My body and senses slept, for I was utterly tired, but my brain all the
night was on fire with horrid fancies. Again I was in that accursed
cave; I was torturing my hands in the fire; I was slipping barefoot
among jagged boulders; and then with bursting heart I was toiling the
last mile with the cottage light--now grown to a great fire in the
heavens--blazing before me.
It was broad daylight when I awoke, and I thanked God for the
comfortable rays of the sun. I had been laid in a box-bed off the inner
room, and my first sight was the shepherd sitting with folded arms in a
chair regarding me solemnly. I rose and began to dress, feeling my legs
and arms still tremble with weariness. The shepherd's sister bound up my
scarred wrists and put an ointment on my burns; and, limping like an old
man, I went into the kitchen.
I could eat little breakfast, for my throat seemed dry and narrow; but
they gave me some brandy-and-milk, which put strength into my body. All
the time the brother and sister sat in silence, regarding me with covert
glances.
"Ye have been delivered from the jaws o' the Pit," said the man at
length. "See that," and he held out to me a thin shaft of flint. "I fand
that in the door this morning."
I took it, let it drop, and stared vacantly at the window. My nerves had
been too much tried to be roused by any new terror. Out of doors it was
fair weather, flying gleams of April sunlight and the soft colours of
spring. I felt dazed, isolated, cut off from my easy past and pleasing
future, a companion of horrors and the sport of nameless things. Then
suddenly my eye fell on my books heaped on a table, and the old distant
civilisation seemed for the moment inexpressibly dear.
"I must go--at once. And you must come too. You cannot stay here. I tell
you it is death. If you knew what I know you would be crying out with
fear. How far is it to Allermuir? Eight, fifteen miles; and then ten
down Glen Aller to Allerfoot, and then the railway. We must go together
while it is daylight, and perhaps we may be untouched. But quick, there
is not a moment to lose." And I was on my shaky feet, and bustling among
my possessions.
"I'll gang wi' ye to the station," said the shepherd, "for ye're clearly
no fit to look after yourself. My sister will bide and keep the house.
If naething has touched us this ten year, naething will touch us the
day."
"But you cannot stay. You are mad," I began; but he cut me short with
the words, "I trust in God."
"In any case let your sister come with us. I dare not think of a woman
alone in this place."
"I'll bide," said she. "I'm no feared as lang as I'm indoors and there's
steeks on the windies."
So I packed my few belongings as best I could, tumbled my books into a
haversack, and, gripping the shepherd's arm nervously, crossed the
threshold. The glen was full of sunlight. There lay the long shining
links of the Farawa burn, the rough hills tumbled beyond, and far over
all the scarred and distant forehead of the Muneraw. I had always
looked on moorland country as the freshest on earth--clean, wholesome,
and homely. But now the fresh uplands seemed like a horrible pit. When I
looked to the hills my breath choked in my throat, and the feel of soft
heather below my feet set my heart trembling.
It was a slow journey to the inn at Allermuir. For one thing, no power
on earth would draw me within sight of the shieling of Carrickfey, so we
had to cross a shoulder of hill and make our way down a difficult glen,
and then over a treacherous moss. The lochs were now gleaming like
fretted silver; but to me, in my dreadful knowledge, they seemed more
eerie than on that grey day when I came. At last my eyes were cheered by
the sight of a meadow and a fence; then we were on a little byroad; and
soon the fir-woods and corn-lands of Allercleuch were plain before us.
The shepherd came no farther, but with brief good-bye turned his solemn
face hillwards. I hired a trap and a man to drive, and down the ten
miles of Glen Aller I struggled to keep my thoughts from the past. I
thought of the kindly South Country, of Oxford, of anything comfortable
and civilised. My driver pointed out the objects of interest as in duty
bound, but his words fell on unheeding ears. At last he said something
which roused me indeed to interest--the interest of the man who hears
the word he fears most in the world. On the left side of the river there
suddenly sprang into view a long gloomy cleft in the hills, with a vista
of dark mountains behind, down which a stream of considerable size
poured its waters.
"That is the Water o' Dule," said the man in a reverent voice. "A graund
water to fish, but dangerous to life, for it's a' linns. Awa' at the
heid they say there's a terrible wild place called the Scarts o'
Muneraw,--that's a shouther o' the muckle hill itsel' that ye see,--but
I've never been there, and I never kent ony man that had either."
At the station, which is a mile from the village of Allerfoot, I found I
had some hours to wait on my train for the south. I dared not trust
myself for one moment alone, so I hung about the goods-shed, talked
vacantly to the porters, and when one went to the village for tea I
accompanied him, and to his wonder entertained him at the inn. When I
returned I found on the platform a stray bagman who was that evening
going to London. If there is one class of men in the world which I
heartily detest it is this; but such was my state that I hailed him as a
brother, and besought his company. I paid the difference for a
first-class fare, and had him in the carriage with me. He must have
thought me an amiable maniac, for I talked in fits and starts, and when
he fell asleep I would wake him up and beseech him to speak to me. At
wayside stations I would pull down the blinds in case of recognition,
for to my unquiet mind the world seemed full of spies sent by that
terrible Folk of the Hills. When the train crossed a stretch of moor I
would lie down on the seat in case of shafts fired from the heather. And
then at last with utter weariness I fell asleep, and woke screaming
about midnight to find myself well down in the cheerful English
midlands, and red blast-furnaces blinking by the railwayside.
In the morning I breakfasted in my rooms at St Chad's with a dawning
sense of safety. I was in a different and calmer world. The lawn-like
quadrangles, the great trees, the cawing of rooks, and the homely
twitter of sparrows--all seemed decent and settled and pleasing. Indoors
the oak-panelled walls, the shelves of books, the pictures, the faint
fragrance of tobacco, were very different from the gimcrack adornments
and the accursed smell of peat and heather in that deplorable cottage.
It was still vacation-time, so most of my friends were down; but I spent
the day hunting out the few cheerful pedants to whom term and vacation
were the same. It delighted me to hear again their precise talk, to hear
them make a boast of their work, and narrate the childish little
accidents of their life. I yearned for the childish once more; I craved
for women's drawing-rooms, and women's chatter, and everything which
makes life an elegant game. God knows I had had enough of the other
thing for a lifetime!
That night I shut myself in my rooms, barred my windows, drew my
curtains, and made a great destruction. All books or pictures which
recalled to me the moorlands were ruthlessly doomed. Novels, poems,
treatises I flung into an old box, for sale to the second-hand
bookseller. Some prints and water-colour sketches I tore to pieces with
my own hands. I ransacked my fishing-book, and condemned all tackle for
moorland waters to the flames. I wrote a letter to my solicitors,
bidding them go no further in the purchase of a place in Lorn I had long
been thinking of. Then, and not till then, did I feel the bondage of the
past a little loosed from my shoulders. I made myself a night-cap of
rum-punch instead of my usual whisky-toddy, that all associations with
that dismal land might be forgotten, and to complete the renunciation I
returned to cigars and flung my pipe into a drawer.
But when I woke in the morning I found that it is hard to get rid of
memories. My feet were still sore and wounded, and when I felt my arms
cramped and reflected on the causes, there was that black memory always
near to vex me.
In a little term began, and my duties--as deputy-professor of Northern
Antiquities--were once more clamorous. I can well believe that my
hearers found my lectures strange, for instead of dealing with my
favourite subjects and matters, which I might modestly say I had made my
own, I confined myself to recondite and distant themes, treating even
these cursorily and dully. For the truth is, my heart was no more in my
subject. I hated--or I thought that I hated--all things Northern with
the virulence of utter fear. My reading was confined to science of the
most recent kind, to abstruse philosophy, and to foreign classics.
Anything which savoured of romance or mystery was abhorrent; I pined
for sharp outlines and the tangibility of a high civilisation.
All the term I threw myself into the most frivolous life of the place.
My Harrow schooldays seemed to have come back to me. I had once been a
fair cricketer, so I played again for my college, and made decent
scores. I coached an indifferent crew on the river. I fell into the
slang of the place, which I had hitherto detested. My former friends
looked on me askance, as if some freakish changeling had possessed me.
Formerly I had been ready for pedantic discussion, I had been absorbed
in my work, men had spoken of me as a rising scholar. Now I fled the
very mention of things I had once delighted in. The Professor of
Northern Antiquities, a scholar of European reputation, meeting me once
in the Parks, embarked on an account of certain novel rings recently
found in Scotland, and to his horror found that, when he had got well
under weigh, I had slipped off unnoticed. I heard afterwards that the
good old man was found by a friend walking disconsolately with bowed
head in the middle of the High Street. Being rescued from among the
horses' feet, he could only murmur, "I am thinking of Graves, poor man!
And a year ago he was as sane as I am!"
* * * * * * *
But a man may not long deceive himself. I kept up the illusion valiantly
for the term; but I felt instinctively that the fresh schoolboy life,
which seemed to me the extreme opposite to the ghoulish North, and as
such the most desirable of things, was eternally cut off from me. No
cunning affectation could ever dispel my real nature or efface the
memory of a week. I realised miserably that sooner or latter I must
fight it out with my conscience. I began to call myself a coward. The
chief thoughts of my mind began to centre themselves more and more round
that unknown life waiting to be explored among the wilds.
One day I met a friend--an official in the British Museum--who was full
of some new theory about primitive habitations. To me it seemed
inconceivably absurd; but he was strong in his confidence, and without
flaw in his evidence. The man irritated me, and I burned to prove him
wrong, but I could think of no argument which was final against his.
Then it flashed upon me that my own experience held the disproof; and
without more words I left him, hot, angry with myself, and tantalised
by the unattainable.
I might relate my _bona-fide_ experience, but would men believe me? I
must bring proofs, I must complete my researches, so as to make them
incapable of disbelief. And there in those deserts was waiting the key.
There lay the greatest discovery of the century--nay, of the millennium.
There, too, lay the road to wealth such as I had never dreamed of. Could
I succeed, I should be famous for ever. I would revolutionise history
and anthropology; I would systematise folk-lore; I would show the world
of men the pit whence they were digged and the rock whence they were
hewn.
And then began a game of battledore between myself and my conscience.
"You are a coward," said my conscience.
"I am sufficiently brave," I would answer. "I have seen things and yet
lived. The terror is more than mortal, and I cannot face it."
"You are a coward," said my conscience.
"I am not bound to go there again. It would be purely for my own
aggrandisement if I went, and not for any matter of duty."
"Nevertheless you are a coward," said my conscience.
"In any case the matter can wait."
"You are a coward."
* * * * * * *
Then came one awful midsummer night, when I lay sleepless and fought the
thing out with myself. I knew that the strife was hopeless, that I
should have no peace in this world again unless I made the attempt. The
dawn was breaking when I came to the final resolution; and when I rose
and looked at my face in a mirror, lo! it was white and lined and drawn
like a man of sixty.