I was haunted by the thought of that awful night so close at hand, and I
pictured a thousand terrors. I strung myself up to the task of facing
the future alone, but I would have given all I possessed to feel that
during those supreme last moments some fellow-creature--a medical man or
one of the clergy for choice--would be with me. But I had kept my poor
grandfather’s secret for ten years, and meant keeping it to the end.
The final problem, however, was quite full of horrid possibility. One
night I thought of an idea that made me turn goose-flesh all over. What
if on the expiring of the New Scheme grandfather should revert to the
old? What if on the morning of his hundred and tenth birthday, instead
of finding nothing in his cradle, I should rise and be confronted with
the withered remains of a centenarian? Of course, it would not matter
much to grandfather, but an event of that kind must leave me in a
dilemma, beside which the New Scheme itself was a mere child’s problem.
What would the landlady say? What would anybody say? I determined that
no one should have half a chance to say anything. It was merely justice
to myself. I arranged a programme for that last night. The time of the
year was late June, the weather beautiful, so a week before the end I
took train to North London. I made up my mind to spend the last night
of grandfather’s life quite alone with him on the wilds of Hampstead
Heath. Then, if he suffered any further outrageous transformation at
the last, I could just leave him there, and he would be found and duly
buried after a coroner’s inquest, and I could put flowers on the grave
anonymously afterwards. If, on the other hand, he simply went out, I
should be able to rejoin my boxes, which would be waiting at the nearest
railway station, and go upon my way unsuspected. If he suddenly
disappeared in a lodging-house, it seemed clear to me that I should
probably be arrested on suspicion of murder. I took two rooms not far
from the Heath, and watched grandfather’s last week pass away in
ceaseless wailing. Then came the night before his birthday. That
evening I gave up the lodgings, sent my boxes to the station, and after
a meat tea and the first dose of stimulant I had taken for a year, went
forth to the final scene. Every seat upon Hampstead Heath that night
seemed to be engaged by parties of two. The daylight waned slowly. Not
until nine o’clock did the moonlight begin to grow strong enough to
throw shadows. By ten it flooded the Heath with soft grey light. The
scene was extremely peaceful; it even soothed to some slight extent the
chaos in my heart. Grandfather slept. He had been unusually silent all
day. He had shrunk, of course, to a mere red, new-born atom now. I had
him snugly in a bundle all done up with safety pins. I remember
wondering, even at that solemn time, how the Devil would be able to get
grandfather out of that bundle without undoing the pins.
About eleven o’clock I threw his bottle away, for I knew he would never
want it again. It was a beautiful night for the passing of grandpapa.
I only hoped and prayed that he _would_ pass, and have done with it. I
rambled about in the shadows cast by the moon, and peeped from time to
time into the blanket I carried to see if anything was happening to
grandfather; but he nestled there, silent and wide awake. I shivered as
I looked into his round, open eyes, bright with moonlight. There was an
unutterably weird expression in them, for they had intelligence once
more; they were the eyes of a thinking being. It would hardly have
surprised me at that moment if he had spoken and exchanged ideas with
me. But he kept deadly silence, looking out of his blanket with those
round moon-lit eyes that haunt me still. And then a strange thing
happened. Despite my agitation, and the fact that I was now shaking with
excitement, and suffering from palpitation of the heart, a great longing
for sleep crept over me. I yearned to close my eyes; an astounding
feeling, almost approaching indifference, rose within me. I actually
heard myself saying, "I must sleep, I must sleep; it won’t make any
difference to him." I fought against the overpowering drowsiness, being
sure that it was simply sent by some malevolent, supernatural power, in
order to prevent me from being in at the finish, so to speak. But my
efforts were unavailing. As a distant church clock chimed half-past
eleven, I sank down at the top of a bank under some gorse bushes, and
the last action of which I am conscious was that I drew grandfather
close to me and put my arms tight round him--those poor old arms that
had been of some use to him in the past, but were powerless now.
Doubtless I slept for half-an-hour. Then I was awakened suddenly by the
wail of a new-born babe. I sat up wildly. The bundle with grandfather
in it was not in my arms. It had apparently rolled to the bottom of the
bank. But even as I rose to struggle after it, the shrill cry of the
infant changed to the mumbling groan of one infinitely old, and across
the gorse bushes, in the haze of the moonlight, I saw the passing of
grandfather. Whether the vision came out of my own brain, or was
actually visible to my eyes, I cannot say. All I remember is that I
distinctly heard my name, "Martha, Martha!" called twice in weak but
frenzied accents, and saw an old, bent figure, with the moonbeams
shining on its bald head, move across the light. It was stretching
thin, bony fingers out towards me, and wringing its hands at the same
time. I struggled to reach it, but suddenly grew conscious of something
that came between--something formless and unutterable. There was a
laugh in the air, harsh, unearthly, like a parrot’s. It died away, and
the echo of a moan seemed to crawl as though alive through the high
gorse. Then there was silence, and I, with my hands groping in front of
me, fell forward unconscious.
I cannot have been insensible for very long, as facts proved. When I
recovered again the moon still shone brightly, but the east already
trembled with dawn, and it was cold. I staggered down the bank to where
the baby’s cry had come from, and there lay the bundle, just as I had
clasped it to my heart. I opened it; it was still warm as a nest from
which the sitting bird has just flown; but it was empty. At the moment I
awoke I must have missed grandfather’s birth or death, or departure or
arrival, by the fraction of a second. I searched frantically round for
him; I tore my face and my gloves in the furze and briars; I raised my
voice and shrieked to him, and fell on my knees and prayed for him; but
under my mad frenzy there throbbed a thought that spoke to me coldly and
told me he was gone--clean gone, and vanished away for ever.
Presently I found a vacant seat, where I sat and collected myself. I
dried the blood from a thorn scratch across my face, brushed the mud
from my dress, and then, as a golden dawn flashed over the dew and woke
the birds, I crawled away towards the railway station. A train for
working men went at five, but I had to wait an hour and a half for it,
and the time dragged. Every moment I expected to hear grandfather’s
cry, and once I found my foot mechanically rocking his cradle. Then
they opened the station, and I took a ticket to Baker Street, and saw my
two boxes labelled, and went back into the world--alone.
* * * * *
I have set this narrative out with my own hand, and left it in safe
keeping. When I am gone, and not sooner, I have directed that it shall
be given to my fellow creatures. There is nothing more to add. For my
own part, I am passing the fag-end of my life in seclusion--unknown,
forgotten. So I would have it. I recently put up a cenotaph to
grandfather’s memory in the little village church which I regularly
attend. There can be no harm in that. I still think the old man was
most unfairly treated, and I shall not hesitate to say so hereafter if
opportunity ever offers. As for my own dismal part in probably the most
awful tragedy earth’s annals ever recorded, I need say nothing. Those
ten ghastly, sunless years are always with me, and I should have
hesitated before adding another sad book to the many in the world, but
that I hold it my duty to record these facts. My object is that a
materialistic age may be confounded, that those who do not believe in
the principalities and powers by which mankind is secretly led and
guided, blinded and befooled, may pause and reflect before they find
themselves meshed in some muddling devil’s web, from which there is no
escape.
If an outrage of this sort can happen once, it may again. Who is safe?
FINIS.
PLYMOUTH:
WILLIAM BRENDON AND SON,
PRINTERS.
* * * * * * * *
*TELEGRAMS: ASSIDUOUS, LONDON.*
*15, CRAVEN STREET, STRAND, LONDON, W.C. 1895.*
A Catalogue of New Books and New Editions published by BLISS, SANDS, and
FOSTER at 15 Craven Street, Strand, London, W.C.
_To be obtained of all booksellers, and at all libraries; or of the
publishers, post-free on remittance of the published price._
*CONTENTS.*
Biography and History
Travel and Topography
Miscellaneous
Poetry
Fiction:--The Modern Library
" Novels
" Novels (continued)
" Novels (continued)
" Novels (continued)
Books for Children
" " (continued)--The Story Book Series
Works on Nature
PUBLIC MEN OF TO-DAY.
AN INTERNATIONAL SERIES.
_Edited by S. H. JEYES._
LI HUNG CHANG, BY Prof. ROBT. K. DOUGLAS.
The Rt. Hon. CECIL RHODES, BY EDWARD DICEY, C.B.
THE AMEER, ABDUR RAHMAN, BY STEPHEN WHEELER.
THE GERMAN EMPEROR, WILLIAM II., BY CHARLES LOWE.
SENOR CASTELAR, BY DAVID HANNAY.
LORD CROMER, BY H. D. TRAILL.
SIGNOR CRISPI, BY W. J. STILLMAN.
M. STAMBULOFF, BY A. HULME BEAMAN.
_With Portrait, and Maps where necessary._
Price 3/6
Crown 8vo, from 224 to 256 pages.
Other Volumes are in negotiation, and will shortly be announced.
The object of this Series is to furnish English readers all over the
world with a biographical account and critical appreciation of the
leading public men of the time, the makers of contemporary history. In
the choice of subjects care has been taken to select Monarchs or
Ministers whose careers have been interesting, and who have played a
prominent part in stirring and important scenes. It is, however, the
aim of the writers, not merely to present a number of personal portraits
of important Statesmen, but also to trace and explain the political and
social development of the nations to which they belong.
It is believed, therefore, that a perusal of these volumes, written by
distinguished and well-qualified observers, will result in a better
understanding than most persons possess of the daily news cabled from
all parts of the Old and the New World, and will invest with a more
lively significance the foreign telegrams published in the British,
Colonial, and American press.
The Series will also be found to have a certain educational value for
the more intelligent students in Schools and Colleges. It is too much
the custom to fill young minds with the minute details of past epochs,
and to cut modern history short just at the point where it might be
rendered most attractive and specially useful.
Each volume contains one or more portraits, and maps are given where
they are necessary to elucidate the text.
*BIOGRAPHY AND HISTORY--continued.*
AN ACCOUNT OF SHELLEY’S VISITS TO FRANCE, SWITZERLAND, AND SAVOY, in the
Years 1814 and 1816.
With extracts from "The History of a Six Weeks Tour;" and, "Letters
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By CHARLES I. ELTON, author of "Origins of English History," "The Career
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Containing 14 pen and ink sketches and two copper etchings. By C. R. B.
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