THE DANCING MADNESS
It was a great surprise to me that here should have been one of Edmond
Czerny's men left in the bungalow; and when I heard his voice I stood
for a full minute, uncertain whether to go on or to draw back. The
light of the lamp was very bright; I had Dolly Venn in my arms,
remember, and it was all Seth Barker's work to bring in Mister Bligh,
so that no one will wonder at my hesitation, or the questions I put to
myself as to how many men were in the house with the stranger, or what
business kept him there when the island was a death-trap. These
questions, however, the man answered for himself before many minutes
had passed; and, moreover, a seaman's instinct seemed to tell me that
he was a friend.
"Walk right in here," he cried, opening a door behind him and showing
me a room I had not entered when I visited Mme. Czerny. "Walk right in
and don't gather daisies on the way. You've been on a pleasure cruise
in the fog, I suppose--well, that's a sailor all the time--just all the
time."
He opened the door, I say, upon this, and when we had followed him into
the room he shut it as quickly. It was not a very large apartment, but
I noticed at once that the windows were blocked and curtained, and that
half the space was lumbered up with great machines which seemed made up
of glass bowls and jars; while a flame of gas was roaring out of an
iron tube, and a current of delicious fresh air blowing upon our faces.
Whatever we were in for, whether friendship or the other thing, a man
could breathe here, and that was something to be thankful for.
"We were caught in the woods and ran for it," said I, thinking in time
to make my explanations; "it may have been a fool's errand, but it has
brought us to a wise man's door. You know what the lad's trouble is, or
you wouldn't be in this house, sir. I'll thank you for any kindness to
him."
He turned a pleasant face towards me and bade me lay Dolly on the sofa
near the flaming burner. Peter Bligh was sitting on a chair, swearing,
I fear, as much as he was coughing. Seth Barker, who had the lungs of a
bull, looked as though he had found good grass. The fog wasn't made, I
do believe, which would harm him. As for the doctor himself, he seemed
like a perplexed man who has time for one smile and no more.
"The lad will be all right in five minutes," said he, seriously; "there
is air enough here, we being five men, for," he appeared to pause, and
then he added, "for just three days. After that--why, yes, we'll begin
to think after that."
I did not know what to say to him, nor, I am sure, did the others.
Dolly Venn had already opened his eyes and lay back, white and
bloodless, on the sofa. A hissing sound of escaping gas was in the
room. I breathed so freely that a sense of excitement, almost of
intoxication, came upon me. The doctor moved about quietly and
methodically, now looking to his burners, now at the machines. Five
minutes came and went before he put another question.
"What kept you from the shelter?" he asked, at last. I knew then that
he believed us to be Edmond Czerny's men; and I made up my mind
instantly what to do.
"Prudence kept us, doctor," said I (for doctor plainly he was);
"prudence, the same sense that turns a fly from a spider's web. It is
fair that you should know the story. We haven't come to Ken's Island
because we are Edmond Czerny's friends; nor will he call us that. Ask
Mme. Czerny the next time you meet her, and she'll tell you what
brought us here. You are acting well towards us and confidence is your
due, so I say that the day when Edmond Czerny finds us on this shore
will be a bad one for him or a bad one for us, as the case may be. Let
it begin with that, and afterwards we shall sail in open water."
I said all this just naturally, not wishing him to think that I feared
Edmond Czerny nor was willing to hoist false colours. Enemy or friend,
I meant to be honest with him. It was some surprise to me, I must say,
when he went on quietly with his work, moving from place to place, now
at the gas-burner, now at his machine, just for all the world as though
this visitation had not disturbed him. When he spoke it was to ask a
question about Miss Ruth.
"Mme. Czerny," said he, quietly; "there is a Mme. Czerny, then?"
Now, if he had struck me with his hand I could not have been more
surprised at his ignorance. Just think of it--here was a man left
behind on Ken's Island when all the riffraff there had fled to some
shelter on the sea; a man working quietly, I was sure, to discover what
he could of the gases which poisoned us; a man in Mistress Ruth's own
house who did not even know her name. Nothing more wonderful had I
heard that night. And the way he put the question, raising his eyebrows
a little, and looking up over his long, white apron!
"Not heard of Mme. Czerny!" cried I, in astonishment, "not heard of
her--why, what shore do you hail from, then? Don't you know that she's
his wife, doctor--his wife?"
He turned to his bottles and went on arranging them. He was speaking
and acting now at the same time.
"I came ashore with Prince Czerny when he landed here three days ago.
He did not speak of his wife. There are others in America who would be
interested in the news--young ladies, I think."
He paused for a little while, and then he said quietly:
"You would be friends of the Princess's, no doubt?"
"Princess be jiggered," said I; "that is to say, God forgive me, for I
love Miss Ruth better than my own sister. He's no more a prince than
you are, though that's a liberty, seeing that I don't know your name,
doctor. He's just Edmond Czerny, a Hungarian musician, who caught a
young girl's fancy in the South, and is making her suffer for it here
in the Pacific. Why, just think of it. A young American girl----"
He stopped me abruptly, swinging round on his heel and showing the
first spark of animation he had as yet been guilty of.
"An American girl?" cried he.
"As true as the Gospels, an American girl. She was the daughter of
Rupert Bellenden, who made his money on the Western American Railroad.
If you remember the Elbe going down, you won't ask what became of him.
His son, Kenrick Bellenden, is in America now. I'd give my fortune,
doctor, to let him know how it fares with his sister on this cursed
shore. That's why my own ship sails for 'Frisco this day--at least, I
hope and believe so, for otherwise she's at the bottom of the sea."
I told the story with some heat, for amazement is the enemy of a slow
tongue; but my excitement was not shared by him, and for some minutes
afterwards he stood like a man in a reverie.
"You came in your own ship!" he exclaimed next. "Why, yes, you would
not have walked. Did Mme. Czerny ask you here?"
"It was a promise to her," said I. "She left the money with her lawyers
for me to bring a ship to Ken's Island twelve months after her
marriage. That promise I kept, doctor, and here I am and here are my
shipmates, and God knows what is to be the end of it and the end of
us!"
He agreed to that with one of those expressive nods which spared him a
deal of talk. By-and-bye, without referring to the matter any more, he
turned suddenly to Peter Bligh and exclaimed:
"Halloa, my man, and what's the matter with you?"
Now, Peter Bligh sat up as stiff as a board and answered directly.
"Hunger, doctor, that's the matter with me! If you'll add thirst to it,
you've about named my complaint."
"Fog out of your lungs, eh?"
"Be sure and it is. I could dance at a fair and not be particular
about the women. Put me alongside a beef-steak and you shall see some
love-making. Aye, doctor, I'll never get my bread as a living skeleton,
the saints be good to me, my hold's too big for that!"
It was like Mister Bligh, and amused the stranger very much. Just as if
to answer Peter, the doctor crossed the room and opened a big cupboard
by the window, which I saw to be full of victuals.
"I forget to eat, myself, when the instruments hustle me," said he,
thoughtfully; "that's a bad habit, anyway. Suppose you display your
energy by setting supper. There are tinned things here and eggs, I
believe. You'll find firewood and fresh meat in the kitchen yonder.
Here's something to keep the fog out of your lungs while you get it."
[Illustation: We were all sitting at the supper-table.]
He tossed a respirator across the table, and Peter Bligh was away to
the kitchen before you could count two. It was a relief to have
something to do, and right quickly our fellows did it. We were all
(except little Dolly Venn, who wanted his strength yet) sitting at the
supper table when half an hour had passed and eating like men who had
fasted for a month. To-morrow troubled the seamen but little. It did
not trouble Peter Bligh or Seth Barker that night, I witness.
A strange scene, you will admit, and one not readily banished from the
memory. For my part, I see that room, I see that picture many a time in
the night watches on my ship or in the dreaming moments of a seaman's
day. The great machines of glass and brass rise up again about me as
they rose that night. I watch the face of the American doctor, sharp
and clear-cut and boyish, with the one black curl across the forehead.
I see Peter Bligh bent double over the table, little Dolly Venn's eyes
looking up bravely at me as he tries to tell us that all is well with
him. The same curious sensations of doubt and uncertainty come again to
plague me. What escape was there from that place? What escape from the
island? Who was to help us in our plight? Who was to befriend little
Ruth Bellenden now? Would the ship ever come back? Was she above or
below the sea? Would the sleep-time endure long, and should we live
through it? Ah! that was the thing to ask them. More especially to ask
this clever man, whose work I made sure it was to answer the question.
"We thank you, doctor," I said to him, at one time; "we owe our lives
to you this night. We sha'n't forget that, be sure of it."
"I'll never eat a full meal again but I'll remember the name of
Doctor--Doctor--which reminds me that I don't know your name, sir,"
added Peter Bligh, clumsily. The doctor smiled at his humour.
"Dr. Duncan Gray, if it's anything to remember. Ask for Duncan Gray, of
Chicago, and one man in a thousand will tell you that he makes it his
business to write about poisons, not knowing anything of them. Why,
yes, poison brought me here and poison will move me on again; at least
I begin to imagine it. Poison, you see, holds the aces."
"It's a fearsome place, truly," said I, "and wonderful that Europe
knows so little about it. I've seen Ken's Island on the charts any time
these fifteen years, but never a whisper have I heard of sleep-time or
sun-time or any other death-talk such as I've heard these last three
days. You'll be here, doctor, no doubt, to ascertain the truth of it?
If my common sense did not tell me as much, the machinery would. It's a
great thing to be a man of your kind, and I'd give much if my education
had led me that way. But I was only at a country grammar school, and
what I couldn't get in at one end the master never could at the other.
Aye, I'd give much to know what you know this night!"
He smiled a little queerly at the compliment, I thought, and turned it
off with a word.
"I begin to know how little I know, and that's a good start," said he.
"Possibly Ken's Island will make that little less. The master of Ken's
Island is generously sending me to Nature's university. I think that I
understand why he permitted me to come here. Why, yes, it was smart,
and the man who first set curiosity going about Prince Czerny in
Chicago is well out of Prince Czerny's way. I must reckon all this up,
Captain--Captain----"
"Jasper Begg," said I, "at one time master of Ruth Bellenden's yacht,
the Manhattan."
"And Peter Bligh, his mate, who is a Christian man when the victuals
are right."
Seth Barker said nothing, but I named him and spoke about Dolly Venn.
We five, I think, began to know each other better from that time, and
to fall together as comrades in a common misfortune. Parlous as our
plight was, we had food and drink and tobacco for our pipes afterwards;
and a seaman needs little more than that to make him happy. Indeed, we
should have passed the night well enough, forgetting all that had gone
before and must come after, but for a weird reminder at the hour of
midnight, which compelled us to recollect our strange situation and all
that it betided.
Comfortable we were, I say, for Dr. Gray had found fine berths for us
all: Dolly on the sofa, his skipper in an arm-chair, Peter Bligh and
Seth Barker on rugs by the window, and he himself in a hammock slung
across the kitchen door. We had said "good-night" to one another and
were settling off to sleep, when there came a weird, wild calf from the
grounds without; and so dismal was it and so like the cries of men in
agony that we all sprang to our feet and stood, with every faculty
waking, to listen to the horrible outcry. For a moment no man moved, so
full of terror were those sounds; but the doctor, coming first to his
senses, strode towards the window and pulled the heavy curtain back
from it. Then, in the dazzling light, that wonderful gold-blue light
which hovered in mist-clouds about the gardens of the bungalow, I saw a
spectacle which froze my very blood. Twenty men and women, perhaps,
some of them Europeans, some natives, some dressed in seamen's dress,
some in rags, some quite naked, were dancing a wild, fantastic,
maddening dance which no foaming Dervish could have surpassed, aye, or
imitated, in his cruellest moments. Whirling round and round, extending
their arms to the sky, sometimes casting themselves headlong on the
ground, biting the earth with savage lips, tearing their flesh with
knives, one or two falling stone-dead before our very eyes, these poor
people in their delirium cried like animals, and filled the whole woods
with their melancholic wailing. For ten minutes, it may be, the fit
endured; then one by one they sank to the earth in the most fearful
contortions of limb and face and body, and, a great silence coming upon
the house, we saw them there in that cold, clear light, outposts of the
death which Ken's Island harboured.
We saw the thing, we knew its dreadful truth, yet many minutes passed
before one among us opened his lip. The spell was still on us--a spell
of dread and fear I pray that few men may know.
"The laughing fever," exclaimed the doctor, at last, letting the
curtain fall back with trembling hand. "Yes, I have heard of that
somewhere."
And then he said, pointing to the lamp upon the table:
"Three days, my friends, three days between us and that!"