_In Guy Fallon’s Garden_
MRS. KONTOROMPA. What an _ex_quisite day! How do you do?
MARIANA. How do you do? Yes, isn’t it?
GUY. We’ve been talking, Katya.
KATYA. Yes?... I think the fuchsias are better than ever this year,
don’t you, mamma?
MRS. K. Yes, darling. Oh, Katya, I _am_ so pleased.
KATYA. How nice, mamma! I like you to be happy. But what has happened?
MRS. K. Oh--er--nothing. Nothing that I know of. But Guy has promised
to....
MARIANA. I’m afraid I must be really going now, Katya, dear.
MRS. K. Oh, don’t run away just because I’ve come.
MARIANA. Oh, Mrs. Kontorompa, it wasn’t that. But, you see....
KATYA. Mariana feels embarrassed.
MARIANA. Oh--no, dear: why should I?
GUY. You felt that mamma was going to say something.
MRS. K. Yes--that’s quite right. You’ve reminded me. Katya, I was going
to say that Guy has promised to....
GUY. To do my best to....
MRS. K. Win you over.
KATYA. Me? Win _me_ over? To what?
GUY. Bars on the window--a wicket-gate on the landing.
KATYA. But I _am_ won over. I always have been.
MRS. K. Then it _is_ your fault, Guy.
GUY. If I’d only known! You see, you never told me.
MARIANA. How mysterious all this sounds.
MRS. K. Well, Mariana, this is how it stands. You see, Guy and Katya
have been married three years and....
MARIANA. Oh yes: quite. _I_ understand. _Good_-bye, Mrs. Kontorompa.
Good-bye, Katya. Goo....
GUY. _Really_, mamma.
KATYA. _Really_, mamma.
MRS. K. Oh, dear, dear! What _have_ I said?
KATYA. Ah, here’s tea coming!
MRS. K. Oh, I can’t stop. I must hurry home and tell papa the good news.
So _very_ satisfactory! These modern times--the things people _do_.
Don’t they, dear?
MARIANA. And don’t do, too.
MRS. K. Yes. Well, Guy, I keep you to your word. I shall expect to hear
some news shortly. Good-bye, dear Katya. _So_ satisfactory. Take care of
yourself, dear.
GUY. Why, what has happened, Katya?
KATYA. Nothing. Mother merely anticipates.
NERVES
To
Sieveking Pollard
When Dr. Julian Sylvester arrived at Doiran, he took a room at the house
of Draco’s mother, and his mule was put to grass in the fields behind
the town. Draco, rather shy, but hot with curiosity, carried his baggage
upstairs--a large trunk, six wooden boxes clamped with iron, and a small
sack of provisions. Placing these on the floor against the wall, he
turned to leave, but stopped when Sylvester called him.
“You speak Greek, eh?” asked the doctor.
“Yes, sir, and Bulgarian as well.”
“Well, I’m going to stay here a week--see? And I want you to get me a
young and strong guide--a man who knows the country--every yard of it.
I’m collecting butterflies and taking photographs.”
Draco’s face lit up and shone.
“See here--this is the kind of thing,” said Sylvester, going down on his
knees and opening one of the wooden boxes with a key he took from his
pocket. “By the way, what is your name?”
“Draco.”
“Draco--right. Well, mine is Sylvester.”
“Xilvesta?”
“That’s near enough. Now, Draco, look at these bottles. Butterflies--all
butterflies, see? And here are some photographs I took outside Salonika.
I want more butterflies, more photographs. Ten drachmæ a day for the man
who’ll come with me and show me where to find what I want.”
“I’ll come, sir.”
“Will you? Yes, I think you’ll do. You look strong enough.”
Draco was dark and bronzed and tall. He had quick, restless eyes, and a
smile that said: “How fine it is to be alive!”
“Well, that’s a bargain, see?” said Sylvester. “We’ll start to-morrow at
six.”
If ever there was a man made for the open air, that man was Draco. He
accepted his mother’s cottage as one of the unavoidable evils of life.
And he was a born hunter. His eyes swallowed everything, and his quick
elastic step was as graceful as the walk of a thoroughbred. His mind was
stored with facts. To look at his eager face with its large, vehement
eyes and sensitive mouth--all so desperately alive--was to receive the
impression that here was a man who, even in his sleep, could never be
entirely at rest. The sun, one felt, was in his blood. He was as
unstable and fluid as quicksilver.
Sylvester took to him at once, and in their day-long walks over the
lonely, uninhabited mountains he learned many curious things from the
man who, engaged as a servant, at once became a friend.
It was during one of these walks that, peering over a precipitous cliff,
they saw a golden eagle standing on a ledge below them. They lay
watching it for a long time, the almost vertical sun smiting their prone
bodies.
“Its nest is sure to be somewhere near, Draco. I would give a hundred
drachmæ to get a photograph of the female sitting on her eggs.”
“That _is_ the female,” said Draco, who was examining the bird through
Sylvester’s field-glasses.
Presently, the great bird rose, flapped its heavy, bright wings, and
flew upwards until it had reached a ledge thirty feet below the two
watchers. There, just visible, was its nest.
“Ah!” breathed Sylvester, drawing himself away, and sitting down well
out of sight of the eagle. “Can it be done, Draco? Can we get down to
her?”
Draco was still looking down at the bird, his face alive with
excitement. He stayed there a long time. When, at length, he joined
Sylvester, his face and bared chest and arms were covered with sweat. He
pressed his hands to his forehead.
“Yes, it can be done. But we shall want ropes. I could climb down with
the camera, fix it up a yard or two from the nest, return here and pull
up the rope. After that, it’s simply a matter of waiting for her to
settle again. The only thing is--have you got enough tubing? I reckon
you’ll want about thirty-five feet.”
“Oh yes: I’ve plenty of tubing. It’s a great find this, Draco. If only
we can pull it off, see? Now, what do you say?--shall we leave it till
to-morrow, or go back home now, get our ropes and tubing, and come back
this evening an hour or so before sunset?”
“Just as you like. But this evening would be a splendid time; for we
shall then have the sun shining straight on the nest.”
As he spoke, he again pressed his hands against his forehead. He licked
his lips with the tip of his tongue.
“You look a bit overwrought, Draco. Are you feeling all right?”
“Well, it’s my eyes. The sun has got into them. My head aches a bit--but
it’s nothing.”
They made their way down the hot, broken rocks until they saw Doiran,
white and gleaming, at their feet. Beyond was the wonderful blue lake,
and beyond the lake rose the Belashitza Mountains cutting the sky with
their fanged crests.
“How wonderful it is!” exclaimed Sylvester.
Draco gazed on the scene with his swollen pupils.
“Yes,” he agreed. “I never, never get tired of it. I was born down
there.”
It was now midday and the sun was at its hottest. The atmosphere danced
before them liquidly. No birds sang, for it was Pan’s hour. The sun had
smitten that world to silence.
Five hours later they were again climbing the mountains. Draco’s head
was one intolerable ache, but he made no complaint. He had been like
this before; it would soon pass.
But when they had nearly reached their destination, he was compelled to
stop and lie down in the shade of a rock.
“You are feverish, Draco, see?” said Sylvester. “You really ought not to
have come out a second time. You’ve got a touch of the sun. Look here:
we’ll go back and come again to-morrow.”
“No,” said Draco, “no.”
And he tried to rise; but, his legs crumpling up beneath the weight of
his body, he fell down and lay full-length on the bare rock.
Sylvester sat down by his side, took off his coat, folded it into a
pillow, and placed it beneath Draco’s head.
For half an hour they remained in silence; then:
“I feel better now,” said Draco.
“Good. But you mustn’t go any farther. Do you feel fit to walk back?”
“You go alone--to the nest, I mean. Can you climb down the rope and up
again?”
“Oh yes: I’ve done that sort of thing many a time.”
“Well, you go alone. I’ll wait here until you return. As soon as it gets
cool I shall feel much better. You are bound to come this way on your
way back.”
“Very well, I’ll do that. Sure you’re well enough to be left alone?”
Draco, his eyes large and bloodshot, glanced at his companion and
laughed.
“Of course. This is not the first time I’ve been left alone in the
mountains.”
Sylvester disappeared round the corner, and Draco, closing his eyes,
soon fell asleep. He breathed heavily, and for two hours he did not
move. The air grew cooler, and the sun was lurching fantastically behind
the mountain-tops when he awoke. The pain had gone, but he awoke with an
acute feeling of apprehension. For a moment or two, he could not
remember where he was or how he came to be there. Then, remembering
Sylvester,
“It’s time he was back,” he said to himself.
He looked at the sun: in an hour it would be dark.
Scrambling to his feet, he hastened up the mountain, his heart beating
rapidly with a fear that he had never felt for himself. He blamed
himself for allowing Sylvester to go alone, for, after all, it was a job
for two men. Increasing his pace every minute, he reached the place,
breathless and alarmed.
The rope was there. One end of it was securely fastened round a boulder.
Lying down at the edge of the cliff, Draco peered over and saw the other
end of the rope resting on the ledge; by its side was the camera. But
there was no sign of Sylvester.
Seized by panic, Draco shouted into the chasm below.
“Dr. Sylvester! Dr. Sylvester!”
But the great spaces swallowed up the sound of his voice. A vulture swam
past him and disappeared. Again he called and, straining, listened. No
answer. No sound. Almost mad with a fear that crawled into his very
vitals, he shouted again and again without pause.
Dark blue shadows crept out of the rocks; the purple sky darkened. He
could no longer see the ledge below him.
It was then that his nerves conquered him and he became their victim.
He rose and, running, retraced his steps. Anxiety made havoc of his
reason. If only he knew the worst! Almost blindly he ran, but instinct
and knowledge guided him.
Half-way down the mountains he pulled himself up suddenly. He had
thought himself incapable of further suffering, but now he felt a pain
like a fretted blade sawing at his brain. Why, they would say that he
had murdered Sylvester! Who would believe his story? Would even his
mother believe it? It was as clear as the sun. He had taken Sylvester up
into the mountains, had robbed him, and then thrown him over the cliff!
His body would never be found in those inaccessible heights!
He stood, chilled and trembling. Oh, God! if he only _knew_!
Then reason left him. He scrambled hither and thither on the rocks on
hands and knees, calling “Sylvester! Sylvester!” as he went. His hands
and knees were bleeding, and something like blood seemed to be washing
about within his brain. Occasionally, he stopped with exhaustion, but on
each occasion before he had got back his breath he started again, saying
aloud: “I must waste no time. Where is he? Where is he?”
The inhumanly human cry of jackals desolated the night. He paused and
imitated them. Then, having scrambled faster and faster in the dark, he
lay full-length, his airless lungs seeming to be about to burst open his
great, hairy chest.
The pale-green dawn came up the sky and washed the rocks with its
colour. Looking around him he saw close at hand the rope by which
Sylvester had climbed down the face of the cliff. The place seemed
friendly: here he could find release.
He stepped to the edge of the cliff and looked down. A faint mist
clouded the hollow below where his companion was lying. For a moment he
swayed, and then, with a start, drew back. He tried to totter over the
brink, but could not. Something held him back--fear!
With an effort he fixed his mind on death and on the desire for death.
And again he tried to let his body go. But it hung stupidly back: he had
a coward’s body.
He would try another way. Having walked fifty paces away from the
cliff’s edge, he turned about and began to run, his crimson hands and
knees dropping blood as he went. As he neared the edge, his body
instinctively tried to stop. But it was too late, the momentum he had
gathered was too great. Mind had conquered matter, and he ran and
vanished into space.
At that moment, Dr. Sylvester, tired and weary-eyed, entered the cottage
of Draco’s mother. He had been walking all night.
THE END
End of Project Gutenberg's Tales of a Cruel Country, by Gerald Cumberland