THE CRY IN THE NIGHT
"You'd be having company last night, sir?" Mrs. Hollings remarked
inquisitively. Mrs. Hollings was an elderly widow, who devoted two
hours of her morning to cleaning my rooms and preparing my breakfast.
"Some friends did call," I answered, pouring out the coffee.
"Friends! Good Samaritans I should call 'em," Mrs. Hollings declared,
"if so be as they left all the things I found here this morning. Why,
there's a whole chicken, to say nothing of tongue and biscuits, and
butter, and relishes, and savouries, the names of which isn't often
heard in this part of the world. There's wine, too, with gold paper
round the top, champagne wine, I do believe."
"Is the tide up this morning?" I asked.
"None to speak of," Mrs. Hollings answered, "though the road's been
washed dry, and the creeks are brimming. I've scarcely set foot in the
village this morning, but they're all a-talking about the soldier
gentleman the Duke brought down to the village hall last night. Might
you have seen him, sir?"
"Yes, I saw him," I answered.
"A sad shame as it was the night of your lecture, sir," the woman
babbled on, "for they were all crazy to hear him. My! the hall was
packed."
"Would you mind seeing to my room now, Mrs. Hollings?" I asked. "I am
going out early this morning."
Mrs. Hollings ascended my frail little staircase. I finished my
breakfast in haste, and catching up my hat escaped out of doors.
I shall never forget the glory of that morning. The sky was blue and
cloudless, the sun was as hot as though this were indeed a midsummer
morning. The whole land, saturated still with the fast receding sea,
seemed to gleam and glitter with a strange iridescence. Great pools in
unaccustomed places shone like burnished silver, the wet sands were
sparkling and brilliant, the creeks had become swollen rivers full of
huge masses of emerald seaweed, running far up into the marshland and
spreading themselves out over the meadows beyond. There was salt in the
very atmosphere. I felt it on my tongue, and my cheeks were rough with
it. Overhead the seagulls in great flocks were returning from shelter,
screaming as though with joy as they dived down to the sea. It was a
wonderful morning.
About two hundred yards past my cottage the road, which from the village
ran perfectly straight, took a sharp turn inland, leaving the coast
abruptly on account of the greater stretch of marshland beyond. It was
towards this bend that I walked, and curiously enough, with every step I
took some inexplicable sense of nervous excitement grew stronger and
stronger within me. The fresh morning air and the sunlight seemed
powerless to dissipate for a moment the haunting terror of last night.
It was a real face which I had seen pressed against the window, and
where had Ray been when he returned with sand-clogged boots and the
telltale seaweed upon his trousers? And later on, had I dreamed it, or
had there really been a cry? It came back to me with horrible
distinctness. It was a real cry, the cry of a man in terror for his
life. I stopped short in the road and wiped my damp forehead. What a
fool I was! The night was over. Here in the garish day there was
surely nothing to fear? Nevertheless, I, who had started out thirsting
only to breathe the fresh salt air, now walked along with stealthy
nervous footsteps, looking all the time from left to right, starting at
the sight of a dark log on the sands, terrified at a broken buoy which
had floated up one of the creeks. Some fear had come over me which I
could not shake off. I was afraid of what I might see.
So I walked to the bend of the road. Here, in case the turn might be
too sharp for some to see at night, a dozen yards or so of white posts
and railings bordered the marshes. I leaned over them for a moment,
telling myself that I paused only to admire the strange colours drawn by
the sunlight from the sea-soaked wilderness, the deep brown, the strange
purple, the faint pink of the distant sands. But it was none of these
which my eyes sought with such fierce eagerness. It was none of the
artist's fervour which turned my limbs into dead weights, which drew the
colour even from my lips, and set my heart beating with fierce quick
throbs. Half in the creek and half out, not a dozen yards from the
road, was the figure of a man. His head and shoulders were beneath the
water, his body and legs and outstretched arms were upon the marsh. And
although never before had I looked upon death, I knew very well that I
was face to face with it now.
How long it was before I moved I cannot tell. At last, however, I
climbed the palings, jumped at its narrowest point a smaller creek, and
with slow footsteps approached the dead man. Even when I stood by his
side I dared not touch him, I dared not turn him round to see his face.
I saw that he was of middle size, fairly well dressed, and as some blown
sand had drifted over his boots and ankles I knew that he had been there
for some hours. There was blood upon his collar, and the fingers of his
right hand were tightly clenched. I told myself that I was a coward,
and I set my teeth. I must lift his head from the water, and cover him
up with my own coat while I fetched help. But when I stooped down a
deadly faintness came over me. My fingers were palsied with horror. I
had a sudden irresistible conviction I could not touch him. It was a
sheer impossibility. There was something between us more potent than
the dread of a dead man--something inimical between us two, the dead and
the living. I staggered away and ran reeling to the road, plunging
blindly through the creek.
About two hundred yards further down the road was a small lodge at one
of the entrances of Rowchester. It was towards this I turned and ran.
The door was closed, and I beat upon it fiercely with clenched fists.
The woman who answered it stared at me strangely. I suppose that I was
a wild-looking object.
"It's Mr. Ducaine, isn't it?" she exclaimed. "Why, sakes alive!
what's wrong, sir?"
"A dead man in the marshes," I faltered.
She was interested enough, but her comely weather-hardened face
reflected none of the horror which she must have seen on mine.
"Lordy me! whereabouts, sir?" she inquired.
I pointed with a trembling forefinger. She stood by my side on the
threshold of the cottage and shaded her eyes with her hand, for the
glare of the sun was dazzling.
"Well, I never did!" she remarked. "But I said to John last night that
I pitied them at sea. He's been washed up by the tide, I suppose, and I
count there'll be more before the day's out. A year come next September
there was six of 'em, gentlefolk, too, who'd been yachting. Eh, but
it's a cruel thing is the sea."
"Where is your husband?" I asked.
"Up chopping wood in Fernham Spinney," she answered. "I'd best send one
of the children for him. He'll have a cart with him. Will you step
inside, sir?"
I shook my head and answered her vaguely. She sent a boy with a
message, and brought me out a chair, dusting it carefully with her
apron.
"You'd best sit down, sir. You look all struck of a heap, so to speak.
Maybe you came upon it sudden."
I was glad enough to sit down, but I answered her at random. She
re-entered the cottage and continued some household duties. I sat quite
still, with my eyes steadily fixed upon a dark object a little to the
left of those white palings. Above my head a starling in a wicker cage
was making an insane cackling, on the green patch in front a couple of
tame rabbits sat and watched me, pink-eyed, imperturbable. Inside I
could hear the slow ticking of an eight-day clock. The woman was
humming to herself as she worked. All these things, which my senses
took quick note of and retained, seemed to me to belong to another
world. I myself was under some sort of spell. My brain was numb with
terror, the fire of life had left my veins, so that I sat there in the
warm sunshine and shivered until my teeth chattered. Inside, the woman
was singing over her work.
And then the spell developed. A nameless but loathsome fascination drew
me from my seat, drew me with uneven and reluctant footsteps out of the
gate and down the narrow straight road. There was still not a soul in
sight. I drew nearer and nearer to the spot. Once more I essayed to
move him. It was utterly in vain. Such nerve as I possessed had left
me wholly and altogether. A sense of repulsion, nauseating, invincible,
made a child of me. I stood up and looked around wildly. It was then
for the first time I saw what my right foot had trodden into the sand.
I picked it up, and a little cry, unheard save by the sea-birds which
circled about my head, broke from my lips. It was a man's signet ring,
thin and worn smooth with age. It was quaintly shaped, and in the
centre was set a small jet-black stone. The device was a bird, and
underneath the motto--"Vinco!"
My hand closed suddenly upon it, and again I looked searchingly around.
There was not a soul in sight. I slipped the ring into my waistcoat
pocket and moved back to the white railings. I leaned against them,
and, taking a pipe and tobacco from my pocket, began to smoke.
Strangely enough, I had now recovered my nerve. I was able to think and
reason calmly. The woman at the lodge had taken it for granted that
this man's body had been thrown up by the sea. Was that a possible
conclusion? There was a line all down the sands where the tide had
reached, a straggling uneven line marked with huge masses of wet
seaweeds, fragments of timber, the flotsam and jetsam of the sea. The
creek where the man's body was lying was forty yards above this. Yet on
such a night who could say where those great breakers, driven in by the
wind as well as by their own mighty force, might not have cast their
prey? Within a few yards of him was a jagged mass of timber. The cause
of those wounds would be obvious enough. I felt the ring in my
waistcoat pocket--it was there, safely enough hidden, and I looked
toward the lodge. As yet there were no signs of John or the cart.
But behind me, coming from the village, I heard the sound of light and
rapid footsteps. I turned my head. It was Blanche Moyat,
short-skirted, a stick in her hand, a feather stuck through her
Tam-o'-Shanter.
"Good-morning," she cried out heartily; "I've been to call at your
cottage."
"Very kind of you," I answered, hesitatingly. Miss Moyat was
good-hearted, but a little overpowering--and in certain moods she
reminded me of her father.
"Oh, I had an errand," she explained, laughing. "Father said if I saw
you I was to say that he has to call on the Duke this afternoon, and,
if you liked, he would explain about your lecture last night, and try
and get the village hall for you for nothing. The Duke is very
good-natured, and if he knows that he spoilt your evening, father thinks
he might let you have it for nothing."
"It is very kind of your father," I answered. "I do not think that I
shall ever give that lecture again."
"Why not?" she protested. "I am sure I thought it a beautiful lecture,
and I'm not keen on churches and ruins myself," she added, with a laugh
which somehow grated upon me. "What are you doing here?"
"Watching the dead," I answered grimly.
She looked at me for an explanation. I pointed to the dark object by
the side of the creek. She gave a violent start. Then she screamed and
caught hold of my arm.
"Mr. Ducaine!" she cried. "What is it?"
"A dead man!" I answered.
Her face was a strange study. There was fear mingled with unwholesome
curiosity, the heritage of her natural lack of refinement. She leaned
over the palings.
"Oh, how horrible!" she exclaimed. "I don't know whether I want to look
or not. I've never seen any one dead."
"I should advise you," I said, "to go away."
It was apparently the last thing she desired to do. Of the various
emotions which had possessed her, curiosity was the one which survived.
"You are sure he is dead?" she asked.
"Quite," I answered.
"Was he drowned, then?"
"I think," I replied, "that he has been washed up by the tide. There
has probably been a shipwreck."
"Gracious!" she exclaimed. "It is just a sailor, then?"
"I have not looked at his face," I answered, "and I should not advise
you to. He has been tossed about and injured. His clothes, though, are
not a seaman's."
She passed through a gap in the palings.
"I must look just a little closer," she exclaimed. "Do come with me,
Mr. Ducaine. I'm horribly afraid."
"Then don't go near him," I advised. "A dead man is surely not a
pleasant spectacle for you. Come away, Miss Moyat."
But she had advanced to within a couple of yards of him. Then she
stopped short, and a little exclamation escaped from her lips.
"Why, Mr. Ducaine," she cried out, "this is the very man who stopped me
last night outside our house, and asked the way to your cottage."