There was a softness in the November air that brought back memories of
summer, and a few belated daisies were blooming in the old clearing, as
Keene and I passed by the ruins of the farm-house again, early on Sunday
morning. He had been talking ever since we started, pouring out his
praise of knowledge, wide, clear, universal knowledge, as the best of
life’s joys, the greatest of life’s achievements. The practical life was
a blind, dull routine. Most men were toiling at tasks which they did not
like, by rules which they did not understand. They never looked beyond
the edge of their work. The philosophical life was a spider’s web--filmy
threads of theory spun out of the inner consciousness--it touched the
world only at certain chosen points of attachment. There was nothing
firm, nothing substantial in it. You could look through it like a veil
and see the real world lying beyond. But the theorist could see only the
web which he had spun. Knowing did not come by speculating, theorising.
Knowing came by seeing. Vision was the only real knowledge. To see the
world, the whole world, as it is, to look behind the scenes, to read
human life like a book, that was the glorious thing--most satisfying,
divine.
Thus he had talked as we climbed the hill. Now, as we came by the place
where we had first met, a new eagerness sounded in his voice.
“Ever since that day I have inclined to tell you something more about
myself. I felt sure you would understand. I am planning to write a
book--a book of knowledge, in the true sense--a great book about human
life. Not a history, not a theory, but a real view of life, its hidden
motives, its secret relations. How different they are from what men
dream and imagine and play that they are! How much darker, how much
smaller, and therefore how much more interesting and wonderful. No one
has yet written--perhaps because no one has yet conceived--such a book
as I have in mind. I might call it a ‘Bionopsis.’”
“But surely,” said I, “you have chosen a strange place to write it--the
Hilltop School--this quiet and secluded region! The stream of humanity
is very slow and slender here--it trickles. You must get out into the
busy world. You must be in the full current and feel its force. You must
take part in the active life of mankind in order really to know it.”
“A mistake!” he cried. “Action is the thing that blinds men. You
remember Matthew Arnold’s line:
In action’s dizzying eddy whurled.
To know the world you must stand apart from it and above it; you must
look down on it.”
“Well, then,” said I, “you will have to find some secret spring of
inspiration, some point of vantage from which you can get your outlook
and your insight.”
He stopped short and looked me full in the face.
“And that,” cried he, “is precisely what I have found!”
Then he turned and pushed along the narrow trail so swiftly that I had
hard work to follow him. After a few minutes we came to a little stream,
flowing through a grove of hemlocks. Keene seated himself on the fallen
log that served for a bridge and beckoned me to a place beside him.
“I promised to give you an explanation to-day--to take you on one of my
long walks. Well, there is only one of them. It is always the same. You
shall see where it leads, what it means. You shall share my secret--all
the wonder and glory of it! Of course I know my conduct, has seemed
strange to you. Sometimes it has seemed strange even to me. I have been
doubtful, troubled, almost distracted. I have been risking a great deal,
in danger of losing what I value, what most men count the best thing in
the world. But it could not be helped. The risk was worth while. A great
discovery, the opportunity of a lifetime, yes, of an age, perhaps of
many ages, came to me. I simply could not throw it away. I must use it,
make the best of it, at any danger, at any cost. You shall judge for
yourself whether I was right or wrong. But you must judge fairly,
without haste, without prejudice. I ask you to make me one promise. You
will suspend judgment, you will say nothing, you will keep my secret,
until you have been with me three times at the place where I am now
taking you.”
By this time it was clear to me that I had to do with a case lying far
outside of the common routine of life; something subtle, abnormal, hard
to measure, in which a clear and careful estimate would be necessary. If
Keene was labouring under some strange delusion, some disorder of mind,
how could I estimate its nature or extent, without time and study,
perhaps without expert advice? To wait a little would be prudent,
for his sake as well as for the sake of others. If there was some
extraordinary, reality behind his mysterious hints, it would need
patience and skill to test it. I gave him the promise for which he
asked.
At once, as if relieved, he sprang up, and crying, “Come on, follow me!”
began to make his way up the bed of the brook. It was one of the wildest
walks that I have ever taken. He turned aside for no obstacles; swamps,
masses of interlacing alders, close-woven thickets of stiff young
spruces, chevaux-de-frise of dead trees where wind-falls had mowed down
the forest, walls of lichen-crusted rock, landslides where heaps of
broken stone were tumbled in ruinous confusion--through everything he
pushed forward. I could see, here and there, the track of his former
journeys: broken branches of witch-hazel and moose-wood, ferns trampled
down, a faint trail across some deeper bed of moss. At mid-day we rested
for a half-hour to eat lunch. But Keene would eat nothing, except a
little pellet of some dark green substance that he took from a flat
silver box in his pocket. He swallowed it hastily, and stooping his face
to the spring by which he had halted, drank long and eagerly.
“An Indian trick,” said he, shaking the drops of water from his face.
“On a walk, food is a hindrance, a delay. But this tiny taste of bitter
gum is a tonic; it spurs the courage and doubles the strength--if you
are used to it. Otherwise I should not recommend you to try it. Faugh!
the flavour is vile.”
He rinsed his mouth again with water, and stood up, calling me to come
on. The way, now tangled among the nameless peaks and ranges, bore
steadily southward, rising all the time, in spite of many brief downward
curves where a steep gorge must be crossed. Presently we came into a
hard-wood forest, open and easy to travel. Breasting a long slope, we
reached the summit of a broad, smoothly rounding ridge covered with a
dense growth of stunted spruce. The trees rose above our heads, about
twice the height of a man, and so thick that we could not see beyond
them. But, from glimpses here and there, and from the purity and
lightness of the air, I judged that we were on far higher ground
than any we had yet traversed, the central comb, perhaps, of the
mountain-system.
A few yards ahead of us, through the crowded trunks of the dwarf forest,
I saw a gray mass, like the wall of a fortress, across our path. It was
a vast rock, rising from the crest of the ridge, lifting its top above
the sea of foliage. At its base there were heaps of shattered stones,
and deep crevices almost like caves. One side of the rock was broken by
a slanting gully.
“Be careful,” cried my companion, “there is a rattlers’ den somewhere
about here. The snakes are in their winter quarters now, almost dormant,
but they can still strike if you tread on them. Step here! Give me
your hand--use that point of rock--hold fast by this bush; it is firmly
rooted--so! Here we are on Spy Rock! You have heard of it? I thought so.
Other people have heard of it, and imagine that they have found it--five
miles east of us--on a lower ridge. Others think it is a peak just back
of Cro’ Nest. All wrong! There is but one real Spy Rock--here! This
earth holds no more perfect view-point. It is one of the rare places
from which a man may see the kingdoms of the world and all the glory of
them. Look!”
The prospect was indeed magnificent; it was strange what a vast
enlargement of vision resulted from the slight elevation above the
surrounding peaks. It was like being lifted up so that we could
look over the walls. The horizon expanded as if by magic. The vast
circumference of vision swept around us with a radius of a hundred
miles. Mountain and meadow, forest and field, river and lake, hill and
dale, village and farmland, far-off city and shimmering water--all lay
open to our sight, and over all the westering sun wove a transparent
robe of gem-like hues. Every feature of the landscape seemed alive,
quivering, pulsating with conscious beauty. You could almost see the
world breathe.
“Wonderful!” I cried. “Most wonderful! You have found a mount of
vision.”
“Ah,” he answered, “you don’t half see the wonder yet, you don’t begin
to appreciate it. Your eyes are new to it. You have not learned the
power of far sight, the secret of Spy Rock. You are still shut in by the
horizon.”
“Do you mean to say that you can look beyond it?”
“Beyond yours--yes. And beyond any that you would dream possible--See!
Your sight reaches to that dim cloud of smoke in the south? And beneath
it you can make out, perhaps, a vague blotch of shadow, or a tiny flash
of brightness where the sun strikes it? New York! But I can see the
great buildings, the domes, the spires, the crowded wharves, the tides
of people whirling through the streets--and beyond that, the sea, with
the ships coming and going! I can follow them on their courses--and
beyond that--Oh! when I am on Spy Rock I can see more than other men can
imagine.”
For a moment, strange to say, I almost fancied could follow him. The
magnetism of his spirit imposed upon me, carried me away with him. Then
sober reason told me that he was talking of impossibilities.
“Keene,” said I, “you are dreaming. The view and the air have
intoxicated you. This is a phantasy, a delusion!”
“It pleases you to call it so,” he said, “but I only tell you my real
experience. Why it should be impossible I do not understand. There is
no reason why the power of sight should not be cultivated, enlarged,
expanded indefinitely.”
“And the straight rays of light?” I asked. “And the curvature of the
earth which makes a horizon inevitable?”
“Who knows what a ray of light is?” said he. “Who can prove that it may
not be curved, under certain conditions, or refracted in some places
in a way that is not possible elsewhere? I tell you there is something
extraordinary about this Spy Rock. It is a seat of power--Nature’s
observatory. More things are visible here than anywhere else--more than
I have told you yet. But come, we have little time left. For half an
hour, each of us shall enjoy what he can see. Then home again to the
narrower outlook, the restricted life.”
The downward journey was swifter than the ascent, but no less fatiguing.
By the time we reached the school, an hour after dark, I was very tired.
But Keene was in one of his moods of exhilaration. He glowed like a
piece of phosphorus that has been drenched with light.
Graham took the first opportunity of speaking with me alone.
“Well?” said he.
“Well!” I answered. “You were wrong. There is no treason in Keene’s
walks, no guilt in his moods. But there is something very strange. I
cannot form a judgment yet as to what we should do. We must wait a few
days. It will do no harm to be patient. Indeed, I have promised not to
judge, not to speak of it, until a certain time. Are you satisfied?”
“This is a curious story,” said he, “and I am puzzled by it. But I trust
you, I agree to wait, though I am far from satisfied.”
Our second expedition was appointed for the following Saturday. Keene
was hungry for it, and I was almost as eager, desiring to penetrate as
quickly as possible into the heart of the affair. Already a conviction
in regard to it was pressing upon me, and I resolved to let him talk,
this time, as freely as he would, without interruption or denial.
When we clambered up on Spy Rock, he was more subdued and reserved than
he had been the first time. For a while he talked little, but scanned
view with wide, shining eyes. Then he began to tell me stories of the
places that we could see--strange stories of domestic calamity, and
social conflict, and eccentric passion, and hidden crime.
“Do you remember Hawthorne’s story of ‘The Minister’s Black Veil?’ It
is the best comment on human life that ever was written. Everyone has
something to hide. The surface of life is a mask. The substance of
life is a secret. All humanity wears the black veil. But it is not
impenetrable. No, it is transparent, if you find the right point of
view. Here, on Spy Rock, I have found it. I have learned how to look
through the veil. I can see, not by the light-rays only, but by the
rays which are colourless, imperceptible, irresistible the rays of the
unknown quantity, which penetrate everywhere. I can see how men down in
the great city are weaving their nets of selfishness and falsehood, and
calling them industrial enterprises or political combinations. I can see
how the wheels of society are moved by the hidden springs of avarice
and greed and rivalry. I can see how children drink in the fables of
religion, without understanding them, and how prudent men repeat them
without believing them. I can see how the illusions of love appear and
vanish, and how men and women swear that their dreams are eternal, even
while they fade. I can see how poor people blind themselves and deceive
each other, calling selfishness devotion, and bondage contentment. Down
at Hilltop yonder I can see how Dorothy Ward and John Graham, without
knowing it, without meaning it--”
“Stop, man!” I cried. “Stop, before you say what can never be unsaid.
You know it is not true. These are nightmare visions that ride you. Not
from Spy Rock nor from anywhere else can you see anything at Hilltop
that is not honest and pure and loyal. Come down, now, and let us go
home. You will see better there than here.”
“I think not,” said he, “but I will come. Yes, of course, I am bound to
come. But let me have a few minutes here alone. Go you down along the
path a little way slowly. I will follow you in a quarter of an hour. And
remember we are to be here together once more!”
Once more! Yes, and then what must be done?
How was this strange case to be dealt with so as to save all the actors,
as far as possible, from needless suffering? That Keene’s mind was
disordered at least three of us suspected already. But to me alone
was the nature and seat of the disorder known. How make the others
understand it? They might easily conceive it to be something different
from the fact, some actual lesion of the brain, an incurable insanity.
But this it was not. As yet, at least, he was no patient for a
mad-house: it would be unjust, probably it would be impossible to have
him committed. But on the other hand they might take it too lightly, as
the result of overwork, or perhaps of the use of some narcotic. To me
it was certain that the trouble went far deeper than this. It lay in the
man’s moral nature, in the error of his central will. It was the working
out, in abnormal form, but with essential truth, of his chosen and
cherished ideal of life. Spy Rock was something more than the seat of
his delusion, it was the expression of his temperament. The
solitary trail that led thither was the symbol of his search for
happiness--alone, forgetful of life’s lowlier ties, looking down upon
the world in the cold abstraction of scornful knowledge. How was such
a man to be brought back to the real life whose first condition is the
acceptance of a limited outlook, the willingness to live by trust as
much as by sight, the power of finding joy and peace in the things that
we feel are the best, even though we cannot prove them nor explain them?
How could he ever bring anything but discord and sorrow to those who
were bound to him?
This was what perplexed and oppressed me. I needed all the time until
the next Saturday to think the question through, to decide what should
be done. But the matter was taken out of my hands. After our latest
expedition Keene’s dark mood returned upon him with sombre intensity.
Dull, restless, indifferent, half-contemptuous, he seemed to withdraw
into himself, observing those around him with half-veiled glances, as if
he had nothing better to do and yet found it a tiresome pastime. He was
like a man waiting wearily at a railway station for his train. Nothing
pleased him. He responded to nothing.
Graham controlled his indignation by a constant effort. A dozen times he
was on the point of speaking out. But he restrained himself and played
fair. Dorothy’s suffering could not be hidden. Her loyalty was strained
to the breaking point. She was too tender and true for anger, but she
was wounded almost beyond endurance.
Keene’s restlessness increased. The intervening Thursday was
Thanksgiving Day; most of the boys had gone home; the school had
holiday. Early in the morning he came to me.
“Let us take our walk to-day. We have no work to do. Come! In this
clear, frosty air, Spy Rock will be glorious!”
“No,” I answered, “this is no day for such an expedition. This is the
home day. Stay here and be happy with us all. You owe this to love and
friendship. You owe it to Dorothy Ward.”
“Owe it?” said he. “Speaking of debts, I think each man is his own
preferred creditor. But of course you can do as you like about to-day.
Tomorrow or Saturday will answer just as well for our third walk
together.”
About noon he came down from his room and went to the piano, where
Dorothy was sitting. They talked together in low tones. Then she stood
up, with pale face and wide-open eyes. She laid her hand on his arm.
“Do not go, Edward. For the last time I beg you to stay with us to-day.”
He lifted her hand and held it for an instant. Then he bowed, and let it
fall.
“You will excuse me, Dorothy, I am sure. I feel the need of exercise.
Absolutely I must go; good-by--until the evening.”
The hours of that day passed heavily for all of us. There was a sense of
disaster in the air. Something irretrievable had fallen from our circle.
But no one dared to name it. Night closed in upon the house with a
changing sky. All the stars were hidden. The wind whimpered and then
shouted. The rain swept down in spiteful volleys, deepening at last into
a fierce, steady discharge. Nine o’clock, ten o’clock passed, and Keene
did not return. By midnight we were certain that some accident had
befallen him.
It was impossible to go up into the mountains in that pitch-darkness
of furious tempest. But we could send down to the village for men to
organise a search-party and to bring the doctor. At daybreak we set
out--some of the men going with the Master along Black Brook, others in
different directions to make sure of a complete search--Graham and
the doctor and I following the secret trail that I knew only too well.
Dorothy insisted that she must go. She would bear no denial, declaring
that it would be worse for her alone at home, than if we took her with
us.
It was incredible how the path seemed to lengthen. Graham watched the
girl’s every step, helping her over the difficult places, pushing aside
the tangled branches, his eyes resting upon her as frankly, as tenderly
as a mother looks at her child. In single file we marched through the
gray morning, clearing cold after the storm, and the silence was seldom
broken, for we had little heart to talk.
At last we came to the high, lonely ridge, the dwarf forest, the huge,
couchant bulk of Spy Rock. There, on the back of it, with his right arm
hanging over the edge, was the outline of Edward Keene’s form. It was as
if some monster had seized him and flung him over its shoulder to carry
away.
We called to him but there was no answer. The doctor climbed up with me,
and we hurried to the spot where he was lying. His face was turned to
the sky, his eyes blindly staring; there was no pulse, no breath; he was
already cold in death. His right hand and arm, the side of his neck
and face were horribly swollen and livid. The doctor stooped down and
examined the hand carefully. “See!” he cried, pointing to a great bruise
on his wrist, with two tiny punctures in the middle of it from which
a few drops of blood had oozed, “a rattlesnake has struck him. He must
have fairly put his hand upon it, perhaps in the dark, when he was
climbing. And, look, what is this?”
He picked up a flat silver box, that lay open on the rock. There were
two olive-green pellets of a resinous paste in it. He lifted it to his
face, and drew a long breath.
“Yes,” he said, “it is Gunjab, the most powerful form of Hashish, the
narcotic hemp of India. Poor fellow, it saved him from frightful agony.
He died in a dream.”
“You are right,” I said, “in a dream, and for a dream.”
We covered his face and climbed down the rock. Dorothy and Graham were
waiting below. He had put his coat around her. She was shivering a
little. There were tear-marks on her face.
“Well,” I said, “you must know it. We have lost him.”
“Ah!” said the girl, “I lost him long ago.”