Jenner Brading, attorney-at-law, lived in a cottage at the edge of the
town. Directly behind the dwelling was the forest. Being a bachelor, and
therefore, by the Draconian moral code of the time and place denied the
services of the only species of domestic servant known thereabout, the
"hired girl," he boarded at the village hotel, where also was his
office. The woodside cottage was merely a lodging maintained--at no
great cost, to be sure--as an evidence of prosperity and respectability.
It would hardly do for one to whom the local newspaper had pointed with
pride as "the foremost jurist of his time" to be "homeless," albeit he
may sometimes have suspected that the words "home" and "house" were not
strictly synonymous. Indeed, his consciousness of the disparity and his
will to harmonize it were matters of logical inference, for it was
generally reported that soon after the cottage was built its owner had
made a futile venture in the direction of marriage--had, in truth, gone
so far as to be rejected by the beautiful but eccentric daughter of Old
Man Marlowe, the recluse. This was publicly believed because he had told
it himself and she had not--a reversal of the usual order of things
which could hardly fail to carry conviction.
Brading's bedroom was at the rear of the house, with a single window
facing the forest.
One night he was awakened by a noise at that window; he could hardly
have said what it was like. With a little thrill of the nerves he sat up
in bed and laid hold of the revolver which, with a forethought most
commendable in one addicted to the habit of sleeping on the ground floor
with an open window, he had put under his pillow. The room was in
absolute darkness, but being unterrified he knew where to direct his
eyes, and there he held them, awaiting in silence what further might
occur. He could now dimly discern the aperture--a square of lighter
black. Presently there appeared at its lower edge two gleaming eyes that
burned with a malignant lustre inexpressibly terrible! Brading's heart
gave a great jump, then seemed to stand still. A chill passed along his
spine and through his hair; he felt the blood forsake his cheeks. He
could not have cried out--not to save his life; but being a man of
courage he would not, to save his life, have done so if he had been
able. Some trepidation his coward body might feel, but his spirit was of
sterner stuff. Slowly the shining eyes rose with a steady motion that
seemed an approach, and slowly rose Brading's right hand, holding the
pistol. He fired!
Blinded by the flash and stunned by the report, Brading nevertheless
heard, or fancied that he heard, the wild, high scream of the panther,
so human in sound, so devilish in suggestion. Leaping from the bed he
hastily clothed himself and, pistol in hand, sprang from the door,
meeting two or three men who came running up from the road. A brief
explanation was followed by a cautious search of the house. The grass
was wet with dew; beneath the window it had been trodden and partly
leveled for a wide space, from which a devious trail, visible in the
light of a lantern, led away into the bushes. One of the men stumbled
and fell upon his hands, which as he rose and rubbed them together were
slippery. On examination they were seen to be red with blood.
An encounter, unarmed, with a wounded panther was not agreeable to their
taste; all but Brading turned back. He, with lantern and pistol, pushed
courageously forward into the wood. Passing through a difficult
undergrowth he came into a small opening, and there his courage had its
reward, for there he found the body of his victim. But it was no
panther. What it was is told, even to this day, upon a weather-worn
headstone in the village churchyard, and for many years was attested
daily at the graveside by the bent figure and sorrow-seamed face of Old
Man Marlowe, to whose soul, and to the soul of his strange, unhappy
child, peace. Peace and reparation.