the gentleman had ordered a

cab the instant that I had left, and had gone off in it. He had told the

cabman to drive to the docks.

“Did the gentleman seem ill?” I asked.

“Ill!” The man smiled. “No, sir, he was singin’ his ‘ardest all the

time.”

The information was not as reassuring as my servant seemed to think, but

I reflected that he was going straight back to the _Eastern Star_, and

that there was a doctor aboard of her, so that there was nothing which I

could do in the matter. None the less, when I thought of his thirst, his

burning hands, his heavy eye, his tripping speech, and lastly, of that

leprous forehead, I carried with me to bed an unpleasant memory of my

visitor and his visit.

At eleven o’clock next day I was at the docks, but the _Eastern Star_

had already moved down the river, and was nearly at Gravesend. To

Gravesend I went by train, but only to see her topmasts far off, with

a plume of smoke from a tug in front of her. I would hear no more of my

friend until I rejoined him at Falmouth. When I got back to my offices,

a telegram was awaiting me from Mrs. Vansittart, asking me to meet her;

and next evening found us both at the Royal Hotel, Falmouth, where we

were to wait for the _Eastern Star_. Ten days passed, and there came no

news of her.

They were ten days which I am not likely to forget. On the very day that

the _Eastern Star_ had cleared from the Thames, a furious easterly gale

had sprung up, and blew on from day to day for the greater part of a

week without the sign of a lull. Such a screaming, raving, long-drawn

storm has never been known on the southern coast. From our hotel

windows the sea view was all banked in haze, with a little rain-swept

half-circle under our very eyes, churned and lashed into one tossing

stretch of foam. So heavy was the wind upon the waves that little sea

could rise, for the crest of each billow was torn shrieking from it, and

lashed broadcast over the bay. Clouds, wind, sea, all were rushing to

the west, and there, looking down at this mad jumble of elements, I

waited on day after day, my sole companion a white, silent woman, with

terror in her eyes, her forehead pressed ever against the window, her

gaze from early morning to the fall of night fixed upon that wall

of grey haze through which the loom of a vessel might come. She said

nothing, but that face of hers was one long wail of fear.

On the fifth day I took counsel with an old seaman. I should have

preferred to have done so alone, but she saw me speak with him, and was

at our side in an instant, with parted lips and a prayer in her eyes.

“Seven days out from London,” said he, “and five in the gale. Well, the

Channel’s swept clear by this wind. There’s three things for it. She may

have popped into port on the French side. That’s like enough.”

“No, no; he knew we were here. He would have telegraphed.”

“Ah, yes, so he would. Well, then, he might have run for it, and if he

did that he won’t be very far from Madeira by now. That’ll be it, marm,

you may depend.”

“Or else? You said there was a third chance.”

“Did I, marm? No, only two, I think. I don’t think I said anything of a

third. Your ship’s out there, depend upon it, away out in the Atlantic,

and you’ll hear of it time enough, for the weather is breaking. Now

don’t you fret, marm, and wait quiet, and you’ll find a real blue

Cornish sky tomorrow.”

The old seaman was right in his surmise, for the next day broke calm

and bright, with only a low dwindling cloud in the west to mark the last

trailing wreaths of the storm-wrack. But still there came no word from

the sea, and no sign of the ship. Three more weary days had passed, the

weariest that I have ever spent, when there came a seafaring man to the

hotel with a letter. I gave a shout of joy. It was from the captain of

the _Eastern Star_. As I read the first lines of it I whisked my hand

over it, but she laid her own upon it and drew it away. “I have seen

it,” said she, in a cold, quiet voice. “I may as well see the rest,

too.”

“DEAR SIR,” said the letter,

“Mr. Vansittart is down with the small-pox, and we are blown so far

on our course that we don’t know what to do, he being off his head and

unfit to tell us. By dead reckoning we are but three hundred miles from

Funchal, so I take it that it is best that we should push on there,

get Mr. V. into hospital, and wait in the Bay until you come. There’s

a sailing-ship due from Falmouth to Funchal in a few days’ time, as I

understand. This goes by the brig _Marian_ of Falmouth, and five pounds

is due to the master, Yours respectfully,

“JNO. HINES.”

She was a wonderful woman that, only a chit of a girl fresh from school,

but as quiet and strong as a man. She said nothing--only pressed her

lips together tight, and put on her bonnet.

“You are going out?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“Can I be of use?”

“No; I am going to the doctor’s.”

“To the doctor’s?”

“Yes. To learn how to nurse a small-pox case.”

She was busy at that all the evening, and next morning we were off with

a fine ten-knot breeze in the barque _Rose of Sharon_ for Madeira. For

five days we made good time, and were no great way from the island; but

on the sixth there fell a calm, and we lay without motion on a sea of

oil, heaving slowly, but making not a foot of way.

At ten o’clock that night Emily Vansittart and I stood leaning on the

starboard railing of the poop, with a full moon shining at our backs,

and casting a black shadow of the barque, and of our own two heads

upon the shining water. From the shadow a broadening path of moonshine

stretched away to the lonely sky-line, flickering and shimmering in the

gentle heave of the swell. We were talking with bent heads, chatting

of the calm, of the chances of wind, of the look of the sky, when there

came a sudden plop, like a rising salmon, and there, in the clear light,

John Vansittart sprang out of the water and looked up at us.

I never saw anything clearer in my life than I saw that man. The moon

shone full upon him, and he was but three oars’ lengths away. His face

was more puffed than when I had seen him last, mottled here and there

with dark scabs, his mouth and eyes open as one who is struck with

some overpowering surprise. He had some white stuff streaming from his

shoulders, and one hand was raised to his ear, the other crooked across

his breast. I saw him leap from the water into the air, and in the dead

calm the waves of his coming lapped up against the sides of the vessel.

Then his figure sank back into the water again, and I heard a rending,

crackling sound like a bundle of brushwood snapping in the fire on a

frosty night. There were no signs of him when I looked again, but a

swift swirl and eddy on the still sea still marked the spot where he had

been. How long I stood there, tingling to my finger-tips, holding up

an unconscious woman with one hand, clutching at the rail of the vessel

with the other, was more than I could afterwards tell. I had been noted

as a man of-slow and unresponsive emotions, but this time at least I was

shaken to the core. Once and twice I struck my foot upon the deck to be

certain that I was indeed the master of my own senses, and that this was

not some mad prank of an unruly brain. As I stood, still marvelling, the

woman shivered, opened her eyes, gasped, and then standing erect with

her hands upon the rail, looked out over the moonlit sea with a face

which had aged ten years in a summer night.

“You saw his vision?” she murmured.

“I saw something.”

“It was he! It was John! He is dead!”

I muttered some lame words of doubt.

“Doubtless he died at this hour,” she whispered. “In hospital at

Madeira. I have read of such things. His thoughts were with me. His

vision came to me. Oh, my John, my dear, dear, lost John!”

She broke out suddenly into a storm of weeping, and I led her down into

her cabin, where I left her with her sorrow. That night a brisk breeze

blew up from the east, and in the evening of the next day we passed the

two islets of Los Desertos, and dropped anchor at sundown in the Bay

of Funchal. The _Eastern Star_ lay no great distance from us, with the

quarantine flag flying from her main, and her Jack half-way up her peak.

“You see,” said Mrs. Vansittart, quickly. She was dry-eyed now, for she

had known how it would be.

That night we received permission from the authorities to move on board

the _Eastern Star_. The captain, Hines, was waiting upon deck with

confusion and grief contending upon his bluff face as he sought for

words with which to break this heavy tidings, but she took the story

from his lips.

“I know that my husband is dead,” she said. “He died yesterday night,

about ten o’clock, in hospital at Madeira, did he not?”

The seaman stared aghast. “No, marm, he died eight days ago at sea, and

we had to bury him out there, for we lay in a belt of calm, and could

not say when we might make the land.”

Well, those are the main facts about the death of John Vansittart, and

his appearance to his wife somewhere about lat. 35 N. and long. 15 W. A

clearer case of a wraith has seldom been made out, and since then it has

been told as such, and put into print as such, and endorsed by a learned

society as such, and so floated off with many others to support the

recent theory of telepathy. For myself, I hold telepathy to be proved,

but I would snatch this one case from amid the evidence, and say that

I do not think that it was the wraith of John Vansittart, but John

Vansittart himself whom we saw that night leaping into the moonlight

out of the depths of the Atlantic. It has ever been my belief that some

strange chance--one of those chances which seem so improbable and yet so

constantly occur--had becalmed us over the very spot where the man had

been buried a week before. For the rest, the surgeon tells me that the

leaden weight was not too firmly fixed, and that seven days bring about

changes which fetch a body to the surface. Coming from the depth to

which the weight would have sunk it, he explains that it might well

attain such a velocity as to carry it clear of the water. Such is my

own explanation of the matter, and if you ask me what then became of

the body, I must recall to you that snapping, crackling sound, with the

swirl in the water. The shark is a surface feeder and is plentiful in

those parts.

THE GREAT BROWN-PERICORD MOTOR

It was a cold, foggy, dreary evening in May. Along the Strand blurred

patches of light marked the position of the lamps. The flaring shop

windows flickered vaguely with steamy brightness through the thick and

heavy atmosphere.

The high lines of houses which lead down to the Embankment were all

dark and deserted, or illuminated only by the glimmering lamp of the

caretaker. At one point, however, there shone out from three windows

upon the second floor a rich flood of light, which broke the sombre

monotony of the terrace. Passers-by glanced up curiously, and drew each

other’s attention to the ruddy glare, for it marked the chambers of

Francis Pericord, the inventor and electrical engineer. Long into the

watches of the night the gleam of his lamps bore witness to the untiring

energy and restless industry which was rapidly carrying him to the first

rank in his profession.

Within the chamber sat two men. The one was Pericord himself--hawk-faced

and angular, with the black hair and brisk bearing which spoke of his

Celtic origin. The other--thick, sturdy, and blue-eyed--was Jeremy

Brown, the well-known mechanician. They had been partners in many an

invention, in which the creative genius of the one had been aided by the

practical abilities of the other. It was a question among their friends

as to which was the better man.

It was no chance visit which had brought Brown into Pericord’s workshop

at so late an hour. Business was to be done--business which was to

decide the failure or success of months of work, and which might affect

their whole careers. Between them lay a long brown table, stained and

corroded by strong acids, and littered with giant carboys, Faure’s

accumulators, voltaic piles, coils of wire, and great blocks of

non-conducting porcelain. In the midst of all this lumber there stood

a singular whizzing, whirring machine, upon which the eyes of both

partners were riveted.

A small square metal receptacle was connected by numerous wires to

a broad steel girdle, furnished on either side with two powerful

projecting joints. The girdle was motionless, but the joints with the

short arms attached to them flashed round every few seconds, with

a pause between each rhythmic turn. The power which moved them came

evidently from the metal box. A subtle odour of ozone was in the air.

“How about the flanges, Brown?” asked the inventor.

“They were too large to bring. They are seven foot by three. There is

power enough there to work them, however. I will answer for that.”

“Aluminium with an alloy of copper?”

“Yes.”

“See how beautifully it works.” Pericord stretched out a thin, nervous

hand, and pressed a button upon the machine. The joints revolved more

slowly, and came presently to a dead stop. Again he touched a spring and

the arms shivered and woke up again into their crisp metallic life. “The

experimenter need not exert his muscular powers,” he remarked. “He has

only to be passive, and use his intelligence.”

“Thanks to my motor,” said Brown.

“_Our_ motor,” the other broke in sharply.

“Oh, of course,” said his colleague impatiently.

“The motor which you thought of, and which I reduced to practice--call

it what you like.”

“I call it the Brown-Pericord Motor,” cried the inventor with an angry

flash of his dark eyes. “You worked out the details, but the abstract

thought is mine, and mine alone.”

“An abstract thought won’t turn an engine,” said Brown, doggedly.

“That was why I took you into partnership,” the other retorted, drumming

nervously with his fingers upon the table. “I invent, you build. It is a

fair division of labour.”

Brown pursed up his lips, as though by no means satisfied upon the

point. Seeing, however, that further argument was useless, he turned

his attention to the machine, which was shivering and rocking with each

swing of its arms, as though a very little more would send it skimming

from the table.

“Is it not splendid?” cried Pericord.

“It is satisfactory,” said the more phlegmatic Anglo-Saxon.

“There’s immortality in it!”

“There’s money in it!”

“Our names will go down with Montgolfier’s.”

“With Rothschild’s, I hope.”

“No, no, Brown; you take too material a view,” cried the inventor,

raising his gleaming eyes from the machine to his companion. “Our

fortunes are a mere detail. Money is a thing which every heavy-witted

plutocrat in the country shares with us. My hopes rise to something

higher than that. Our true reward will come in the gratitude and

goodwill of the human race.”

Brown shrugged his shoulders. “You may have my share of that,” he said.

“I am a practical man. We must test our invention.”

“Where can we do it?”

“That is what I wanted to speak about. It must be absolutely secret. If

we had private grounds of our own it would be an easy matter, but there

is no privacy in London.”

“We must take it into the country.”

“I have a suggestion to offer,” said Brown. “My brother has a place in

Sussex on the high land near Beachy Head. There is, I remember, a large

and lofty barn near the house. Will is in Scotland, but the key is

always at my disposal. Why not take the machine down tomorrow and test

it in the barn?”

“Nothing could be better.”

“There is a train to Eastbourne at one.”

“I shall be at the station.”

“Bring the gear with you, and I will bring the flanges,” said the

mechanician, rising. “Tomorrow will prove whether we have been following

a shadow, or whether fortune is at our feet. One o’clock at Victoria.”

He walked swiftly down the stair and was quickly reabsorbed into the

flood of comfortless clammy humanity which ebbed and flowed along the

Strand.

The morning was bright and spring-like. A pale blue sky arched over

London, with a few gauzy white clouds drifting lazily across it. At

eleven o’clock Brown might have been seen entering the Patent Office

with a great roll of parchment, diagrams, and plans under his arm. At

twelve he emerged again smiling, and, opening his pocket-book, he packed

away very carefully a small slip of official blue paper. At five minutes

to one his cab rolled into Victoria Station. Two giant canvas-covered

parcels, like enormous kites, were handed down by the cabman from the

top, and consigned to the care of a guard. On the platform Pericord was

pacing up and down, with long eager step and swinging arms, a tinge of

pink upon his sunken and sallow cheeks.

“All right?” he asked.

Brown pointed in answer to his baggage.

“I have the motor and the girdle already packed away in the guard’s van.

Be careful, guard, for it is delicate machinery of great value. So! Now

we can start with an easy conscience.”

At Eastbourne the precious motor was carried to a four-wheeler, and the

great flanges hoisted on the top. A long drive took them to the house

where the keys were kept, whence they set off across the barren Downs.

The building which was their destination was a commonplace white-washed

structure, with straggling stables and out-houses, standing in a grassy

hollow which sloped down from the edge of the chalk cliffs. It was a

cheerless house even when in use, but now with its smokeless chimneys

and shuttered windows it looked doubly dreary. The owner had planted a

grove of young larches and firs around it, but the sweeping spray had

blighted them, and they hung their withered heads in melancholy groups.

It was a gloomy and forbidding spot.

But the inventors were in no mood to be moved by such trifles. The

lonelier the place, the more fitted for their purpose. With the help of

the cabman they carried their packages down the footpath, and laid them

in the darkened dining-room. The sun was setting as the distant murmur

of wheels told them that they were finally alone.

Pericord had thrown open the shutters and the mellow evening light

streamed in through the discoloured windows. Brown drew a knife from his

pocket and cut the pack-thread with which the canvas was secured. As the

brown covering fell away it disclosed two great yellow metal fans. These

he leaned carefully against the wall. The girdle, the connecting-bands,

and the motor were then in turn unpacked. It was dark before all was set

out in order. A lamp was lit, and by its light the two men continued to

tighten screws, clinch rivets, and make the last preparations for their

experiment.

“That finishes it,” said Brown at last, stepping back and surveying the

machine.

Pericord said nothing, but his face glowed with pride and expectation.

“We must have something to eat,” Brown remarked, laying out some

provisions which he had brought with him.

“Afterwards.”

“No, now,” said the stolid mechanician. “I am half starved.” He pulled

up to the table and made a hearty meal, while his Celtic companion

strode impatiently up and down, with twitching fingers and restless

eyes.

“Now then,” said Brown, facing round, and brushing the crumbs from his

lap, “who is to put it on?”

“I shall,” cried his companion eagerly. “What we do to-night is likely

to be historic.”

“But there is some danger,” suggested Brown. “We cannot quite tell how

it may act.”

“That is nothing,” said Pericord, with a wave of his hand.

“But there is no use our going out of our way to incur danger.”

“What then? One of us must do it.”

“Not at all. The motor would act equally well if attached to any

inanimate object.”

“That is true,” said Pericord, thoughtfully.

“There are bricks by the barn. I have a sack here. Why should not a

bagful of them take your place?”

“It is a good idea. I see no objection.”

“Come on then,” and the two sallied out, bearing with them the various

sections of their machine. The moon was shining cold and clear though

an occasional ragged cloud drifted across her face. All was still and

silent upon the Downs. They stood and listened before they entered the

barn, but not a sound came to their ears, save the dull murmur of the

sea and the distant barking of a dog. Pericord journeyed backwards and

forwards with all that they might need, while Brown filled a long narrow

sack with bricks.

When all was ready, the door of the barn was closed, and the lamp

balanced upon an empty packing-case. The bag of bricks was laid upon

two trestles, and the broad steel girdle was buckled round it. Then the

great flanges, the wires, and the metal box containing the motor were

in turn attached to the girdle. Last of all a flat steel rudder, shaped

like a fish’s tail, was secured to the bottom of the sack.

“We must make it travel in a small circle,” said Pericord, glancing

round at the bare high walls.

“Tie the rudder down at one side,” suggested Brown. “Now it is ready.

Press the connection and off she goes!”

Pericord leaned forward, his long sallow face quivering with excitement.

His white nervous hands darted here and there among the wires. Brown

stood impassive with critical eyes. There was a sharp burr from the

machine. The huge yellow wings gave a convulsive flap. Then another.

Then a third, slower and stronger, with a fuller sweep. Then a fourth

which filled the barn with a blast of driven air. At the fifth the bag

of bricks began to dance upon the trestles. At the sixth it sprang into

the air, and would have fallen to the ground, but the seventh came to

save it, and fluttered it forward through the air. Slowly rising, it

flapped heavily round in a circle, like some great clumsy bird, filling

the barn with its buzzing and whirring. In the uncertain yellow light

of the single lamp it was strange to see the loom of the ungainly thing,

flapping off into the shadows, and then circling back into the narrow

zone of light.

The two men stood for a while in silence. Then Pericord threw his long

arms up into the air.

“It acts!” he cried. “The Brown-Pericord Motor acts!” He danced about

like a madman in his delight. Brown’s eyes twinkled, and he began to

whistle.

“See how smoothly it goes, Brown!” cried the inventor. “And the

rudder--how well it acts! We must register it tomorrow.”

His comrade’s face darkened and set. “It _is_ registered,” he said, with

a forced laugh.

“Registered?” said Pericord. “Registered?” He repeated the word first in

a whisper, and then in a kind of scream. “Who has dared to register my

invention?”

“I did it this morning. There is nothing to be excited about. It is all

right.”

“You registered the motor! Under whose name?”

“Under my own,” said Brown, sullenly. “I consider that I have the best

right to it.”

“And my name does not appear?”

“No, but--”

“You villain!” screamed Pericord. “You thief and villain! You would

steal my work! You would filch my credit! I will have that patent back

if I have to tear your throat out!” A sombre fire burned in his black

eyes, and his hands writhed themselves together with passion. Brown was

no coward, but he shrank back as the other advanced upon him.

“Keep your hands off!” he said, drawing a knife from his pocket. “I will

defend myself if you attack me.”

“You threaten me?” cried Pericord, whose face was livid with anger. “You

are a bully as well as a cheat. Will you give up the patent?”

“No, I will not.”

“Brown, I say, give it up!”

“I will not. I did the work.”

Pericord sprang madly forward with blazing eyes and clutching fingers.

His companion writhed out of his grasp, but was dashed against the

packing-case, over which he fell. The lamp was extinguished, and the

whole barn plunged into darkness. A single ray of moonlight shining

through a narrow chink flickered over the great waving fans as they came

and went.

“Will you give up the patent, Brown?”

There was no answer.

“Will you give it up?”

Again no answer. Not a sound save the humming and creaking overhead.

A cold pang of fear and doubt struck through Pericord’s heart. He felt

aimlessly about in the dark and his fingers closed upon a hand. It was

cold and unresponsive. With all his anger turned to icy horror he struck

a match, set the lamp up, and lit it.

Brown lay huddled up on the other side of the packing-case. Pericord

seized him in his arms, and with convulsive strength lifted him across.

Then the mystery of his silence was explained. He had fallen with his

right arms doubled up under him, and his own weight had driven the knife

deeply into his body. He had died without a groan. The tragedy had been

sudden, horrible, and complete.

Pericord sat silently on the edge of the case, staring blankly down, and

shivering like one with the ague, while the great Brown-Pericord Motor

boomed and hurtled above him. How long he sat there can never be known.

It might have been minutes or it might have been hours. A thousand mad

schemes flashed through his dazed brain. It was true that he had been

only the indirect cause. But who would believe that? He glanced down at

his blood-spattered clothing. Everything was against him. It would be

better to fly than to give himself up, relying upon his innocence. No

one in London knew where they were. If he could dispose of the body he

might have a few days clear before any suspicion would be aroused.

Suddenly a loud crash recalled him to himself. The flying sack had

gradually risen with each successive circle until it had struck against

the rafters. The blow displaced the connecting-gear, and the machine

fell heavily to the ground. Pericord undid the girdle. The motor was

uninjured. A sudden strange thought flashed upon him as he looked at it.

The machine had become hateful to him. He might dispose both of it and

the body in a way that would baffle all human search.

He threw open the barn door, and carried his companion out into the

moonlight. There was a hillock outside, and on the summit of this he

laid him reverently down. Then he brought from the barn the motor, the

girdle and the flanges. With trembling fingers he fastened the broad

steel belt round the dead man’s waist. Then he screwed the wings into

the sockets. Beneath he slung the motor-box, fastened the wires, and

switched on the connection. For a minute or two the huge yellow fans

flapped and flickered. Then the body began to move in little jumps down

the side of the hillock, gathering a gradual momentum, until at last it

heaved up into the air and soared off in the moonlight. He had not used

the rudder, but had turned the head for the south. Gradually the weird

thing rose higher, and sped faster, until it had passed over the line of

cliff, and was sweeping over the silent sea. Pericord watched it with

a white drawn face, until it looked like a black bird with golden wings

half shrouded in the mist which lay over the waters.

In the New York State Lunatic Asylum there is a wild-eyed man whose name

and birth-place are alike unknown. His reason has been unseated by some

sudden shock, the doctors say, though of what nature they are unable to

determine. “It is the most delicate machine which is most readily put

out of gear,” they remark, and point, in proof of their axiom, to the

complicated electric engines, and remarkable aeronautic machines which

the patient is fond of devising in his more lucid moments.

THE TERROR OF BLUE JOHN GAP

The following narrative was found among the papers of Dr. James

Hardcastle, who died of phthisis on February 4th, 1908, at 36, Upper

Coventry Flats, South Kensington. Those who knew him best, while

refusing to express an opinion upon this particular statement, are

unanimous in asserting that he was a man of a sober and scientific turn

of mind, absolutely devoid of imagination, and most unlikely to invent

any abnormal series of events. The paper was contained in an envelope,

which was docketed, “A Short Account of the Circumstances which occurred

near Miss Allerton’s Farm in North-West Derbyshire in the Spring of Last

Year.” The envelope was sealed, and on the other side was written in

pencil--

DEAR SEATON,--

“It may interest, and perhaps pain you, to know that the incredulity

with which you met my story has prevented me from ever opening my mouth

upon the subject again. I leave this record after my death, and perhaps

strangers may be found to have more confidence in me than my friend.”

Inquiry has failed to elicit who this Seaton may have been. I may add

that the visit of the deceased to Allerton’s Farm, and the general

nature of the alarm there, apart from his particular explanation, have

been absolutely established. With this foreword I append his account

exactly as he left it. It is in the form of a diary, some entries in

which have been expanded, while a few have been erased.

April 17.--Already I feel the benefit of this wonderful upland air.

The farm of the Allertons lies fourteen hundred and twenty feet above

sea-level, so it may well be a bracing climate. Beyond the usual morning

cough I have very little discomfort, and, what with the fresh milk and

the home-grown mutton, I have every chance of putting on weight. I think

Saunderson will be pleased.

The two Miss Allertons are charmingly quaint and kind, two dear little

hard-working old maids, who are ready to lavish all the heart which

might have gone out to husband and to children upon an invalid stranger.

Truly, the old maid is a most useful person, one of the reserve forces

of the community. They talk of the superfluous woman, but what would

the poor superfluous man do without her kindly presence? By the way,

in their simplicity they very quickly let out the reason why Saunderson

recommended their farm. The Professor rose from the ranks himself, and

I believe that in his youth he was not above scaring crows in these very

fields.

It is a most lonely spot, and the walks are picturesque in the extreme.

The farm consists of grazing land lying at the bottom of an irregular

valley. On each side are the fantastic limestone hills, formed of rock

so soft that you can break it away with your hands. All this country is

hollow. Could you strike it with some gigantic hammer it would boom like

a drum, or possibly cave in altogether and expose some huge subterranean

sea. A great sea there must surely be, for on all sides the streams run

into the mountain itself, never to reappear. There are gaps everywhere

amid the rocks, and when you pass through them you find yourself in

great caverns, which wind down into the bowels of the earth. I have a

small bicycle lamp, and it is a perpetual joy to me to carry it into

these weird solitudes, and to see the wonderful silver and black effect

when I throw its light upon the stalactites which drape the lofty roofs.

Shut off the lamp, and you are in the blackest darkness. Turn it on, and

it is a scene from the Arabian Nights.

But there is one of these strange openings in the earth which has a

special interest, for it is the handiwork, not of nature, but of man. I

had never heard of Blue John when I came to these parts. It is the name

given to a peculiar mineral of a beautiful purple shade, which is only

found at one or two places in the world. It is so rare that an ordinary

vase of Blue John would be valued at a great price. The Romans, with

that extraordinary instinct of theirs, discovered that it was to be

found in this valley, and sank a horizontal shaft deep into the mountain

side. The opening of their mine has been called Blue John Gap, a

clean-cut arch in the rock, the mouth all overgrown with bushes. It is

a goodly passage which the Roman miners have cut, and it intersects some

of the great water-worn caves, so that if you enter Blue John Gap you

would do well to mark your steps and to have a good store of candles, or

you may never make your way back to the daylight again. I have not

yet gone deeply into it, but this very day I stood at the mouth of the

arched tunnel, and peering down into the black recesses beyond, I vowed

that when my health returned I would devote some holiday to exploring

those mysterious depths and finding out for myself how far the Roman had

penetrated into the Derbyshire hills.

Strange how superstitious these countrymen are! I should have thought

better of young Armitage, for he is a man of some education and

character, and a very fine fellow for his station in life. I was

standing at the Blue John Gap when he came across the field to me.

“Well, doctor,” said he, “you’re not afraid, anyhow.”

“Afraid!” I answered. “Afraid of what?”

“Of it,” said he, with a jerk of his thumb towards the black vault, “of

the Terror that lives in the Blue John Cave.”

How absurdly easy it is for a legend to arise in a lonely countryside! I

examined him as to the reasons for his weird belief. It seems that from

time to time sheep have been missing from the fields, carried bodily

away, according to Armitage. That they could have wandered away of their

own accord and disappeared among the mountains was an explanation to

which he would not listen. On one occasion a pool of blood had been

found, and some tufts of wool. That also, I pointed out, could be

explained in a perfectly natural way. Further, the nights upon which

sheep disappeared were invariably very dark, cloudy nights with no moon.

This I met with the obvious retort that those were the nights which a

commonplace sheep-stealer would naturally choose for his work. On one

occasion a gap had been made in a wall, and some of the stones scattered

for a considerable distance. Human agency again, in my opinion. Finally,

Armitage clinched all his arguments by telling me that he had actually

heard the Creature--indeed, that anyone could hear it who remained long

enough at the Gap. It was a distant roaring of an immense volume.

I could not but smile at this, knowing, as I do, the strange

reverberations which come out of an underground water system running

amid the chasms of a limestone formation. My incredulity annoyed

Armitage, so that he turned and left me with some abruptness.

And now comes the queer point about the whole business. I was still

standing near the mouth of the cave turning over in my mind the various

statements of Armitage, and reflecting how readily they could be

explained away, when suddenly, from the depth of the tunnel beside me,

there issued a most extraordinary sound. How shall I describe it? First

of all it seemed to be a great distance away, far down in the bowels

of the earth. Secondly, in spite of this suggestion of distance, it was

very loud. Lastly, it was not a boom, nor a crash, such as one would

associate with falling water or tumbling rock, but it was a high whine,

tremulous and vibrating, almost like the whinnying of a horse. It was

certainly a most remarkable experience, and one which for a moment, I

must admit, gave a new significance to Armitage’s words. I waited by the

Blue John Gap for half an hour or more, but there was no return of the

sound, so at last I wandered back to the farmhouse, rather mystified

by what had occurred. Decidedly I shall explore that cavern when my

strength is restored. Of course, Armitage’s explanation is too absurd

for discussion, and yet that sound was certainly very strange. It still

rings in my ears as I write.

April 20.--In the last three days I have made several expeditions to

the Blue John Gap, and have even penetrated some short distance, but my

bicycle lantern is so small and weak that I dare not trust myself very

far. I shall do the thing more systematically. I have heard no sound

at all, and could almost believe that I had been the victim of some

hallucination, suggested, perhaps, by Armitage’s conversation. Of

course, the whole idea is absurd, and yet I must confess that those

bushes at the entrance of the cave do present an appearance as if some

heavy creature had forced its way through them. I begin to be keenly

interested. I have said nothing to the Miss Allertons, for they are

quite superstitious enough already, but I have bought some candles, and

mean to investigate for myself.

I observed this morning that among the numerous tufts of sheep’s wool

which lay among the bushes near the cavern there was one which was

smeared with blood. Of course, my reason tells me that if sheep wander

into such rocky places they are likely to injure themselves, and yet

somehow that splash of crimson gave me a sudden shock, and for a moment

I found myself shrinking back in horror from the old Roman arch. A fetid

breath seemed to ooze from the black depths into which I peered. Could

it indeed be possible that some nameless thing, some dreadful presence,

was lurking down yonder? I should have been incapable of such feelings

in the days of my strength, but one grows more nervous and fanciful when

one’s health is shaken.

For the moment I weakened in my resolution, and was ready to leave the

secret of the old mine, if one exists, for ever unsolved. But tonight my

interest has returned and my nerves grown more steady. Tomorrow I trust

that I shall have gone more deeply into this matter.

April 22.--Let me try and set down as accurately as I can my

extraordinary experience of yesterday. I started in the afternoon, and

made my way to the Blue John Gap. I confess that my misgivings returned

as I gazed into its depths, and I wished that I had brought a companion

to share my exploration. Finally, with a return of resolution, I lit my

candle, pushed my way through the briars, and descended into the rocky

shaft.

It went down at an acute angle for some fifty feet, the floor being

covered with broken stone. Thence there extended a long, straight

passage cut in the solid rock. I am no geologist, but the lining of this

corridor was certainly of some harder material than limestone, for there

were points where I could actually see the tool-marks which the old

miners had left in their excavation, as fresh as if they had been done

yesterday. Down this strange, old-world corridor I stumbled, my feeble

flame throwing a dim circle of light around me, which made the shadows

beyond the more threatening and obscure. Finally, I came to a spot where

the Roman tunnel opened into a water-worn cavern--a huge hall, hung with

long white icicles of lime deposit. From this central chamber I could

dimly perceive that a number of passages worn by the subterranean

streams wound away into the depths of the earth. I was standing there

wondering whether I had better return, or whether I dare venture farther

into this dangerous labyrinth, when my eyes fell upon something at my

feet which strongly arrested my attention.

The greater part of the floor of the cavern was covered with boulders

of rock or with hard incrustations of lime, but at this particular point

there had been a drip from the distant roof, which had left a patch

of soft mud. In the very centre of this there was a huge mark--an

ill-defined blotch, deep, broad and irregular, as if a great boulder had

fallen upon it. No loose stone lay near, however, nor was there anything

to account for the impression. It was far too large to be caused by any

possible animal, and besides, there was only the one, and the patch of

mud was of such a size that no reasonable stride could have covered it.

As I rose from the examination of that singular mark and then looked

round into the black shadows which hemmed me in, I must confess that I

felt for a moment a most unpleasant sinking of my heart, and that, do

what I could, the candle trembled in my outstretched hand.

I soon recovered my nerve, however, when I reflected how absurd it was

to associate so huge and shapeless a mark with the track of any known

animal. Even an elephant could not have produced it. I determined,

therefore, that I would not be scared by vague and senseless fears from

carrying out my exploration. Before proceeding, I took good note of

a curious rock formation in the wall by which I could recognize the

entrance of the Roman tunnel. The precaution was very necessary, for

the great cave, so far as I could see it, was intersected by passages.

Having made sure of my position, and reassured myself by examining

my spare candles and my matches, I advanced slowly over the rocky and

uneven surface of the cavern.

And now I come to the point where I met with such sudden and desperate

disaster. A stream, some twenty feet broad, ran across my path, and I

walked for some little distance along the bank to find a spot where I

could cross dry-shod. Finally, I came to a place where a single flat

boulder lay near the centre, which I could reach in a stride. As it

chanced, however, the rock had been cut away and made top-heavy by the

rush of the stream, so that it tilted over as I landed on it and shot

me into the ice-cold water. My candle went out, and I found myself

floundering about in utter and absolute darkness.

I staggered to my feet again, more amused than alarmed by my adventure.

The candle had fallen from my hand, and was lost in the stream, but I

had two others in my pocket, so that it was of no importance. I got one

of them ready, and drew out my box of matches to light it. Only then

did I realize my position. The box had been soaked in my fall into the

river. It was impossible to strike the matches.

A cold hand seemed to close round my heart as I realized my position.

The darkness was opaque and horrible. It was so utter that one put one’s

hand up to one’s face as if to press off something solid. I stood still,

and by an effort I steadied myself. I tried to reconstruct in my mind a

map of the floor of the cavern as I had last seen it. Alas! the bearings

which had impressed themselves upon my mind were high on the wall, and

not to be found by touch. Still, I remembered in a general way how the

sides were situated, and I hoped that by groping my way along them I

should at last come to the opening of the Roman tunnel. Moving very

slowly, and continually striking against the rocks, I set out on this

desperate quest.

But I very soon realized how impossible it was. In that black, velvety

darkness one lost all one’s bearings in an instant. Before I had made a

dozen paces, I was utterly bewildered as to my whereabouts. The rippling

of the stream, which was the one sound audible, showed me where it lay,

but the moment that I left its bank I was utterly lost. The idea

of finding my way back in absolute darkness through that limestone

labyrinth was clearly an impossible one.

I sat down upon a boulder and reflected upon my unfortunate plight. I

had not told anyone that I proposed to come to the Blue John mine, and

it was unlikely that a search party would come after me. Therefore I

must trust to my own resources to get clear of the danger. There was

only one hope, and that was that the matches might dry. When I fell into

the river, only half of me had got thoroughly wet. My left shoulder had

remained above the water. I took the box of matches, therefore, and put

it into my left armpit. The moist air of the cavern might possibly be

counteracted by the heat of my body, but even so, I knew that I could

not hope to get a light for many hours. Meanwhile there was nothing for

it but to wait.

By good luck I had slipped several biscuits into my pocket before I

left the farm-house. These I now devoured, and washed them down with

a draught from that wretched stream which had been the cause of all my

misfortunes. Then I felt about for a comfortable seat among the rocks,

and, having discovered a place where I could get a support for my

back, I stretched out my legs and settled myself down to wait. I

was wretchedly damp and cold, but I tried to cheer myself with the

reflection that modern science prescribed open windows and walks in all

weather for my disease. Gradually, lulled by the monotonous gurgle of

the stream, and by the absolute darkness, I sank into an uneasy slumber.

How long this lasted I cannot say. It may have been for an hour, it may

have been for several. Suddenly I sat up on my rock couch, with every

nerve thrilling and every sense acutely on the alert. Beyond all doubt

I had heard a sound--some sound very distinct from the gurgling of the

waters. It had passed, but the reverberation of it still lingered in my

ear. Was it a search party? They would most certainly have shouted, and

vague as this sound was which had wakened me, it was very distinct from

the human voice. I sat palpitating and hardly daring to breathe.

There it was again! And again! Now it had become continuous. It was a

tread--yes, surely it was the tread of some living creature. But what a

tread it was! It gave one the impression of enormous weight carried upon

sponge-like feet, which gave forth a muffled but ear-filling sound.

The darkness was as complete as ever, but the tread was regular and

decisive. And it was coming beyond all question in my direction.

My skin grew cold, and my hair stood on end as I listened to that steady

and ponderous footfall. There was some creature there, and surely by the

speed of its advance, it was one which could see in the dark. I crouched

low on my rock and tried to blend myself into it. The steps grew nearer

still, then stopped, and presently I was aware of a loud lapping and

gurgling. The creature was drinking at the stream. Then again there was

silence, broken by a succession of long sniffs and snorts of tremendous

volume and energy. Had it caught the scent of me? My own nostrils were

filled by a low fetid odour, mephitic and abominable. Then I heard the

steps again. They were on my side of the stream now. The stones rattled

within a few yards of where I lay. Hardly daring to breathe, I crouched

upon my rock. Then the steps drew away. I heard the splash as it

returned across the river, and the sound died away into the distance in

the direction from which it had come.

For a long time I lay upon the rock, too much horrified to move. I

thought of the sound which I had heard coming from the depths of the

cave, of Armitage’s fears, of the strange impression in the mud, and

now came this final and absolute proof that there was indeed some

inconceivable monster, something utterly unearthly and dreadful, which

lurked in the hollow of the mountain. Of its nature or form I could

frame no conception, save that it was both light-footed and gigantic.

The combat between my reason, which told me that such things could not

be, and my senses, which told me that they were, raged within me as I

lay. Finally, I was almost ready to persuade myself that this experience

had been part of some evil dream, and that my abnormal condition

might have conjured up an hallucination. But there remained one final

experience which removed the last possibility of doubt from my mind.

I had taken my matches from my armpit and felt them. They seemed

perfectly hard and dry. Stooping down into a crevice of the rocks, I

tried one of them. To my delight it took fire at once. I lit the candle,

and, with a terrified backward glance into the obscure depths of the

cavern, I hurried in the direction of the Roman passage. As I did so

I passed the patch of mud on which I had seen the huge imprint. Now I

stood astonished before it, for there were three similar imprints upon

its surface, enormous in size, irregular in outline, of a depth which

indicated the ponderous weight which had left them. Then a great terror

surged over me. Stooping and shading my candle with my hand, I ran in a

frenzy of fear to the rocky archway, hastened up it, and never stopped

until, with weary feet and panting lungs, I rushed up the final slope of

stones, broke through the tangle of briars, and flung myself exhausted

upon the soft grass under the peaceful light of the stars. It was

three in the morning when I reached the farm-house, and today I am all

unstrung and quivering after my terrific adventure. As yet I have told

no one. I must move warily in the matter. What would the poor lonely

women, or the uneducated yokels here think of it if I were to tell them

my experience? Let me go to someone who can understand and advise.

April 25.--I was laid up in bed for two days after my incredible

adventure in the cavern. I use the adjective with a very definite

meaning, for I have had an experience since which has shocked me almost

as much as the other. I have said that I was looking round for someone

who could advise me. There is a Dr. Mark Johnson who practices some

few miles away, to whom I had a note of recommendation from Professor

Saunderson. To him I drove, when I was strong enough to get about, and I

recounted to him my whole strange experience. He listened intently, and

then carefully examined me, paying special attention to my reflexes and

to the pupils of my eyes. When he had finished, he refused to discuss

my adventure, saying that it was entirely beyond him, but he gave me

the card of a Mr. Picton at Castleton, with the advice that I should

instantly go to him and tell him the story exactly as I had done

to himself. He was, according to my adviser, the very man who was

pre-eminently suited to help me. I went on to the station, therefore,

and made my way to the little town, which is some ten miles away.

Mr. Picton appeared to be a man of importance, as his brass plate was

displayed upon the door of a considerable building on the outskirts of

the town. I was about to ring his bell, when some misgiving came into my

mind, and, crossing to a neighbouring shop, I asked the man behind the

counter if he could tell me anything of Mr. Picton. “Why,” said he, “he

is the best mad doctor in Derbyshire, and yonder is his asylum.” You can

imagine that it was not long before I had shaken the dust of Castleton

from my feet and returned to the farm, cursing all unimaginative pedants

who cannot conceive that there may be things in creation which have

never yet chanced to come across their mole’s vision. After all,

now that I am cooler, I can afford to admit that I have been no more

sympathetic to Armitage than Dr. Johnson has been to me.

April 27. When I was a student I had the reputation of being a man of

courage and enterprise. I remember that when there was a ghost-hunt at

Coltbridge it was I who sat up in the haunted house. Is it advancing

years (after all, I am only thirty-five), or is it this physical malady

which has caused degeneration? Certainly my heart quails when I think

of that horrible cavern in the hill, and the certainty that it has some

monstrous occupant. What shall I do? There is not an hour in the day

that I do not debate the question. If I say nothing, then the mystery

remains unsolved. If I do say anything, then I have the alternative of

mad alarm over the whole countryside, or of absolute incredulity which

may end in consigning me to an asylum. On the whole, I think that my

best course is to wait, and to prepare for some expedition which shall

be more deliberate and better thought out than the last. As a first

step I have been to Castleton and obtained a few essentials--a large

acetylene lantern for one thing, and a good double-barrelled sporting

rifle for another. The latter I have hired, but I have bought a dozen

heavy game cartridges, which would bring down a rhinoceros. Now I am

ready for my troglodyte friend. Give me better health and a little spate

of energy, and I shall try conclusions with him yet. But who and what is

he? Ah! there is the question which stands between me and my sleep.

How many theories do I form, only to discard each in turn! It is all

so utterly unthinkable. And yet the cry, the footmark, the tread in

the cavern--no reasoning can get past these. I think of the old-world

legends of dragons and of other monsters. Were they, perhaps, not such

fairy-tales as we have thought? Can it be that there is some fact which

underlies them, and am I, of all mortals, the one who is chosen to

expose it?

May 3.--For several days I have been laid up by the vagaries of an

English spring, and during those days there have been developments, the

true and sinister meaning of which no one can appreciate save myself.

I may say that we have had cloudy and moonless nights of late,

which according to my information were the seasons upon which sheep

disappeared. Well, sheep _have_ disappeared. Two of Miss Allerton’s, one

of old Pearson’s of the Cat Walk, and one of Mrs. Moulton’s. Four in

all during three nights. No trace is left of them at all, and the

countryside is buzzing with rumours of gipsies and of sheep-stealers.

But there is something more serious than that. Young Armitage has

disappeared also. He left his moorland cottage early on Wednesday night

and has never been heard of since. He was an unattached man, so there is

less sensation than would otherwise be the case. The popular explanation

is that he owes money, and has found a situation in some other part of

the country, whence he will presently write for his belongings. But

I have grave misgivings. Is it not much more likely that the recent

tragedy of the sheep has caused him to take some steps which may have

ended in his own destruction? He may, for example, have lain in wait

for the creature and been carried off by it into the recesses of the

mountains. What an inconceivable fate for a civilized Englishman of the

twentieth century! And yet I feel that it is possible and even probable.

But in that case, how far am I answerable both for his death and for

any other mishap which may occur? Surely with the knowledge I already

possess it must be my duty to see that something is done, or if

necessary to do it myself. It must be the latter, for this morning I

went down to the local police-station and told my story. The inspector

entered it all in a large book and bowed me out with commendable

gravity, but I heard a burst of laughter before I had got down his

garden path. No doubt he was recounting my adventure to his family.

June 10.--I am writing this, propped up in bed, six weeks after my last

entry in this journal. I have gone through a terrible shock both to mind

and body, arising from such an experience as has seldom befallen a human

being before. But I have attained my end. The danger from the Terror

which dwells in the Blue John Gap has passed never to return. Thus much

at least I, a broken invalid, have done for the common good. Let me now

recount what occurred as clearly as I may.

The night of Friday, May 3rd, was dark and cloudy--the very night for

the monster to walk. About eleven o’clock I went from the farm-house

with my lantern and my rifle, having first left a note upon the table

of my bedroom in which I said that, if I were missing, search should be

made for me in the direction of the Gap. I made my way to the mouth of

the Roman shaft, and, having perched myself among the rocks close to the

opening, I shut off my lantern and waited patiently with my loaded rifle

ready to my hand.

It was a melancholy vigil. All down the winding valley I could see

the scattered lights of the farm-houses, and the church clock of

Chapel-le-Dale tolling the hours came faintly to my ears. These tokens

of my fellow-men served only to make my own position seem the more

lonely, and to call for a greater effort to overcome the terror which

tempted me continually to get back to the farm, and abandon for ever

this dangerous quest. And yet there lies deep in every man a rooted

self-respect which makes it hard for him to turn back from that which

he has once undertaken. This feeling of personal pride was my salvation

now, and it was that alone which held me fast when every instinct of my

nature was dragging me away. I am glad now that I had the strength. In

spite of all that is has cost me, my manhood is at least above reproach.

Twelve o’clock struck in the distant church, then one, then two. It was

the darkest hour of the night. The clouds were drifting low, and there

was not a star in the sky. An owl was hooting somewhere among the rocks,

but no other sound, save the gentle sough of the wind, came to my ears.

And then suddenly I heard it! From far away down the tunnel came those

muffled steps, so soft and yet so ponderous. I heard also the rattle of

stones as they gave way under that giant tread. They drew nearer.

They were close upon me. I heard the crashing of the bushes round the

entrance, and then dimly through the darkness I was conscious of the

loom of some enormous shape, some monstrous inchoate creature, passing

swiftly and very silently out from the tunnel. I was paralysed with fear

and amazement. Long as I had waited, now that it had actually come I was

unprepared for the shock. I lay motionless and breathless, whilst the

great dark mass whisked by me and was swallowed up in the night.

But now I nerved myself for its return. No sound came from the sleeping

countryside to tell of the horror which was loose. In no way could I

judge how far off it was, what it was doing, or when it might be back.

But not a second time should my nerve fail me, not a second time should

it pass unchallenged. I swore it between my clenched teeth as I laid my

cocked rifle across the rock.

And yet it nearly happened. There was no warning of approach now as the

creature passed over the grass. Suddenly, like a dark, drifting shadow,

the huge bulk loomed up once more before me, making for the entrance of

the cave. Again came that paralysis of volition which held my crooked

forefinger impotent upon the trigger. But with a desperate effort I

shook it off. Even as the brushwood rustled, and the monstrous beast

blended with the shadow of the Gap, I fired at the retreating form.

In the blaze of the gun I caught a glimpse of a great shaggy mass,

something with rough and bristling hair of a withered grey colour,

fading away to white in its lower parts, the huge body supported upon

short, thick, curving legs. I had just that glance, and then I heard the

rattle of the stones as the creature tore down into its burrow. In an

instant, with a triumphant revulsion of feeling, I had cast my fears to

the wind, and uncovering my powerful lantern, with my rifle in my hand,

I sprang down from my rock and rushed after the monster down the old

Roman shaft.

My splendid lamp cast a brilliant flood of vivid light in front of me,

very different from the yellow glimmer which had aided me down the

same passage only twelve days before. As I ran, I saw the great beast

lurching along before me, its huge bulk filling up the whole space from

wall to wall. Its hair looked like coarse faded oakum, and hung down

in long, dense masses which swayed as it moved. It was like an enormous

unclipped sheep in its fleece, but in size it was far larger than the

largest elephant, and its breadth seemed to be nearly as great as its

height. It fills me with amazement now to think that I should have dared

to follow such a horror into the bowels of the earth, but when one’s

blood is up, and when one’s quarry seems to be flying, the old primeval

hunting-spirit awakes and prudence is cast to the wind. Rifle in hand, I

ran at the top of my speed upon the trail of the monster.

I had seen that the creature was swift. Now I was to find out to my

cost that it was also very cunning. I had imagined that it was in panic

flight, and that I had only to pursue it. The idea that it might turn

upon me never entered my excited brain. I have already explained that

the passage down which I was racing opened into a great central cave.

Into this I rushed, fearful lest I should lose all trace of the beast.

But he had turned upon his own traces, and in a moment we were face to

face.

That picture, seen in the brilliant white light of the lantern, is

etched for ever upon my brain. He had reared up on his hind legs as a

bear would do, and stood above me, enormous, menacing--such a creature

as no nightmare had ever brought to my imagination. I have said that

he reared like a bear, and there was something bear-like--if one could

conceive a bear which was ten-fold the bulk of any bear seen upon

earth--in his whole pose and attitude, in his great crooked forelegs

with their ivory-white claws, in his rugged skin, and in his red, gaping

mouth, fringed with monstrous fangs. Only in one point did he differ

from the bear, or from any other creature which walks the earth, and

even at that supreme moment a shudder of horror passed over me as I

observed that the eyes which glistened in the glow of my lantern were

huge, projecting bulbs, white and sightless. For a moment his great paws

swung over my head. The next he fell forward upon me, I and my broken

lantern crashed to the earth, and I remember no more.

When I came to myself I was back in the farm-house of the Allertons.

Two days had passed since my terrible adventure in the Blue John Gap. It

seems that I had lain all night in the cave insensible from concussion

of the brain, with my left arm and two ribs badly fractured. In the

morning my note had been found, a search party of a dozen farmers

assembled, and I had been tracked down and carried back to my bedroom,

where I had lain in high delirium ever since. There was, it seems, no

sign of the creature, and no bloodstain which would show that my bullet

had found him as he passed. Save for my own plight and the marks upon

the mud, there was nothing to prove that what I said was true.

Six weeks have now elapsed, and I am able to sit out once more in the

sunshine. Just opposite me is the steep hillside, grey with shaly rock,

and yonder on its flank is the dark cleft which marks the opening of

the Blue John Gap. But it is no longer a source of terror. Never again

through that ill-omened tunnel shall any strange shape flit out into the

world of men. The educated and the scientific, the Dr. Johnsons and the

like, may smile at my narrative, but the poorer folk of the countryside

had never a doubt as to its truth. On the day after my recovering

consciousness they assembled in their hundreds round the Blue John Gap.

As the _Castleton Courier_ said:

“It was useless for our correspondent, or for any of the adventurous

gentlemen who had come from Matlock, Buxton, and other parts, to offer

to descend, to explore the cave to the end, and to finally test the

extraordinary narrative of Dr. James Hardcastle. The country people had

taken the matter into their own hands, and from an early hour of the

morning they had worked hard in stopping up the entrance of the tunnel.

There is a sharp slope where the shaft begins, and great boulders,

rolled along by many willing hands, were thrust down it until the

Gap was absolutely sealed. So ends the episode which has caused such

excitement throughout the country. Local opinion is fiercely

divided upon the subject. On the one hand are those who point to Dr.

Hardcastle’s impaired health, and to the possibility of cerebral lesions

of tubercular origin giving rise to strange hallucinations. Some _idee

fixe_, according to these gentlemen, caused the doctor to wander down

the tunnel, and a fall among the rocks was sufficient to account for his

injuries. On the other hand, a legend of a strange creature in the

Gap has existed for some months back, and the farmers look upon

Dr. Hardcastle’s narrative and his personal injuries as a final

corroboration. So the matter stands, and so the matter will continue

to stand, for no definite solution seems to us to be now possible. It

transcends human wit to give any scientific explanation which could

cover the alleged facts.”

Perhaps before the _Courier_ published these words they would have been

wise to send their representative to me. I have thought the matter out,

as no one else has occasion to do, and it is possible that I might

have removed some of the more obvious difficulties of the narrative and

brought it one degree nearer to scientific acceptance. Let me then write

down the only explanation which seems to me to elucidate what I know to

my cost to have been a series of facts. My theory may seem to be

wildly improbable, but at least no one can venture to say that it is

impossible.

My view is--and it was formed, as is shown by my diary, before my

personal adventure--that in this part of England there is a vast

subterranean lake or sea, which is fed by the great number of streams

which pass down through the limestone. Where there is a large collection

of water there must also be some evaporation, mists or rain, and a

possibility of vegetation. This in turn suggests that there may be

animal life, arising, as the vegetable life would also do, from those

seeds and types which had been introduced at an early period of the

world’s history, when communication with the outer air was more easy.

This place had then developed a fauna and flora of its own, including

such monsters as the one which I had seen, which may well have been the

old cave-bear, enormously enlarged and modified by its new environment.

For countless aeons the internal and the external creation had kept

apart, growing steadily away from each other. Then there had come some

rift in the depths of the mountain which had enabled one creature to

wander up and, by means of the Roman tunnel, to reach the open air. Like

all subterranean life, it had lost the power of sight, but this had no

doubt been compensated for by nature in other directions. Certainly it

had some means of finding its way about, and of hunting down the sheep

upon the hillside. As to its choice of dark nights, it is part of my

theory that light was painful to those great white eyeballs, and that it

was only a pitch-black world which it could tolerate. Perhaps, indeed,

it was the glare of my lantern which saved my life at that awful moment

when we were face to face. So I read the riddle. I leave these facts

behind me, and if you can explain them, do so; or if you choose to doubt

them, do so. Neither your belief nor your incredulity can alter them,

nor affect one whose task is nearly over.

So ended the strange narrative of Dr. James Hardcastle.