The Child and the Moth
The little Roberts’s ran across the road, up the path, and into the
lighted room. Then they noticed that Johnnie had not followed them.
Mrs. Roberts was doing something in the back kitchen, and Mr. Roberts
had gone out to the shed to bring in some sticks for the next morning’s
fire. Mrs. Roberts heard the children run in and went on with her work.
The children whispered to one another that Johnnie would “catch it”
when their mother came out of the back room and found him missing; but
they expected he would run in through the open door any minute. But six
or seven, perhaps ten, minutes passed, and there was no Johnnie. Then
the father and mother came into the kitchen together, and saw that
their little boy was not there.
They thought it was some small piece of mischief—that the two other
children had hidden the boy somewhere in the room: in the big cupboard
perhaps.
“What have you done with him then?” said Mrs. Roberts. “Come out, you
little rascal, directly in a minute.”
There was no little rascal to come out, and Margaret Roberts, the girl,
said that Johnnie had not come across the road with them: he must be
still playing all by himself by the hedge.
“What did you let him stay like that for?” said Mrs. Roberts. “Can’t I
trust you for two minutes together? Indeed to goodness, you are all of
you more trouble than you are worth.” She went to the open door:
“Johnnie! Come you in directly, or you will be sorry for it. Johnnie!”
The poor woman called at the door. She went out to the gate and called
there:
“Come you, little Johnnie. Come you, bachgen, there’s a good boy. I do
see you hiding there.”
She thought he must be hiding in the shadow of the hedge, and that he
would come running and laughing—“he was always such a happy little
fellow”—to her across the road. But no little merry figure danced out
of the gloom of the still, dark night; it was all silence.
It was then, as the mother’s heart began to chill, though she still
called cheerfully to the missing child, that the elder boy told how
Johnnie had said there was something beautiful by the stile: “and
perhaps he did climb over, and he is running now about the meadow, and
has lost his way.”
The father got his lantern then, and the whole family went crying and
calling about the meadow, promising cakes and sweets and a fine toy to
poor Johnnie if he would come to them.
They found the little body, under the ashgrove in the middle of the
field. He was quite still and dead, so still that a great moth had
settled on his forehead, fluttering away when they lifted him up.
Dr. Lewis heard this story. There was nothing to be done; little to be
said to these most unhappy people.
“Take care of the two that you have left to you,” said the doctor as he
went away. “Don’t let them out of your sight if you can help it. It is
dreadful times that we are living in.”
It is curious to record, that all through these dreadful times the
simple little “season” went through its accustomed course at Porth. The
war and its consequences had somewhat thinned the numbers of the summer
visitors; still a very fair contingent of them occupied the hotels and
boarding-houses and lodging-houses and bathed from the old-fashioned
machines on one beach, or from the new-fashioned tents on the other,
and sauntered in the sun, or lay stretched out in the shade under the
trees that grow down almost to the water’s edge. Porth never tolerated
Ethiopians or shows of any kind on its sands, but “The Rockets” did
very well during that summer in their garden entertainment, given in
the castle grounds, and the fit-up companies that came to the Assembly
Rooms are said to have paid their bills to a woman and to a man.
Porth depends very largely on its midland and northern custom, custom
of a prosperous, well-established sort. People who think Llandudno
overcrowded and Colwyn Bay too raw and red and new, come year after
year to the placid old town in the southwest and delight in its peace;
and as I say, they enjoyed themselves much as usual there in the summer
of 1915. Now and then they became conscious, as Mr. Merritt became
conscious, that they could not wander about quite in the old way; but
they accepted sentries and coast-watchers and people who politely
pointed out the advantages of seeing the view from this point rather
than from that as very necessary consequences of the dreadful war that
was being waged; nay, as a Manchester man said, after having been
turned back from his favorite walk to Castell Coch, it was gratifying
to think that they were so well looked after.
“So far as I can see,” he added, “there’s nothing to prevent a
submarine from standing out there by Ynys Sant and landing half a dozen
men in a collapsible boat in any of these little coves. And pretty
fools we should look, shouldn’t we, with our throats cut on the sands;
or carried back to Germany in the submarine?” He tipped the
coast-watcher half-a-crown.
“That’s right, lad,” he said, “you give us the tip.”
Now here was a strange thing. The north-countryman had his thoughts on
elusive submarines and German raiders; the watcher had simply received
instructions to keep people off the Castell Coch fields, without reason
assigned. And there can be no doubt that the authorities themselves,
while they marked out the fields as in the “terror zone,” gave their
orders in the dark and were themselves profoundly in the dark as to the
manner of the slaughter that had been done there; for if they had
understood what had happened, they would have understood also that
their restrictions were useless.
The Manchester man was warned off his walk about ten days after Johnnie
Roberts’s death. The Watcher had been placed at his post because, the
night before, a young farmer had been found by his wife lying in the
grass close to the Castle, with no scar on him, nor any mark of
violence, but stone dead.
The wife of the dead man, Joseph Cradock, finding her husband lying
motionless on the dewy turf, went white and stricken up the path to the
village and got two men who bore the body to the farm. Lewis was sent
for, and knew, at once when he saw the dead man that he had perished in
the way that the little Roberts boy had perished—whatever that awful
way might be. Cradock had been asphyxiated; and here again there was no
mark of a grip on the throat. It might have been a piece of work by
Burke and Hare, the doctor reflected; a pitch plaster might have been
clapped over the man’s mouth and nostrils and held there.
Then a thought struck him; his brother-in-law had talked of a new kind
of poison gas that was said to be used against the munition workers in
the Midlands: was it possible that the deaths of the man and the boy
were due to some such instrument? He applied his tests but could find
no trace of any gas having been employed. Carbonic acid gas? A man
could not be killed with that in the open air; to be fatal that
required a confined space, such a position as the bottom of a huge vat
or of a well.
He did not know how Cradock had been killed; he confessed it to
himself. He had been suffocated; that was all he could say.
It seemed that the man had gone out at about half-past nine to look
after some beasts. The field in which they were was about five minutes’
walk from the house. He told his wife he would be back in a quarter of
an hour or twenty minutes. He did not return, and when he had been gone
for three-quarters of an hour Mrs. Cradock went out to look for him.
She went into the field where the beasts were, and everything seemed
all right, but there was no trace of Cradock. She called out; there was
no answer.
Now the meadow in which the cattle were pastured is high ground; a
hedge divides it from the fields which fall gently down to the castle
and the sea. Mrs. Cradock hardly seemed able to say why, having failed
to find her husband among his beasts, she turned to the path which led
to Castell Coch. She said at first that she had thought that one of the
oxen might have broken through the hedge and strayed, and that Cradock
had perhaps gone after it. And then, correcting herself, she said:
“There was that; and then there was something else that I could not
make out at all. It seemed to me that the hedge did look different from
usual. To be sure, things do look different at night, and there was a
bit of sea mist about, but somehow it did look odd to me, and I said to
myself, ‘have I lost my way, then?’”
She declared that the shape of the trees in the hedge appeared to have
changed, and besides, it had a look “as if it was lighted up, somehow,”
and so she went on towards the stile to see what all this could be, and
when she came near everything was as usual. She looked over the stile
and called and hoped to see her husband coming towards her or to hear
his voice; but there was no answer, and glancing down the path she saw,
or thought she saw, some sort of brightness on the ground, “a dim sort
of light like a bunch of glow-worms in a hedge-bank.
“And so I climbed over the stile and went down the path, and the light
seemed to melt away; and there was my poor husband lying on his back,
saying not a word to me when I spoke to him and touched him.”
So for Lewis the terror blackened and became altogether intolerable,
and others, he perceived, felt as he did. He did not know, he never
asked whether the men at the club had heard of these deaths of the
child and the young farmer; but no one spoke of them. Indeed, the
change was evident; at the beginning of the terror men spoke of nothing
else; now it had become all too awful for ingenious chatter or labored
and grotesque theories. And Lewis had received a letter from his
brother-in-law at Midlingham; it contained the sentence, “I am afraid
Fanny’s health has not greatly benefited by her visit to Porth; there
are still several symptoms I don’t at all like.” And this told him, in
a phraseology that the doctor and Merritt had agreed upon, that the
terror remained heavy in the Midland town.
It was soon after the death of Cradock that people began to tell
strange tales of a sound that was to be heard of nights about the hills
and valleys to the northward of Porth. A man who had missed the last
train from Meiros and had been forced to tramp the ten miles between
Meiros and Porth seems to have been the first to hear it. He said he
had got to the top of the hill by Tredonoc, somewhere between half-past
ten and eleven, when he first noticed an odd noise that he could not
make out at all; it was like a shout, a long, drawn-out, dismal wail
coming from a great way off, faint with distance. He stopped to listen,
thinking at first that it might be owls hooting in the woods; but it
was different, he said, from that: it was a long cry, and then there
was silence and then it began over again. He could make nothing of it,
and feeling frightened, he did not quite know of what, he walked on
briskly and was glad to see the lights of Porth station.
He told his wife of this dismal sound that night, and she told the
neighbors, and most of them thought that it was “all fancy”—or drink,
or the owls after all. But the night after, two or three people, who
had been to some small merrymaking in a cottage just off the Meiros
road, heard the sound as they were going home, soon after ten. They,
too, described it as a long, wailing cry, indescribably dismal in the
stillness of the autumn night; “like the ghost of a voice,” said one;
“as if it came up from the bottom of the earth,” said another.