AT MIDNIGHT ON THE MOOR.
We were more than half-way home before Mr. Marx broke a silence which was
becoming oppressive.
"Well, have you enjoyed your evening?" he asked.
"Of course I have, and I'm very much obliged to you for taking me to the
theatre," I added. After all, perhaps I was misjudging him. What possible
motive could he have for being my enemy?
"Oh, that's all right," he declared, carefully lighting a cigar and
throwing the match out of the window. "I'm afraid you've had more than
one illusion dispelled this evening, though," he went on, smiling. "You
must have had plenty of time and opportunity, too, for weaving them, out
here all your life. Have you never been away to visit your relations, or
anything of that sort?"
I shook my head.
"I don't believe I have any relations," I said. "I never heard of any. My
father used to say that he was the last of his family."
"But your mother? Surely you know some of her people?"
"I have never even heard her speak of them," I answered shortly.
"Strange! You don't happen to remember her maiden name, do you?"
"I don't know that I ever heard it," I told him.
I began to wish that Mr. Marx would choose some other topic of
conversation. Doubtless, it was exceedingly kind of him to take so much
interest in my affairs and his questions proceeded from perfectly genuine
motives, but my inability to answer any of them was becoming a little
embarrassing.
"One more question I was going to ask you and it shall be the last," he
said, as though divining my feeling. "Were you born here?"
"I suppose so. I never heard that I was born anywhere else."
There was another long silence and it seemed to me that Mr. Marx was very
deep in thought. I was beginning to feel sleepy and, closing my eyes, I
leaned right back among the soft, yielding cushions.
It was one of the wildest and roughest nights of the year. Both the
carriage-windows were streaming with raindrops, and we could hear the
wind howling across the open country, and whistling mournfully among the
leafless trees.
We had accomplished about three-quarters of our journey and had just
entered upon the blackest part of it. On either side of the road and
running close up to it, without even the division of hedges, was a
stretch of bare, open country, pleasant enough in summer time, but now a
mere plain, on which were dotted about a few straggling plantations of
sickly, stunted fir trees, among which the hurricane was making weird
music.
We were in the middle of this dreary region. Mr. Marx was still smoking
his cigar, but with closed eyes, and was either dozing or deep in
thought. I, with my share of the fur rug wrapped closely around my knees,
was trying in vain to sleep--in vain, for my head was still in a whirl,
after what had been for me such an exciting day.
Exciting though it had been, however, its close was to be more so.
Suddenly, without the least warning, we felt a sharp jerk, and heard the
coachman calling out to his horses, who were plunging furiously. Mr. Marx
and I both leaned forward, and, just as we did so, there was a tremendous
crash of breaking glass, and, through the splintered carriage window, on
the side nearest to him, came a heavy piece of rock, followed by a
confused mass of stones and gravel and other debris.
Mr. Marx leapt to his feet, with his hand on the door handle and the
blood streaming from his forehead. Before he could open the door,
however, a strange thing happened. Outside, half visible through the
remains of the glass and half without any intervening obstruction,
flashed for one single second the white, ghastly face of a man peering in
upon us. It came and went so swiftly that I could gain only the very
faintest idea of the features; but with Mr. Marx it seemed to be
otherwise. Like a flash of lightning, a look passed across his face which
has never died out of my memory. Every feature seemed to be dilated and
shaken with a spasmodic agony of horrified recognition. For a moment he
seemed struck helpless, with every power of movement and every nerve
numbed. Then a low cry, such as I have never before or since heard from
human throat, burst from his shaking lips and his right hand tore open
his coat and sought his breast-pocket.
The door of the carriage burst open as he sprang into the road like a
wild animal, and long streaks of fire flashed from the gleaming revolver
which he grasped in his hand--a lurid illumination which gave me sudden
glimpses of his white, bleeding face as he stood in the road, firing
barrel after barrel into the darkness.
I jumped out and hurried to his side, looking eagerly around into the
dark night and together we stood and listened in a breathless silence.
Across the wild, open moor the wind came rushing towards us with a deep
booming sound, and among the bare tree tops of a small plantation before
us we heard it shrieking and yelling like the hellish laughter of an army
of witches. The ink-black clouds lowering close above our heads were
dissolving in a mad torrent of rain, and the darkness was so intense
that, although we could hear the frantic plunging of the horses behind
us, we could neither see them nor the carriage. The elements seemed to
have declared themselves on the side of our mysterious assailant. The
blackness of the night and the roaring of the wind and rain blotted out
all our surroundings and deadened all sound save their own.
"Wait here!" cried Mr. Marx, in a harsh, unnatural tone. And before I
could open my mouth he had vanished out of sight and it seemed as though
the black, yawning darkness had swallowed him up.
For a while I stood without moving. Then a cry for help from the coachman
behind and the renewed sound of struggling horses reminded me of their
plight, and I groped my way back to the road again.
I was only just in time. The horses, fine, powerful creatures, very
nearly thoroughbred, were perfectly mad with fright, and the groom, who
had been holding and striving to subdue them, was quite exhausted.
Between us we managed to pacify them after a brief struggle, and as soon
as I could find sufficient breath I began to question Burdett--who had
stuck to his place on the box like an immovable statue--about the first
cause of their alarm.
"What was it they shied at first?" I asked. "Did you see anyone?"
"Just catched a glimpse of the blackguard, sir, and that was all,"
Burdett answered. "We were a-spinning along beautiful, for they knew as
they were on their way home, them animals did, when, all of a sudden
like, Dandy shies, and up goes the mare on her hind legs and as near as
possible pitches me into the road. I slackened the reins and laid the
whip across them, while Tom jumped down. And just then I saw a figure in
the middle of the road and heard a crash through the carriage window.
Tom, he'd catched hold of their heads by then, which was lucky; for when
the firing began they was like mad creatures and I could never have held
them. It's a mercy we aren't altogether smashed up, and no mistake. The
Lord save me from ever being out wi' my 'osses again on such a night as
this!"
"You didn't see the face of the man who attacked us, then?" I asked
eagerly.
"Not being possessed of the eyes of a heagle or a cat, sir, I did not,"
Burdett replied. "Just you look round and see what sort of a night it is.
Why, I can only just make out your outline, sir; although I've been
looking at you this five minutes, I can't see nothing of your face."
"Neither did you, I suppose, Tom?" I asked the groom.
"No, sir; nothing except just a black figure. Good thing that you was
neither of you hurt, sir."
"I'm not sure that Mr. Marx isn't," I answered; "his face was bleeding a
good deal. I wish he'd come back."
Never did time pass so slowly as then, when we waited in the storm and
rain for Mr. Marx's return. It must have been nearly an hour before we
heard him hailing us in the distance, and soon afterwards saw his figure
loom out of the darkness close at hand. He was alone.
Splashed from head to foot with mud, hatless, and with great streaks of
blood clotted upon his forehead and cheeks, he presented at first a
frightful figure. But his face had lost that dreadful expression of
numbed horror which had made it for a moment so terrible to me, and, as
he sank back breathless and exhausted, among the cushions, he even
attempted a smile.
"All in vain, you see," he said. "Couldn't find a single trace of anyone
anywhere."
"Are you much hurt, sir?" asked the groom, who was tying up the broken
carriage-door.
"Not at all. Only a scratch. Tell Burdett to drive home as fast as he can
now, Tom, there's a good fellow."
We were left together to talk over this strange affair. Mr. Marx seemed
to have made up his mind about it already.
"Without doubt," he said deliberately, "it was some tramp, desperate with
want or drink, who made up his mind to play the highwayman. He started
well, and then, seeing two of us instead of one, funked it and bolted. I
don't think I ever had such a start in my life."
"You came off the worst," I remarked, pointing to his forehead.
"It wasn't that that upset me," he answered. "It was a horrible idea
which flashed upon me just for a moment. The face which peered in at the
window--you saw it--was horribly like the face of a man who is dead--whom
I know to be dead. It gave me, just while the idea lasted, a sensation
which I hope I shall never experience again as long as I live. It was
ghastly."
The face of the dead! It was not a cheerful thought. But I looked at the
wrecked door and window of the carriage and felt immediately reassured.
Our assailant, whoever he might have been, was no ghostly one. There was
undeniable evidence of his material presence and strength in the
shattered glass, the wrenched woodwork, and the wound on Mr. Marx's
forehead.
The carriage pulled up with a jerk. We had reached my home.
"Hadn't you better come in and bathe your forehead, Mr. Marx?" I
suggested hesitatingly.
He shook his head and declined.
"No, thanks. I'll get back to the Castle as soon as I can and doctor it
myself. Good-bye, Morton. If I don't see you again before you go, I wish
you every success at Mr. Randall's."
I thanked him warmly, shook his offered hand, and, shutting the
carriage-door, called out to Burdett to drive on. For a moment or two I
stood in the road watching the lights as they rapidly grew fainter and
fainter in the distance. Then I turned slowly up the path towards the
house.
Half-way there I stopped short and, holding my breath, listened intently.
The wind had dropped and the rain had almost ceased, but the night was
still as dark as pitch. I listened with strained ears and beating heart
and soon I knew that I had not been mistaken. Coming down the hill
between Rothland Wood gate and where I was, along the road by which we
had just come, I could hear the faint, but nevertheless unmistakable,
sound of light, running footsteps. Turning back, I stole softly down the
path and stood in the middle of the road, waiting.