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Out of these dim and shattered memories came a comfort to
his heart, though his brain could not as yet grasp the reason of it. He
knew that Stephen had held an unconventional idea as to the equality of
the sexes. Was it possible that she was indeed testing one of her
theories? The idea stirred him so that he could not remain quiet. He stood up, and
walked the room. Somehow he felt light beginning to dawn, though he
could not tell its source, or guess at the final measure of its fulness. The fact of Stephen having done such a thing was hard to bear; but it was
harder to think that she should have done such a thing without a motive;
or worse: with love of Leonard as a motive! He shuddered as he paused. She could not love such a man. It was monstrous! And yet she had done
this thing . . . 'Oh, if she had had any one to advise her, to restrain
her! But she had no mother! No mother! Poor Stephen!' The pity of it, not for himself but for the woman he loved, overcame him. Sitting down heavily before his desk, he put his face on his hands, and
his great shoulders shook. Long, long after the violence of his emotion had passed, he sat there
motionless, thinking with all the power and sincerity he knew; thinking
for Stephen's good. When a strong man thinks unselfishly some good may come out of it. He
may blunder; but the conclusion of his reasoning must be in the main
right. So it was with Harold. He knew that he was ignorant of women,
and of woman's nature, as distinguished from man's. The only woman he
had ever known well was Stephen; and she in her youth and in her
ignorance of the world and herself was hardly sufficient to supply to him
data for his present needs. To a clean-minded man of his age a woman is
something divine. It is only when in later life disappointment and
experience have hammered bitter truth into his brain, that he begins to
realise that woman is not angelic but human. When he knows more, and
finds that she is like himself, human and limited but with qualities of
purity and sincerity and endurance which put his own to shame, he
realises how much better a helpmate she is for man than could be the
vague, unreal creations of his dreams. And then he can thank God for His
goodness that when He might have given us Angels He did give us women! Of one thing, despite the seeming of facts, he was sure: Stephen did not
love Leonard. Every fibre of his being revolted at the thought. She of
so high a nature; he of so low. She so noble; he so mean. Bah! the
belief was impossible. Impossible! Herein was the manifestation of his ignorance; anything is
possible where love is concerned! It was characteristic of the man that
in his mind he had abandoned, for the present at all events, his own
pain. He still loved Stephen with all the strength of his nature, but
for him the selfish side ceased to exist. He was trying to serve
Stephen; and every other thought had to give way. He had been satisfied
that in a manner she loved him in some way and in some degree; and he had
hoped that in the fulness of time the childish love would ripen, so that
in the end would come a mutual affection which was of the very essence of
Heaven. He believed still that she loved him in some way; but the future
that was based on hope had now been wiped out with a sudden and unsparing
hand. She had actually proposed marriage to another man. If the idea of
a marriage with him had ever crossed her mind she could have had no doubt
of her feeling toward another. . . . And yet? And yet he could not
believe that she loved Leonard; not even if all trains of reasoning
should end by leading to that point. One thing he had at present to
accept, that whatever might be the measure of affection Stephen might
have for him, it was not love as he understood it. He resolutely turned
his back on the thought of his own side of the matter, and tried to find
some justification of Stephen's act. 'Seek and ye shall find; knock and it shall be opened to ye' has perhaps
a general as well as a special significance. It is by patient tireless
seeking that many a precious thing has been found. It was after many a
long cycle of thought that the seeking and the knocking had effectual
result. Harold came to believe, vaguely at first but more definitely as
the evidence nucleated, that Stephen's act was due to some mad girlish
wish to test her own theory; to prove to herself the correctness of her
own reasoning, the fixity of her own purpose. He did not go on analysing
further; for as he walked the room with a portion of the weight taken
from his heart he noticed that the sky was beginning to quicken. The day
would soon be upon him, and there was work to be done. Instinctively he
knew that there was trouble in store for Stephen, and he felt that in
such an hour he should be near her. All her life she had been accustomed
to him. In her sorrows to confide in him, to tell him her troubles so
that they might dwindle and pass away; to enhance her pleasures by making
him a sharer in them. Harold was inspirited by the coming of the new day. There was work to be
done, and the work must be based on thought. His thoughts must take a
practical turn; what was he to do that would help Stephen? Here there
dawned on him for the first time the understanding of a certain
humiliation which she had suffered; she had been refused! She who had
stepped so far out of the path of maidenly reserve in which she had
always walked as to propose marriage to a man, had been refused! He did
not, could not, know to the full the measure of such humiliation to a
woman; but he could guess at any rate a part. And that guessing made him
grind his teeth in impotent rage. But out of that rage came an inspiration. If Stephen had been humiliated
by the refusal of one man, might not this be minimised if she in turn
might refuse another? Harold knew so well the sincerity of his own love
and the depth of his own devotion that he was satisfied that he could not
err in giving the girl the opportunity of refusing him. It would be some
sort of balm to her wounded spirit to know that Leonard's views were not
shared by all men. That there were others who would deem it a joy to
serve as her slaves. When she had refused him she would perhaps feel
easier in her mind. Of course if she did not refuse him . . . Ah! well,
then would the gates of Heaven open . . . But that would never be. The
past could not be blotted out! All he could do would be to serve her. He
would go early. Such a man as Leonard Everard might make some new
complication, and the present was quite bad enough. It was a poor enough thing for him, he thought at length. She might
trample on him; but it was for her sake. And to him what did it matter? The worst had come. All was over now! CHAPTER XIV--THE BEECH GROVE
On the morning following the proposal Stephen strolled out into a beech
grove, some little distance from the house, which from childhood had been
a favourite haunt of hers. | Stoker, Bram - The Man |
It was not in the immediate road to anywhere,
and so there was no occasion for any of the household or the garden to go
through it or near it. She did not put on a hat, but took only a
sunshade, which she used in passing over the lawn. The grove was on the
side of the house away from her own room and the breakfast-room. When
she had reached its shade she felt that at last she was alone. The grove was a privileged place. Long ago a great number of young
beeches had been planted so thickly that as they grew they shot up
straight and branchless in their struggle for the light. Not till they
had reached a considerable altitude had they been thinned; and then the
thinning had been so effected that, as the high branches began to shoot
out in the freer space, they met in time and interlaced so closely that
they made in many places a perfect screen of leafy shade. Here and there
were rifts or openings through which the light passed; under such places
the grass was fine and green, or the wild hyacinths in due season tinged
the earth with blue. Through the grove some wide alleys had been left:
great broad walks where the soft grass grew short and fine, and to whose
edges came a drooping of branches and an upspringing of undergrowth of
laurel and rhododendron. At the far ends of these walks were little
pavilions of marble built in the classic style which ruled for garden use
two hundred years ago. At the near ends some of them were close to the
broad stretch of water from whose edges ran back the great sloping banks
of emerald sward dotted here and there with great forest trees. The
grove was protected by a ha-ha, so that it was never invaded from
without, and the servants of the house, both the domestics and the
gardeners and grooms, had been always forbidden to enter it. Thus by
long usage it had become a place of quiet and solitude for the members of
the family. To this soothing spot had come Stephen in her pain. The long spell of
self-restraint during that morning had almost driven her to frenzy, and
she sought solitude as an anodyne to her tortured soul. The long anguish
of a third sleepless night, following on a day of humiliation and terror,
had destroyed for a time the natural resilience of a healthy nature. She
had been for so long in the prison of her own purpose with Fear as
warder; the fetters of conventional life had so galled her that here in
the accustomed solitude of this place, in which from childhood she had
been used to move and think freely, she felt as does a captive who has
escaped from an irksome durance. As Stephen had all along been free of
movement and speech, no such opportunities of freedom called to her. The
pent-up passion in her, however, found its own relief. Her voice was
silent, and she moved with slow steps, halting often between the green
tree-trunks in the cool shade; but her thoughts ran free, and passion
found a vent. No stranger seeing the tall, queenly girl moving slowly
through the trees could have imagined the fierce passion which blazed
within her, unless he had been close enough to see her eyes. The habit
of physical restraint to which all her life she had been accustomed, and
which was intensified by the experience of the past thirty-six hours,
still ruled her, even here. Gradually the habit of security began to
prevail, and the shackles to melt away. Here had she come in all her
childish troubles. Here had she fought with herself, and conquered
herself. Here the spirits of the place were with her and not against
her. Here memory in its second degree, habit, gave her the full sense of
spiritual freedom. As she walked to and fro the raging of her spirit changed its objective:
from restraint to its final causes; and chief amongst them the pride
which had been so grievously hurt. How she loathed the day that had
passed, and how more than all she hated herself for her part in it; her
mad, foolish, idiotic, self-importance which gave her the idea of such an
act and urged her to the bitter end of its carrying out; her mulish
obstinacy in persisting when every fibre of her being had revolted at the
doing, and when deep in her inmost soul was a deterring sense of its
futility. How could she have stooped to have done such a thing: to ask a
man . . . oh! the shame of it, the shame of it all! How could she have
been so blind as to think that such a man was worthy! . . . In the midst of her whirlwind of passion came a solitary gleam of relief:
she knew with certainty that she did not love Leonard; that she had never
loved him. The coldness of disdain to him, the fear of his future acts
which was based on disbelief of the existence of that finer nature with
which she had credited him, all proved to her convincingly that he could
never really have been within the charmed circle of her inner life. Did
she but know it, there was an even stronger evidence of her indifference
to him in the ready manner in which her thoughts flew past him in their
circling sweep. For a moment she saw him as the centre of a host of
besetting fears; but her own sense of superior power nullified the force
of the vision. She was able to cope with him and his doings, were there
such need. And so her mind flew back to the personal side of her
trouble: her blindness, her folly, her shame. In truth she was doing good work for herself. Her mind was working truly
and to a beneficent end. One by one she was overcoming the false issues
of her passion and drifting to an end in which she would see herself face
to face and would place so truly the blame for what had been as to make
it a warning and ennobling lesson of her life. She moved more quickly,
passing to and fro as does a panther in its cage when the desire of
forest freedom is heavy upon it. That which makes the irony of life will perhaps never be understood in
its casual aspect by the finite mind of man. The 'why' and 'wherefore'
and the 'how' of it is only to be understood by that All-wise
intelligence which can scan the future as well as the present, and see
the far far-reaching ramifications of those schemes of final development
to which the manifestation of completed character tend. To any mortal it would seem a pity that to Stephen in her solitude, when
her passion was working itself out to an end which might be good, should
come an interruption which would throw it back upon itself in such a way
as to multiply its malignant force. But again it is a part of the Great
Plan that instruments whose use man's finite mind could never predicate
should be employed: the seeming good to evil, the seeming evil to good. As she swept to and fro, her raging spirit compelling to violent
movement, Stephen's eyes were arrested by the figure of a man coming
through the aisles of the grove. At such a time any interruption of her
passion was a cause for heightening anger; but the presence of a person
was as a draught to a full-fed furnace. | Stoker, Bram - The Man |
Most of all, in her present
condition of mind, the presence of a man--for the thought of a man lay
behind all her trouble, was as a tornado striking a burning forest. The
blood of her tortured heart seemed to leap to her brain and to suffuse
her eyes. She 'saw blood'! It mattered not that the man whom she saw she knew and trusted. Indeed,
this but added fuel to the flame. In the presence of a stranger some of
her habitual self-restraint would doubtless have come back to her. But
now the necessity for such was foregone; Harold was her alter ego, and in
his presence was safety. He was, in this aspect, but a higher and more
intelligent rendering of the trees around her. In another aspect he was
an opportune victim, something to strike at. When the anger of a poison
snake opens its gland, and the fang is charged with venom, it must strike
at something. It does not pause or consider what it may be; it strikes,
though it may be at stone or iron. So Stephen waited till her victim was
within distance to strike. Her black eyes, fierce with passion and blood-
rimmed as a cobra's, glittered as he passed among the tree-trunks towards
her, eager with his errand of devotion. Harold was a man of strong purpose. Had he not been, he would never have
come on his present errand. Never, perhaps, had any suitor set forth on
his quest with a heavier heart. All his life, since his very boyhood,
had been centred round the girl whom to-day he had come to serve. All
his thought had been for her: and to-day all he could expect was a gentle
denial of all his hopes, so that his future life would be at best a
blank. But he would be serving Stephen! His pain might be to her good; ought to
be, to a certain extent, to her mental ease. Her wounded pride would
find some solace . . . As he came closer the feeling that he had to play
a part, veritably to act one, came stronger and stronger upon him, and
filled him with bitter doubt as to his power. Still he went on boldly. It had been a part of his plan to seem to come eagerly, as a lover should
come; and so he came. When he got close to Stephen, all the witchery of
her presence came upon him as of old. After all, he loved her with his
whole soul; and the chance had come to tell her so. Even under the
distressing conditions of his suit, the effort had its charm. Stephen schooled herself to her usual attitude with him; and that, too,
since the effort was based on truth came with a certain ease to her. At
the present time, in her present frame of mind, nothing in the wide world
could give her pleasure; the ease which came, if it did not change her
purpose, increased her power. Their usual salutation, begun when she was
a little baby, was 'Good morning, Stephen!' 'Good morning, Harold!' It
had become so much a custom that now it came mechanically on her part. The tender reference to childhood's days, though it touched her companion
to the quick, did not appeal to her since she had no special thought of
it. Had such a thought come to her it might have softened her even to
tears, for Harold had been always deep in her heart. As might have been
expected from her character and condition of mind, she was the first to
begin:
'I suppose you want to see me about something special, Harold, you have
come so early.' 'Yes, Stephen. Very special!' 'Were you at the house?' she asked in a voice whose quietness might have
conveyed a warning. She was so suspicious now that she suspected even
Harold of--of what she did not know. He answered in all simplicity:
'No. I came straight here.' 'How did you know I should be here?' Her voice was now not only quiet
but sweet. Without thinking, Harold blundered on. His intention was so
single-minded, and his ignorance of woman so complete, that he did not
recognise even elementary truths:
'I knew you always came here long ago when you were a child when you were
in--' Here it suddenly flashed upon him that if he seemed to expect that
she was in trouble as he had purposed saying, he would give away his
knowledge of what had happened and so destroy the work to which he had
set himself. So he finished the sentence in a lame and impotent manner,
which, however, saved complete annihilation as it was verbally accurate:
'in short frocks.' Stephen needed to know little more. Her quick
intelligence grasped the fact that there was some purpose afoot which she
did not know or understand. She surmised, of course, that it was some
way in connection with her mad act, and she grew cooler in her brain as
well as colder in her heart as she prepared to learn more. Stephen had
changed from girl to woman in the last twenty-four hours; and all the
woman in her was now awake. After a moment's pause she said with a
winning smile:
'Why, Harold, I've been in long frocks for years. Why should I come here
on this special day on that account?' Even as she was speaking she felt
that it would be well to abandon this ground of inquiry. It had clearly
told her all it could. She would learn more by some other means. So she
went on in a playful way, as a cat--not a kitten--does when it has got a
mouse:
'That reason won't work, Harold. It's quite rusty in the joints. But
never mind it! Tell me why you have come so early?' This seemed to
Harold to be a heaven-sent opening; he rushed in at once:
'Because, Stephen, I wanted to ask you to be my wife! Oh! Stephen, don't
you know that I love you? Ever since you were a little girl! When you
were a little girl and I a big boy I loved you. I have loved you ever
since with all my heart, and soul, and strength. Without you the world
is a blank to me! For you and your happiness I would do
anything--anything!' This was no acting. When once the barrier of beginning had been broken,
his soul seemed to pour itself out. The man was vibrant through all his
nature; and the woman's very soul realised its truth. For an instant a
flame of gladness swept through her; and for the time it lasted put all
other thought aside. But suspicion is a hard metal which does not easily yield to fire. It
can come to white heat easily enough, but its melting-point is high
indeed. When the flame had leaped it had spent its force; the reaction
came quick. Stephen's heart seemed to turn to ice, all the heat and life
rushing to her brain. Her thoughts flashed with convincing quickness;
there was no time for doubting amid their rush. Her life was for good or
ill at the crossing of the ways. She had trusted Harold thoroughly. The
habit of her whole life from her babyhood up had been to so look to him
as comrade and protector and sympathetic friend. She was so absolutely
sure of his earnest devotion that this new experience of a riper feeling
would have been a joy to her, if it should be that his act was all
spontaneous and done in ignorance of her shame. 'Shame' was the generic
word which now summarised to herself her thought of her conduct in
proposing to Leonard. But of this she must be certain. She could not,
dare not, go farther till this was settled. | Stoker, Bram - The Man |
With the same craving for
certainty with which she convinced herself that Leonard understood her
overtures, and with the same dogged courage with which she pressed the
matter on him, she now went on to satisfy her mind. 'What did you do yesterday?' 'I was at Norcester all day. I went early. By the way, here is the
ribbon you wanted; I think it's exactly the same as the pattern.' As he
spoke he took a tissue-piper parcel from his pocket and handed it to her. 'Thanks!' she said. 'Did you meet any friends there?' 'Not many.' He answered guardedly; he had a secret to keep. 'Where did you dine?' 'At the club!' He began to be uneasy at this questioning; but he did not
see any way to avoid answering without creating some suspicion. 'Did you see any one you knew at the club?' Her voice as she spoke was a
little harder, a little more strained. Harold noticed the change, rather
by instinct than reason. He felt that there was danger in it, and
paused. The pause seemed to suddenly create a new fury in the breast of
Stephen. She felt that Harold was playing with her. Harold! If she
could not trust him, where then was she to look for trust in the world? If he was not frank with her, what then meant his early coming; his
seeking her in the grove; his proposal of marriage, which seemed so
sudden and so inopportune? He must have seen Leonard, and by some means
have become acquainted with her secret of shame . . . His motive? Here her mind halted. She knew as well as if it had been trumpeted from
the skies that Harold knew all. But she must be certain . . . Certain! She was standing erect, her hands held down by her sides and clenched
together till the knuckles were white; all her body strung high--like an
over-pitched violin. Now she raised her right hand and flung it downward
with a passionate jerk. 'Answer me!' she cried imperiously. 'Answer me! Why are you playing
with me? Did you see Leonard Everard last night? Answer me, I say. Harold An Wolf, you do not lie! Answer me!' As she spoke Harold grew cold. From the question he now knew that
Stephen had guessed his secret. The fat was in the fire with a
vengeance. He did not know what to do, and still remained silent. She
did not give him time to think, but spoke again, this time more coldly. The white terror had replaced the red:
'Are you not going to answer me a simple question, Harold? To be silent
now is to wrong me! I have a right to know!' In his trouble, for he felt that say what he would he could only give her
new pain, he said humbly:
'Don't ask me, Stephen! Won't you understand that I want to do what is
best for you? Won't you trust me?' Her answer came harshly. A more
experienced man than Harold, one who knew women better, would have seen
how overwrought she was, and would have made pity the pivot of his future
bearing and acts and words while the interview lasted; pity, and pity
only. But to Harold the high ideal was ever the same. The Stephen whom
he loved was no subject for pity, but for devotion only. He knew the
nobility of her nature and must trust it to the end. When her silence
and her blazing eyes denied his request, he answered her query in a low
voice:
'I did!' Even whilst he spoke he was thankful for one thing, he had not
been pledged in any way to confidence. Leonard had forced the knowledge
on him; and though he would have preferred a million times over to be
silent, he was still free to speak. Stephen's next question came more
coldly still:
'Did he tell you of his meeting with me?' 'He did.' 'Did he tell you all?' It was torture to him to answer; but he was at
the stake and must bear it. 'I think so! If it was true.' 'What did he tell you? Stay! I shall ask you the facts myself; the
broad facts. We need not go into details . . . ' 'Oh, Stephen!' She silenced his pleading with an imperious hand. 'If I can go into this matter, surely you can. If I can bear the shame
of telling, you can at least bear that of listening. Remember that
knowing--knowing what you know, or at least what you have heard--you
could come here and propose marriage to me!' This she said with a cold,
cutting sarcasm which sounded like the rasping of a roughly-sharpened
knife through raw flesh. Harold groaned in spirit; he felt a weakness
which began at his heart to steal through him. It took all his manhood
to bear himself erect. He dreaded what was coming, as of old the once-
tortured victim dreaded the coming torment of the rack. CHAPTER XV--THE END OF THE MEETING
Stephen went on in her calm, cold voice:
'Did he tell you that I had asked him to marry me?' Despite herself, as
she spoke the words a red tide dyed her face. It was not a flush; it was
not a blush; it was a sort of flood which swept through her, leaving her
in a few seconds whiter than before. Harold saw and understood. He
could not speak; he lowered his head silently. Her eyes glittered more
coldly. The madness that every human being may have once was upon her. Such a madness is destructive, and here was something more vulnerable
than herself. 'Did he tell you how I pressed him?' There was no red tide this time,
nor ever again whilst the interview lasted. To bow in affirmation was
insufficient; with an effort he answered:
'I understood so.' She answered with an icy sarcasm:
'You understood so! Oh, I don't doubt he embellished the record with
some of his own pleasantries. But you understood it; and that is
sufficient.' After a pause she went on:
'Did he tell you that he had refused me?' 'Yes!' Harold knew now that he was under the torture, and that there was
no refusing. She went on, with a light laugh, which wrung his heart even
more than her pain had done . . . Stephen to laugh like that! 'And I have no doubt that he embellished that too, with some of his fine
masculine witticisms. I understood myself that he was offended at my
asking him. I understood it quite well; he told me so!' Then with
feminine intuition she went on:
'I dare say that before he was done he said something kindly of the poor
little thing that loved him; that loved him so much, and that she had to
break down all the bounds of modesty and decorum that had made the women
of her house honoured for a thousand years! And you listened to him
whilst he spoke! Oh-h-h!' she quivered with her white-hot anger, as the
fierce heat in the heart of a furnace quivers. But her voice was cold
again as she went on:
'But who could help loving him? Girls always did. It was such a beastly
nuisance! You "understood" all that, I dare say; though perhaps he did
not put it in such plain words!' Then the scorn, which up to now had
been imprisoned, turned on him; and he felt as though some hose of
deathly chill was being played upon him. 'And yet you, knowing that only yesterday, he had refused me--refused my
pressing request that he should marry me, come to me hot-foot in the
early morning and ask me to be your wife. | Stoker, Bram - The Man |
I thought such things did not
take place; that men were more honourable, or more considerate, or more
merciful! Or at least I used to think so; till yesterday. No! till to-
day. Yesterday's doings were my own doings, and I had to bear the
penalty of them myself. I had come here to fight out by myself the
battle of my shame . . . ' Here Harold interrupted her. He could not bear to hear Stephen use such
a word in connection with herself. 'No! You must not say "shame." There is no shame to you, Stephen. There
can be none, and no one must say it in my presence!' In her secret heart
of hearts she admired him for his words; she felt them at the moment sink
into her memory, and knew that she would never forget the mastery of his
face and bearing. But the blindness of rage was upon her, and it is of
the essence of this white-hot anger that it preys not on what is basest
in us, but on what is best. That Harold felt deeply was her opportunity
to wound him more deeply than before. 'Even here in the solitude which I had chosen as the battleground of my
shame you had need to come unasked, unthought of, when even a lesser mind
than yours, for you are no fool, would have thought to leave me alone. My
shame was my own, I tell you; and I was learning to take my punishment. My punishment! Poor creatures that we are, we think our punishment will
be what we would like best: to suffer in silence, and not to have spread
abroad our shame!' How she harped on that word, though she knew that
every time she uttered it, it cut to the heart of the man who loved her. 'And yet you come right on top of my torture to torture me still more and
illimitably. You come, you who alone had the power to intrude yourself
on my grief and sorrow; power given you by my father's kindness. You
come to me without warning, considerately telling me that you knew I
would be here because I had always come here when I had been in trouble. No--I do you an injustice. "In trouble" was not what you said, but that
I had come when I had been in short frocks. Short frocks! And you came
to tell me that you loved me. You thought, I suppose, that as I had
refused one man, I would jump at the next that came along. I wanted a
man. God! God! what have I done that such an affront should come upon
me? And come, too, from a hand that should have protected me if only in
gratitude for my father's kindness!' She was eyeing him keenly, with
eyes that in her unflinching anger took in everything with the accuracy
of sun-painting. She wanted to wound; and she succeeded. But Harold had nerves and muscles of steel; and when the call came to
them they answered. Though the pain of death was upon him he did not
flinch. He stood before her like a rock, in all his great manhood; but a
rock on whose summit the waves had cast the wealth of their foam, for his
face was as white as snow. She saw and understood; but in the madness
upon her she went on trying new places and new ways to wound:
'You thought, I suppose, that this poor, neglected, despised, rejected
woman, who wanted so much to marry that she couldn't wait for a man to
ask her, would hand herself over to the first chance comer who threw his
handkerchief to her; would hand over herself--and her fortune!' 'Oh, Stephen! How can you say such things, think such things?' The
protest broke from him with a groan. His pain seemed to inflame her
still further; to gratify her hate, and to stimulate her mad passion:
'Why did I ever see you at all? Why did my father treat you as a son;
that when you had grown and got strong on his kindness you could thus
insult his daughter in the darkest hour of her pain and her shame!' She
almost choked with passion. There was now nothing in the whole world
that she could trust. In the pause he spoke:
'Stephen, I never meant you harm. Oh, don't speak such wild words. They
will come back to you with sorrow afterwards! I only meant to do you
good. I wanted . . . ' Her anger broke out afresh:
'There; you speak it yourself! You only wanted to do me good. I was so
bad that any kind of a husband . . . Oh, get out of my sight! I wish to
God I had never seen you! I hope to God I may never see you again! Go! Go! Go!' This was the end! To Harold's honest mind such words would have been
impossible had not thoughts of truth lain behind them. That Stephen--his
Stephen, whose image in his mind shut out every other woman in the world,
past, present, and future--should say such things to any one, that she
should think such things, was to him a deadly blow. But that she should
say them to him! . . . Utterance, even the utterance which speaks in the
inmost soul, failed him. He had in some way that he knew not
hurt--wounded--killed Stephen; for the finer part was gone from the
Stephen that he had known and worshipped so long. She wished him gone;
she wished she had never seen him; she hoped to God never to see him
again. Life for him was over and done! There could be no more happiness
in the world; no more wish to work, to live! . . . He bowed gravely; and without a word turned and walked away. Stephen saw him go, his tall form moving amongst the tree trunks till
finally it was lost in their massing. She was so filled with the tumult
of her passion that she looked, unmoved. Even the sense of his going did
not change her mood. She raged to and fro amongst the trees, her
movements getting quicker and quicker as her excitement began to change
from mental to physical; till the fury began to exhaust itself. All at
once she stopped, as though arrested by a physical barrier; and with a
moan sank down in a helpless heap on the cool moss. * * * * *
Harold went from the grove as one seems to move in a dream. Little
things and big were mixed up in his mind. He took note, as he went
towards the town by the byroads, of everything around him in his usual
way, for he had always been one of those who notice unconsciously, or
rather unintentionally. Long afterwards he could shut his eyes and
recall every step of the way from the spot where he had turned from
Stephen to the railway station outside Norcester. And on many and many
such a time when he opened them again the eyelids were wet. He wanted to
get away quickly, silently, unobserved. With the instinct of habitual
thought his mind turned London-ward. He met but few persons, and those
only cottiers. He saluted them in his usual cheery way, but did not stop
to speak with any. He was about to take a single ticket to London when
it struck him that this might look odd, so he asked for a return. Then,
his mind being once more directed towards concealment of purpose, he sent
a telegram to his housekeeper telling her that he was called away to
London on business. It was only when he was far on his journey that he
gave thought to ways and means, and took stock of his possessions. Before
he took out his purse and pocket-book he made up his mind that he would
be content with what it was, no matter how little. | Stoker, Bram - The Man |
He had left
Normanstand and all belonging to it for ever, and was off to hide himself
in whatever part of the world would afford him the best opportunity. Life
was over! There was nothing to look forward to; nothing to look back at! The present was a living pain whose lightest element was despair. As,
however, he got further and further away, his practical mind began to
work; he thought over matters so as to arrange in his mind how best he
could dispose of his affairs, so to cause as little comment as might be,
and to save the possibility of worry or distress of any kind to Stephen. Even then, in his agony of mind, his heart was with her; it was not the
least among his troubles that he would have to be away from her when
perhaps she would need him most. And yet whenever he would come to this
point in his endless chain of thought, he would have to stop for a while,
overcome with such pain that his power of thinking was paralysed. He
would never, could never, be of service to her again. He had gone out of
her life, as she had gone out of his life; though she never had, nor
never could out of his thoughts. It was all over! All the years of
sweetness, of hope, and trust, and satisfied and justified faith in each
other, had been wiped out by that last terrible, cruel meeting. Oh! how
could she have said such things to him! How could she have thought them! And there she was now in all the agony of her unrestrained passion. Well
he knew, from his long experience of her nature, how she must have
suffered to be in such a state of mind, to have so forgotten all the
restraint of her teaching and her life! Poor, poor Stephen! Fatherless
now as well as motherless; and friendless as well as fatherless! No one
to calm her in the height of her wild abnormal passion! No one to
comfort her when the fit had passed! No one to sympathise with her for
all that she had suffered! No one to help her to build new and better
hopes out of the wreck of her mad ideas! He would cheerfully have given
his life for her. Only last night he was prepared to kill, which was
worse than to die, for her sake. And now to be far away, unable to help,
unable even to know how she fared. And behind her eternally the shadow
of that worthless man who had spurned her love and flouted her to a
chance comer in his drunken delirium. It was too bitter to bear. How
could God lightly lay such a burden on his shoulders who had all his life
tried to walk in sobriety and chastity and in all worthy and manly ways! It was unfair! It was unfair! If he could do anything for her? Anything! Anything! . . . And so the unending whirl of thoughts went on! The smoke of London was dim on the horizon when he began to get back to
practical matters. When the train drew up at Euston he stepped from it
as one to whom death would be a joyous relief! He went to a quiet hotel, and from there transacted by letter such
business matters as were necessary to save pain and trouble to others. As
for himself, he made up his mind that he would go to Alaska, which he
took to be one of the best places in the as yet uncivilised world for a
man to lose his identity. As a security at the start he changed his
name; and as John Robinson, which was not a name to attract public
attention, he shipped as a passenger on the _Scoriac_ from London to New
York. The _Scoriac_ was one of the great cargo boats which take a certain
number of passengers. The few necessaries which he took with him were
chosen with an eye to utility in that frozen land which he sought. For
the rest, he knew nothing, nor did he care how or whither he went. His
vague purpose was to cross the American Continent to San Francisco, and
there to take passage for the high latitudes north of the Yukon River. * * * * *
When Stephen began to regain consciousness her first sensation was one of
numbness. She was cold in the back, and her feet did not seem to exist;
but her head was hot and pulsating as though her brain were a living
thing. Then her half-open eyes began to take in her surroundings. For
another long spell she began to wonder why all around her was green. Then
came the inevitable process of reason. Trees! It is a wood! How did I
come here? why am I lying on the ground? All at once wakened memory opened on her its flood-gates, and overwhelmed
her with pain. With her hands pressed to her throbbing temples and her
burning face close to the ground, she began to recall what she could of
the immediate past. It all seemed like a terrible dream. By degrees her
intelligence came back to its normal strength, and all at once, as does
one suddenly wakened from sleep to the knowledge of danger, she sat up. Somehow the sense of time elapsed made Stephen look at her watch. It was
half-past twelve. As she had come into the grove immediately after
breakfast, and as Harold had almost immediately joined her, and as the
interview between them had been but short, she must have lain on the
ground for more than three hours. She rose at once, trembling in every
limb. A new fear began to assail her; that she had been missed at home,
and that some one might have come to look for her. Up to now she had not
been able to feel the full measure of pain regarding what had passed, but
which would, she knew, come to her in the end. It was too vague as yet;
she could not realise that it had really been. But the fear of discovery
was immediate, and must be guarded against without delay. As well as she
could, she tidied herself and began to walk slowly back to the house,
hoping to gain her own room unnoticed. That her general intelligence was
awake was shown by the fact that before she left the grove she remembered
that she had forgotten her sunshade. She went back and searched till she
had found it. Gaining her room without meeting any one, she at once change her dress,
fearing that some soil or wrinkle might betray her. Resolutely she put
back from her mind all consideration of the past; there would be time for
that later on. Her nerves were already much quieter than they had been. That long faint, or lapse into insensibility, had for the time taken the
place of sleep. There would be a price to be paid for it later; but for
the present it had served its purpose. Now and again she was disturbed
by one thought; she could not quite remember what had occurred after
Harold had left, and just before she became unconscious. She dared not
dwell upon it, however. It would doubtless all come back to her when she
had leisure to think the whole matter over as a connected narrative. When the gong sounded for lunch she went down, with a calm exterior, to
face the dreaded ordeal of another meal. Luncheon passed off without a hitch. She and her aunt talked as usual
over all the small affairs of the house and the neighbourhood, and the
calm restraint was in itself soothing. Even then she could not help
feeling how much convention is to a woman's life. | Stoker, Bram - The Man |
Had it not been for
these recurring trials of set hours and duties she could never have
passed the last day and night without discovery of her condition of mind. That one terrible, hysterical outburst was perhaps the safety valve. Had
it been spread over the time occupied in conventional duties its force
even then might have betrayed her; but without the necessity of nerving
herself to conventional needs, she would have infallibly betrayed herself
by her negative condition. After lunch she went to her own boudoir where, when she had shut the
inner door, no one was allowed to disturb her without some special need
in the house or on the arrival of visitors. This 'sporting oak' was the
sign of 'not at home' which she had learned in her glimpse of college
life. Here in the solitude of safety, she began to go over the past,
resolutely and systematically. She had already been so often over the memory of the previous humiliating
and unhappy day that she need not revert to it at present. Since then
had she not quarrelled with Harold, whom she had all her life so trusted
that her quarrel with him seemed to shake the very foundations of her
existence? As yet she had not remembered perfectly all that had gone on
under the shadow of the beech grove. She dared not face it all at once,
even as yet. Time must elapse before she should dare to cry; to think of
her loss of Harold was to risk breaking down altogether. Already she
felt weak. The strain of the last forty-eight hours was too much for her
physical strength. She began to feel, as she lay back in her cushioned
chair, that a swoon is no worthy substitute for sleep. Indeed it had
seemed to make the need for sleep even more imperative. It was all too humiliating! She wanted to think over what had been; to
recall it as far as possible so as to fix it in her mind, whilst it was
still fresh. Later on, some action might have to be based on her
recollection. And yet . . . How could she think when she was so tired
. . . tired . . . Nature came to the poor girl's relief at last, and she fell into a heavy
sleep . . . It was like coming out of the grave to be dragged back to waking life out
of such a sleep, and so soon after it had begun. But the voice seemed to
reach to her inner consciousness in some compelling way. For a second
she could not understand; but as she rose from the cushions the maid's
message repeated, brought her wide awake and alert in an instant:
'Mr. Everard, young Mr. Everard, to see you, miss!' CHAPTER XVI--A PRIVATE CONVERSATION
The name braced Stephen at once. Here was danger, an enemy to be
encountered; all the fighting blood of generations leaped to the
occasion. The short spell of sleep had helped to restore her. There
remained still quite enough of mental and nervous excitement to make her
think quickly; the words were hardly out of the maid's mouth before her
resolution was taken. It would never do to let Leonard Everard see she
was diffident about meeting him; she would go down at once. But she
would take the precaution of having her aunt present; at any rate, till
she should have seen how the land lay. Her being just waked from sleep
would be an excuse for asking her aunt to see the visitor till she came
down. So she said to the maid:
'I have been asleep. I must have got tired walking in the wood in the
heat. Ask Auntie to kindly see Mr. Everard in the blue drawing-room till
I come down. I must tidy my hair; but I will be down in a few minutes.' 'Shall I send Marjorie to you, miss?' 'No! Don't mind; I can do what I want myself. Hurry down to Miss
Rowly!' How she regarded Leonard Everard now was shown in her instinctive
classing him amongst her enemies. When she entered the room she seemed all aglow. She wanted not only to
overcome but to punish; and all the woman in her had risen to the effort. Never in her life had Stephen Norman looked more radiantly beautiful,
more adorable, more desirable. Even Leonard Everard felt his pulses
quicken as he saw that glowing mass of beauty standing out against the
cold background of old French tapestry. All the physical side of him
leaped in answer to the call of her beauty; and even his cold heart and
his self-engrossed brain followed with slower gait. He had been sitting
opposite Miss Rowly in one of the windows, twirling his hat in nervous
suspense. He jumped up, and, as she came towards him, went forward
rapidly to greet her. No one could mistake the admiration in his eyes. Ever since he had made up his mind to marry her she had assumed a new
aspect in his thoughts. But now her presence swept away all false
imaginings; from the moment that her loveliness dawned upon him something
like love began to grow within his breast. Stephen saw the look and it
strengthened her. He had so grievously wounded her pride the previous
day that her victory on this was a compensation which set her more at her
old poise. Her greeting was all sweetness: she was charmed to see him. How was his
father, and what was the news? Miss Rowly looked on with smiling visage. She too had seen the look of admiration in his eyes, and it pleased her. Old ladies, especially when they are maiden ladies, always like to see
admiration in the eyes of young men when they are turned in the direction
of any girl dear to them. They talked for some time, keeping all the while, by Stephen's clever
generalship, to the small-talk of the neighbourhood and the minor events
of social importance. As the time wore on she could see that Leonard was
growing impatient, and evidently wanted to see her alone. She ignored,
however, all his little private signalling, and presently ordered tea to
be brought. This took some little time; when it had been brought and
served and drunk, Leonard was in a smothered fume of impatience. She was
glad to see that as yet her aunt had noticed nothing, and she still hoped
that she would be able to so prolong matters, that she would escape
without a private interview. She did not know the cause of Leonard's
impatience: that he must see her before the day passed. She too was an
egoist, in her own way; in the flush of belief of his subjugation she did
not think of attributing to him any other motive than his desire for
herself. As she had made up her mind on the final issue she did not want
to be troubled by a new 'scene.' But, after all, Leonard was a man; and man's ways are more direct than
woman's. Seeing that he could not achieve his object in any other way,
he said out suddenly, thinking, and rightly, that she would not wish to
force an issue in the presence of her aunt:
'By the way, Miss Norman,' he had always called her 'Miss Norman' in her
aunt's presence: 'I want to have two minutes with you before I go. On a
matter of business,' he added, noticing Miss Rowly's surprised look. The
old lady was old-fashioned even for her age; in her time no young man
would have asked to see a young lady alone on business. | Stoker, Bram - The Man |
Except on one
kind of business; and with regard to that kind of business gentlemen had
to obtain first the confidence and permission of guardians. Leonard saw
the difficulty and said quickly:
'It is on the matter you wrote to me about!' Stephen was prepared for a nasty shock, but hardly for so nasty a one as
this. There was an indelicacy about it which went far beyond the bounds
of thoughtless conventionality. That such an appeal should be made to
her, and in such a way, savoured of danger. Her woman's intuition gave
her the guard, and at once she spoke, smilingly and gently as one
recalling a matter in which the concern is not her own:
'Of course! It was selfish of me not to have thought of it, and to have
kept you so long waiting. The fact is, Auntie, that Leonard--I like to
call him Leonard, since we were children together, and he is so young;
though perhaps it would be more decorous nowadays to say "Mr.
Everard"--has consulted me about his debts. You know, Auntie dear, that
young men will be young men in such matters; or perhaps you do not, since
the only person who ever worried you has been myself. But I stayed at
Oxford and I know something of young men's ways; and as I am necessarily
more or less of a man of business, he values my help. Don't you,
Leonard?' The challenge was so direct, and the position he was in so
daringly put, that he had to acquiesce. Miss Rowly, who had looked on
with a frown of displeasure, said coldly:
'I know you are your own mistress, my dear. But surely it would be
better if Mr. Everard would consult with his solicitor or his father's
agent, or some of his gentlemen friends, rather than with a young lady
whose relations with him, after all, are only those of a neighbour on
visiting terms. For my own part, I should have thought that Mr.
Everard's best course would have been to consult his own father! But the
things that gentlemen, as well as ladies do, have been sadly changed
since my time!' Then, rising in formal dignity, she bowed gravely to the
visitor before leaving the room. But the position of being left alone in the room with Leonard did not at
all suit Stephen's plans. Rising quickly she said to her aunt:
'Don't stir, Auntie. I dare say you are right in what you say; but I
promised Mr. Everard to go into the matter. And as I have brought the
awkwardness on myself, I suppose I must bear it. If Mr. Everard wants to
see me alone, and I suppose he is diffident in speaking on such a matter
before you--he didn't play with you, you know!--we can go out on the
lawn. We shan't be long!' Before Leonard could recover his wits she had
headed him out on the lawn. Her strategy was again thoroughly good. The spot she chose, though
beyond earshot, was quite in the open and commanded by all the windows in
that side of the house. A person speaking there might say what he liked,
but his actions must be discreet. On the lawn Stephen tripped ahead; Leonard followed inwardly raging. By
her clever use of the opening she had put him in a difficulty from which
there was no immediate means of extrication. He could not quarrel
overtly with Stephen; if he did so, how could he enter on the pressing
matter of his debts? He dared not openly proclaim his object in wishing
to marry her, for had he done so her aunt might have interfered, with
what success he could not be sure. In any case it would cause delay, and
delay was what he could not afford. He felt that in mentioning his debts
at just such a movement he had given Stephen the chance she had so aptly
taken. He had to be on his good behaviour, however; and with an
apprehension that was new to him he followed her. An old Roman marble seat was placed at an angle from the house so that
the one of the two occupants within its curve must almost face the house,
whilst the other gave to it at least a quarter-face. Stephen seated
herself on the near side, leaving to Leonard the exposed position. As
soon as he was seated, she began:
'Now, Leonard, tell me all about the debts?' She spoke in tones of gay
friendliness, but behind the mask of her cheerfulness was the real face
of fear. Down deep in her mind was a conviction that her letter was a
pivotal point of future sorrow. It was in the meantime quite apparent to
her that Leonard kept it as his last resource; so her instinct was to
keep it to the front and thus minimise its power. Leonard, though inwardly weakened by qualms of growing doubt, had the
animal instinct that, as he was in opposition, his safety was in
attacking where his opponent most feared. He felt that there was some
subtle change in his companion; this was never the same Stephen Norman
whom only yesterday he had met upon the hill! He plunged at once into
his purpose. 'But it wasn't about my debts you asked me to meet you, Stephen.' 'You surprise me, Leonard! I thought I simply asked you to come to meet
me. I know the first subject I mentioned when we began to talk, after
your grumbling about coming in the heat, was your money matters.' Leonard
winced, but went on:
'It was very good of you, Stephen; but really that is not what I came to
speak of to-day. At first, at all events!' he added with a sublime
naivette, as the subject of his debts and his imperative want of money
rose before him. Stephen's eyes flashed; she saw more clearly than ever
through his purpose. Such as admission at the very outset of the proffer
of marriage, which she felt was coming, was little short of monstrous. Her companion did not see the look of mastery on her face; he was looking
down at the moment. A true lover would have been looking up. 'I wanted to tell you, Stephen, that I have been thinking over what you
said to me in your letter, and what you said in words; and I want to
accept!' As he was speaking he was looking her straight in the face. Stephen answered slowly with a puzzled smile which wrinkled up her
forehead:
'Accept what I said in my letter! why, Leonard, what do you mean? That
letter must have had a lot more in it than I thought. I seem to remember
that it was simply a line asking you to meet me. Just let me look at it;
I should like to be sure of what actually is!' As she spoke she held out
her hand. Leonard was nonplussed; he did not know what to say. Stephen
made up her mind to have the letter back. Leonard was chafing under the
position forced upon him, and tried to divert his companion from her
purpose. He knew well why she had chosen that exposed position for their
interview. Now, as her outstretched hand embarrassed him, he made
reprisal; he tried to take it in his in a tender manner. She instantly drew back her hand and put it behind her in a decided
manner. She was determined that whatever might happen she would not let
any watcher at the windows, by chance or otherwise, see any sign of
tenderness on her part. Leonard, thinking that his purpose had been
effected, went on, breathing more freely:
'Your letter wasn't much. | Stoker, Bram - The Man |
Except of course that it gave me the
opportunity of listening to what you said; to all your sweet words. To
your more than sweet proposal!' 'Yes! It must have been sweet to have any one, who was in a position to
do so, offer to help you when you knew that you were overwhelmed with
debts!' The words were brutal. Stephen felt so; but she had no
alternative. Leonard had some of the hard side of human nature; but he
had also some of the weak side. He went on blindly:
'I have been thinking ever since of what you said, and I want to tell you
that I would like to do as you wish!' As he spoke, his words seemed even
to him to be out of place. He felt it would be necessary to throw more
fervour into the proceedings. The sudden outburst which followed
actually amused Stephen, even in her state of fear:
'Oh, Stephen, don't you know that I love you! You are so beautiful! I
love you! I love you! Won't you be my wife?' This was getting too much to close quarters. Stephen said in a calm,
business-like way:
'My dear Leonard, one thing at a time! I came out here, you know, to
speak of your debts; and until that is done, I really won't go into any
other matter. Of course if you'd rather not . . . ' Leonard really
could not afford this; matters were too pressing with him. So he tried
to affect a cheery manner; but in his heart was a black resolve that she
should yet pay for this. 'All right! Stephen. Whatever you wish I will do; you are the queen of
my heart, you know!' 'How much is the total amount?' said Stephen. This was a change to the prosaic which made sentiment impossible. He
gave over, for the time. 'Go on!' said Stephen, following up her advantage. 'Don't you even know
how much you owe?' 'The fact is, I don't. Not exactly. I shall make up the amount as well
as I can and let you know. But that's not what I came about to-day.' Stephen was going to make an angry gesture of dissent. She was not going
to have that matter opened up. She waited, however, for Leonard was
going on after his momentary pause. She breathed more freely after his
first sentence. He was unable evidently to carry on a double train of
thought. 'It was about that infernal money-lenders' letter that the Governor got!' Stephen got still less anxious. This open acknowledgment of his true
purpose seemed to clear the air. 'What is the amount?' Leonard looked quickly at her; the relief of her
mind made her tone seem joyful. 'A monkey! Five hundred pounds, you know. But then there's three
hundred for interest that has to be paid also. It's an awful lot of
money, isn't it?' The last phrase was added on seeing Stephen's
surprised look. 'Yes!' she answered quietly. 'A great deal of money--to waste!' They
were both silent for a while. Then she said:
'What does your father say to it?' 'He was in an awful wax. One of these beastly duns had written to him
about another account and he was in a regular fury. When I told him I
would pay it within a week, he said very little, which was suspicious;
and then, just when I was going out, he sprung this on me. Mean of him! wasn't it? I need expect no help from him.' As he was speaking he took
a mass of letters from his pocket and began to look among them for the
money-lenders' letter. 'Why, what a correspondence you have there. Do you keep all your letters
in your pockets?' said Stephen quietly. 'All I don't tear up or burn. It wouldn't do to let the Governor into my
secrets. He might know too much!' 'And are all those letters from duns?' 'Mostly, but I only keep those letters I have to attend to and those I
care for.' 'Show me the bundle!' she said. Then seeing him hesitate, added:
'You know if I am to help you to get clear you must take me into your
confidence. I dare say I shall have to see a lot more letters than these
before you are quite clear!' Her tone was too quiet. Knowing already
the silent antagonism between them he began to suspect her; knowing also
that her own letter was not amongst them, he used his wits and handed
them over without a word. She, too, suspected him. After his tacit
refusal to give her the letter, she almost took it for granted that it
was not amongst them. She gave no evidence of her feeling, however, but
opened and read the letters in due sequence; all save two, which, being
in a female hand, she gave back without a word. There was a calmness and
an utter absence of concern, much less of jealousy, about this which
disconcerted him. Throughout her reading Stephen's face showed surprise
now and again; but when she came to the last, which was that of the
usurers, it showed alarm. Being a woman, a legal threat had certain
fears of its own. 'There must be no delay about this!' she said. 'What am I to do?' he answered, a weight off his mind that the fiscal
matter had been practically entered on. 'I shall see that you get the money!' she said quietly. 'It will be
really a gift, but I prefer it to be as a loan for many reasons.' Leonard
made no comment. He found so many reasons in his own mind that he
thought it wise to forbear from asking any of hers. Then she took the
practical matter in hand:
'You must wire to these people at once to say that you will pay the
amount on the day after to-morrow. If you will come here to-morrow at
four o'clock the money will be ready for you. You can go up to town by
the evening train and pay off the debt first thing in the morning. When
you bring the receipt I shall speak to you about the other debts; but you
must make out a full list of them. We can't have any half-measure. I
will not go into the matter till I have all the details before me!' Then
she stood up to go. As they walked across the lawn, she said:
'By the way, don't forget to bring that letter with you. I want to see
what I really did say in it!' Her tone was quiet enough, and the wording
was a request; but Leonard knew as well as if it had been spoken outright
as a threat that if he did not have the letter with him when he came
things were likely to be unpleasant. The farther he got from Normanstand on his way home the more discontented
Leonard grew. Whilst he had been in Stephen's presence she had so
dominated him, not only by her personality but by her use of her
knowledge of his own circumstances, that he had not dared to make protest
or opposition; but now he began to feel how much less he was to receive
than he had expected. He had come prepared to allow Stephen to fall into
his arms, fortune and all. But now, although he had practical assurance
that the weight of his debts would be taken from him, he was going away
with his tail between his legs. He had not even been accepted as a
suitor, he who had himself been wooed only a day before. His proposal of
marriage had not been accepted, had not even been considered by the woman
who had so lately broken ironclad convention to propose marriage to him. He had been treated merely as a scapegrace debtor who had come to ask
favours from an old friend. | Stoker, Bram - The Man |
He had even been treated like a bad boy; had
been told that he had wasted money; had been ordered, in no doubtful way,
to bring the full schedule of his debts. And all the time he dared not
say anything lest the thing shouldn't come off at all. Stephen had such
an infernally masterly way with her! It didn't matter whether she was
proposing to him, or he was proposing to her, he was made to feel small
all the same. He would have to put up with it till he had got rid of the
debts! And then as to the letter. Why was she so persistent about seeing it? Did she want to get it into her hands and then keep it, as Harold An Wolf
had done? Was it possible that she suspected he would use it to coerce
her; she would call it 'blackmail,' he supposed. This being the very
thing he had intended to do, and had done, he grew very indignant at the
very thought of being accused of it. It was, he felt, a very awkward
thing that he had lost possession of the letter. He might need it if
Stephen got nasty. Then Harold might give it to her, as he had
threatened to do. He thought he would call round that evening by
Harold's house, and see if he couldn't get back the letter. It belonged
to him; Harold had no right to keep it. He would see him before he and
Stephen got putting their heads together. So, on his way home, he turned
his steps at once to Harold's house. He did not find him in. The maid who opened the door could give him no
information; all she could say was that Mrs. Dingle the housekeeper had
got a telegram from Master saying that he had been called suddenly away
on business. This was a new source of concern to Leonard. He suspected a motive of
some sort; though what that motive could be he could not hazard the
wildest guess. On his way home he called at the post-office and sent a
telegram to Cavendish and Cecil, the name of the usurers' firm, in
accordance with Stephen's direction. He signed it: 'Jasper Everard.' CHAPTER XVII--A BUSINESS TRANSACTION
When Stephen had sent off her letter to the bank she went out for a
stroll; she knew it would be no use trying to get rest before dinner. That ordeal, too, had to be gone through. She found herself
unconsciously going in the direction of the grove; but when she became
aware of it a great revulsion overcame her, and she shuddered. Slowly she took her way across the hard stretch of finely-kept grass
which lay on the side of the house away from the wood. The green sward
lay like a sea, dotted with huge trees, singly, or in clumps as islands. In its far-stretching stateliness there was something soothing. She came
back to the sound of the dressing-gong with a better strength to resist
the trial before her. Well she knew her aunt would have something to say
on the subject of her interference in Leonard Everard's affairs. Her fears were justified, for when they had come into the drawing-room
after dinner Miss Rowly began:
'Stephen dear, is it not unwise of you to interfere in Mr. Everard's
affairs?' 'Why unwise, Auntie?' 'Well, my dear, the world is censorious. And when a young lady, of your
position and your wealth, takes a part in a young man's affairs tongues
are apt to wag. And also, dear, debts, young men's debts, are hardly the
subjects for a girl's investigation. Remember, that we ladies live very
different lives from men; from some men, I should say, for your dear
father was the best of men, and I should think that in all his life there
was nothing which he would have wished concealed. But, my dear, young
men are less restrained in their ways than we are, than we have to be for
our own safety and protection.' The poor lady was greatly perturbed at
having to speak in such a way. Stephen saw her distress; coming over to
her, she sat down and took her hand. Stephen had a very tender side to
her nature, and she loved very truly the dear old lady who had taken her
mother's place and had shown her all a mother's love. Now, in her
loneliness and woe and fear, she clung to her in spirit. She would have
liked to have clung to her physically; to have laid her head on her
bosom, and have cried her heart out. The time for tears had not come. Hourly she felt more and more the weight that a shameful secret is to
carry. She knew, however, that she could set her aunt's mind at rest on
the present subject; so she said:
'I think you are right, Auntie dear. It would have been better if I had
asked you first; but I saw that Leonard was in distress, and wormed the
cause of it from him. When I heard that it was only debt I offered to
help him. He is an old friend, you know, Auntie. We were children
together; and as I have much more money than I can ever want or spend, I
thought I might help him. I am afraid I have let myself in for a bigger
thing than I intended; but as I have promised I must go on with it. I
dare say, Auntie, that you are afraid that I may end by getting in love
with him, and marrying him. Don't you, dear?' This was said with a hug
and a kiss which gave the old lady delight. Her instinct told her what
was coming. She nodded her head in acquiescence. Stephen went on
gravely:
'Put any such fear out of your mind. I shall never marry him. I can
never love him.' She was going to say 'could never love him,' when she
remembered. 'Are you sure, my dear? The heart is not always under one's own
control.' 'Quite sure, Auntie. I know Leonard Everard; and though I have always
liked him, I do not respect him. Why, the very fact of his coming to me
for money would make me reconsider any view I had formed, had nothing
else ever done so. You may take it, Auntie dear, that in the way you
mean Leonard is nothing to me; can never be anything to me!' Here a
sudden inspiration took her. In its light a serious difficulty passed,
and the doing of a thing which had a fear of its own became easy. With a
conviction in her tone, which in itself aided her immediate purpose, she
said:
'I shall prove it to you. That is, if you will not mind doing something
which will save me an embarrassment.' 'You know I will do anything, my dearest, which an old woman can do for a
young one!' Stephen squeezed the mittened hand which she held as she
went on:
'As I said, I have promised to lend him some money. The first instalment
is to be given him to-morrow; he is to call for it in the afternoon. Will
you give it to him for me?' 'Gladly, my dear,' said the old lady, much relieved. Stephen continued:
'One other thing, Auntie, I want you to do for me: not to think of the
amount, or to say a word to me about it. It is a large sum, and I dare
say it will frighten you a little. But I have made up my mind to it. I
am learning a great deal out of this, Auntie dear; and I am quite willing
to pay for my knowledge. After all, money is the easiest and cheapest
way of paying for knowledge! Don't you agree with me?' Miss Rowly gulped down her disappointment. She felt that she ought not
to say too much, now that Stephen had set aside her graver fears. | Stoker, Bram - The Man |
She
consoled herself with the thought that even a large amount of money would
cause no inconvenience to so wealthy a woman as Stephen. Beyond this, as
she would have the handing over of the money to Leonard, she would know
the amount. If advisable, she could remonstrate. She could if necessary
consult, in confidence, with Harold. Her relief from her greater fear,
and her gladness at this new proof of her niece's confidence, were
manifested in the extra affection with which she bade her good-night. Stephen did not dare to breathe freely till she was quite alone; and as
she lay quiet in her bed in the dark she thought before sleep came. Her first feeling was one of thankfulness that immediate danger was
swerving from her. Things were so shaping themselves that she need not
have any fear concerning Leonard. For his own sake he would have to keep
silent. If he intended to blackmail her she would have the protection of
her aunt's knowledge of the loan, and of her participation in it. The
only weapon that remained to him was her letter; and that she would get
from him before furnishing the money for the payment of his other debts. These things out of the way, her thoughts turned to the matter of the
greater dread; that of which all along she had feared to think for a
moment: Harold! Harold! and her treatment of him! The first reception of the idea was positive anguish. From the moment he
had left her till now there had been no time when a consideration of the
matter was possible. Time pressed, or circumstances had interfered, or
her own personal condition had forbidden. Now, when she was alone, the
whole awful truth burst on her like an avalanche. Stephen felt the issue
of her thinking before the thinking itself was accomplished; and it was
with a smothered groan that she, in the darkness, held up her arms with
fingers linked in desperate concentration of appeal. Oh, if she could only take back one hour of her life, well she knew what
that hour would be! Even that shameful time with Leonard on the hill-top
seemed innocuous beside the degrading remembrance of her conduct to the
noble friend of her whole life. Sadly she turned over in her bed, and with shut eyes put her burning face
on the pillow, to hide, as it were, from herself her abject depth of
shame. Leonard lounged through the next morning with what patience he could. At
four o'clock he was at the door of Normanstand in his dogcart. This time
he had a groom with him and a suitcase packed for a night's use, as he
was to go on to London after his interview with Stephen. He had lost
sight altogether of the matter of Stephen's letter, or else he would have
been more nervous. He was taken into the blue drawing-room, where shortly Miss Rowly joined
him. He had not expected this. His mental uneasiness manifested itself
in his manner, and his fidgeting was not unobserved by the astute old
lady. He was disconcerted; 'overwhelmed' would better have described his
feelings when she said:
'Miss Norman is sorry she can't see you to-day as she is making a visit;
but she has given me a message for you, or rather a commission to
discharge. Perhaps you had better sit down at the table; there are
writing materials there, and I shall want a receipt of some sort.' 'Stephen did not say anything about a receipt!' The other smiled sweetly
as she said in a calm way:
'But unfortunately Miss Norman is not here; and so I have to do the best
I can. I really must have some proof that I have fulfilled my trust. You
see, Mr. Everard, though it is what lawyers call a "friendly"
transaction, it is more or less a business act; and I must protect
myself.' Leonard saw that he must comply, for time pressed. He sat down at the
table. Taking up a pen and drawing a sheet of paper towards him, he said
with what command of his voice he could:
'What am I to write?' The old lady took from her basket a folded sheet
of notepaper, and, putting on her reading-glasses, said as she smoothed
it out:
'I think it would be well to say something like this--"I, Leonard
Everard, of Brindehow, in the Parish of Normanstand, in the County of
Norcester, hereby acknowledge the receipt from Miss Laetitia Rowly of
nine hundred pounds sterling lent to me in accordance with my request,
the same being to clear me of a pressing debt due by me.' When he had finished writing the receipt Miss Rowly looked it over, and
handing it back to him, said:
'Now sign; and date!' He did so with suppressed anger. She folded the document carefully and put it in her pocket. Then taking
from the little pouch which she wore at her belt a roll of notes, she
counted out on the table nine notes of one hundred pounds each. As she
put down the last she said:
'Miss Norman asked me to say that a hundred pounds is added to the sum
you specified to her, as doubtless the usurers would, since you are
actually behind the time promised for repayment, require something extra
as a solatium or to avoid legal proceedings already undertaken. In fact
that they would "put more salt on your tail." The expression, I regret
to say, is not mine.' Leonard folded up the notes, put them into his pocket-book, and walked
away. He did not feel like adding verbal thanks to the document already
signed. As he got near the door the thought struck him; turning back he
said:
'May I ask if Stephen said anything about getting the document?' 'I beg your pardon,' she said icily, 'did you speak of any one?' 'Miss Norman, I meant!' Miss Rowly's answer to this came so smartly that
it left an added sting. Her arrow was fledged with two feathers so that
it must shoot true: her distrust of him and his own impotence. 'Oh no! Miss Norman knows nothing of this. She simply asked me to give
you the money. This is my own doing entirely. You see, I must exercise
my judgment on my dear niece's behalf. Of course it may not be necessary
to show her the receipt; but if it should ever be advisable it is always
there.' He looked at her with anger, not unmixed with admiration, as, bowing
rather lower than necessary, he went out of the door, saying sotto voce,
between his teeth:
'When my turn comes out you go! Neck and crop! Quick! Normanstand
isn't big enough to hold us both!' CHAPTER XVIII--MORE BUSINESS
When Leonard tendered the eight hundred pounds in payment of his debt of
five hundred, Mr. Cavendish at first refused to take it. But when
Leonard calmly but firmly refused to pay a single penny beyond the
obligations already incurred, including interest on the full sum for one
day, he acquiesced. He knew the type of man fully; and knew also that in
all probability it would not be long before he would come to the Firm
again on a borrowing errand. When such time should come, he would put an
extra clause into his Memorandum of Agreement which would allow the Firm
full power to make whatever extra charge they might choose in case of the
slightest default in making payment. | Stoker, Bram - The Man |
Leonard's visits to town had not of late been many, and such as he had
had were not accompanied with a plethora of cash. He now felt that he
had earned a holiday; and it was not till the third morning that he
returned to Brindehow. His father made no comment on his absence; his
only allusion to the subject was:
'Back all right! Any news in town?' There was, however, an unwonted
suavity in his manner which made Leonard a little anxious. He busied
himself for the balance of the morning in getting together all his unpaid
accounts and making a schedule of them. The total at first amazed almost
as much as it frightened him. He feared what Stephen would say. She had
already commented unfavourably on the one amount she had seen. When she
was face to face with this she might refuse to pay altogether. It would
therefore be wise to propitiate her. What could he do in this direction? His thoughts naturally turned to the missing letter. If he could get
possession of it, it would either serve as a sop or a threat. In the one
case she would be so glad to have it back that she would not stick at a
few pounds; in the other it would 'bring her to her senses' as he put in
his own mind his intention of blackmail. He was getting so tightened up in situation that as yet he could only do
as he was told, and keep his temper as well as he could. Altogether it was in a chastened mood that he made his appearance at
Normanstand later in the afternoon. He was evidently expected, for he
was shown into the study without a word. Here Miss Rowly and Stephen
joined him. Both were very kind in manner. After the usual greetings
and commonplaces Stephen said in a brisk, businesslike way:
'Have you the papers with you?' He took the bundle of accounts from his
pocket and handed them to her. After his previous experience he would
have suggested, had he dared, that he should see Stephen alone; but he
feared the old lady. He therefore merely said:
'I am afraid you will find the amount very large. But I have put down
everything!' So he had; and more than everything. At the last an idea struck him that
as he was getting so much he might as well have a little more. He
therefore added several good-sized amounts which he called 'debts of
honour.' This would, he thought, appeal to the feminine mind. Stephen
did not look at the papers at once. She stood up, holding them, and said
to Miss Rowly:
'Now, if you will talk to Mr. Everard I will go over these documents
quietly by myself. When I have been through them and understand them all
I shall come back; and we will see what can be done.' She moved
gracefully out of the room, closing the door behind her. As is usual
with women, she had more than one motive for her action in going away. In
the first place, she wished to be alone whilst she went over the schedule
of the debts. She feared she might get angry; and in the present state
of her mind towards Leonard the expression of any feeling, even contempt,
would not be wise. Her best protection from him would be a manifest
kindly negation of any special interest. In the second place, she
believed that he would have her letter with the other papers, and she did
not wish her aunt to see it, lest she should recognise the writing. In
her boudoir, with a beating heart, she untied the string and looked
through the papers. Her letter was not among them. For a few seconds she stood stock still, thinking. Then, with a sigh,
she sat down and began to read the list of debts, turning to the
originals now and again for details. As she went on, her wonder and
disgust grew; and even a sense of fear came into her thoughts. A man who
could be so wildly reckless and so selfishly unscrupulous was to be
feared. She knew his father was a comparatively poor man, who could not
possibly meet such a burden. If he were thus to his father, what might
he be to her if he got a chance. The thought of what he might have been to her, had he taken the chance
she had given him, never occurred to her. This possibility had already
reached the historical stage in her mind. She made a few pencil notes on the list; and went back to the study. Her
mind was made up. She was quite businesslike and calm, did not manifest the slightest
disapproval, but seemed to simply accept everything as facts. She asked
Leonard a few questions on subjects regarding which she had made notes,
such as discounts. Then she held the paper out to him and without any
preliminary remark said:
'Will you please put the names to these?' 'How do you mean?' he asked, flushing. 'The names of the persons to whom these sums marked "debt of honour" are
due.' His reply came quickly, and was a little aggressive; he thought
this might be a good time to make a bluff:
'I do not see that that is necessary. I can settle them when I have the
money.' Slowly and without either pause or flurry Stephen replied,
looking him straight in the eyes as she handed him the papers:
'Of course it is not necessary! Few things in the world really are! I
only wanted to help you out of your troubles; but if you do not wish me
to . . . !' Leonard interrupted in alarm:
'No! no! I only spoke of these items. You see, being "debts of honour"
I ought not to give the names.' Looking with a keen glance at her set
face he saw she was obdurate; and, recognising his defeat, said as calmly
as he could, for he felt raging:
'All right! Give me the paper!' Bending over the table he wrote. When
she took the paper, a look half surprised, half indignant, passed over
her face. Her watchful aunt saw it, and bending over looked also at the
paper. Then she too smiled bitterly. Leonard had printed in the names! The feminine keenness of both women
had made his intention manifest. He did not wish for the possibility of
his handwriting being recognised. His punishment came quickly. With a
dazzling smile Stephen said to him:
'But, Leonard, you have forgotten to put the addresses!' 'Is that necessary?' 'Of course it is! Why, you silly, how is the money to be paid if there
are no addresses?' Leonard felt like a rat in a trap; but he had no alternative. So
irritated was he, and so anxious to hide his irritation that, forgetting
his own caution, he wrote, not in printing characters but in his own
handwriting, addresses evolved from his own imagination. Stephen's eyes
twinkled as he handed her the paper: he had given himself away all round. Leonard having done all that as yet had been required of him, felt that
he might now ask a further favour, so he said:
'There is one of those bills which I have promised to pay by Monday.' 'Promised?' said Stephen with wide-opened eyes. She had no idea of
sparing him, she remembered the printed names. 'Why, Leonard, I thought
you said you were unable to pay any of those debts?' Again he had put himself in a false position. He could not say that it
was to his father he had made the promise; for he had already told
Stephen that he had been afraid to tell him of his debts. | Stoker, Bram - The Man |
In his
desperation, for Miss Rowly's remorseless glasses were full on him, he
said:
'I thought I was justified in making the promise after what you said
about the pleasure it would be to help me. You remember, that day on the
hilltop?' If he had wished to disconcert her he was mistaken; she had already
thought over and over again of every form of embarrassment her unhappy
action might bring on her at his hands. She now said sweetly and calmly,
so sweetly and so calmly that he, with knowledge of her secret, was
alarmed:
'But that was not a promise to pay. If you will remember it was only an
offer, which is a very different thing. You did not accept it then!' She
was herself somewhat desperate, or she would not have sailed so close to
the wind. 'Ah, but I accepted later!' he said quickly, feeling in his satisfaction
in an epigrammatic answer a certain measure of victory. He felt his
mistake when she went on calmly:
'Offers like that are not repeated. They are but phantoms, after all. They come at their own choice, when they do come; and they stay but the
measure of a breath or two. You cannot summon them!' Leonard fell into
the current of the metaphor and answered:
'I don't know that even that is impossible. There are spells which call,
and recall, even phantoms!' 'Indeed!' Stephen was anxious to find his purpose. Leonard felt that he was getting on, that he was again acquiring the
upper hand; so he pushed on the metaphor, more and more satisfied with
himself:
'And it is wonderful how simple some spells, and these the most powerful,
can be. A remembered phrase, the recollection of a pleasant meeting, the
smell of a forgotten flower, or the sight of a forgotten letter; any or
all of these can, through memory, bring back the past. And it is often
in the past that the secret of the future lies!' Miss Rowly felt that something was going on before her which she could
not understand. Anything of this man's saying which she could not fathom
must be at least dangerous; so she determined to spoil his purpose,
whatever it might be. 'Dear me! That is charmingly poetic! Past and future; memory and the
smell of flowers; meetings and letters! It is quite philosophy. Do
explain it all, Mr. Everard!' Leonard was not prepared to go on under
the circumstances. His own mention of 'letter,' although he had
deliberately used it with the intention of frightening Stephen, had
frightened himself. It reminded him that he had not brought, had not
got, the letter; and that as yet he was not certain of getting the money. Stephen also had noted the word, and determined not to pass the matter
by. She said gaily:
'If a letter is a spell, I think you have a spell of mine, which is a
spell of my own weaving. You were to show me the letter in which I asked
you to come to see me. It was in that, I think you said, that I
mentioned your debts; but I don't remember doing so. Show it to me!' 'I have not got it with me!' This was said with mulish sullenness. 'Why not?' 'I forgot.' 'That is a pity! It is always a pity to forget things in a business
transaction; as this is. I think, Auntie, we must wait till we have all
the documents, before we can complete this transaction!' Leonard was seriously alarmed. If the matter of the loan were not gone
on with at once the jeweller's bill could not be paid by Monday, and the
result would be another scene with his father. He turned to Stephen and
said as charmingly as he could, and he was all in earnest now:
'I'm awfully sorry! But these debts have been so worrying me that they
put lots of things out of my head. That bill to be paid on Monday, when
I haven't a feather to fly with, is enough to drive a fellow off his
chump. The moment I lay my hands on the letter I shall keep it with me
so that I can't forget it again. Won't you forgive me for this time?' 'Forgive!' she answered, with a laugh. 'Why it's not worth forgiveness! It is not worth a second thought! All right! Leonard, make your mind
easy; the bill will be paid on Monday!' Miss Rowly said quietly:
'I have to be in London on Monday afternoon; I can pay it for you.' This
was a shock to Leonard; he said impulsively:
'Oh, I say! Can't I . . . ' His words faded away as the old lady again
raised her lorgnon and gazed at him calmly. She went on:
'You know, my dear, it won't be even out of my way, as I have to call at
Mr. Malpas's office, and I can go there from the hotel in Regent Street.' This was all news to Stephen. She did not know that her aunt had
intended going to London; and indeed she did not know of any business
with Mr. Malpas, whose firm had been London solicitor to the Rowlys for
several generations. She had no doubt, however, as to the old lady's
intention. It was plain to her that she wanted to help. So she thanked
her sweetly. Leonard could say nothing. He seemed to be left completely
out of it. When Stephen rose, as a hint to him that it was time for him
to go, he said humbly, as he left:
'Would it be possible that I should have the receipt before Monday
evening? I want to show it to my father.' 'Certainly!' said the old lady, answering him. 'I shall be back by the
two o'clock train; and if you happen to be at the railway station at
Norcester when I arrive I can give it to you!' He went away relieved, but vindictive; determined in his own mind that
when he had received the money for the rest of the debts he would see
Stephen, when the old lady was not present, and have it out with her. CHAPTER XIX--A LETTER
On Monday evening after dinner Mr. Everard and his son sat for a while in
silence. They had not met since morning; and in the presence of the
servants conversation had been scrupulously polite. Now, though they
were both waiting to talk, neither liked to begin. The older man was
outwardly placid, when Leonard, a little flushed and a little nervous of
voice, began:
'Have you had any more bills?' He had expected none, and thus hoped to
begin by scoring against his father. It was something of a set-down when
the latter, taking some papers from his breast-pocket, handed them to
him, saying:
'Only these!' Leonard took them in silence and looked at them. All were
requests for payment of debts due by his son. In each case the full bill was enclosed. He was silent a while; but his
father spoke:
'It would almost seem as if all these people had made up their minds that
you were of no further use to them.' Then without pausing he said, but
in a sharper voice:
'Have you paid the jewellers? This is Monday!' Without speaking Leonard
took leisurely from his pocket folded paper. This he opened, and, after
deliberately smoothing out the folds, handed it to his father. Doubtless
something in his manner had already convinced the latter that the debt
was paid. He took the paper in as leisurely a way as it had been given,
adjusted his spectacles, and read it. Seeing that his son had scored
this time, he covered his chagrin with an appearance of paternal
satisfaction. 'Good!' | Stoker, Bram - The Man |
For many reasons he was glad the debt was paid He was himself
too poor a man to allow the constant drain his son's debts, and too
careful of his position to be willing have such exposure as would come
with a County Court action against his son. All the same, his
exasperation continued. Neither was his quiver yet empty. He shot his
next arrow:
'I am glad you paid off those usurers!' Leonard did not like the
definite way he spoke. Still in silence, he took from his pocket a
second paper, which he handed over unfolded. Mr. Everard read it, and
returned it politely, with again one word:
'Good!' For a few minutes there was silence. The father spoke again:
'Those other debts, have you paid them?' With a calm deliberation so
full of tacit rudeness that it made his father flush Leonard answered:
'Not yet, sir! But I shall think of them presently. I don't care to be
bustled by them; and I don't mean to!' It was apparent that though he
spoke verbally of his creditors, his meaning was with regard to others
also. 'When will they be paid?' As his son hesitated, he went on:
'I am alluding to those who have written to me. I take it that as my
estate is not entailed, and as you have no income except from me, the
credit which has been extended to you has been rather on my account than
your own. Therefore, as the matter touches my own name, I am entitled to
know something of what is going on.' His manner as well as his words was
so threatening that Leonard was a little afraid. He might imperil his
inheritance. He answered quickly:
'Of course, sir, you shall know everything. After all, you know, my
affairs are your affairs!' 'I know nothing of the sort. I may of course be annoyed by your affairs,
even dishonoured, in a way, by them. But I accept no responsibility
whatever. As you have made your bed, so must you lie on it!' 'It's all right, sir, I assure you. All my debts, both those you know of
and some you don't, I shall settle very shortly.' 'How soon?' The question was sternly put. 'In a few days. I dare say a week at furthest will see everything
straightened out.' The elder man stood, saying gravely as he went to the door:
'You will do well to tell me when the last of them is paid. There is
something which I shall then want to tell you!' Without waiting for
reply he went to his study. Leonard went to his room and made a systematic, though unavailing, search
for Stephen's letter; thinking that by some chance he might have
recovered it from Harold and had overlooked it. The next few days he passed in considerable suspense. He did not dare go
near Normanstand until he was summoned, as he knew he would be when he
was required. * * * * *
When Miss Rowly returned from her visit to London she told Stephen that
she had paid the bill at the jeweller's, and had taken the precaution of
getting a receipt, together with a duplicate for Mr. Everard. The
original was by her own request made out as received from Miss Laetitia
Rowly in settlement of the account of Leonard Everard, Esq. ; the
duplicate merely was 'recd. in settlement of the account of--,' etc. Stephen's brows bent hit thought as she said:
'Why did you have it done that way, Auntie dear?' The other answered
quietly:
'I had a reason, my dear; good reason! Perhaps I shall tell you all
about it some day; in the meantime I want you not to ask me anything
about it. I have a reason for that too. Stephen, won't you trust me in
this, blindfold?' There was something so sweet and loving in the way she
made the request that Stephen was filled with emotion. She put her arms
round her aunt's neck and hugged her tight. Then laying her head on her
bosom she said with a sigh:
'Oh, my dear, you can't know how I trust you; or how much your trust is
to me. You never can know!' The next day the two women held a long consultation over the schedule of
Leonard's debts. Neither said a word of disfavour, or even commented on
the magnitude. The only remark touching on the subject was made by Miss
Rowly:
'We must ask for proper discounts. Oh, the villainy of those tradesmen! I do believe they charge double in the hope of getting half. As to
jewellers . . . !' Then she announced her intention of going up to town
again on Thursday, at which visit she would arrange for the payment of
the various debts. Stephen tried to remonstrate, but she was obdurate. She held Stephen's hand in hers and stroked it lovingly as she kept on
repeating:
'Leave it all to me, dear! Leave it all to me! Everything shall be paid
as you wish; but leave it to me!' Stephen acquiesced. This gentle yielding was new in her; it touched the
elder lady to the quick, even whilst it pained her. Well she knew that
some trouble must have gone to the smoothing of that imperious nature. Stephen's inner life in these last few days was so bitterly sad that she
kept it apart from all the routine of social existence. Into it never
came now, except as the exciting cause of all the evil, a thought of
Leonard. The saddening memory was of Harold. And of him the sadness was
increased and multiplied by a haunting fear. Since he had walked out of
the grove she had not seen him nor heard from him. This was in itself
strange; for in all her life, when she was at home and he too, never a
day passed without her seeing him. She had heard her aunt say that word
had come of his having made a sudden journey to London, from which he had
not yet returned. She was afraid to make inquiries. Partly lest she
might hear bad news--this was her secret fear; partly lest she might
bring some attention to herself in connection with his going. Of some
things in connection with her conduct to him she was afraid to think at
all. Thought, she felt, would come in time, and with it new pains and
new shames, of which as yet she dared not think. One morning came an envelope directed in Harold's hand. The sight made
her almost faint. She rejoiced that she had been first down, and had
opened the postbag with her own key. She took the letter to her room and
shut herself in before opening it. Within were a few lines of writing
and her own letter to Leonard in its envelope. Her head beat so hard
that she could scarcely see; but gradually the writing seemed to grow out
of the mist:
'The enclosed should be in your hands. It is possible that it may
comfort you to know that it is safe. Whatever may come, God love and
guard you.' For a moment joy, hot and strong, blazed through her. The last words
were ringing through her brain. Then came the cold shock, and the gloom
of fear. Harold would never have written thus unless he was going away! It was a farewell! For a long time she stood, motionless, holding the letter in her hand. Then she said, half aloud:
'Comfort! Comfort! There is no more comfort in the world for me! Never,
never again! Oh, Harold! Harold!' | Stoker, Bram - The Man |
She sank on her knees beside her bed, and buried her face in her cold
hands, sobbing in all that saddest and bitterest phase of sorrow which
can be to a woman's heart: the sorrow that is dry-eyed and without hope. Presently the habit of caution which had governed her last days woke her
to action. She bathed her eyes, smoothed her hair, locked the letter and
its enclosure in the little jewel-safe let into the wall, and came down
to breakfast. The sense of loss was so strong on her that she forgot herself. Habit
carried her on without will or voluntary effort, and, so faithfully
worked to her good that even the loving eyes of her aunt--and the eyes of
love are keen--had no suspicion that any new event had come into her
life. Not till she was alone in her room that night did Stephen dare to let her
thoughts run freely. In the darkness her mind began to work truly, so
truly that she began at the first step of logical process: to study
facts. And to study them she must question till she found motive. Why had Harold sent her the letter? His own words said that it should be
in her hands. Then, again, he said it might comfort her to know the
letter was safe. How could it comfort her? How did he get possession of
the letter? There she began to understand; her quick intuition and her old knowledge
of Harold's character and her new knowledge of Leonard's, helped her to
reconstruct causes. In his interview with her he had admitted that
Leonard had told him much, all. He would no doubt have refused to
believe him, and Leonard would have shown him, as proof, her letter
asking him to meet her. He would have seen then, as she did now, how
much the possession of that letter might mean to any one. Good God! to 'any one.' Could it have been so to Harold himself . . . that he thought to use it as an engine, to force her to meet his
wishes--as Leonard had already tried to do! The mistrust, founded on her
fear, was not dead yet . . . No! no! no! Her whole being resented such a
monstrous proposition! Besides, there was proof. Thank God! there was
proof. A blackmailer would have stayed close to her, and would have kept
the letter; Harold did neither. Her recognition of the truth was shown
in her act, when, stretching out her arms in the darkness, she whispered
pleadingly:
'Forgive me, Harold!' And Harold, far away where the setting sun was lying red on the rim of
the western sea, could not hear her. But perhaps God did. As, then, Harold's motive was not of the basest, it must have been of the
noblest. What would be a man's noblest motive under such circumstances? Surely self-sacrifice! And yet there could be no doubt as to Harold's earnestness when he had
told her that he loved her . . . Here Stephen covered her face in one moment of rapture. But the gloom
that followed was darker than the night. She did not pursue the thought. That would come later when she should understand. And yet, so little do we poor mortals know the verities of things, so
blind are we to things thrust before our eyes, that she understood more
in that moment of ecstasy than in all the reasoning that preceded and
followed it. But the reasoning went on:
If he really loved, and told her so, wherein was the self-sacrifice? She
had reproached him with coming to her with his suit hotfoot upon his
knowledge of her shameful proffer of herself to another man; of her
refusal by him. Could he have been so blind as not to have seen, as she
did, the shameful aspect of his impulsive act? Surely, if he had
thought, he must have seen! . . . And he must have thought; there had
been time for it. It was at dinner that he had seen Leonard; it was
after breakfast when he had seen her . . . And if he had seen then . . . In an instant it all burst upon her; the whole splendid truth. He had
held back the expression of his long love for her, waiting for the time
when her maturity might enable her to understand truly and judge wisely;
waiting till her grief for the loss of her father had become a story of
the past; waiting for God knows what a man's mind sees of obstacles when
he loves. But he had spoken it out when it was to her benefit. What,
then, had been his idea of her benefit? Was it that he wished to meet
the desire that she had manifested to have some man to--to love? . . . The way she covered her face with her hands whilst she groaned aloud made
her answer to her own query a perfect negative. Was it, then, to save her from the evil of marrying Leonard in case he
should repent of his harshness, and later on yield himself to her wooing? The fierce movement of her whole body, which almost threw the clothes
from her bed, as the shameful recollection rolled over her, marked the
measure of her self-disdain. One other alternative there was; but it seemed so remote, so far-fetched,
so noble, so unlike what a woman would do, that she could only regard it
in a shamefaced way. She put the matter to herself questioningly, and
with a meekness which had its roots deeper than she knew. And here out
of the depths of her humility came a noble thought. A noble thought,
which was a noble truth. Through the darkness of the night, through the
inky gloom of her own soul came with that thought a ray of truth which,
whilst it showed her her own shrivelled unworthiness, made the man whom
she had dishonoured with insults worse than death stand out in noble
relief. In that instant she guessed at, and realised, Harold's unselfish
nobility of purpose, the supreme effort of his constant love. Knowing
the humiliation she must have suffered at Leonard's hands, he had so
placed himself that even her rejection of him might be some solace to her
wounded spirit, her pride. Here at last was truth! She knew it in the very marrow of her bones. This time she did not move. She thought and thought of that noble
gentleman who had used for her sake even that pent-up passion which, for
her sake also, he had suppressed so long. In that light, which restored in her eyes and justified so fully the man
whom she had always trusted, her own shame and wrongdoing, and the perils
which surrounded her, were for the time forgotten. And its glory seemed to rest upon her whilst she slept. CHAPTER XX--CONFIDENCES
Miss Rowly had received a bulky letter by the morning's post. She had
not opened it, but had allowed it to rest beside her plate all breakfast-
time. Then she had taken it away with her to her own sitting-room. Stephen did not appear to take any notice of it. She knew quite well
that it was from some one in London whom her aunt had asked to pay
Leonard's bills. She also knew that the old lady had some purpose in her
reticence, so she waited. She was learning to be patient in these days. Miss Rowly did say anything about it that day, or the next, or the next. The third-morning, she received another letter which she had read in an
enlightening manner. She began its perusal with set brow frowning, then
she nodded her head and smiled. | Stoker, Bram - The Man |
She put the letter back in its envelope
and placed it in the little bag always carried. But she said nothing. Stephen wondered, but waited. That night, when Stephen's maid had left her, there came a gentle tap at
her door, and an instant after the door opened. The tap had been a
warning, not a request; it had in a measure prepared Stephen, who was not
surprised to see her Aunt in dressing-gown, though it was many a long day
since she had visited her niece's room at night. She closed the door
behind her, saying:
'There is something I want to talk to you about, dearest, and I thought
it would be better to do so when there could not be any possible
interruption. And besides,' here there was a little break in her voice,
'I could hardly summon up my courage in the daylight.' She stopped, and
the stopping told its own story. In an instant Stephen's arm's were
round her, all the protective instinct in her awake, at the distress of
the woman she loved. The old lady took comfort from the warmth of the
embrace, and held her tight whilst she went on:
'It is about these bills, my dear. Come and sit down and put a candle
near me. I want you to read something.' 'Go on, Auntie dear,' she said gravely. The old lady, after a pause,
spoke with a certain timidity:
'They are all paid; at least all that can be. Perhaps I had better read
you the letter I have had from my solicitors:
'"Dear Madam,--In accordance with your instructions we have paid all the
accounts mentioned in Schedule A (enclosed). We have placed for your
convenience three columns: (1) the original amount of each account, (2)
the amount of discount we were able to arrange, and (3) the amount paid. We regret that we have been unable to carry out your wishes with regard
to the items enumerated in Schedule B (enclosed). We have, we assure
you, done all in our power to find the gentlemen whose names and
addresses are therein given. These were marked 'Debt of honour' in the
list you handed to us. Not having been able to obtain any reply to our
letters, we sent one of our clerks first to the addresses in London, and
afterwards to Oxford. That clerk, who is well used to such inquiries,
could not find trace of any of the gentlemen, or indeed of their
existence. We have, therefore, come to the conclusion that, either there
must be some error with regard to (a) names, (b) addresses, or (c) both;
or that no such persons exist. As it would be very unlikely that such
errors could occur in all the cases, we can only conclude that there have
not been any such persons. If we may hazard an opinion: it is possible
that, these debts being what young men call 'debts of honour,' the
debtor, or possibly the creditors, may not have wished the names
mentioned. In such case fictitious names and addresses may have been
substituted for the real ones. If you should like any further inquiry
instituted we would suggest that you ascertain the exact names and
addresses from the debtor. Or should you prefer it we would see the
gentleman on your behalf, on learning from you his name and address. We
can keep, in the person of either one of the Firm or a Confidential Clerk
as you might prefer, any appointment in such behalf you may care to make. '"We have already sent to you the receipted account from each of the
creditors as you directed, viz. 'Received from Miss Laetitia Rowly in
full settlement to date of the account due by Mr. Leonard Everard the sum
of,' etc. etc. And also, as you further directed, a duplicate receipt of
the sum-total due in each case made out as 'Received in full settlement
to date of account due by,' etc. etc. The duplicate receipt was pinned
at the back of each account so as to be easily detachable. '"With regard to finance we have carried out your orders, etc."' She
hurried on the reading. "These sums, together with the amounts of nine
hundred pounds sterling, and seven hundred pounds sterling lodged to the
account of Miss Stephen Norman in the Norcester branch of the Bank as
repayment of moneys advanced to you as by your written instructions, have
exhausted the sum, etc."' She folded up the letter with the schedules,
laying the bundle of accounts on the table. Stephen paused; she felt it
necessary to collect herself before speaking. 'Auntie dear, will you let me see that letter? Oh, my dear, dear Auntie,
don't think I mistrust you that I ask it. I do because I love you, and
because I want to love you more if it is possible to do so.' Miss Rowly
handed her the letter. She rose from the arm of the chair and stood
beside the table as though to get better light from the candle than she
could get from where she had sat. She read slowly and carefully to the end; then folded up the letter and
handed it to her aunt. She came back to her seat on the edge of the
chair, and putting her arms round her companion's neck looked her
straight in the eyes. The elder woman grew embarrassed under the
scrutiny; she coloured up and smiled in a deprecatory way as she said:
'Don't look at me like that, darling; and don't shake your head so. It
is all right! I told you I had my reasons, and you said you would trust
me. I have only done what I thought best!' 'But, Auntie, you have paid away more than half your little fortune. I
know all the figures. Father and uncle told me everything. Why did you
do it? Why did you do it?' The old woman held out her arms as she said:
'Come here, dear one, and sit on my knee as you used to when you were a
child, and I will whisper you.' Stephen sprang from her seat and almost
threw herself into the loving arms. For a few seconds the two, clasped
tight to each other's heart, rocked gently to and fro. The elder kissed
the younger and was kissed impulsively in return. Then she stroked the
beautiful bright hair with her wrinkled hand, and said admiringly:
'What lovely hair you have, my dear one!' Stephen held her closer and
waited. 'Well, my dear, I did it because I love you!' 'I know that, Auntie; you have never done anything else my life!' 'That is true, dear one. But it is right that I should do this. Now you
must listen to me, and not speak till I have done. Keep your thoughts on
my words, so that you may follow my thoughts. You can do your own
thinking about them afterwards. And your own talking too; I shall listen
as long as you like!' 'Go on, I'll be good!' 'My dear, it is not right that you should appear to have paid the debts
of a young man who is no relation to you and who will, I know well, never
be any closer to you than he is now.' She hurried on, as though fearing
an interruption, but Stephen felt that her clasp tightened. 'We never
can tell what will happen as life goes on. And, as the world is full of
scandal, one cannot be too careful not to give the scandalmongers
anything to exercise their wicked spite upon. I don't trust that young
man! he is a bad one all round, or I am very much mistaken. And, my
dear, come close to me! | Stoker, Bram - The Man |
I cannot but see that you and he have some
secret which he is using to distress you!' She paused, and her clasp
grew closer still as Stephen's head sank on her breast. 'I know you have
done something or said something foolish of which he has a knowledge. And
I know my dear one, that whatever it was, and no matter how foolish it
may have been, it was not a wrong thing. God knows, we are all apt to do
wrong things as well as foolish ones; the best of us. But such is not
for you! Your race, your father and mother, your upbringing, yourself
and the truth and purity which are yours would save you from anything
which was in itself wrong. That I know, my dear, as well as I know
myself! Ah! better, far better! for the gods did not think it well to
dower me as they have dowered you. The God of all the gods has given you
the ten talents to guard; and He knows, as I do, that you will be
faithful to your trust.' There was a solemn ring in her voce as the words were spoken which went
through the young girl's heart. Love and confidence demanded in return
that she should have at least the relief of certain acquiescence; there
is a possible note of pain in the tensity of every string! Stephen
lifted her head proudly and honestly, though her cheeks were scarlet,
saying with a consciousness of integrity which spoke directly soul to
soul:
'You are right, dear! I have done something very foolish; very, very
foolish! But it was nothing which any one could call wrong. Do not ask
me what it was. I need only tell you this: that it was an outrage on
convention. It was so foolish, and based on such foolish misconception;
it sprang from such over-weening, arrogant self-opinion that it deserves
the bitter punishment which will come; which is coming; which is with me
now! It was the cause of something whose blackness I can't yet realise;
but of which I will tell you when I can speak of it. But it was not
wrong in itself, or in the eyes of God or man!' The old woman said not a
word. No word was needed, for had she not already expressed her belief? But Stephen felt her relief in the glad pressure of her finger-tips. In
a voice less strained and tense Miss Rowly went on:
'What need have I for money, dear? Here I have all that any woman,
especially at my age, can need. There is no room even for charity; you
are so good to all your people that my help is hardly required. And, my
dear one, I know--I know,' she emphasised the word as she stroked the
beautiful hair, 'that when I am gone my own poor, the few that I have
looked after all my life, will, not suffer when my darling thinks of me!' Stephen fairly climbed upon her as she said, looking in the brave old
eyes:
'So help me God, my darling, they shall never want!' Silence for a time; and then Miss Rowly's voice again:
'Though it would not do for the world to know that a young maiden lady
had paid the debts of a vicious young man, it makes no matter if they be
paid by an old woman, be the same maid, wife, or widow! And really, my
dear, I do not see how any money I might have could be better spent than
in keeping harm away from you.' 'There need not be any harm at all, Auntie.' 'Perhaps not, dear! I hope not with all my heart. But I fear that young
man. Just fancy him threatening you, and in your own house; in my very
presence! Oh! yes, my dear. He meant to threaten, anyhow! Though I
could not exactly understand what he was driving at, I could see that he
was driving at something. And after all that you were doing for him, and
had done for him! I mean, of course, after all that I had done for him,
and was doing for him. It is mean enough, surely, for a man to beg, and
from a woman; but to threaten afterwards. Ach! But I think, my dear, it
is checkmate to him this time. All along the line the only proof that is
of there being any friendliness towards him from this house points to me. And moreover, my dear, I have a little plan in my head that will tend to
show him up even better, in case he may ever try to annoy us. Look at me
when next he is here. I mean to do a little play-acting which will
astonish him, I can tell you, if it doesn't frighten him out of the house
altogether. But we won't talk of that yet. You will understand when you
see it!' Her eyes twinkled and her mouth shut with a loud snap as she
spoke. After a few minutes of repose, which was like a glimpse of heaven to
Stephen's aching heart, she spoke again:
'There was something else that troubled you more than even this. You
said you would tell me when you were able to speak of it . . . Why not
speak now? Oh! my dear, our hearts are close together to-night; and in
all your life, you will never have any one who will listen with greater
sympathy than I will, or deal more tenderly with your fault, whatever it
may have been. Tell me, dear! Dear!' she whispered after a pause,
during which she realised the depth of the girl's emotion by her
convulsive struggling to keep herself in check. All at once the tortured girl seemed to yield herself, and slipped
inertly from her grasp till kneeling down she laid her head in the
motherly lap and sobbed. Miss Rowly kept stroking her hair in silence. Presently the girl looked up, and with a pang the aunt saw that her eyes
were dry. In her pain she said:
'You sob like that, my child, and yet you are not crying; what is it, oh! my dear one? What is it that hurts you so that you cannot cry?' And then the bitter sobbing broke out again, but still alas! without
tears. Crouching low, and still enclosing her aunt's waist with her
outstretched arms and hiding her head in her breast; she said:
'Oh! Auntie, I have sent Harold away!' 'What, my dear? What?' said the old lady astonished. 'Why, I thought
there was no one in the world that you trusted so much as Harold!' 'It is true. There was--there is no one except you whom I trust so much. But I mistook something he said. I was in a blind fury at the time, and
I said things that I thought my father's daughter never could have said. And she never thought them, even then! Oh, Auntie, I drove him away with
all the horrible things I could say that would wound him. And all
because he acted in a way that I see now was the most noble and knightly
in which any man could act. He that my dear father had loved, and
honoured, and trusted as another son. He that was a real son to him, and
not a mock sop like me. I sent him away with such fierce and bitter pain
that his poor face was ashen grey, and there was woe in his eyes that
shall make woe in mine whenever I shall see them in my mind, waking or
sleeping. He, the truest friend . . . the most faithful, the most
tender, the most strong, the most unselfish! Oh! Auntie, Auntie, he just
turned and bowed and went away. And he couldn't do anything else with
the way I spoke to him; and now I shall never see him again!' The young girl's eyes ware still dry, but the old woman's were wet. | Stoker, Bram - The Man |
For
a few minutes she kept softly stroking the bowed heat till the sobbing
grew less and less, and then died away; and the girl lay still, collapsed
in the abandonment of dry-eyed grief. Then she rose, and taking off her dressing-gown, said tenderly:
'Let me stay with you to-night, dear one? Go to sleep in my arms, as you
did long ago when there was any grief that you could not bear.' So Stephen lay in those loving arms till her own young breast ceased
heaving, and she breathed softly. Till dawn she slept on the bosom of
her who loved her so well. CHAPTER XXI--THE DUTY OF COURTESY
Leonard was getting tired of waiting when he received his summons to
Normanstand. But despite his impatience he was ill pleased with the
summons, which came in the shape of a polite note from Miss Rowly asking
him to come that afternoon at tea-time. He had expected to hear from
Stephen. 'Damn that old woman! You'd think she was working the whole show!' However, he turned up at a little before five o'clock, spruce and dapper
and well dressed and groomed as usual. He was shown, as before, into the
blue drawing-room. Miss Rowly, who sat there, rose as he entered, and
coming across the room, greeted him, as he thought, effusively. He
actually winced when she called him 'my dear boy' before the butler. She ordered tea to be served at once, and when it had been brought she
said to the butler:
'Tell Mannerly to bring me a large thick envelope which is on the table
in my room. It is marked L.E. on the outside.' Presently an elderly
maid handed her the envelope and withdrew. When tea was over she opened
the envelope, and taking from it a number of folios, looked over them
carefully; holding them in her lap, she said quietly:
'You will find writing materials on the table. I am all ready now to
hand you over the receipts.' His eyes glistened. This was good news at
all events; the debts were paid. In a rapid flash of thought he came to
the conclusion that if the debts were actually paid he need not be civil
to the old lady. He felt that he could have been rude to her if he had
actual possession of the receipts. As it was, however, he could not yet
afford to have any unpleasantness. There was still to come that lowering
interview with his father; and he could not look towards it
satisfactorily until he had the assurance of the actual documents that he
was safe. Miss Rowly was, in her own way, reading his mind in his face. Her lorgnon seemed to follow his every expression like a searchlight. He
remembered his former interview with her, and how he had been bested in
it; so he made up his mind to acquiesce in time. He went over to the
table and sat down. Taking a pen he turned to Miss Rowly and said:
'What shall I write?' She answered calmly:
'Date it, and then say, "Received from Miss Laetitia Rowly the receipts
for the following amounts from the various firms hereunder enumerated."' She then proceeded to read them, he writing and repeating as he wrote. Then she added:
'"The same being the total amount of my debts which she has kindly paid
for me."' He paused here; she asked. 'Why don't you go on?' 'I thought it was Stephen--Miss Norman,' he corrected, catching sight of
her lorgnon, 'who was paying them.' 'Good Lord, man,' she answered, 'what does it matter who has paid them,
so long as they are paid?' 'But I didn't ask you to pay them,' he went on obstinately. There was a
pause, and then the old lady, with a distinctly sarcastic smile, said:
'It seems to me, young man, that you are rather particular as to how
things are done for you. If you had begun to be just a little bit as
particular in making the debts as you are in the way of having them paid,
there would be a little less trouble and expense all round. However, the
debts have been paid, and we can't unpay them. But of course you can
repay me the money if you like. It amounts in all to four thousand three
hundred and seventeen pounds, twelve shillings and sixpence, and I have
paid every penny of it out of my own pocket. If you can't pay it
yourself, perhaps your father would like to do so.' The last shot told; he went on writing: '"Kindly paid for me,"' she
continued in the same even voice:
'"In remembrance of my mother, of whom she was an acquaintance." Now
sign it!' He did so and handed it to her. She read it over carefully,
folded it, and put it in her pocket. She then stood. He rose also; and
as he moved to the door--he had not offered to shake hands with her--he
said:
'I should like to see, Miss Norman.' 'I am afraid you will have to wait.' 'Why?' 'She is over at Heply Regis. She went there for Lady Heply's ball, and
will remain for a few days. Good afternoon!' The tone in which the last
two words were spoken seemed in his ears like the crow of the victor
after a cock-fight. As he was going out of the room a thought struck her. She felt he
deserved some punishment for his personal rudeness to her. After all,
she had paid half her fortune for him, though not on his account; and not
only had he given no thanks, but had not even offered the usual courtesy
of saying good-bye. She had intended to have been silent on the subject,
and to have allowed him to discover it later. Now she said, as if it was
an after-thought:
'By the way, I did not pay those items you put down as "debts of honour";
you remember you gave the actual names and addresses.' 'Why not?' the question came from him involuntarily. The persecuting
lorgnon rose again:
'Because they were all bogus! Addresses, names, debts, honour! Good
afternoon!' He went out flaming; free from debt, money debts; all but one. And some
other debts--not financial--whose magnitude was exemplified in the
grinding of his teeth. After breakfast next morning he said to his father:
'By the way, you said you wished to speak to me, sir.' There was
something in the tone of his voice which called up antagonism. 'Then you have paid your debts?' 'All!' 'Good! Now there is something which it is necessary I should call your
attention to. Do you remember the day on which I handed you that
pleasing epistle from Messrs. Cavendish and Cecil?' 'Certainly, sir.' 'Didn't you send a telegram to them?' 'I did.' 'You wrote it yourself?' 'Certainly.' 'I had a courteous letter from the money-lenders, thanking me for my
exertions in securing the settlement of their claim, and saying that in
accordance with the request in my telegram they had held over proceedings
until the day named. I did not quite remember having sent any telegram
to them, or any letter either. So, being at a loss, I went to our
excellent postmaster and requested that he would verify the sending of a
telegram to London from me. He courteously looked up the file; which was
ready for transference to the G.P.O., and showed me the form. It was in
your handwriting.' He paused so long that Leonard presently said:
'Well!' 'It was signed Jasper Everard. Jasper Everard! | Stoker, Bram - The Man |
my name; and yet it was
sent by my son, who was christened, if I remember rightly, Leonard!' Then
he went on, only in a cold acrid manner which made his son feel as though
a February wind was blowing on his back:
'I think there need not have been much trouble in learning to avoid
confusing our names. They are really dissimilar. Have you any
explanation to offer of the--the error, let us call it?' A bright
thought struck Leonard. 'Why, sir,' he said, 'I put it in your name as they had written to you. I
thought it only courteous.' The elder man winced; he had not expected
the excuse. We went on speaking in the same calm way, but his tone was
more acrid than before:
'Good! of course! It was only courteous of you! Quite so! But I think
it will be well in the future to let me look after my own courtesy; as
regards my signature at any rate. You see, my dear boy, a signature is
queer sort of thing, and judges and juries are apt to take a poor view of
courtesy as over against the conventions regarding a man, writing his own
name. What I want to tell you is this, that on seeing that signature I
made a new will. You see, my estate is not entailed, and therefore I
think it only right to see that in such a final matter justice is done
all round. I therefore made a certain provision of which I am sure you
will approve. Indeed, since I am assured of the payment of your debts, I
feel justified in my action. I may say, inter alia, that I congratulate
you on either the extent of your resources or the excellence of your
friendships, or both. I confess that the amounts brought to my notice
were rather large; more especially in proportion to the value of the
estate which you are some day to inherit. For you are of course to
inherit some day, my dear boy. You are my only son, and it would be
hardly--hardly courteous of me not to leave it to you. But I have put a
clause in my will to the effect that the trustee's are to pay all debts
of your accruing which can be proved against you, before handing over to
you either the estate itself or the remainder after its sale and the
settlement of all claims. That's all. Now run away, my boy; I have some
important work to do.' * * * * *
The day after her return from Heply Regis, Stephen was walking in the
wood when she thought she heard a slight rustling of leaves some way
behind her. She looked round, expecting to see some one; but the leafy
path was quite clear. Her suspicion was confirmed; some one was secretly
following her. A short process of exclusions pointed to the personality
of the some one. Tramps and poachers were unknown in Normanstand, and
there was no one else whom she could think of who had any motive in
following her in such a way; it must be Leonard Everard. She turned and
walked rapidly in the opposite direction. As this would bring her to the
house Leonard had to declare his presence at once or else lose the
opportunity of a private interview which he sought. When she saw him she
said at once and without any salutation:
'What are you doing there; why are you following me?' 'I wanted to see you alone. I could not get near you on account of that
infernal old woman.' Stephen's face grew hard. 'On account of whom?' she asked with dangerous politeness. 'Miss Rowly; your aunt.' 'Don't you think, Mr. Everard,' she said icily, 'that it is at least an
unpardonable rudeness to speak that way, and to me, of the woman I love
best in all the world?' 'Sorry!' he said in the offhand way of younger days, 'I apologise. Fact
is, I was angry that she wouldn't let me see you.' 'Not let you see me!' she said as if amazed. 'What do mean?' 'Why, I haven't been able to see you alone ever since I went to meet you
on Caester Hill.' 'But why should you see me alone?' she asked as if still in amazement. 'Surely you can say anything you have to say before my aunt.' With an
unwisdom for which an instant later he blamed himself he blurted out:
'Why, old girl, you yourself did not think her presence necessary when
you asked me to meet you on the hill.' 'When was that?' She saw that he was angry and wanted to test him; to
try how far he would venture. He was getting dangerous; she must know
the measure of what she had to fear. He fell into the trap at once. His debts being paid, fear was removed,
and all the hectoring side of the man was aroused. His antagonist was a
woman; and he had already had in his life so many unpleasant scenes with
women that this was no new experience. This woman had, by her own
indiscretion, put a whip into his hand; and, if necessary to secure his
own way, by God! he meant to use it! These last days had made her a more
desirable possession in his eyes. The vastness of her estate had taken
hold on him, and his father's remorseless intention with regard to his
will would either keep him with very limited funds, or leave him
eventually a pauper if he forestalled his inheritance. The desire of her
wealth had grown daily, and it was now the main force in bringing him
here to-day. And to this was now added the personal desire which her
presence evoked. Stephen, at all times beautiful, had never looked more
lovely. In the days since she had met him on the hilltop, a time that to
her seemed so long ago, she had grown to be a woman, and there is some
subtle inconceivable charm in completed womanhood. The reaction from her
terrible fear and depression had come, and her strong brilliant youth was
manifesting itself. Her step was springy and her eyes were bright; and
the glow of fine health, accentuated by the militant humour of the
present moment, seemed to light up her beautiful skin. In herself she
was desirable, very desirable; Leonard felt his pulses quicken and his
blood leap as he looked at her. Even his prejudice against her red hair
had changed to something like hungry admiration. Leonard felt for the
first moment since he had known her that she was a woman; and that, with
relation to her, he was a man. And at the moment all the man in him asserted itself. It was with half
love, as he saw it, and half self-assertion that he answered her
question:
'The day you asked me to marry you! Oh! what a fool I was not to leap at
such a chance! I should have taken you in my arms then and kissed you
till I showed you how much I loved you. But that will all come yet; the
kissing is still to come! Oh! Stephen, don't you see that I love you? Won't you tell me that you love me still? Darling!' He almost sprang at
her, his arms extended to clasp her. 'Stop!' Her voice rang like a trumpet. She did not mean to submit to
physical violence, and in the present state of her feeling, an embrace
from him would be a desecration. He was now odious to her; she
positively loathed him. Before her uplifted hand and those flashing eyes, he stopped as one
stricken into stone. In that instant she knew she was safe; and with a
woman's quickness of apprehension and resolve, made up her mind what
course to pursue. In a calm voice she said quietly:
'Mr. | Stoker, Bram - The Man |
Everard, you have followed me in secret, and without my permission. I cannot talk here with you, alone. I absolutely refuse to do so; now or
at any other time. If you have anything especial to say to me you will
find me at home at noon to-morrow. Remember, I do not ask you to come. I
simply yield to the pressure of your importunity. And remember also that
I do not authorise you in any way to resume this conversation. In fact,
I forbid it. If you come to my house you must control yourself to my
wish!' Then with a stately bow, whose imperious distance inflamed him more than
ever, and without once looking back she took her way home, all agitated
inwardly and with fast beating heart. CHAPTER XXII--FIXING THE BOUNDS
Leonard came towards Normanstand next forenoon in considerable mental
disturbance. In the first place he was seriously in love with Stephen,
and love is in itself a disturbing influence. Leonard's love was all of the flesh; and as such had power at present to
disturb him, as it would later have power to torture him. Again, he was
disturbed by the fear of losing Stephen, or rather of not being able to
gain her. At first, ever since she had left him on the path from the
hilltop till his interview the next day, he had looked on her possession
as an 'option,' to the acceptance of which circumstances seemed to be
compelling him. But ever since, that asset seemed to have been
dwindling; and now he was almost beginning to despair. He was altogether
cold at heart, and yet highly strung with apprehension, as he was shown
into the blue drawing-room. Stephen came in alone, closing the door behind her. She shook hands with
him, and sat down by a writing-table near the window, pointing to him to
sit on an ottoman a little distance away. The moment he sat down he
realised that he was at a disadvantage; he was not close to her, and he
could not get closer without manifesting his intention of so doing. He
wanted to be closer, both for the purpose of his suit and for his own
pleasure; the proximity of Stephen began to multiply his love for her. He
thought that to-day she looked better than ever, of a warm radiant beauty
which touched his senses with unattainable desire. She could not but
notice the passion in his eyes, and instinctively her eyes wandered to a
silver gong placed on the table well within reach. The more he glowed,
the more icily calm she sat, till the silence between them began to grow
oppressive. She waited, determined that he should be the first to speak. Recognising the helplessness of silence, he began huskily:
'I came here to-day in the hope that you would listen to me.' Her
answer, given with a conventional smile, was not helpful:
'I am listening.' 'I cannot tell you how sorry I am that I did not accept your offer. If I
had know when I was coming that day that you loved me . . . ' She
interrupted him, calm of voice, and with uplifted hand:
'I never said so, did I? Surely I could not have said such a thing! I
certainly don't remember it?' Leonard was puzzled. 'You certainly made me think so. You asked me to marry you, didn't you?' Her answer came calmly, though in a low voice:
'I did.' 'Then if you didn't love me, why did you ask me to marry you?' It was
his nature to be more or less satisfied when he had put any one opposed
to him proportionally in the wrong; and now his exultation at having put
a poser manifested itself in his tone. This, however, braced up Stephen
to cope with a difficult and painful situation. It was with a calm,
seemingly genial frankness, that she answered, smilingly:
'Do you know, that is what has been puzzling me from that moment to
this!' Her words appeared to almost stupefy Leonard. This view of the
matter had not occurred to him, and now the puzzle of it made him angry. 'Do you mean to say,' he asked hotly, 'that you asked a man to marry you
when you didn't even love him?' 'That is exactly what I do mean! Why I did it is, I assure you, as much
a puzzle to me as it is to you. I have come to the conclusion that it
must have been from my vanity. I suppose I wanted to dominate somebody;
and you were the weakest within range!' 'Thank you!' He was genuinely angry by this time, and, but for a
wholesome fear of the consequences, would have used strong language. 'I don't see that I was the weakest about.' Somehow this set her on her
guard. She wanted to know more, so she asked:
'Who else?' 'Harold An Wolf! You had him on a string already!' The name came like a
sword through her heart, but the bitter comment braced her to further
caution. Her voice seemed to her to sound as though far away:
'Indeed! And may I ask you how you came to know that?' Her voice seemed
so cold and sneering to him that he lost his temper still further. 'Simply because he told me so himself.' It pleased him to do in ill turn
to Harold. He did not forget that savage clutch at his throat; and he
never would. Stephen's senses were all alert. She saw an opportunity of
learning something, and went on with the same cold voice:
'And I suppose it was that pleasing confidence which was the cause of
your refusal of my offer of marriage; of which circumstance you have so
thoughtfully and so courteously reminded me.' This, somehow, seemed of
good import to Leonard. If he could show her that his intention to marry
her was antecedent to Harold's confidence, she might still go back to her
old affection for him. He could not believe that it did not still exist;
his experience of other women showed him that their love outlived their
anger, whether the same had been hot or cold. 'It had nothing in the world to do with it. He never said a word about
it till he threatened to kill me--the great brute!' This was learning
something indeed! She went on in the same voice:
'And may I ask you what was the cause of such sanguinary intention?' 'Because he knew that I was going to marry you!' As he spoke he felt
that he had betrayed himself; he went on hastily, hoping that it might
escape notice:
'Because he knew that I loved you. Oh! Stephen, don't you know it now! Can't you see that I love you; and that I want you for my wife!' 'But did he threaten to kill you out of mere jealousy? Do you still go
in fear of your life? Will it be necessary to arrest him?' Leonard was
chagrined at her ignoring of his love-suit, and in his self-engrossment
answered sulkily:
'I'm not afraid of him! And, besides, I believe he has bolted. I called
at his house yesterday, and his servant said they hadn't heard a word
from him.' Stephen's heart sank lower and lower. This was what she had
dreaded. She said in as steady a voice as she could muster:
'Bolted! Has he gone altogether?' 'Oh, he'll come back all right, in time. He's not going to give up the
jolly good living he has here!' 'But why has he bolted? When he threatened to kill you did he give any
reason?' There was too much talk about Harold. It made him angry; so he
answered in an offhand way:
'Oh, I don't know. And, moreover, I don't care!' | Stoker, Bram - The Man |
'And now,' said Stephen, having ascertained what she wanted to know,
'what is it that you want to speak to me about?' Her words fell on Leonard like a cold douche. Here had he been talking
about his love for her, and yet she ignored the whole thing, and asked
him what he wanted to talk about. 'What a queer girl you are. You don't seem to attend to what a fellow is
saying. Here have I been telling you that I love you, and asking you to
marry me; and yet you don't seem to have even heard me!' She answered at
once, quite sweetly, and with a smile of superiority which maddened him:
'But that subject is barred!' 'How do you mean? Barred!' 'Yes. I told you yesterday!' 'But, Stephen,' he cried out quickly, all the alarm in him and all the
earnestness of which he was capable uniting to his strengthening, 'can't
you understand that I love you, with all my heart? You are so beautiful;
so beautiful!' He felt now in reality what he was saying. The torrent of his words left no opening for her objection; it swept all
merely verbal obstacles before it. She listened, content in a measure. So long as he sat at the distance which she had arranged before his
coming she did not fear any personal violence. Moreover, it was a
satisfaction to her now to hear him, who had refused her, pleading in
vain. The more sincere his eloquence, the larger her satisfaction; she
had no pity for him now. 'I know I was a fool, Stephen! I had my chance that day on the hilltop;
and if I had felt then as I feel now, as I have felt every moment since,
I would not have been so cold. I would have taken you in my arms and
held you close and kissed you, again, and again, and again. Oh, darling! I love you! I love you! I love you!' He held out his arms imploringly. 'Won't you love me? Won't--'
He stopped, paralysed with angry amazement. She was laughing. He grew purple in the face; his hands were still outstretched. The few
seconds seemed like hours. 'Forgive me!' she said in a polite tone, suddenly growing grave. 'But
really you looked so funny, sitting there so quietly, and speaking in
such a way, that I couldn't help it. You really must forgive me! But
remember, I told you the subject was barred; and as, knowing that, you
went on, you really have no one but yourself to blame!' Leonard was
furious, but managed to say as he dropped his arms:
'But I love you!' 'That may be, now,' she went on icily. 'But it is too late. I do not
love you; and I have never loved you! Of course, had you accepted my
offer of marriage you should never have known that. No matter how great
had been my shame and humiliation when I had come to a sense of what I
had done, I should have honourably kept my part of the tacit compact
entered into when I made that terrible mistake. I cannot tell you how
rejoiced and thankful I am that you took my mistake in such a way. Of
course, I do not give you any credit for it; you thought only of
yourself, and did that which you liked best!' 'That is a nice sort of thing to tell a man!' he interrupted with cynical
frankness. 'Oh, I do not want to hurt you unnecessarily; but I wish there to be no
possible misconception in the matter. Now that I have discovered my
error I am not likely to fall into it again; and that you may not have
any error at all, I tell you now again, that I have not loved you, do not
love you, and never will and never can love you.' Here an idea struck
Leonard and he blurted out:
'But do you not think that something is due to me?' 'How do you mean?' Her brows were puckered with real wonder this time. 'For false hopes raised in my mind. If I did not love you before, the
very act of proposing to me has made me love you; and now I love you so
well that I cannot live without you!' In his genuine agitation he was
starting up, when the sight of her hand laid upon the gong arrested him. She laughed as she said:
'I thought that the privilege of changing one's mind was a female
prerogative! Besides, I have done already something to make reparation
to you for the wrong of . . . of--I may put it fairly, as the suggestion
is your own--of not having treated you as a woman!' 'Damn!' 'As you observe so gracefully, it is annoying to have one's own silly
words come back at one, boomerang fashion. I made up my mind to do
something for you; to pay off your debts.' This so exasperated him that
he said out brutally:
'No thanks to you for that! As I had to put up with the patronage and
the lecturings, and the eyeglass of that infernal old woman, I don't
intend . . . ' Stephen stood up, her hand upon the gong:
'Mr. Everard, if you do not remember that you are in my drawing-room, and
speaking of my dear and respected aunt, I shall not detain you longer!' He sat down at once, saying surlily:
'I beg your pardon. I forgot. You make me so wild that--that . . . ' He
chewed the ends of his moustache angrily. She resumed her seat, taking
her hand from the gong. Without further pause she continued:
'Quite right! It has been Miss Rowly who paid your debts. At first I
had promised myself the pleasure; but from something in your speech and
manner she thought it better that such an act should not be done by a
woman in my position to a man in yours. It might, if made public, have
created quite a wrong impression in the minds of many of our friends.' There was something like a snort from Leonard. She ignored it:
'So she paid the money herself out of her own fortune. And, indeed, I
must say that you do not seem to have treated her with much gratitude.' 'What did I say or do that put you off doing the thing yourself?' 'I shall answer it frankly: It was because you manifested, several times,
in a manner there was no mistaking, both by words and deeds, an intention
of levying blackmail on me by using your knowledge of my ridiculous,
unmaidenly act. No one can despise, or deplore, or condemn that act more
than I do; so that rather than yield a single point to you, I am, if
necessary, ready to face the odium which the public knowledge of it might
produce. What I had intended to do for you in the way of compensation
for false hopes raised to you by that act has now been done. That it was
done by my aunt on my behalf, and not by me, matters to you no more than
it did to your creditors, who, when they received the money, made no
complaint of injury to their feelings on that account. 'Now, when you think the whole matter over in quietness, you will,
knowing that I am ready at any time to face if necessary the unpleasant
publicity, be able to estimate what damage you would do to yourself by
any expose. It seems to me that you would come out of it pretty badly
all round. That, however, is not my affair; it entirely rests with
yourself. I think I know how women would regard it. I dare say you best
know how men would look at it; and at you!' Leonard knew already how the only man who knew of it had taken it, and
the knowledge did not reassure him! 'You jade! You infernal, devilish, cruel, smooth-tongued jade!' | Stoker, Bram - The Man |
He
stood as bespoke. She stood too, and stood watching him with her hand on
the gong. After a pause of a couple of seconds she said gravely:
'One other thing I should wish to say, and I mean it. Understand me
clearly, that I mean it! You must not come again into my grounds without
my special permission. I shall not allow my liberty to be taken away, or
restricted, by you. If there be need at any time to come to the house,
come in ceremonious fashion, by the avenues which are used by others. You
can always speak to me in public, or socially, in the most friendly
manner; as I shall hope to be able to speak to you. But you must never
transgress the ordinary rules of decorum. If you do, I shall have to
take, for my own protection, another course. I know you now! I am
willing to blot out the past; but it must be the whole past that is wiped
out!' She stood facing him; and as he looked at her clear-cut aquiline face,
her steady eyes, her resolute mouth, her carriage, masterly in its self-
possessed poise, he saw that there was no further hope for him. There
was no love and no fear. 'You devil!' he hissed. She struck the gong; her aunt entered the room. 'Oh, is that you, Auntie? Mr. Everard has finished his business with
me!' Then to the servant, who had entered after Miss Rowly:
'Mr. Everard would like his carriage. By the way,' she added, turning to
him in a friendly way as an afterthought, 'will you not stay, Mr.
Everard, and take lunch with us? My aunt has been rather moping lately;
I am sure your presence would cheer her up.' 'Yes, do stay, Mr. Everard!' added Miss Rowly placidly. 'It would make a
pleasant hour for us all.' Leonard, with a great effort, said with conventional politeness:
'Thanks, awfully! But I promised my father to be home for lunch!' and he
withdrew to the door which the servant held open. He went out filled with anger and despair, and, sad for him, with a
fierce, overmastering desire--love he called it--for the clever, proud,
imperious beauty who had so outmatched and crushed him. That beautiful red head, which he had at first so despised, was
henceforth to blaze in his dreams. CHAPTER XXIII--THE MAN
On the _Scoriac_ Harold An Wolf, now John Robinson, kept aloof from every
one. He did not make any acquaintances, did not try to. Some of those
at table with him, being ladies and gentlemen, now and again made a
polite remark; to which he answered with equal politeness. Being what he
was he could not willingly offend any one; and there was nothing in his
manner to repel any kindly overture to acquaintance. But this was the
full length his acquaintanceship went; so he gradually felt himself
practically alone. This was just what he wished; he sat all day silent
and alone, or else walked up and down the great deck that ran from stem
to stern, still always alone. As there were no second-class or steerage
passengers on the _Scoriac_, there were no deck restraints, and so there
was ample room for individual solitude. The travellers, however, were a
sociable lot, and a general feeling of friendliness was abroad. The
first four days of the journey were ideally fine, and life was a joy. The
great ship, with bilge keels, was as steady as a rock. Among the other passengers was an American family consisting of Andrew
Stonehouse, the great ironmaster and contractor, with his wife and little
daughter. Stonehouse was a remarkable man in his way, a typical product of the
Anglo-Saxon under American conditions. He had started in young manhood
with nothing but a good education, due in chief to his own industry and
his having taken advantage to the full of such opportunities as life had
afforded to him. By unremitting work he had at thirty achieved a great
fortune, which had, however; been up to then entirely invested and
involved in his businesses. With, however, the colossal plant at his
disposal, and by aid of the fine character he had won for honesty and
good work, he was able within the next ten years to pile up a fortune
vast even in a nation where multi-millionaires are scattered freely. Then
he had married, wisely and happily. But no child had come to crown the
happiness of the pair who so loved each other till a good many years had
come and gone. Then, when the hope of issue had almost passed away, a
little daughter came. Naturally the child was idolised by her parents,
and thereafter every step taken by either was with an eye to her good. When the rigour of winter and the heat of summer told on the child in a
way which the more hardy parents had never felt, she was whirled away to
some place with more promising conditions of health and happiness. When
the doctors hinted that an ocean voyage and a winter in Italy would be
good, those too were duly undertaken. And now, the child being in
perfect health, the family was returning before the weather should get
too hot to spend the summer at their chalet amongst the great pines on
the slopes of Mount Ranier. Like the others on board, Mr. and Mrs.
Stonehouse had proffered travellers' civilities to the sad, lonely young
man. As to the others, he had shown thanks for their gracious courtesy;
but friendship, as in other cases, did not advance. The Stonehouses were
not in any way chagrined; their lives were too happy and too full for
them to take needless offence. They respected the young man's manifest
desire for privacy; and there, so far as they were concerned, the matter
rested. But this did not suit the child. Pearl was a sweet little thing, a real
blue-eyed, golden-haired little fairy, full of loving-kindness. All the
mother-instinct in her, and even at six a woman-child can be a
mother--theoretically, went out towards the huge, lonely, sad, silent
young man. She insisted on friendship with him; insisted shamelessly,
with the natural inclination of innocence which rises high above shame. Even the half-hearted protests of the mother, who loved to see the child
happy, did not deter her; after the second occasion of Pearl's seeking
him, as she persisted, Harold could but remonstrate with the mother in
turn; the ease of the gentle lady and the happiness of her child were
more or less at stake. When Mrs. Stonehouse would say:
'There, darling! You must be careful not to annoy the gentleman,' Pearl
would turn a rosy all-commanding face to her and answer:
'But, mother, I want him to play with me. You must play with me!' Then,
as the mother would look at him, he would say quickly, and with genuine
heartiness too:
'Oh please, madam, do let her play with me! Come, Pearl, shall you ride
a cock-horse or go to market the way the gentleman rides?' Then the
child would spring on his knee with a cry of delight, and their games
began. The presence of the child and her loving ways were unutterably sweet to
Harold; but his pleasure was always followed by a pain that rent him as
he thought of that other little one, now so far away, and of those times
that seemed so long since gone. | Stoker, Bram - The Man |
But the child never relaxed in her efforts to please; and in the long
hours of the sea voyage the friendship between her and the man grew, and
grew. He was the biggest and strongest and therefore most lovely thing
on board the ship, and that sufficed her. As for him, the child
manifestly loved and trusted him, and that was all-in-all to his weary,
desolate heart. The fifth day out the weather began to change; the waves grew more and
more mountainous as the day wore on and the ship advanced west. Not even
the great bulk and weight of the ship, which ordinarily drove through the
seas without pitch or roll, were proof against waves so gigantic. Then
the wind grew fiercer and fiercer, coming in roaring squalls from the
south-west. Most of those on board were alarmed, for the great waves
were dreadful to see, and the sound of the wind was a trumpet-call to
fear. The sick stayed in their cabins; the rest found an interest if not a
pleasure on deck. Among the latter were the Stonehouses, who were old
travellers. Even Pearl had already had more sea-voyages than fall to
most people in their lives. As for Harold, the storm seemed to come
quite naturally to him and he paced the deck like a ship-master. It was fortunate for the passengers that most of them had at this period
of the voyage got their sea legs; otherwise walking on the slippery deck,
that seemed to heave as the rolling of the vessel threw its slopes up or
down, would have been impossible. Pearl was, like most children, pretty
sure-footed; holding fast to Harold's hand she managed to move about
ceaselessly. She absolutely refused to go with any one else. When her
mother said that she had better sit still she answered:
'But, mother, I am quite safe with The Man!' 'The Man' was the name she
had given Harold, and by which she always now spoke of him. They had had
a good many turns together, and Harold had, with the captain's
permission, taken her up on the bridge and showed her how to look out
over the 'dodger' without the wind hurting her eyes. Then came the
welcome beef-tea hour, and all who had come on deck were cheered and
warmed with the hot soup. Pearl went below, and Harold, in the shelter
of the charthouse, together with a good many others, looked out over the
wild sea. Harold, despite the wild turmoil of winds and seas around him, which
usually lifted his spirits, was sad, feeling lonely and wretched; he was
suffering from the recoil of his little friend's charming presence. Pearl
came on deck again looking for him. He did not see her, and the child,
seeing an opening for a new game, avoided both her father and mother, who
also stood in the shelter of the charthouse, and ran round behind it on
the weather side, calling a loud 'Boo!' to attract Harold's attention as
she ran. A few seconds later the _Scoriac_ put her nose into a coming wave at just
the angle which makes for the full exercise of the opposing forces. The
great wave seemed to strike the ship on the port quarter like a giant
hammer; and for an instant she stood still, trembling. Then the top of
the wave seemed to leap up and deluge her. The wind took the flying
water and threw it high in volumes of broken spray, which swept not only
the deck but the rigging as high as the top of the funnels. The child
saw the mass of water coming, and shrieking flew round the port side of
the charthouse. But just as she turned down the open space between it
and the funnel the vessel rolled to starboard. At the same moment came a
puff of wind of greater violence than ever. The child, calling out, half
in simulated half in real fear, flew down the slope. As she did so the
gale took her, and in an instant whirled her, almost touching her mother,
over the rail into the sea. Mrs. Stonehouse shrieked and sprang forward as though to follow her
child. She was held back by the strong arm of her husband. They both
slipped on the sloping deck and fell together into the scuppers. There
was a chorus of screams from all the women present. Harold, with an
instinctive understanding of the dangers yet to be encountered, seized a
red tam-o'-shanter from the head of a young girl who stood near. Her exclamation of surprise was drowned in the fearful cry 'Man
overboard!' and all rushed down to the rail and saw Harold, as he emerged
from the water, pull the red cap over his head and then swim desperately
towards the child, whose golden hair was spread on the rising wave. The instant after Pearl's being swept overboard might be seen the
splendid discipline of a well-ordered ship. Every man to his post, and
every man with a knowledge of his duty. The First Officer called to the
Quartermaster at the wheel in a voice which cut through the gale like a
trumpet:
'Hard a port! Hard!' The stern of the great ship swung away to port in time to clear the
floating child from the whirling screw, which would have cut her to
pieces in an instant. Then the Officer after tearing the engine-room
signal to 'Starboard engine full speed astern,' ran for the lifebuoy
hanging at the starboard end of the bridge. This he hurled far into the
sea. As it fell the attached rope dragged with it the signal, which so
soon as it reaches water bursts into smoke and flame--signal by day and
night. This done, and it had all been done in a couple of seconds, he
worked the electric switch of the syren, which screamed out quickly once,
twice, thrice. This is the dread sound which means 'man overboard,' and
draws to his post every man on the ship, waking or sleeping. The Captain was now on the bridge and in command, and the First Officer,
freed from his duty there, ran to the emergency boat, swung out on its
davits on the port side. All this time, though only numbered by seconds, the _Scoriac_ was turning
hard to starboard, making a great figure of eight; for it is quicker to
turn one of these great sea monsters round than to stop her in mid
career. The aim of her Captain in such cases is to bring her back to the
weather side of the floating buoy before launching the boat. On deck the anguish of the child's parents was pitiable. Close to the
rail, with her husband's arms holding her tight to it, the distressed
mother leaned out; but always moving so that she was at the nearest point
of the ship to her child. As the ship passed on it became more difficult
to see the heads. In the greater distance they seemed to be quite close
together. All at once, just as a great wave which had hidden them in the
farther trough passed on, the mother screamed out:
'She's sinking! she's sinking! Oh, God! Oh, God!' and she fell on her
knees, her horrified eyes, set in a face of ashen grey, looking out
between the rails. But at the instant all eyes saw the man's figure rise in the water as he
began to dive. There was a hush which seemed deadly; the onlookers
feared to draw breath. And then the mother's heart leaped and her cry
rang out again as two heads rose together in the waste of sea:
'He has her! He has her! He has her! Oh, thank God! | Stoker, Bram - The Man |
Thank God!' and
for a single instant she hid her face in her hands. Then when the fierce 'hurrah' of all on board had been hushed in
expectation, the comments broke forth. Most of the passengers had by
this time got glasses of one kind or another. 'See! He's putting the cap on the child's head. He's a cool one that. Fancy him thinking of a red cap at such a time!' 'Ay! we could see that cap, when it might be we couldn't see anything
else.' 'Look!' this from an old sailor standing by his boat, 'how he's raisin'
in the water. He's keeping his body between her an' the spindrift till
the squall has passed. That would choke them both in a wind like this if
he didn't know how to guard against it. He's all right; he is! The
little maid is safe wi' him.' 'Oh, bless you! Bless you for those words,' said the mother, turning
towards him. 'At this moment the Second Officer, who had run down from
the bridge, touched Mr. Stonehouse on the shoulder. 'The captain asked me to tell you, sir, that you and Mrs. Stonehouse had
better come to him on the bridge. You'll see better from there.' They both hurried up, and the mother again peered out with fixed eyes. The Captain tried to comfort her; laying his strong hand on her shoulder,
he said:
'There, there! Take comfort, ma'am. She is in the hands of God! All
that mortal man can do is being done. And she is safer with that gallant
young giant than she could be with any other man on the ship. Look, how
he is protecting her! Why he knows that all that can be done is being
done. He is waiting for us to get to him, and is saving himself for it. Any other man who didn't know so much about swimming as he does would try
to reach the lifebuoy; and would choke the two of them with the spindrift
in the trying. Mind how he took the red cap to help us see them. He's a
fine lad that; a gallant lad!' CHAPTER XXIV--FROM THE DEEPS
Presently the Captain handed Mrs. Stonehouse a pair of binoculars. For
an instant she looked through them, then handed them back and continued
gazing out to where the two heads appeared--when they did appear on the
crest of the waves like pin-heads. The Captain said half to himself and
half to the father:
'Mother's eyes! Mother's eyes!' and the father understood. As the ship swept back to the rescue, her funnels sending out huge
volumes of smoke which the gale beat down on the sea to leeward, the
excitement grew tenser and tenser. Men dared hardly breathe; women wept
and clasped their hands convulsively as they prayed. In the emergency
boat the men sat like statues, their oars upright, ready for instant use. The officer stood with the falls in his hand ready to lower away. When opposite the lifebuoy, and about a furlong from Harold and Pearl,
the Captain gave the signal 'Stop,' and then a second later: 'Full speed
astern.' 'Ready, men! Steady!' As the coming wave slipping under the ship began
to rise up her side, the officer freed the falls and the boat sank softly
into the lifting sea. Instantly the oars struck the water, and as the men bent to them a cheer
rang out. * * * * *
Harold and Pearl heard, and the man turning his head for a moment saw
that the ship was close at hand, gradually drifting down to the weather
side of them. He raised the child in his arms, saying:
'Now, Pearl, wave your hand to mother and say, hurrah!' The child, fired
into fresh hope, waved her tiny hand and cried 'Hurrah! Hurrah!' The
sound could not reach the mother's ears; but she saw, and her heart
leaped. She too waved her hand, but she uttered no sound. The sweet
high voice of the child crept over the water to the ears of the men in
the boat, and seemed to fire their arms with renewed strength. A few more strokes brought them close, Harold with a last effort raised
the child in his arms as the boat drove down on them. The boatswain
leaning over the bow grabbed the child, and with one sweep of his strong
arm took her into the boat. The bow oarsman caught Harold by the wrist. The way of the boat took him for a moment under water; but the next man;
pulling his oar across the boat, stooped over and caught him by the
collar, and clung fast. A few seconds more and he was hauled abroad. A
wild cheer from all on the _Scoriac_ came, sweeping down on the wind. When once the boat's head had been turned towards the ship, and the oars
had bent again to their work, they came soon within shelter. When they
had got close enough ropes were thrown out, caught and made fast; and
then came down one of the bowlines which the seamen held ready along the
rail of the lower deck. This was seized by the boatswain, who placed it
round him under his armpits. Then, standing with the child in his arms
he made ready to be pulled up. Pearl held out her arms to Harold, crying
in fear:
'No, no, let The Man take me! I want to go with The Man!' He said
quietly so as not to frighten her:
'No, no, dear! Go with him! He can do this better than I can!' So she
clung quietly to the seaman, holding her face pressed close against his
shoulder. As the men above pulled at the rope, keeping it as far as
possible from the side of the vessel, the boatswain fended himself off
with his feet. In a few seconds he was seized by eager hands and pulled
over the rail, tenderly holding and guarding the child all the while. In
an instant she was in the arms of her mother, who had thrown herself upon
her knees and pressed her close to her loving heart. The child put her
little arms around her neck and clung to her. Then looking up and seeing
the grey pallor of her face, which even her great joy could not in a
moment efface, she stroked it and said:
'Poor mother! Poor mother! And now I have made you all wet!' Then,
feeling her father's hand on her head she turned and leaped into his
arms, where he held her close. Harold was the next to ascend. He came amid a regular tempest of cheers,
the seamen joining with the passengers. The officers, led by the Captain
waving his cap from the bridge, joined in the paean. The boat was cast loose. An instant after the engine bells tinkled:
'Full speed ahead.' Mrs. Stonehouse had no eyes but for her child, except for one other. When
Harold leaped down from the rail she rushed at him, all those around
instinctively making way for her. She flung her arms around him and
kissed him, and then before he could stop her sank to her knees at his
feet, and taking his hand kissed it. Harold was embarrassed beyond all
thinking. He tried to take away his hand, but she clung tight to it. 'No, no!' she cried. 'You saved my child!' Harold was a gentleman and a kindly one. He said no word till she had
risen, still holding his hand, when he said quietly:
'There! there! Don't cry. I was only too happy to be of service. Any
other man on board would have done the same. I was the nearest, and
therefore had to be first. That was all!' Mr. Stonehouse came to him and said as he grasped Harold's hand so hard
that his fingers ached:
'I cannot thank you as I would. | Stoker, Bram - The Man |
But you are a man and will understand. God be good to you as you have been good to my child; and to her mother
and myself!' As he turned away Pearl, who had now been holding close to
her mother's hand, sprang to him holding up her arms. He raised her up
and kissed her. Then he placed her back in her mother's arms. All at once she broke down as the recollection of danger swept back upon
her. 'Oh, Mother! Mother!' she cried, with a long, low wail, which
touched every one of her hearers to the heart's core. 'The hot blankets are all ready. Come, there is not a moment to be lost. I'll be with you when I have seen the men attended to!' So the mother, holding her in her arms and steadied by two seamen lest
she should slip on the wet and slippery deck, took the child below. Harold was taken by another set of men, who rubbed him down till he
glowed, and poured hot brandy and water into him till he had to almost
use force against the superabundance of their friendly ministrations. For the remainder of that day a sort of solemn gladness ruled on the
_Scoriac_. The Stonehouse family remained in their suite, content in
glad thankfulness to be with Pearl, who lay well covered up on the sofa
sleeping off the effects of the excitement and the immersion, and the
result of the potation which the Doctor had forced upon her. Harold was
simply shy, and objecting to the publicity which he felt to be his fate,
remained in his cabin till the trumpet had blown the dinner call. CHAPTER XXV--A LITTLE CHILD SHALL LEAD
After dinner Harold went back to his cabin; locking himself in, he lay
down on the sofa. The gloom of his great sorrow was heavy on him; the
reaction from the excitement of the morning had come. He was recalled to himself by a gentle tapping. Unlocking and opening
the door he saw Mr. Stonehouse, who said with trouble in his voice:
'I came to you on account of my little child.' There he stopped with a
break in his voice. Harold, with intent to set his mind at ease and to
stave off further expressions of gratitude, replied:
'Oh, pray don't say anything. I am only too glad that I was privileged
to be of service. I only trust that the dear little girl is no worse for
her--her adventure!' 'That is why I am here,' said the father quickly. 'My wife and I are
loth to trouble you. But the poor little thing has worked herself into a
paroxysm of fright and is calling for you. We have tried in vain to
comfort or reassure her. She will not be satisfied without you. She
keeps calling on "The Man" to come and help her. I am loth to put you to
further strain after all you have gone through to-day; but if you would
come--' Harold was already in the passage as he spoke:
'Of course I'm coming. If I can in any way help it is both a pleasure
and a duty to be with her.' Turning to the father he added:
'She is indeed a very sweet and good child. I shall never forget how she
bore herself whilst we waited for aid to come.' 'You must tell her mother and me all about it,' said the father; much
moved. When they came close to the Stonehouses' suite of rooms they heard
Pearl's voice rising with a pitiful note of fear:
'Where is The Man? Oh! where is The Man? Why doesn't he come to me? He
can save me! I want to be with The Man!' When the door opened and she
saw him she gave shriek of delight, and springing from the arms of her
mother fairly leaped into Harold's arms which were outstretched to
receive her. She clung to him and kissed him again and again, rubbing
her little hands all over his face as though to prove to herself that he
was real and not a dream. Then with a sigh she laid her head on his
breast, the reaction of sleep coming all at once to her. With a gesture
of silence Harold sat down, holding the child in his arms. Her mother
laid a thick shawl over and sat down close to Harold. Mr. Stonehouse
stood quiet in the doorway with the child's nurse peering anxiously over
his shoulder. After a little while, when he thought she was asleep, Harold rose and
began to place her gently in the bunk. But the moment he did so she
waked with a scream. The fright in her eyes was terrible. She clung to
him, moaning and crying out between her sobs:
'Don't leave me! Don't leave me! Don't leave me!' Harold was much
moved and held the little thing tight in his strong arms, saying to her:
'No darling! I shan't leave you! Look in my eyes, dear, and I will
promise you, and then you will be happy. Won't you?' She looked quickly up in his face. Then she kissed him lovingly, and
rested her head, but not sleepily this time, on his breast said:
'Yes! I'm not afraid now! I'm going to stay with The Man!' Presently
Mrs. Stonehouse, who had been thinking of ways and means, and of the
comfort of the strange man who had been so good to her child, said:
'You will sleep with mother to-night, darling. Mr. . . . The Man,' she
said this with an appealing look of apology to Harold, 'The Man will stay
by you till you are asleep . . . ' But she interrupted, not fretfully or
argumentatively, but with a settled air of content:
'No! I'm going to sleep with The Man!' 'But, dear one,' the mother expostulated, 'The Man will want sleep too.' 'All right, mother. He can sleep too. I'll be very good and lie quite
quiet; but oh! mother, I can't sleep unless his arms are round me. I'm
afraid if they're not the sea will get me!' and she clung closer to
Harold, tightening her arms round his neck. 'You will not mind?' asked Mrs. Stonehouse timidly to Harold; and, seeing
acquiescence in his face, added in a burst of tearful gratitude:
'Oh! you are good to her to us all!' 'Hush!' Harold said quietly. Then he said to Pearl, in a cheerful matter-
of-fact way which carried conviction to the child's mind:
'Now, darling, it is time for all good little girls to be asleep,
especially when they have had an--an interesting day. You wait here till
I put my pyjamas on, and then I'll come back for you. And mother and
father shall come and see you nicely tucked in!' 'Don't be long!' the child anxiously called after him as he hurried away. Even trust can have its doubts. In a few minutes Harold was back, in pyjamas and slipper and a dressing-
gown. Pearl, already wrapped in a warm shawl by her mother, held out her
arms to Harold, who lifted her. The Stonehouses' suite of rooms was close to the top of the companion-
way, and as Harold's stateroom was on the saloon deck, the little
procession had, much to the man's concern, run the gauntlet of the thong
of passengers whom the bad weather had kept indoors. When he came out of
the day cabin carrying the child there was a rush of all the women to
make much of the little girl. They were all very kind and no
troublesome; their interest was natural enough, and Harold stopped whilst
they petted the little thing. The little procession followed. Mr. and Mrs. Stonehouse coming next, and
last the nurse, who manifested a phase of the anxiety of a hen who sees
her foster ducklings waddling toward a pond. | Stoker, Bram - The Man |
When Harold was in his bunk the little maid was brought in. When they had all gone and the cabin was dark, save for the gleam from
the nightlight which the careful mother had placed out of sight in the
basin at the foot of the bunk, Harold lay a long time in a negative
state, if such be possible, in so far as thought was concerned. Presently he became conscious of a movement of the child his arms; a
shuddering movement, and a sort of smothered groan. The little thing was
living over again in sleep the perils and fears of the day. Instinctively
she put up her hands and felt the a round her. Then with a sigh clasped
her arms round his neck, and with a peaceful look laid her head upon his
breast. Even through the gates of sleep her instinct had recognised and
realised protection. And then this trust of a little child brought back the man to his nobler
self. Once again came back to him that love which he had had, and which
he knew now that he had never lost, for the little child that he had seen
grow into full womanhood; whose image must dwell in his heart of hearts
for evermore. The long night's sleep quite restored Pearl. She woke fairly early and
without any recurrence of fear. At first she lay still, fearing she
would wake The Man, but finding that he was awake--he had not slept a
wink all night--she kissed him and then scrambled out of bed. It was still early morning, but early hours rule on shipland. Harold
rang for the steward, and when the man came he told him to tell Mr.
Stonehouse that the child was awake. His delight when he found the child
unfrightened looking out of the port was unbounded. CHAPTER XXVI--A NOBLE OFFER
That day Harold passed in unutterable gloom. The reaction was strong on
him; and all his woe, his bitter remembrance of the past and his
desolation for the future, were with him unceasingly. In the dusk of the evening he wandered out to his favourite spot, the
cable-tank on top of the aft wheelhouse. Here he had been all alone, and
his loneliness had the added advantage that from the isolated elevation
he could see if anyone approached. He had been out there during the day,
and the Captain, who had noticed his habit had had rigged up a canvas
dodger on the rail on the weather side. When he sat down on the coiled
hawsers in the tank he was both secluded and sheltered. In this peaceful
corner his thoughts ran freely and in sympathy with the turmoil of wind
and wave. How unfair it all was! Why had he been singled out for such misery? What
gleam of hope or comfort was left to his miserable life since he had
heard the words of Stephen; those dreadful words which had shattered in
an instant all the cherished hopes of his life. Too well he remembered
the tone and look of scorn with which the horrible truths had been
conveyed to him. In his inmost soul he accepted them as truths;
Stephen's soul had framed them and Stephen's lips had sent them forth. From his position behind the screen he did not see the approaching figure
of Mr. Stonehouse, and was astonished when he saw his head rise above the
edge of the tank as he climbed the straight Jacob's ladder behind the
wheelhouse. The elder man paused as he saw him and said in an apologetic
way:
'Will you forgive my intruding on your privacy? I wanted to speak to you
alone; and as I saw you come here a while ago I thought it would be a
good opportunity.' Harold was rising as he spoke. 'By all means. This place is common property. But all the same I am
honoured in your seeking me.' The poor fellow wished to be genial; but
despite his efforts there was a strange formality in the expression of
his words. The elder man understood, and said as he hurried forward and
sank beside him:
'Pray don't stir! Why, what a cosy corner this is. I don't believe at
this moment there is such peace in the ship!' Once again the bitterness of Harold's heart broke out in sudden words:
'I hope not! There is no soul on board to whom I could wish such evil!' The old man said as he laid his hand softly on the other's shoulder:
'God help you, my poor boy, if such pain is in your heart!' Mr.
Stonehouse looked out at the sea, at last turning his face to him again
he spoke:
'If you feel that I intrude on you I earnestly ask you to forgive me; but
I think that the years between your age and mine as well as my feeling
towards the great obligation which I owe you will plead for excuse. There
is something I would like to say to you, sir; but I suppose I must not
without your permission. May I have it?' 'If you wish, sir. I can at least hear it.' The old man bowed and went on:
'I could not but notice that you have some great grief bearing upon you;
and from one thing or another--I can tell you the data if you wish me to
do so--I have come to the conclusion that you are leaving your native
land because of it.' Here Harold, wakened to amazement by the readiness
with which his secret had been divined, said quickly, rather as an
exclamation than interrogation:
'How on earth did you know that!' His companion, taking it as a query,
answered:
'Sir, at your age and with your strength life should be a joy; and yet
you are sad: Companionship should be a pleasure; yet you prefer solitude. That you are brave and unselfish I know; I have reason, thank God! to
know it. That you are kindly and tolerant is apparent from your bearing
to my little child this morning; as well as your goodness of last night,
the remembrance of which her mother and I will bear to our graves; and to
me now. I have not lived all these years without having had trouble in
my own heart; and although the happiness of late years has made it dim,
my gratitude to you who are so sad brings it all back to me.' He bowed,
and Harold, wishing to avoid speaking of his sorrow, said:
'You are quite right so far as I have a sorrow; and it is because of it I
have turned my back on home. Let it rest at that!' His companion bowed
gravely and went on. 'I take it that you are going to begin life afresh in the new country. In
such case I have a proposition to make. I have a large business; a
business so large that I am unable to manage it all myself. I was
intending that when I arrived at home I would set about finding a
partner. The man I want is not an ordinary man. He must have brains and
strength and daring.' He paused. Harold felt what was coming, but
realised, as he jumped at the conclusion, that it would not do for him to
take for granted that he was the man sought. He waited; Mr. Stonehouse
went on:
'As to brains, I am prepared to take the existence of such on my own
judgment. I have been reading men, and in this aspect specially, all my
life. The man I have thought of has brains. I am satisfied of that,
without proof. I have proof of the other qualities.' He paused again;
as Harold said nothing he continued in a manner ill at ease:
'My difficulty is to make the proposal to the man I want. | Stoker, Bram - The Man |
It is so
difficult to talk business to a man to whom you under great obligation;
to whom you owe everything. He might take a friendly overture ill.'
There was but one thing to be said and Harold said it. His heart warmed
to the kindly old man and he wished to spare him pain; even if he could
not accept him proposition:
'He couldn't take it ill; unless he was an awful bounder.' 'It was you I thought of!' 'I thought so much, sir;' said Harold after a pause, 'and I thank you
earnestly and honestly. But it is impossible.' 'Oh, my dear sir!' said the other, chagrined as well as surprised. 'Think
again! It is really worth your while to think of it, no matter what your
ultimate decision may be!' Harold shook his head. There was a long silence. The old man wished to
give his companion time to think; and indeed he thought that Harold was
weighing the proposition in his mind. As for Harold, he was thinking how
best he could make his absolute refusal inoffensive. He must, he felt,
give some reason; and his thoughts were bent on how much of the truth he
could safely give without endangering his secret. Therefore he spoke at
last in general terms:
'I can only ask you, sir, to bear with me and to believe that I am very
truly and sincerely grateful to you for your trust. But the fact is, I
cannot go anywhere amongst people. Of course you understand that I am
speaking in confidence; to you alone and to none other?' 'Absolutely!' said Mr. Stonehouse gravely. Harold went on:
'I must be alone. I can only bear to see people on this ship because it
is a necessary way to solitude.' 'You "cannot go anywhere amongst people"! Pardon me. I don't wish to be
unduly inquisitive; but on my word I fail to understand!' Harold was in
a great difficulty. Common courtesy alone forbade that he should leave
the matter where it was; and in addition both the magnificently generous
offer which had been made to him, and the way in which accident had
thrown him to such close intimacy with Pearl's family, required that he
should be at least fairly frank. At last in a sort of cold desperation
he said:
'I cannot meet anyone . . . There it something that happened . . . Something I did . . . Nothing can make it right . . . All I can do is to
lose myself in the wildest, grimmest, wilderness in the world; and fight
my pain . . . my shame . . . !' A long silence. Then the old man's voice came clear and sweet, something
like music, in the shelter from the storm:
'But perhaps time may mend things. God is very good . . . !' Harold
answered out of the bitterness of his heart. He felt that his words were
laden with an anger which he did not feel, but he did not see his way to
alter them:
'Nothing can mend this thing! It is at the farthest point of evil; and
there is no going on or coming back. Nothing can wipe out what is done;
what is past!' Again silence, and again the strong, gentle voice:
'God can do much! Oh my dear young friend, you who have been such a
friend to me and mine, think of this.' 'God Himself can do nothing here! It is done! And that is the end!' He
turned his head; it was all he could do to keep from groaning. The old
man's voice vibrated with earnest conviction as he spoke:
'You are young and strong and brave! Your heart is noble! You can think
quickly in moments of peril; therefore your brain is sound and alert. Now, may I ask you a favour? it is not much. Only that you will listen,
without interruption, to what, if I have your permission, I am going to
say. Do not ask me anything; do not deny; do not interrupt! Only
listen! May I ask this?' 'By all means! It is not much!' he almost felt like smiling as he spoke. Mr. Stonehouse, after a short pause, as if arranging his thoughts, spoke:
'Let me tell you what I am. I began life with nothing but a fair
education such as all our American boys get. But from a good mother I
got an idea that to be honest was the best of all things; from a
strenuous father, who, however, could not do well for himself, I learned
application to work and how best to use and exercise such powers as were
in me. From the start things prospered with me. Men who knew me trusted
me; some came with offers to share in my enterprise. Thus I had command
of what capital I could use; I was able to undertake great works and to
carry them through. Fortune kept growing and growing; for as I got
wealthier I found newer and larger and more productive uses for my money. And in all my work I can say before God I never willingly wronged any
man. I am proud to be able to say that my name stands good wherever it
has been used. It may seem egotistical that I say such things of myself. It may seem bad taste; but I speak because I have a motive in so doing. I
want you to understand at the outset that in my own country, wherever I
am known and in my own work, my name is a strength.' He paused a while. Harold sat still; he knew that such man would not,
could not, speak in such a way without a strong motive; and to learn that
motive he waited. 'When you were in the water making what headway you could in that awful
sea--when my little child's life hung in the balance, and the anguish of
my wife's heart nearly tore my heart in two, I said to myself, "If we had
a son I should wish him to be like that." I meant it then, and I mean it
now! Come to me as you are! Faults, and past, and all. Forget the
past! Whatever it was we will together try to wipe it out. Much may be
done in restoring where there has been any wrong-doing. Take my name as
your own. It will protect you from the result of what ever has been, and
give you an opportunity to find your place again. You are not bad in
heart I know. Whatever you have done has not been from base motives. Few
of us are spotless as to facts. You and I will show ourselves--for
unless God wills to the opposite we shall confide in none other--that a
strong, brave man may win back all that was lost. Let me call you by my
name and hold you as the son of my heart; and it will be a joy and
pleasure to my declining years.' As he had spoken, Harold's thought's had at first followed in some
wonderment. But gradually, as his noble purpose unfolded, based as it
was on a misconception as to the misdoing of which he himself had spoken,
he had been almost stricken dumb. At the first realisation of what was
intended he could not have spoken had he tried; but at the end he had
regained his thoughts and his voice. There was still wonderment in it,
as realising from the long pause that the old man had completed his
suggestion, he spoke:
'If I understand aright you are offering me your name! Offering to share
your honour with me. With me, whom, if again I understand, you take as
having committed some crime?' 'I inferred from what you said and from your sadness, your desire to shun
your kind, that there was, if not a crime, some fault which needed
expiation.' 'But your honour, sir; your honour!' | Stoker, Bram - The Man |
There was a proud look in the old
man's eyes as he said quietly:
'It was my desire, is my desire, to share with you what I have that is
best; and that, I take it, is not the least valuable of my possessions,
such as they are! And why not? You have given to me all that makes life
sweet; without which it would be unbearable. That child who came to my
wife and me when I was old and she had passed her youth is all in all to
us both. Had your strength and courage been for barter in the moments
when my child was quivering between life and death, I would have
cheerfully purchased them with not half but all! Sir, I should have
given my soul! I can say this now, for gratitude is above all barter;
and surely it is allowed to a father to show gratitude for the life of
his child!' This great-hearted generosity touched Harold to the quick. He could
hardly speak for a few minutes. Then instinctively grasping the old
man's hand he said:
'You overwhelm me. Such noble trust and generosity as you have shown me
demands a return of trust. But I must think! Will you remain here and
let me return to you in a little while?' He rose quickly and slipped down the iron ladder, passing into the
darkness and the mist and the flying spray. CHAPTER XXVII--AGE'S WISDOM
Harold went to and fro on the deserted deck. All at once the course he
had to pursue opened out before him. He was aware that what the noble-
minded old man offered him was fortune, great fortune in any part of the
world. He would have to be refused, but the refusal should be gently
done. He, believing that the other had done something very wrong, had
still offered to share with him his name, his honour. Such confidence
demanded full confidence in return; the unwritten laws which governed the
men amongst whom he had been brought up required it. And the shape that confidence should take? He must first disabuse his
new friend's mind of criminal or unworthy cause for his going away. For
the sake of his own name and that of his dead father that should be done. Then he would have to suggest the real cause . . . He would in this have
to trust Mr. Stonehouse's honour for secrecy. But he was worthy of
trust. He would, of course, give no name, no clue; but he would put
things generally in a way that he could understand. When his mind was so far made up he wanted to finish the matter, so he
turned to the wheelhouse and climbed the ladder again. It was not till
he sat in the shelter by his companion that he became aware that he had
become wet with the spray. The old man wishing to help him in his
embarrassment said:
'Well?' Harold began at once; the straightforward habit of his life stood
to him now:
'Let me say first, sir, what will I know give you pleasure.' The old man
extended his hand; he had been hoping for acceptance, and this seemed
like it. Harold laid his hand on it for an instant only, and then raised
it as if to say 'Wait':
'You have been so good to me, so nobly generous in your wishes that I
feel I owe you a certain confidence. But as it concerns not myself alone
I will ask that it be kept a secret between us two. Not to be told to
any other; not even your wife!' 'I will hold your secret sacred. Even from my wife; the first secret I
shall have ever kept from her.' 'First, then, let me say, and this is what I know will rejoice you, that
I am not leaving home and country because of any crime I have committed;
not from any offence against God or man, or law. Thank God! I am free
from such. I have always tried to live uprightly . . . ' Here a burst
of pain overcame him, and with a dry sob he added: 'And that is what
makes the terrible unfairness of it all!' The old man laid a kindly hand on his shoulder and kept it there for a
few moments. 'My poor boy! My poor boy!' was all he said. Harold shook himself as if
to dislodge the bitter thoughts. Mastering himself he went on:
'There was a lady with whom I was very much thrown in contact since we
were children. Her father was my father's friend. My friend too, God
knows; for almost with his dying breath he gave sanction to my marrying
his daughter, if it should ever be that she should care for me in that
way. But he wished me to wait, and, till she was old enough to choose,
to leave her free. For she is several years younger than I am; and I am
not very old yet--except in heart! All this, you understand, was said in
private to me; none other knew it. None knew of it even till this moment
when I tell you that such a thing has been.' He paused; the other said:
'Believe me that I value your confidence, beyond all words!' Harold felt
already the good effects of being able to speak of his pent-up trouble. Already this freedom from the nightmare loneliness of his own thoughts
seemed to be freeing his very soul. 'I honestly kept to his wishes. Before God, I did! No man who loved a
woman, honoured her, worshipped her, could have been more scrupulously
careful as to leaving her free. What it was to me to so hold myself no
one knows; no one ever will know. For I loved her, do love her, with
every nerve and fibre of my heart. All our lives we had been friends;
and I believed we loved and trusted each other. But . . . but then there
came a day when I found by chance that a great trouble threatened her. Not from anything wrong that she had done; but from something perhaps
foolish, harmlessly foolish except that she did not know . . . ' He
stopped suddenly, fearing he might have said overmuch of Stephen's side
of the affair. 'When I came to her aid, however, meaning the best, and
as single-minded as a man can be, she misunderstood my words, my meaning,
my very coming; and she said things which cannot be unsaid. Things . . . matters were so fixed that I could not explain; and I had to listen. She
said things that I did not believe she could have said to me, to anyone. Things that I did not think she could have thought . . . I dare say she
was right in some ways. I suppose I bungled in my desire to be
unselfish. What she said came to me in new lights upon what I had done
. . . But anyhow her statements were such that I felt I could not, should
not, remain. My very presence must have been a trouble to her hereafter. There was nothing for it but to come away. There was no place for me! No
hope for me! There is none on this side of the grave! . . . For I love
her still, more than ever. I honour and worship her still, and ever
will, and ever must! . . . I am content to forego my own happiness; but I
feel there is a danger to her from what has been. That there is and must
be to her unhappiness even from the fact that it was I who was the object
of her wrath; and this adds to my woe. Worst of all is . . . the thought
and the memory that she should have done so; she who . . . she . . . ' He turned away overcome and hid his face in his hands. The old man sat
still; he knew that at such a moment silence is the best form of
sympathy. | Stoker, Bram - The Man |
But his heart glowed; the wisdom of his years told him that he
had heard as yet of no absolute bar to his friend's ultimate happiness. 'I am rejoiced, my dear boy, at what you tell me of your own conduct. It
would have made no difference to me had it been otherwise. But it would
have meant a harder and longer climb back to the place you should hold. But it really seems that nothing is so hopeless as you think. Believe
me, my dear young friend who are now as a son to my heart, that there
will be bright days for you yet . . . ' He paused a moment, but
mastering himself went on in a quiet voice:
'I think you are wise to go away. In the solitudes and in danger things
that are little in reality will find their true perspective; and things
that are worthy will appear in their constant majesty.' He stood, and laying once again his hand on the young man's shoulder
said:
'I recognise that I--that we, for my wife and little girl would be at one
with me in my wish, did they know of it, must not keep you from your
purpose of fighting out your trouble alone. Every man, as the Scotch
proverb says, must "dree his own weird." I shall not, I must not, ask
you for any promise; but I trust that if ever you do come back you will
make us all glad by seeing you. And remember that what I said of myself
and of all I have--all--holds good so long as I shall live!' Before Harold could reply he had slipped down the ladder and was gone. During the rest of the voyage, with the exception of one occasion, he did
not allude to the subject again by word or implication, and Harold was
grateful to him for it. On the night before Fire Island should be sighted Harold was in the bow
of the great ship looking out with eyes in which gleamed no hope. To him
came through the darkness Mr. Stonehouse. He heard the footsteps and
knew them; so with the instinct of courtesy, knowing that his friend
would not intrude on his solitude without purpose, he turned and met him. When the American stood beside him he said, studiously avoiding looking
at his companion:
'This is the last night we shall be together, and, if I may, there is one
thing I would like to say to you.' 'Say all you like, sir,' said Harold as heartily as he could, 'I am sure
it is well meant; and for that at any rate I shall be grateful to you.' 'You will yet be grateful, I think!' he answered gravely. 'When it comes
back to you in loneliness and solitude you will, I believe, think it
worth being grateful for. I don't mean that you will be grateful to me,
but for the thing itself. I speak out of the wisdom of many years. At
your time of life the knowledge cannot come from observation. It may my
poor boy, come through pain; and if what I think is correct you will even
in due time be grateful to the pain which left such golden residuum.' He
paused, and Harold grew interested. There was something in the old man's
manner which presaged a truth; he, at least, believed it. So the young
man listened at first with his ears; and as the other spoke, his heart
listened too:
'Young men are apt to think somewhat wrongly of women they love and
respect. We are apt to think that such women are of a different clay
from ourselves. Nay! that they are not compact of clay at all, but of
some faultless, flawless material which the Almighty keeps for such fine
work. It is only in middle age that men--except scamps, who learn this
bad side of knowledge young--realise that women are human beings like
themselves. It may be, you know, that you may have misjudged this young
lady! That you have not made sufficient allowance for her youth, her
nature, even the circumstances under which she spoke. You have told me
that she was in some deep grief or trouble. May it not have been that
this in itself unnerved her, distorted her views, aroused her passion
till all within and around was tinged with the jaundice of her concern,
her humiliation--whatever it was that destroyed for the time that normal
self which you had known so long. May it not have been that her
bitterest memory even since may be of the speaking of these very words
which sent you out into the wide world to hide yourself from men. I have
thought, waking and sleeping, of your position ever since you honoured me
with your confidence; and with every hour the conviction has strengthened
in me that there is a way out of this situation which sends a man like
you into solitude with a heart hopeless and full of pain; and which
leaves her perhaps in greater pain, for she has not like you the complete
sense of innocence. But at present there is no way out but through time
and thought. Whatever may be her ideas or wishes she is powerless. She
does not know your thoughts, no matter how she may guess at them. She
does not know where you are or how to reach you, no matter how complete
her penitence may be. And oh! my dear young friend, remember that you
are a strong man, and she is a woman. Only a woman in her passion and
her weakness after all. Think this all over, my poor boy! You will have
time and opportunity where you are going. God help you to judge wisely!' After a pause of a few seconds he said abruptly: 'Good night!' and moved
quickly away. * * * * *
When the time for parting came Pearl was inconsolable. Not knowing any
reason why The Man should not do as she wished she was persistent in her
petitions to Harold that he should come with her, and to her father and
mother that they should induce him to do so. Mrs. Stonehouse would have
wished him to join them if only for a time. Her husband, unable to give
any hint without betraying confidence, had to content himself with trying
to appease his little daughter by vague hopes rather than promises that
her friend would join them at some other time. When the _Scoriac_ was warped at the pier there was a tendency on the
part of the passengers to give Harold a sort of public send-off; but
becoming aware of it he hurried down the gangway without waiting. Having
only hand luggage, for he was to get his equipment in New York, he had
cleared and passed the ring of customs officers before the most
expeditious of the other passengers had collected their baggage. He had
said good-bye to the Stonehouses in their own cabin. Pearl had been so
much affected at saying good-bye, and his heart had so warmed to her,
that at last he had said impulsively:
'Don't cry, darling. If I am spared I shall come back to you within
three years. Perhaps I will write before then; but there are not many
post-offices where I am going to!' Children are easily satisfied. Their trust makes a promise a real thing;
and its acceptance is the beginning of satisfaction. But for weeks after
the parting she had often fits of deep depression, and at such times her
tears always flowed. She took note of the date, and there was never a
day that she did not think of and sigh for The Man. | Stoker, Bram - The Man |
And The Man, away in the wilds of Alaska, was feeling, day by day and
hour by hour, the chastening and purifying influences of the wilderness. Hot passions cooled before the breath of the snowfield and the glacier. The moaning of a tortured spirit was lost in the roar of the avalanche
and the scream of the cyclone. Pale sorrow and cold despair were warmed
and quickened by the fierce sunlight which came suddenly and stayed only
long enough to vitalise all nature. And as the first step to understanding, The Man forgot himself. CHAPTER XXVIII--DE LANNOY
Two years! Not much to look back upon, but a world to look forward to. To Stephen,
dowered though she was with rare personal gifts and with wealth and
position accorded to but few, the hours of waiting were longer than the
years that were past. Yet the time had new and startling incidents for
her. Towards Christmas in the second year the Boer war had reached its
climax of evil. As the news of disaster after disaster was flashed
through the cable she like others felt appalled at the sacrifices that
were being exacted by the God of War. One day she casually read in The Times that the Earl de Lannoy had died
in his London mansion, and further learned that he had never recovered
from the shock of hearing that his two sons and his nephew had been
killed. The paragraph concluded: "By his death the title passes to a
distant relative. The new Lord de Lannoy is at present in India with his
regiment, the 35th or 'Grey' Hussars, of which he is Colonel." She gave
the matter a more than passing thought, for it was sad to find a whole
family thus wiped out at a blow. Early in February she received a telegram from her London solicitor
saying that he wished to see her on an important matter. Her answer was:
"Come at once"; and at tea-time Mr. Copleston arrived. He was an old
friend and she greeted him warmly. She was a little chilled when he
answered with what seemed unusual deference:
'I thank your Ladyship for your kindness!' She raised her eyebrows but
made no comment: she was learning to be silent under surprise. When she
had handed the old gentleman his tea she said:
'My aunt has chosen to remain away, thinking that you might wish to see
me privately. But I take it that there is nothing which she may not
share. I have no secrets from her.' He rubbed his hands genially as he replied:
'Not at all; not at all! I should like her to be present. It will, I am
sure, be a delight to us all.' Again raised eyebrows; again silence on the subject. When a servant
answered her bell she told him to ask Miss Rowly if she would kindly join
them. Aunt Laetitia and the solicitor were old cronies, and their greeting was
most friendly. When the old gentlewoman had seated herself and taken her
cup of tea, Mr. Copleston said to Stephen, with a sort of pomposity:
'I have to announce your succession to the Earldom de Lannoy!' Stephen sat quite still. She knew the news was true; Mr. Copleston was
not one who would jest on a business subject, and too accurate a lawyer
to make an error in a matter of fact. But the fact did not seem to touch
her. It was not that she was indifferent to it; few women could hear
such news without a thrill. Mr. Copleston seemed at a loss. Miss Rowly
rose and quietly kissed her, and saying simply, 'God bless you, my dear!' went back to her seat. Realising that Mr. Copleston expected some acknowledgment, Stephen held
out her hand to him and said quietly:
'Thank you!' After a long pause she added quietly:
'Now, won't you tell us about it? I am in absolute ignorance; and don't
understand.' 'I had better not burden you, at first, with too many details, which can
come later; but give you a rough survey of the situation.' 'Your title of Countess de Lannoy comes to you through your ancestor
Isobel, third and youngest daughter of the sixth Earl; Messrs Collinbrae
and Jackson, knowing that my firm acted for your family, communicated
with us. Lest there should be any error we followed most carefully every
descendant and every branch of the family, for we thought it best not to
communicate with you till your right of inheritance was beyond dispute. We arrived independently at the same result as Messrs. Collinbrae and
Jackson. There is absolutely no doubt whatever of your claim. You will
petition the Crown, and on reference to the House of Lords the Committee
for Privileges will admit your right. May I offer my congratulations,
Lady de Lannoy on your acquisition? By the way, I may say that all the
estates of the Earldom, which have been from the first kept in strict
entail, go with the title de Lannoy.' During the recital Stephen was conscious of a sort of bitter comment on
the tendencies of good fortune. 'Too late! too late!' something seemed to whisper, 'what delight it would
have been had Father inherited . . . If Harold had not gone . . . !' All
the natural joy seemed to vanish, as bubbles break into empty air. To Aunt Laetitia the new title was a source of pride and joy, far greater
than would have been the case had it come to herself. She had for so
many years longed for new honours for Stephen that she had almost come to
regard them as a right whose coming should not be too long delayed. Miss
Rowly had never been to Lannoy; and, indeed, she knew personally nothing
of the county Angleshire in which it was situated. She was naturally
anxious to see the new domain; but kept her feeling concealed during the
months that elapsed until Stephen's right had been conceded by the
Committee for Privileges. But after that her impatience became manifest
to Stephen, who said one day in a teasing, caressing way, as was
sometimes her wont:
'Why, Auntie, what a hurry you are in! Lannoy will keep, won't it?' 'Oh, my dear,' she replied, shaking her head, 'I can understand your own
reticence, for you don't want to seem greedy and in a hurry about your
new possessions. But when people come to my age there's no time to
waste. I feel I would not have complete material for happiness in the
World-to-come, if there were not a remembrance of my darling in her new
home!' Stephen was much touched; she said impulsively:
'We shall go to-morrow, Auntie. No! Let us go to-day. You shall not
wait an hour that I can help!' She ran to the bell; but before her hand
was on the cord the other said:
'Not yet! Stephen dear. It would flurry me to start all at once; to-
morrow will be time enough. And that will give you time to send word so
that they will be prepared for your coming.' How often do we look for that to-morrow which never comes? How often do
we find that its looked-for rosy tints are none other than the
gloom-laden grey of the present? Before the morrow's sun was high in the heavens Stephen was hurriedly
summoned to her aunt's bedside. She lay calm and peaceful; but one side
of her face was alive and the other seemingly dead. In the night a
paralytic stroke had seized her. | Stoker, Bram - The Man |
The doctors said she might in time
recover a little, but she would never be her old active self again. She
herself, with much painful effort, managed to convey to Stephen that she
knew the end was near. Stephen, knowing the wish of her heart and
thinking that it might do her good to gratify her wish, asked if she
should arrange that she be brought to Lannoy. Feebly and slowly, word by
word, she managed to convey her idea. 'Not now, dear one. I shall see it all in time!--Soon! And I shall
understand and rejoice!' For a long time she lay still, holding with her
right hand, which was not paralysed, the other's hand. Then she
murmured:
'You will find happiness there!' She said no more; but seemed to sleep. From that sleep she never woke, but faded slowly, softly away. Stephen was broken-hearted. Now, indeed, she felt alone and desolate. All were gone. Father, uncle, aunt!--And Harold. The kingdoms of the
Earth which lay at her feet were of no account. One hour of the dead or
departed, any of them, back again were worth them all! Normanstand was now too utterly lonely to be endurable; so Stephen
determined to go, for a time at any rate, to Lannoy. She was becoming
accustomed to be called 'my lady' and 'your ladyship,' and the new
loneness made her feel better prepared to take her place amongst new
surroundings. In addition, there was another spur to her going. Leonard Everard,
knowing of her absolute loneliness, and feeling that in it was a
possibility of renewing his old status, was beginning to make himself
apparent. He had learned by experience a certain wisdom, and did not put
himself forward obtrusively. But whenever they met he looked at her so
meekly and so lovingly that it brought remembrances which came with
blushes. So, all at once, without giving time for the news to permeate
through the neighbourhood, she took her way to Lannoy with a few
servants. Stephen's life had hitherto been spent inland. She had of course now and
again been for short periods to various places; but the wonder of the sea
as a constant companion had been practically unknown to her. Now at her new home its full splendour burst upon her; and so impressed
itself upon her that new life seemed to open. Lannoy was on the north-eastern coast, the castle standing at the base of
a wide promontory stretching far into the North Sea. From the coast the
land sloped upward to a great rolling ridge. The outlook seaward was
over a mighty expanse of green sward, dotted here and there with woods
and isolated clumps of trees which grew fewer and smaller as the rigour
of the northern sea was borne upon them by the easterly gales. The coast was a wild and lonely one. No habitation other than an
isolated fisher's cottage was to be seen between the little fishing-port
at the northern curve away to the south, where beyond a waste of
sandhills and strand another tiny fishing-village nestled under a high
cliff, sheltering it from northerly wind. For centuries the lords of
Lannoy had kept their magnificent prospect to themselves; and though they
had treated their farmers and cottagers well, none had ever been allowed
to settle in the great park to seaward of the castle. From the terrace of the castle only than one building, other than the
cottage on the headland, could be seen. Far off on the very crest of the
ridge was the tower of an old windmill. CHAPTER XXIX--THE SILVER LADY
When it was known that Lady de Lannoy had come to Lannoy there was a
prompt rush of such callers as the county afforded. Stephen, however,
did not wish to see anyone just at present. Partly to avoid the chance
meeting with strangers, and partly because she enjoyed and benefited by
the exercise, she was much away from home every day. Sometimes, attended
only by a groom, she rode long distances north or south along the coast;
or up over the ridge behind the castle and far inland along the shaded
roads through the woods; or over bleak wind-swept stretches of moorland. Sometimes she would walk, all alone, far down to the sea-road, and would
sit for hours on the shore or high up on some little rocky headland where
she could enjoy the luxury of solitude. Now and again in her journeyings she made friends, most of them humble
ones. She was so great a lady in her station that she could be familiar
without seeming to condescend. The fishermen of the little ports to
north and south came to know her, and to look gladly for her coming. Their goodwives had for her always a willing curtsy and a ready smile. As
for the children, they looked on her with admiration and love, tempered
with awe. She was so gentle with them, so ready to share their pleasures
and interests, that after a while they came to regard her as some strange
embodiment of Fairydom and Dreamland. Many a little heart was made glad
by the arrival of some item of delight from the Castle; and the hearts of
the sick seemed never to hope, or their eyes to look, in vain. One friend she made who became very dear and of great import. Often she
had looked up at the old windmill on the crest of the ridge and wondered
who inhabited it; for that some one lived in it, or close by, was shown
at times by the drifting smoke. One day she made up her mind to go and
see for herself. She had a fancy not to ask anyone about it. The place
was a little item of mystery; and as such to be treasured and exploited,
and in due course explored. The mill itself was picturesque, and the
detail at closer acquaintance sustained the far-off impression. The
roadway forked on the near side of the mill, reuniting again the further
side, so that the place made a sort of island--mill, out-offices and
garden. As the mill was on the very top of the ridge the garden which
lay seawards was sheltered by the building from the west, and from the
east by a thick hedge of thorn and privet, which quite hid it from the
roadway. Stephen took the lower road. Finding no entrance save a locked
wooden door she followed round to the western side, where the business
side of the mill had been. It was all still now and silent, and that it
had long fallen into disuse was shown by the grey faded look of
everything. Grass, green and luxuriant, grew untrodden between the
cobble-stones with which the yard was paved. There was a sort of old-
world quietude about everything which greatly appealed to Stephen. Stephen dismounted and walked round the yard admiring everything. She
did not feel as if intruding; for the gateway was wide open. A low door in the base of the mill tower opened, and a maid appeared, a
demure pretty little thing of sixteen or seventeen years, dressed in a
prim strait dress and an old-fashioned Puritan cap. Seeing a stranger,
she made an ejaculation and drew back hastily. Stephen called out to
her:
'Don't be afraid, little girl! Will you kindly tell me who lives here?' The answer came with some hesitation:
'Sister Ruth.' 'And who is Sister Ruth?' The question came instinctively and without
premeditation. | Stoker, Bram - The Man |
The maid, embarrassed, held hard to the half-open door
and shifted from foot to foot uneasily. 'I don't know!' she said at last. 'Only Sister Ruth, I suppose!' It was
manifest that the matter had never afforded her anything in the nature of
a problem. There was an embarrassing silence. Stephen did not wish to
seem, or even to be, prying; but her curiosity was aroused. What manner
of woman was this who lived so manifestly alone, and who had but a
Christian name! Stephen, however, had all her life been accustomed to
dominance, and at Normanstand and Norwood had made many acquaintances
amongst her poorer neighbours. She was just about to ask if she might
see Sister Ruth, when behind the maid in the dark of the low passage-way
appeared the tall, slim figure of a silver woman. Truly a silver woman! The first flash of Stephen's thought was correct. White-haired, white-
faced, white-capped, white-kerchiefed; in a plain-cut dress of light-grey
silk, without adornment of any kind. The whole ensemble was as a piece
of old silver. The lines of her face were very dignified, very sweet,
very beautiful. Stephen felt at once that she was in the presence of no
common woman. She looked an admiration which all her Quaker garments
could not forbid the other to feel. She was not the first to speak; in
such a noble presence the dignity of Stephen's youth imperatively
demanded silence, if not humility. So she waited. The Silver Lady, for
so Stephen ever after held her in her mind, said quietly, but with
manifest welcome:
'Didst thou wish to see me? Wilt thou come in?' Stephen answered
frankly:
'I should like to come in; if you will not think me rude. The fact is, I
was struck when riding by with the beautiful situation of the mill. I
thought it was only an old mill till I saw the garden hedges; and I came
round to ask if I might go in.' The Silver Lady came forward at a pace
that by itself expressed warmth as she said heartily:
'Indeed thou mayest. Stay! it is tea-time. Let us put thy horse in one
of the sheds; there is no man here at present to do it. Then thou shalt
come with me and see my beautiful view!' She was about to take the horse
herself, but Stephen forestalled her with a quick: 'No, no! pray let me. I am quite accustomed.' She led the horse to a shed, and having looped
the rein over a hook, patted him and ran back. The Silver Lady gave her
a hand, and they entered the dark passage together. Stephen was thinking if she ought to begin by telling her name. But the
Haroun al Raschid feeling for adventure incognito is an innate principle
of the sons of men. It was seldom indeed that her life had afforded her
such an opportunity. The Silver Lady on her own part also wished for silence, as she looked
for the effect on her companion when the glory of the view should break
upon her. When they had climbed the winding stone stair, which led up
some twenty feet, there was a low wide landing with the remains of the
main shaft of the mill machinery running through it. From one side rose
a stone stair curving with the outer wall of the mill tower and guarded
by a heavy iron rail. A dozen steps there were, and then a landing a
couple of yards square; then a deep doorway cut in the thickness of the
wall, round which the winding stair continued. The Silver Lady, who had led the way, threw open the door, and motioned
to her guest to enter. Stephen stood for a few moments, surprised as
well as delighted, for the room before her as not like anything which she
had ever seen or thought of. It was a section of almost the whole tower, and was of considerable size,
for the machinery and even the inner shaft had been removed. East and
south and west the wall had been partially cut away so that great wide
windows nearly the full height of the room showed the magnificent
panorama. In the depths of the ample windows were little cloistered
nooks where one might with a feeling of super-solitude be away from and
above the world. The room was beautifully furnished and everywhere were flowers, with
leaves and sprays and branches where possible. Even from where she stood in the doorway Stephen had a bird's-eye view of
the whole countryside; not only of the coast, with which she was already
familiar, and on which her windows at the Castle looked, but to the south
and west, which the hill rising steep behind the castle and to southward
shut out. The Silver Lady could not but notice her guest's genuine admiration. 'Thou likest my room and my view. There is no use asking thee, I see
thou dost!' Stephen answered with a little gasp. 'I think it is the quaintest and most beautiful place I have ever seen!' 'I am so glad thou likest it. I have lived here for nearly forty years;
and they have been years of unutterable peace and earthly happiness! And
now, thou wilt have some tea!' Stephen left the mill that afternoon with a warmth of heart that she had
been a stranger to for many a day. The two women had accepted each other
simply. 'I am called Ruth,' said the Silver Lady. 'And I am Stephen,'
said the Countess de Lannoy in reply. And that was all; neither had any
clue to the other's identity. Stephen felt that some story lay behind
that calm, sweet personality; much sorrow goes to the making of fearless
quietude. The Quaker lady moved so little out of her own environment
that she did not even suspect the identity of her visitor. All that she
knew of change was a notice from the solicitor to the estate that, as the
headship had lapsed into another branch of the possessing family, she
must be prepared, if necessary, to vacate her tenancy, which was one 'at
will.' It was not long before Stephen availed herself of the permission to come
again. This time she made up her mind to tell who she was, lest the
concealment of her identity might lead to awkwardness. At that meeting
friendship became union. The natures of the two women expanded to each other; and after a very few
meetings there was established between them a rare confidence. Even the
personal austerity of Quakerdom, or the state and estate of the peeress,
could not come between. Their friendship seemed to be for the life of
one. To the other it would be a memory. The Silver Lady never left the chosen routine of her own life. Whatever
was the reason of her giving up the world, she kept it to herself; and
Stephen respected her reticence as much as she did her confidence. It had become a habit, early in their friendship, for Stephen to ride or
walk over to the windmill in the dusk of the evening when she felt
especially lonely. On one such occasion she pushed open the outer door,
which was never shut, and took her way up the stone stair. She knew she
would find her friend seated in the window with hands folded on lap,
looking out into the silent dusk with that absorbed understanding of
things which is holier than reverence, and spiritually more active than
conscious prayer. She tapped the door lightly, and stepped into the room. | Stoker, Bram - The Man |
With a glad exclamation, which coming through her habitual sedateness
showed how much she loved the young girl, Sister Ruth started to her
feet. There was something of such truth in the note she had sounded,
that the lonely girl's heart went out to her in abandoned fulness. She
held out her arms; and, as she came close to the other, fell rather than
sank at her feet. The elder woman recognised, and knew. She made no
effort to restrain her; but sinking back into her own seat laid the
girl's head in her lap, and held her hands close against her breast. 'Tell me,' she whispered. 'Won't you tell me, dear child, what troubles
you? Tell me! dear. It may bring peace!' 'Oh, I am miserable, miserable, miserable!' moaned Stephen in a low voice
whose despair made the other's heart grow cold. The Silver Lady knew
that here golden silence was the best of help; holding close the other's
hands, she waited. Stephen's breast began to heave; with an impulsive
motion she drew away her hands and put them before her burning face,
which she pressed lower still on the other's lap. Sister Ruth knew that
the trouble, whatever it was, was about to find a voice. And then came
in a low shuddering whisper a voice muffled in the folds of the dress:
'I killed a man!' In all her life the Silver Lady had never been so startled or so shocked. She had grown so to love the bright, brilliant young girl that the
whispered confession cut through the silence of the dusk as a shriek of
murder goes through the silent gloom of night. Her hands flew wide from
her breast, and the convulsive shudder which shook her all in an instant
woke Stephen through all her own deep emotion to the instinct of
protection of the other. The girl looked up, shaking her head, and said
with a sadness which stilled all the other's fear:
'Ah! Don't be frightened! It is not murder that I tell you of. Perhaps
if it were, the thought would be easier to bear! He would have been hurt
less if it had been only his body that I slew. Well I know now that his
life would have been freely given if I wished it; if it had been for my
good. But it was the best of him that I killed; his soul. His noble,
loving, trusting, unselfish soul. The bravest and truest soul that ever
had place in a man's breast! . . . ' Her speaking ended with a sob; her
body sank lower. Sister Ruth's heart began to beat more freely. She understood now, and
all the womanhood, all the wifehood, motherhood suppressed for a
lifetime, awoke to the woman's need. Gently she stroked the beautiful
head that lay so meekly on her lap; and as the girl sobbed with but
little appearance of abatement, she said to her softly:
'Tell me, dear child. Tell me all about it! See! we are alone together. Thou and I; and God! In God's dusk; with only the silent land and sea
before us! Won't thou trust me, dear one, and speak!' And then, as the shadows fell, and far-off lights at sea began to twinkle
over the waste of waters, Stephen found voice and told without reserve
the secret of her shame and her remorse. At last, when her broken voice had trailed away into gentle catchings of
the breath, the older woman, knowing that the time come for comfort, took
her in her strong arms, holding her face wet against her own, their tears
mingling. 'Cry on, dear heart!' she said as she kissed her. 'Cry on! It will do
thee good!' She was startled once again as the other seemed for an
instant to grow rigid in her arms, and raising her hands cried out in a
burst of almost hysterical passion:
'Cry! cry! Oh my God! my God!' Then becoming conscious of her wet face
she seemed to become in an instant all limp, and sank on her knees again. There was so different a note in her voice that the other's heart leaped
as she heard her say:
'God be thanked for these tears! Oh, thank God! Thank God!' Looking up
she saw through the gloom the surprise in her companion's eyes and
answered their query in words:
'Oh! you don't know! You can't know what it is to me! I have not cried
since last I saw him pass from me in the wood!' * * * * *
That time of confession seemed to have in some way cleared, purified and
satisfied Stephen's soul. Life was now easier to bear. She was able to
adapt herself, justifiably to the needs of her position; and all around
her and dependent on her began to realise that amongst them was a
controlling force, far-reaching sympathy, and a dominant resolution that
made for good. She began to shake off the gloom of her sorrows and to take her place in
her new high station. Friends there were in many, and quondam lovers by
the score. Lovers of all sorts. Fortune-hunters there were be sure, not
a few. But no need was there for baseness when the lady herself was so
desirable; so young, so fair, so lovable. That she was of great estate
and 'richly left' made all things possible to any man who had sufficient
acquisitiveness, or a good conceit of himself. In a wide circle of
country were many true-lovers who would have done aught to win her
praise. And so in the East the passing of the two years of silence and gloom
seemed to be the winning of something brighter to follow. CHAPTER XXX--THE LESSON OF THE WILDERNESS
In the West the two years flew. Time seemed to go faster there, because
life was more strenuous. Harold, being mainly alone, found endless work
always before him. From daylight to dark labour never ceased; and for
his own part he never wished that it should. In the wilderness, and
especially under such conditions as held in Northern Alaska, labour is
not merely mechanical. Every hour of the day is fraught with danger in
some new form, and the head has to play its part in the strife against
nature. In such a life there is not much time for thinking or brooding. At first, when the work and his surroundings were strange to him, Harold
did many useless things and ran many unnecessary risks. But his
knowledge grew with experience. Privations he had in plenty; and all the
fibre of his body and the strength of his resolution and endurance were
now and again taxed to their utmost. But with a man of his nature and
race the breaking strain is high; and endurance and resolution are
qualities which develop with practice. Gradually his mind came back to normal level; he had won seemingly
through the pain that shadowed him. Without anguish he could now think,
remember, look forward. Then it was that the kindly wisdom of the
American came back to him, and came to stay. He began to examine himself
as to his own part of the unhappy transaction; and stray moments of
wonderment came as to whether the fault may not, at the very base, have
his own. He began to realise that it is insufficient in this strenuous
world to watch and wait; to suppress one's self; to put aside, in the
wish to benefit others, all the hopes, ambitions, cravings which make for
personal gain. Thus it was that Harold's thoughts, ever circling round Stephen, came
back with increasing insistence to his duty towards her. | Stoker, Bram - The Man |
He often
thought, and with a bitter feeling against himself that it came too late,
of the dying trust of her father:
'Guard her and cherish her, as if you were indeed my son and she your
sister . . . If it should be that you and Stephen should find that there
is another affection between you remember I sanction it. But give her
time! I trust that to you! She is young, and the world is all before
her. Let her choose . . . And be loyal to her, if it is another! It may
be a hard task; but I trust you, Harold!' Here he would groan, as all the anguish of the past would rush back upon
him; and keenest of all would be the fear, suspicion, thought which grew
towards belief, that he may have betrayed that trust. . . . At first the side of this memory personal to his own happiness was
faintly emphasised; the important side was of the duty to Stephen. But
as time went on the other thought became a sort of corollary; a timid,
halting, blushing thought which followed sheepishly, borne down by
trembling hope. No matter what adventure came to him, the thought of
neglected duty returned ever afresh. Once, when he lay sick for weeks in
an Indian wigwam, the idea so grew with each day of the monotony, that
when he was able to crawl out by himself into the sunshine he had almost
made up his mind to start back for home. Luck is a strange thing. It seems in some mysterious way to be the
divine machinery for adjusting averages. Whatever may be the measure of
happiness or unhappiness, good or evil, allotted to anyone, luck is the
cause or means of counter-balancing so that the main result reaches the
standard set. From the time of Harold's illness Dame Fortune seemed to change her
attitude to him. The fierce frown, nay! the malignant scowl, to which he
had become accustomed, changed to a smile. Hitherto everything seemed to
have gone wrong with him; but now all at once all seemed to go right. He
grew strong and hardy again. Indeed, he seemed by contrast to his late
helplessness to be so strong and hard that it looked as if that very
illness had done him good instead of harm. Game was plentiful, and he
never seemed to want. Everywhere he went there were traces of gold, as
though by some instinct he was tracking it to its home. He did not value
gold for its own sake; but he did for the ardour of the search. Harold
was essentially a man, and as a man an adventurer. To such a man of such
a race adventure is the very salt of existence. The adventurer's instinct took with it the adventurer's judgment; Harold
was not content with small results. Amidst the vast primeval forces
there were, he felt, vast results of their prehistoric working; and he
determined to find some of them. In such a quest, purpose is much. It
was hardly any wonder, then, that in time Harold found himself alone in
the midst of one of the great treasure-places of the world. Only labour
was needed to take from the earth riches beyond the dreams of avarice. But that labour was no easy problem; great and difficult distance had to
be overcome; secrecy must be observed, for even a whisper of the
existence of such a place would bring a horde of desperadoes. But all
these difficulties were at least sources of interest, if not in
themselves pleasures. The new Harold, seemingly freshly created by a
year of danger and strenuous toil, of self-examining and humiliation, of
the realisation of duty, and--though he knew it not as yet--of the
dawning of hope, found delight in the thought of dangers and difficulties
to be overcome. Having taken his bearings exactly so as to be safe in
finding the place again, he took his specimens with him and set out to
find the shortest and best route to the nearest port. At length he came to the port and set quietly about finding men. This he
did very carefully and very systematically. Finally, with the full
complement, and with ample supply of stores, he started on his expedition
to the new goldfields. It is not purposed to set out here the extraordinary growth of Robinson
City, for thus the mining camp soon became. Its history has long ago
been told for all the world. In the early days, when everything had to
be organised and protected, Harold worked like a giant, and with a system
and energy which from the first established him as a master. But when
the second year of his exile was coming to a close, and Robinson City was
teeming with life and commerce, when banks and police and soldiers made
life and property comparatively safe, he began to be restless again. This
was not the life to which he had set himself. He had gone into the
wilderness to be away from cities and from men; and here a city had
sprung up around him and men claimed him as their chief. Moreover, with
the restless feeling there began to come back to him the old thoughts and
the old pain. But he felt strong enough by this time to look forward in life as well as
backward. With him now to think was to act; so much at least he had
gained from his position of dominance in an upspringing city. He quietly
consolidated such outlying interests as he had, placed the management of
his great estate in the hands of a man he had learned to trust, and
giving out that he was going to San Francisco to arrange some business,
left Robinson City. He had already accumulated such a fortune that the
world was before him in any way he might choose to take. Knowing that at San Francisco, to which he had booked, he would have to
run the gauntlet of certain of his friends and business connections, he
made haste to leave the ship quietly at Portland, the first point she
touched on her southern journey. Thence he got on the Canadian Pacific
Line and took his way to Montreal. What most arrested his attention, and in a very disconcerting way, were
the glimpses of English life one sees reproduced so faithfully here and
there in Canada. The whole of the past rushed back on him so
overpoweringly that he was for the moment unnerved. The acute feeling of
course soon became mitigated; but it was the beginning of a
re-realisation of what had been, and which grew stronger with each mile
as the train swept back eastward. At first he tried to fight it; tried with all the resources of his strong
nature. His mind was made up, he assured himself over and over again. The past was past, and what had been was no more to him than to any of
the other passengers of the train. Destiny had long ago fulfilled
itself. Stephen no doubt had by now found some one worthy of her and had
married. In no dream, sleeping or waking, could he ever admit that she
had married Leonard; that was the only gleam of comfort in what had grown
to be remorse for his neglected duty. And so it was that Harold An Wolf slowly drifted, though he knew it not,
into something of the same intellectual position which had dominated him
when he had started on his journeying and the sunset fell nightly on his
despairing face. | Stoker, Bram - The Man |
The life in the wilderness, and then in the dominance
and masterdom of enterprise, had hardened and strengthened him into more
self-reliant manhood, giving him greater forbearance and a more practical
view of things. When he took ship in the _Dominion_, a large cargo-boat with some
passengers running to London, he had a vague purpose of visiting in
secret Norcester, whence he could manage to find out how matters were at
Normanstand. He would then, he felt, be in a better position to regulate
his further movements. He knew that he had already a sufficient disguise
in his great beard. He had nothing to fear from the tracing of him on
his journey from Alaska or the interest of his fellow-passengers. He had
all along been so fortunate as to be able to keep his identity concealed. The name John Robinson told nothing in itself, and the width of a whole
great continent lay between him and the place of his fame. He was able
to take his part freely amongst both the passengers and the officers. Even amongst the crew he soon came to be known; the men liked his
geniality, and instinctively respected his enormous strength and his
manifest force of character. Men who work and who know danger soon learn
to recognise the forces which overcome both. And as sufficient time had
not elapsed to impair his hardihood or lower his vast strength he was
facile princeps. And so the crew acknowledged him; to them he was a born
Captain whom to obey would be a natural duty. After some days the weather changed. The great ship, which usually
rested even-keeled on two waves, and whose bilge keels under normal
conditions rendered rolling impossible, began to pitch and roll like a
leviathan at play. The decks, swept by gigantic seas, were injured
wherever was anything to injure. Bulwarks were torn away as though they
had been compact of paper. More than once the double doors at the head
of the companion stairs had been driven in. The bull's eye glasses of
some of the ports were beaten from their brazen sockets. Nearly all the
boats had been wrecked, broken or torn from their cranes as the great
ship rolled heavily in the trough, or giant waves had struck her till she
quivered like a frightened horse. At that season she sailed on the far northern course. Driven still
farther north by the gales, she came within a short way of south of
Greenland. Then avoiding Moville, which should have been her place of
call, she ran down the east of Britain, the wild weather still
prevailing. CHAPTER XXXI--THE LIFE-LINE
On the coast of Angleshire the weather in the early days of September had
been stormy. With the south-west wind had come deluges of rain, not a
common thing for the time of year on the east coast. Stephen, whose
spirits always rose with high wind, was in a condition of prolonged
excitement. She could not keep still; every day she rode long distances,
and found a wonderful satisfaction in facing the strong winds. Like a
true horsewoman she did not mind the wet, and had glorious gallops over
the grassy ridge and down the slopes on the farther side, out on the open
road or through the endless grass rides amid the pine woods. On the Tuesday morning the storm was in full sweep, and Stephen was in
wild spirits. Nothing would do her but to go out on the tower of the
castle where she could walk about, and leaning on the crenellated parapet
look over all the coast stretching far in front and sweeping away to the
left and right. The prospect so enchanted her, and the fierce sweep of
the wind so suited her exalted mood, that she remained there all the
morning. The whole coast was a mass of leaping foam and flying spray,
and far away to the horizon white-topped waves rolled endlessly. That
day she did not even ride out, but contented herself with watching the
sea and the storm from the tower. After lunch she went to her tower
again; and again after tea. The storm was now furious. She made up her
mind that after dinner she would ride down and see its happenings close
at hand. When she had finished dinner she went to her room to dress for her ride. The rush and roar of the storm were in her ears, and she was in wild
tumultuous spirits. All her youth seemed to sweep back on her; or
perhaps it was that the sickness of the last two years was swept away. Somewhere deep down in Stephen's heart, below her intention or even her
consciousness, was a desire to be her old self if only for an hour. And
to this end externals were of help. Without weighing the matter in her
mind, and acting entirely on impulse, she told her maid to get the red
habit she had not worn for years. When she was dressed she sent round to
have out her white Arab; while it was getting ready she went once more to
the tower to see the storm-effect in the darkening twilight. As she
looked, her heart for an instant stood still. Half-way to the horizon a
great ship, ablaze in the bows, was driving through the waves with all
her speed. She was heading towards the little port, beyond which the
shallows sent up a moving wall of white spray. Stephen tore down the turret stair, and gave hurried directions to have
beds prepared in a number of rooms, fires everywhere, and plenty of
provisions. She also ordered that carriages should be sent at once to
the fishing port with clothing and restoratives. There would, she felt,
be need for such help before a time to be measured by minutes should have
passed; and as some of her servants were as yet strange to her ways she
did not leave anything to chance. One carriage was to go for the doctor
who lived at Lannoy, the village over the hill, whence nothing could be
seen of what was happening. She knew that others within sight or hailing
would be already on their way. Work was afoot, and had she time, or
thought of it, she would have chosen a more sedate garb. But in the
excitement no thought of herself came to her. In a few seconds she was in the saddle, tearing at full speed down the
road that led to the port. The wind was blowing so strongly in her face
that only in the lulls could she hear the hoof-strokes of the groom's
horse galloping behind her. At first the height of the road allowed her to see the ship and the port
towards which she was making. But presently the road dipped, and the
curving of the hill shut both from her sight; it was only when she came
close that she could see either again. Now the great ship was close at hand. The flames had gained terribly,
and it was a race for life or death. There was no time do more than run
her aground if life was to be saved at all. The captain, who in the gaps
of the smoke could be seen upon the bridge, knew his work well. As he
came near the shoal he ran a little north, and then turned sharply so as
to throw the boat's head to the south of the shoal. Thus the wind would
drive fire and smoke forward and leave the after part of the vessel free
for a time. | Stoker, Bram - The Man |
The shock of her striking the sand was terrific, though the tinkle of the
bell borne in on the gale showed that the engines had been slowed down. The funnels were shaken down, and the masts broke off, falling forward. A
wild shriek from a hundred throats cleft the roaring of wind and wave. The mast fell, the foremast, with all its cumbering top-hamper on the
bridge, which was in an instant blotted out of existence, together with
the little band of gallant men who stood on it, true to their last duty. As the wind took the smoke south a man was seen to climb on the wreck of
the mast aft and make fast the end of a great coil of rope which he
carried. He was a huge man with a full dark beard. Two sailors working
with furious haste helped him with the rope. The waves kept raising the
ship a little, each time bumping her on the sand with a shock. The
people on deck held frantically to the wreckage around them. Then the bearded man, stripping to his waist and cutting off his trousers
above the knee, fastened an end of the rope round his waist. The sailors
stood ready one behind the other to pay it out. As a great wave rolled
under the ship, he threw himself into the sea. In the meantime the coastguard had fixed Board of Trade rocket-apparatus,
and in a few seconds the prolonged roar of a rocket was heard. It flew
straight towards the ship, rising at a high angle so as to fall beyond
it. But the force of the wind took it up as it rose, and the gale
increased so that it rose nearly vertically; and in this position the
wind threw it south of its objective, and short of it. Another rocket
was got ready at once, and blue lights were burned so that the course of
the venturous swimmer might be noted. He swam strongly; but the great
weight of the rope behind kept pulling him back, and the southern trend
of the tide current and the force of the wind kept dragging him from the
pier. Within the bar the waves were much less than without; but they
were still so unruly that no boat in the harbour--which was not a
lifeboat station--could venture out. Indeed, in the teeth of the storm
it would have been a physical impossibility to have driven one seaward. As the gathered crowd saw Stephen approach they made way for her. She
had left her horse with the groom, and despite the drenching spray fought
a way against the wind out on the pier. As in the glare of the blue
light, which brought many things into harsh unnatural perspective, she
caught sight of the set face of the swimmer rising and falling with the
waves, her heart leaped. This was indeed a man! a brave man; and all the
woman in her went out to him. For him, and to aid him and his work, she
would have given everything, done anything; and in her heart, which beat
in an ecstasy of anxiety, she prayed with that desperate conviction of
hope which comes in such moments of exaltation. But it soon became apparent that no landing could be effected. The force
of the current and the wind were taking the man too far southward for him
ever to win a way back. Then one of coastguards took the lead-topped
cane which they use for throwing practice, and, after carefully coiling
the line attached it so that it would run free, managed with a desperate
effort to fling it far out. The swimmer, to whom it fell close, fought
towards it frantically; and as the cord began to run through the water,
managed to grasp it. A wild cheer rose from the shore and the ship. A
stout line was fastened to the shore end of the cord, and the swimmer
drew it out to him. He bent it on the rope which trailed behind him;
then, seeing that he was himself a drag on it, with the knife which he
drew from the sheath at the back of his waist, he cut himself free. One
of the coastguards on the pier, helped by a host of willing hands, began
drawing the end of the rope on shore. The swimmer still held the line
thrown to him, and several men on the pier began to draw on it. Unhappily
the thin cord broke under the strain, and within a few seconds the
swimmer had drifted out of possible help. Seeing that only wild rocks
lay south of the sea-wall, and that on them seas beat furiously, he
turned and made out for sea. In the light beyond the glare he could see
vaguely the shore bending away to the west in a deep curve of unbroken
white leaping foam. There was no hope of landing there. To the south
was the headland, perhaps two miles away as the crow flies. Here was the
only chance for him. If he could round the headland, he might find
shelter beyond; or somewhere along the farther shore some opening might
present itself. Whilst the light from the blue fires still reached him
he turned and made for the headland. In the meantime on ship and on shore men worked desperately. Before long
the end of the hawser was carried round on the high cliff, and pulled as
taut as the force at hand could manage, and made fast. Soon endless
ropes were bringing in passengers and crew as fast as place could be
found for them. It became simply a race for time. If the fire, working
against the wind, did not reach the hawser, and if the ship lasted the
furious bumping on the sandbank, which threatened to shake her to pieces
each moment, all on board might yet be saved. Stephen's concern was now for the swimmer alone. Such a gallant soul
should not perish without help, if help could be on this side of heaven. She asked the harbour-master, an old fisherman who knew every inch of the
coast for miles, if anything could be done. He shook his head sadly as
he answered:
'I fear no, my lady. The lifeboat from Granport is up north, no boat
from here could get outside the harbour. There's never a spot in the bay
where he could land, even in a less troubled sea than this. Wi' the wind
ashore, there's no hope for ship or man here that cannot round the point. And a stranger is no like to do that.' 'Why not?' she asked breathlessly. 'Because, my lady, there's a wheen o' sunken rocks beyond the Head. No
one that didn't know would ever think to keep out beyond them, for the
cliff itself goes down sheer. He's a gallant soul yon; an' it's a sore
pity he's goin' to his death. But it must be! God can save him if He
wishes; but I fear none other!' Even as he spoke rose to Stephen's mind a memory of an old churchyard
with great trees and the scent of many flowers, and a child's voice that
sounded harsh through the monotonous hum of bees:
'To be God, and able to do things!' Oh; to be God, if but an hour; and able to do things! To do anything to
help a brave man! A wild prayer surged up in the girl's heart:
'Oh! God, give me this man's life! Give it to me to atone for the other
I destroyed! Let me but help him, and do with me as Thou wilt!' The passion of her prayer seemed to help her, and her brain cleared. Surely something could be done! She would do what she could; but first
she must understand the situation. She turned again to the old harbour-
master:
'How long would it take him to reach the headland, if he can swim so
far?' | Stoker, Bram - The Man |
The answer came with a settled conviction bearing hope with it:
'The wind and tide are wi' him, an' he's a strong swimmer. Perhaps half
an hour will take him there. He's all right in himself. He can swim it,
sure. But alack! it's when he gets there his trouble will be, when none
can warn him. Look how the waves are lashing the cliff; and mark the
white water beyond! What voice can sound to him out in those deeps? How
could he see if even one were there to warn?' Here was a hope at any rate. Light and sound were the factors of safety. Some good might be effected if she could get a trumpet; and there were
trumpets in the rocket-cart. Light could be had--must be had if all the
fences round the headland had to be gathered for a bonfire! There was
not a moment to be lost. She ran to the rocket-cart, and got a trumpet
from the man in charge. Then she ran to where she had left her horse. She had plenty of escort, for by this time many gentlemen had arrived on
horseback from outlying distances, and all offered their services. She
thanked them and said:
'You may be useful here. When all these are ashore send on the rocket-
cart, and come yourselves to the headland as quick as you can. Tell the
coastguards that all those saved are to be taken to the castle. In the
rocket-cart bring pitch and tar and oil, and anything that will flame. Stay!' she cried to the chief boatman. 'Give me some blue lights!' His
answer chilled her:
'I'm sorry, my lady, but they are all used. There are the last of them
burning now. We have burned them ever since that man began to swim
ashore.' 'Then hurry on the rocket-cart!' she said as she sprang to the saddle,
and swept out on the rough track that ran by the cliffs, following in
bold curves the windings of the shore. The white Arab seemed to know
that his speed was making for life. As he swept along, far outdistancing
the groom, Stephen's heart went out in silent words which seemed to keep
time to the gallop:
'Oh, to be God, and be able to do things! Give me this man's life, oh,
God! Give me this man's life, to atone for that noble one which I
destroyed!' Faster and faster, over rough road, cattle track, and grassy sward; over
rising and falling ground; now and again so close to the edge of the high
cliff that the spume swept up the gulleys in the rocks like a snowstorm,
the white Arab swept round the curve of the bay, and came out on the high
headland where stood the fisher's house. On the very brink of the cliff
all the fisher folk, men, women and children, stood looking at the far-
off burning ship, from which the flames rose in leaping columns. So intent were all on the cliff that they did not notice her coming; as
the roar of the wind came from them to her, they could not hear her voice
when she spoke from a distance. She had drawn quite close, having
dismounted and hung her rein over the post of the garden paling, when one
of the children saw her, and cried out:
'The lady! the lady! an' she's all in red!' The men were so intent on
something that they did not seem to hear. They were peering out to the
north, and were arguing in dumb show as though on something regarding
which they did not agree. She drew closer, and touching the old
fisherman on the shoulder, called out at his ear:
'What is it?' He answered without turning, keeping his eyes fixed:
'_I_ say it's a man swimmin'. Joe and Garge here say as it's only a
piece o' wood or sea-wrack. But I know I'm right. That's a man
swimmin', or my old eyes have lost their power!' His words carried
conviction; the seed of hope in her beating heart grew on the instant
into certainty. 'It _is_ a man. I saw him swim off towards here when he had taken the
rope on shore. Do not turn round. Keep your eyes on him so that you may
not lose sight of him in the darkness!' The old man chuckled. 'This darkness! Hee! hee! There be no differ to me between light and
dark. But I'll watch him! It's you, my lady! I shan't turn round to do
my reverence as you tell me to watch. But, poor soul, it'll not be for
long to watch. The Skyres will have him, sure enow!' 'We can warn him!' she said, 'when he comes close enough. I have a
trumpet here!' He shook his head sorrowfully:
'Ah! my lady, what trumpet could sound against that storm an' from this
height?' Stephen's heart sank. But there was still hope. If the
swimmer's ears could not be reached, his eyes might. Eagerly she looked
back for the coming of the rocket-cart. Far off across the deep bay she
could see its lamp sway as it passed over the rough ground; but alas! it
would never arrive in time. With a note of despair in her voice she
asked:
'How long before he reaches the rocks?' Still without turning the old
man answered:
'At the rate he's going he will be in the sweep of the current through
the rocks within three minutes. If he's to be saved he must turn seaward
ere the stream grips him.' 'Would there be time to build a bonfire?' 'No, no! my lady. The wood couldn't catch in the time!' For an instant a black film of despair seemed to fall on her. The
surging of the blood in her head made her dizzy, and once again the
prayer of the old memory rang in her brain:
'Oh to be God, and able to do things!' On the instant an inspiration flashed through her. She, too could do
things in a humble way. She could do something at any rate. If there
was no time to build a fire, there was a fire already built. The house would burn! The two feet deep of old thatch held down with nets and battened with
wreck timber would flare like a beacon. Forthwith she spoke:
'Good people, this noble man who has saved a whole shipload of others
must not die without an effort. There must be light so that he can see
our warning to pass beyond the rocks! The only light can be from the
house. I buy it of you. It is mine; but I shall pay you for it and
build you such another as you never thought of. But it must be fired at
once. You have one minute to clear out all you want. In, quick and take
all can. Quick! quick! for God's sake! It is for a brave man's life!' The men and women without a word rushed into the house. They too knew
the danger, and the only hope there was for a life. The assurance of the
Countess took the sting from the present loss. Before the minute, which
she timed watch in hand, was over, all came forth bearing armloads of
their lares and penates. Then one of the younger men ran in again and
out bearing a flaming stick from the fire. Stephen nodded, he held it to
the northern edge of the thatch. The straw caught in a flash and the
flame ran up the slope and along the edge of the roof like a quick match. The squeaking of many rats was heard and their brown bodies streamed over
the roof. Before another minute had passed a great mass of flame towered
into the sky and shed a red light far out over the waste of sea. | Stoker, Bram - The Man |
It lit up the wilderness of white water where the sea churned savagely
amongst the sunken rocks; and it lit too the white face of a swimmer, now
nearly spent, who rising and falling with each wave, drifted in the sea
whose current bore him on towards the fatal rocks. CHAPTER XXXII--'TO BE GOD AND ABLE TO DO THINGS'
When the swimmer saw the light he looked up; even at the distance they
could see the lift of his face; but he did not seem to realise that there
was any intention in the lighting, or that it was created for his
benefit. He was manifestly spent with his tremendous exertions, and with
his long heavy swim in the turbulent sea. Stephen's heart went out to
him in a wave of infinite pity. She tried to use the trumpet. But
simple as it is, a trumpet needs skill or at least practice in its use;
she could only make an unintelligible sound, and not much even of that. One of the young men said:
'Let me try it, my lady!' She handed him the trumpet and he in turn used
with a will. But it was of no avail; even his strong lungs and lusty
manhood availed nothing in the teeth of that furious gale. The roof and
the whole house was now well alight, and the flame roared and leapt. Stephen began to make gestures bidding the swimmer, in case he might see
her and understand, move round the rocks. But he made no change in his
direction, and was fast approaching a point in the tide-race whence to
avoid the sunken rocks would be an impossibility. The old whaler,
accustomed to use all his wits in times of difficulty, said suddenly:
'How can he understand when we're all between him and the light. We are
only black shadows to him; all he can see are waving arms!' His sons
caught his meaning and were already dashing towards the burning house. They came back with piles of blazing wood and threw them down on the very
edge of the cliff; brought more and piled them up, flinging heaps of
straw on the bonfire and pouring on oil and pitch till the flames rose
high. Stephen saw what was necessary and stood out of the way, but close
to the old whaler, where the light fell on both of their faces as they
looked in the direction of the swimmer. Stephen's red dress itself stood
out like a flame. The gale tearing up the front of the cliff had whirled
away her hat; in the stress of the wind her hair was torn from its up-
pinning and flew wide, itself like leaping flame. Her gestures as she swept her right arm round, as though demonstrating
the outward curve of a circle, or raising the hand above her head
motioned with wide palm and spread fingers 'back! back!' seemed to have
reached the swimmer's intelligence. He half rose in the water and looked
about. As if seeing something that he realised, he sank back again and
began swim frantically out to sea. A great throb of joy made Stephen
almost faint. At last she had been able to do something to help this
gallant man. In half a minute his efforts seemed to tell in his race for
life. He drew sufficiently far from dangerous current for there to be a
hope that he might be saved if he could last out the stress to come. The fishermen kept watch in silent eagerness; and in their presence
Stephen felt a comfort, though, like her, they could do nothing at
present. When the swimmer had passed sufficiently far out to be clear of the
rocks, the fire began to lose its flame, though not its intensity. It
would be fiery still for hours to come, and of great heat; but the flames
ceased to leap, and in the moderated light Stephen only saw the white
face for one more instant ere it faded out of her ken, when, turning, the
man looked towards the light and made a gesture which she did not
understand: for he put for an instant both hands before his face. Just then there was a wild noise on the cliff. The rocket-cart drawn by
sixteen splendid horses, some of them hunters, came tearing up the slope,
and with it many men on horseback afoot. Many of the runners were the
gentlemen who had given their horses for the good work. As the coastguards jumped from the cart, and began to get out the rocket
stand, the old whaler pointed out the direction where the swimmer's head
could still be seen. Some of the sailors could see it too; though to
Stephen and the laymen it was invisible. The chief boatman shook his
head:
'No use throwing a line there! Even if he got it we could never drag him
alive through these rocks. He would be pounded to death before twenty
fathom!' Stephen's heart grew cold as she listened. Was this the end? Then with a bitter cry she wailed:
'Oh! can nothing be done? Can nothing be done? Can no boat come from
the other side of the point? Must such a brave man be lost!' and her
tears began to flow. One of the young men who had just arrived, a neighbouring squire, a
proved wastrel but a fine horseman, who had already regarded Stephen at
the few occasions of their meeting with eyes of manifest admiration,
spoke up:
'Don't cry, Lady de Lannoy. There's a chance for him yet. I'll see what
I can do.' 'Bless you! oh! bless you!' she cried impulsively as she caught his hand. Then came the chill of doubt. 'But what can you do?' she added
despairingly. 'Hector and I may be able to do something together.' Turning to one of
the fishermen he asked:
'Is there any way down to the water in the shelter of the point?' 'Ay! ay! sir,' came the ready answer. 'There's the path as we get down
by to our boats.' 'Come on, then!' he said. 'Some of you chaps show us a light on the way
down. If Hector can manage the scramble there's a chance. You see,' he
said, turning again to Stephen, 'Hector can swim like a fish. When he
was a racer I trained him in the sea so that none of the touts could spy
out his form. Many's the swim we've had together; and in rough water
too, though in none so wild as this!' 'But it is a desperate chance for you!' said Stephen, woman-like drawing
somewhat back from a danger she had herself evoked. The young man
laughed lightly:
'What of that! I may do one good thing before I die. That fine fellow's
life is worth a hundred of my wasted one! Here! some of you fellows help
me with Hector. We must take him from the cart and get a girth on him
instead of the saddle. We shall want something to hold on to without
pulling his head down by using the bridle.' He, followed by some others, ran to the rocket-cart where the horses
stood panting, their steam rising in a white cloud in the glow of the
burning house. In an incredibly short time the horse was ready with only
the girth. The young squire took him by the mane and he followed
eagerly; he had memories of his own. As they passed close to Stephen the
squire said to one of his friends:
'Hold him a minute, Jack!' He ran over to Stephen and looked at her
hard:
'Good-bye! Wish me luck; and give us light!' Tears were in her eyes and
a flush on her cheek as she took his hand and clasped it hard:
'Oh, you brave man! God bless you!' He stooped suddenly and impulsively
kissed the back of her hand lightly and was gone. | Stoker, Bram - The Man |
For a fleeting moment
she was angry. No man had kissed her hand before; but the thought of his
liberty was swept away by another:
'Little enough when he may be going to his death!' It was a sight to see that man and horse, surrounded by an eager crowd of
helpers, scrambling down the rough zigzag, cut and worn in the very face
of the cliff. They stumbled, and slipped; pebbles and broken rock fell
away under their feet. Alone close to the bonfire stood Stephen,
following every movement with racing blood and beating heart. The
bonfire was glowing; a constant stream of men and women were dragging and
hauling all sorts of material for its increase. The head of the swimmer
could be seen, rising and falling amid the waves beyond the Skyres. When about twenty feet from the water-level the path jutted out to one
side left of the little beach whereon the sea now broke fiercely. This
was a place where men watched, and whence at times they fished with rods;
the broad rock overhung the water. The fire above, though it threw
shadows, made light enough for everything. The squire held up his hand. 'Stop! We can take off this rock, if the water is deep enough. How much
is it?' 'Ten fathoms sheer.' 'Good!' He motioned to them all to keep back. Then threw off all his
clothes except shirt and trousers. For an instant he patted Hector and
then sprang upon his back. Holding him by the mane he urged him forward
with a cry. The noble animal did not hesitate an instant. He knew that
grasp of the mane; that cry; that dig of the spurless heels. He sprang
forward with wide dilated nostrils, and from the edge of the jutting rock
jumped far out into the sea. Man and horse disappeared for a few
seconds, but rose safely. The man slid from the horse's back; and,
holding by the girth with one hand, swam beside him out to sea in the
direction the swimmer must come on rounding the sunken rocks. A wild cheer broke from all on the cliff above and those already
scrambling back up the zigzag. Stephen kept encouraging the men to bring
fuel to the bonfire:
'Bring everything you can find; the carts, the palings, the roofs, the
corn, the dried fish; anything and everything that will burn. We must
have light; plenty of light! Two brave men's lives are at stake now!' The whole place was a scene of activity. Stephen stood on the edge of
the cliff with the old whaler and the chief boatman and some of the
women. The rest of the coastguards were by orders of their chief rigging
up a whip which they thought might be necessary to hoist the men up from
the water, if they could ever get close enough. One of the young men who
had ridden with the rocket-cart kept tight hold of Hector's bridle; he
knew it would be wanted if the horse ever had a chance of landing. * * * * *
When Harold turned away from the dazzling blue lights on the pier, and
saw the far white line of the cliffs beyond the bay, his heart sank
within him. Even his great strength and hardihood, won by work and
privation in the far North-West, had been already taxed in the many days
of the battling with the gale when all on board who could lend a hand
were taken into service. Again by the frantic struggle of the last hour
or two, when the ship ran shoreward at the utmost of her speed in the
last hope of beaching in time to save life. Finally in that grim
struggle to draw the life-line shoreward. The cold and then the great
heat, and on top of it the chill of the long swim, seemed to have struck
at him. Alone on the dark sea, for soon the current and his own
exertions were taking him away from the rocks, the light of the burning
ship was ceasing to be effective. It was just enough to hinder his
vision; looking from the patch of light which bathed the light and him he
could just see far off the white water which marked the cliff fronts, and
on the edge of his horizon the grim moving white wall where the waves
broke on the headland. On and on he toiled. His limbs were becoming more cramped with the cold
and the terrible strain of swimming in such waves. But still the brave
heart bore him up; and resolutely, sternly he forced himself afresh to
the effort before him. He reasoned that where there was such a headland
standing out so stark into the sea there ought to be some shelter in its
lee. If he could pass it he might find calmer water and even a landing-
place beyond. Here at least was hope. He would try to round the point at any rate. Now
he drew so close that the great rocks seemed to tower vast above him. He
was not yet close enough to feel as though lapped in their shadow; but
even the overcast sky seemed full of light above the line of the cliff. There was a strange roaring, rushing sound around him. He thought that
it was not merely the waves dashing on the rocks, but that partly it came
from his own ears; that his ebbing strength was feeling the frantic
struggle which he was making. The end was coming, he thought; but still
he kept valiantly on, set and silent, as is the way with brave men. Suddenly from the top of the cliff a bright light flashed. He looked at
it sideways as he fought his way on, and saw the light rise and fall and
flicker as the flames leaped. High over him he saw fantastic figures
which seemed to dance on the edge of the high cliff. They had evidently
noticed him, and were making signals of some sort; but what the motions
were he could not see or understand, for they were but dark silhouettes,
edged with light, against the background of fire. The only thing he
could think was that they meant to encourage him, and so he urged himself
to further effort. It might be that help was at hand! Several times as he turned his head sideways he saw the figures and the
light, but not so clearly; it was as though the light was lessening in
power. When again he looked he saw a new fire leap out on the edge of
the cliff, and some figures to the right of it. They were signalling in
some way. So, pausing in his swimming, he rose a little from the water
and looked at them. A thrill shot through him, and a paralysing thought that he must have
gone mad. With his wet hand he cleared his eyes, though the touching
them pained him terribly, and for an instant saw clearly:
There on the edge of the cliff, standing beside some men and waving her
arms in a wild sweep as though motioning frantically 'Keep out! keep
out!' was a woman. Instinctively he glanced to his left and saw a white
waste of leaping water, through which sharp rocks rose like monstrous
teeth. On the instant he saw the danger, and made out seaward, swimming
frantically to clear the dangerous spot before the current would sweep
him upon the rocks. But the woman! As one remembers the last sight when the lightning has
banished sight, so that vision seemed burned into his brain. A woman
with a scarlet riding-habit and masses of long red hair blowing in the
gale like leaping flame! Could there be two such persons in the world? No! no! It was a vision! | Stoker, Bram - The Man |
A vision of the woman he loved, come to save
him in the direst moment of great peril! His heart beat with new hope; only the blackness of the stormy sea was
before him as he strove frantically on. Presently when he felt the current slacken, for he had been swimming
across it and could feel its power, he turned and looked back. As he did
so he murmured aloud:
'A dream! A vision! She came to warn me!' For as he looked all had
disappeared. Cliff and coastline, dark rocks and leaping seas, blazing
fire, and the warning vision of the woman he loved. Again he looked where the waste of sea churning amongst the sunken rocks
had been. He could hear the roaring of waters, the thunder of great
waves beating on the iron-bound coast; but nothing could he see. He was
alone on the wild sea; in the dark. Then truly the swift shadow of despair fell upon him. 'Blind Blind!' he moaned, and for the moment, stricken with despair,
sank into the trough of the waves. But the instinctive desire for life
recalled him. Once more he fought his way up to the surface, and swam
blindly, desperately on. Seeing nothing, he did not know which way he
was going. He might have heard better had his eyes been able to help his
ears; but in the sudden strange darkness all the senses were astray. In
the agony of his mind he could not even feel the pain of his burnt face;
the torture of his eyes had passed. But with the instinct of a strong
man he kept on swimming blindly, desperately. * * * * *
It seemed as if ages of untold agony had gone by, when he heard a voice
seemingly beside him:
'Lay hold here! Catch the girth!' The voice came muffled by wind and
wave. His strength was now nearly at its last. The shock of his blindness and the agony of the moments that had passed
had finished his exhaustion. But a little longer and he must have sunk
into his rest. But the voice and the help it promised rallied him for a
moment. He had hardly strength to speak, but he managed to gasp out:
'Where? where? Help me! I am blind!' A hand took his and guided it to
a tightened girth. Instinctively his fingers closed round it, and he
hung on grimly. His senses were going fast. He felt as if it was all a
strange dream. A voice here in the sea! A girth! A horse; he could
hear its hard breathing. The voice came again. 'Steady! Hold on! My God! he's fainted! I must tie him on!' He heard
a tearing sound, and something was wound round his wrists. Then his
nerveless fingers relaxed their hold; and all passed into oblivion. CHAPTER XXXIII--THE QUEEN'S ROOM
To Stephen all that now happened seemed like a dream. She saw Hector and
his gallant young master forge across the smoother water of the current
whose boisterous stream had been somewhat stilled in the churning amongst
the rocks, and then go north in the direction of the swimmer who, strange
to say, was drifting in again towards the sunken rocks. Then she saw the
swimmer's head sink under the water; and her heart grew cold. Was this
to be the end! Was such a brave man to be lost after such gallant effort
as he had made, and just at the moment when help was at hand! The few seconds seemed ages. Instinctively she shut her eyes and prayed
again. 'Oh! God. Give me this man's life that I may atone!' God seemed to have heard her prayer. Nay, more! He had mercifully
allowed her to be the means of averting great danger. She would never,
could never, forget the look on the man's face when he saw, by the flame
that she had kindled, ahead of him the danger from the sunken rocks. She
had exulted at the thought. And now . . . She was recalled by a wild cheer beside her. Opening her eyes she saw
that the man's head had risen again from the water. He was swimming
furiously, this time seaward. But close at hand were the heads of the
swimming horse and man . . . She saw the young squire seize the man . . . And then the rush of her tears blinded her. When she could see again the
horse had turned and was making back again to the shelter of the point. The squire had his arm stretched across the horse's back; he was holding
up the sailor's head, which seemed to roll helplessly with every motion
of the cumbering sea. For a little she thought he was dead, but the voice of the old whaler
reassured her:
'He was just in time! The poor chap was done!' And so with beating
heart and eyes that did not flinch now she watched the slow progress to
the shelter of the point. The coastguards and fishermen had made up
their minds where the landing could be made, and were ready; on the rocky
shelf, whence Hector had at jumped, they stood by with lines. When the
squire had steered and encouraged the horse, whose snorting could be
heard from the sheltered water, till he was just below the rocks, they
lowered a noosed rope. This he fastened round the senseless man below
his shoulders. One strong, careful pull, and he was safe on land; and
soon was being borne up the steep zigzag on the shoulders of the willing
crowd. In the meantime other ropes were passed down to the squire. One he
placed round his own waist; two others he fastened one on each side of
the horse's girth. Then his friend lowered the bridle, and he managed to
put it on the horse and attached a rope to it. The fishermen took the
lines, and, paying out as they went so as to leave plenty of slack line,
got on the rocks just above the little beach whereon, sheltered though it
was, the seas broke heavily. There they waited, ready to pull the horse
through the surf when he should have come close enough. Stephen did not see the rescue of the horse; for just then a tall grave
man spoke to her:
'Pardon me, Lady de Lannoy, but is the man to be brought up to the
Castle? I am told you have given orders that all the rescued shall be
taken there.' She answered unhesitatingly:
'Certainly! I gave orders before coming out that preparation was to be
made for them.' 'I am Mr. Hilton. I have just come down to do lacum tenens for Dr.
Winter at Lannoch Port. I rode over on hearing there was a wreck, and
came here with the rocket-cart. I shall take charge of the man and bring
him up. He will doubtless want some special care.' 'If you will be so good!' she answered, feeling a diffidence which was
new to her. At that moment the crowd carrying the senseless man began to
appear over the cliff, coming up the zig-zag. The Doctor hurried towards
him; she followed at a little distance, fearing lest she should hamper
him. Under his orders they laid the patient on the weather side of the
bonfire so that the smoke would not reach him. The Doctor knelt by his
side. An instant after he looked up and said:
'He is alive; his heart is beating, though faintly. He had better be
taken away at once. There is no means here of shelter.' 'Bring him in the rocket-cart; it is the only conveyance here,' cried
Stephen. 'And bring Mr. Hepburn too. He also will need some care after
his gallant service. I shall ride on and advise my household of your
coming. And you good people come all to the Castle. | Stoker, Bram - The Man |
You are to be my
guests if you will so honour me. No! No! Really I should prefer to
ride alone!' She said this impulsively, seeing that several of the gentlemen were
running for their horses to accompany her. 'I shall not wait to thank
that valiant young gentleman. I shall see him at Lannoy.' As she was speaking she had taken the bridle of her horse. One of the
young men stooped and held his hand; she bowed, put her foot in it and
sprang to the saddle. In an instant she was flying across country at
full speed, in the dark. A wild mood was on her, reaction from the
prolonged agony of apprehension. There was little which she would not
have done just then. The gale whistled round her and now and again she shouted with pure joy. It seemed as if God Himself had answered her prayer and given her the
returning life! By the time she had reached the Castle the wild ride had done its
soothing work. She was calm again, comparatively; her wits and feelings
were her own. There was plenty to keep her occupied, mind and body. The train of
persons saved from the wreck were arriving in all sorts of vehicles, and
as clothes had to be found for them as well as food and shelter there was
no end to the exertions necessary. She felt as though the world were not
wide enough for the welcome she wished to extend. Its exercise was a
sort of reward of her exertions; a thank-offering for the response to her
prayer. She moved amongst her guests, forgetful of herself; of her
strange attire; of the state of dishevelment and grime in which she was,
the result of the storm, her long ride over rough ground with its share
of marshes and pools, and the smoke from the bonfire and the blazing
house. The strangers wondered at first, till they came to understand
that she was the Lady Bountiful who had stretched her helpful hands to
them. Those who could, made themselves useful with the new batches of
arrivals. The whole Castle was lit from cellar to tower. The kitchens
were making lordly provision, the servants were carrying piles of clothes
of all sorts, and helping to fit those who came still wet from their
passage through or over the heavy sea. In the general disposition of chambers Stephen ordered to be set apart
for the rescued swimmer the Royal Chamber where Queen Elizabeth had lain;
and for Mr. Hepburn that which had been occupied by the Second George. She had a sort of idea that the stranger was God's guest who was coming
to her house; and that nothing could be too good for him. As she waited
for his coming, even though she swept to and fro in her ministrations to
others, she felt as though she trod on air. Some great weight seemed to
have been removed from her. Her soul was free again! At last the rocket-cart arrived, and with it many horsemen and such men
and women as could run across country with equal speed to the horses
labouring by the longer road. The rescued man was still senseless, but that alone did not seem to cause
anxiety to the Doctor, who hurried him at once into the prepared room. When, assisted by some of the other men, he had undressed him, rubbed him
down and put him to bed, and had seen some of the others who had been
rescued from the wreck, he sought out Lady de Lannoy. He told her that
his anxiety was for the man's sight; an announcement which blanched his
hearer's cheeks. She had so made up her mind as to his perfect safety
that the knowledge of any kind of ill came like a cruel shock. She
questioned Mr. Hilton closely; so closely that he thought it well to tell
her at once all that he surmised and feared:
'That fine young fellow who swam out with his horse to him, tells me that
when he neared him he cried out that he was blind. I have made some
inquiries from those on the ship, and they tell me that he was a
passenger, named Robinson. Not only was he not blind then, but he was
the strongest and most alert man on the ship. If it be blindness it must
have come on during that long swim. It may be that before leaving the
ship he received some special injury--indeed he has several cuts and
burns and bruises--and that the irritation of the sea-water increased it. I can do nothing till he wakes. At present he is in such a state that
nothing can be done for him. Later I shall if necessary give him a
hypodermic to ensure sleep. In the morning when I come again I shall
examine him fully.' 'But you are not going away to-night!' said Stephen in dismay. 'Can't
you manage to stay here? Indeed you must! Look at all these people,
some of whom may need special attention or perhaps treatment. We do not
know yet if any may be injured.' He answered at once:
'Of course I shall stay if you wish it. But there are two other doctors
here already. I must go over to my own place to get some necessary
instruments for the examination of this special patient. But that I can
do in the early morning.' 'Can I not send for what you want; the whole household are at your
service. All that can be done for that gallant man must be done. You
can send to London for special help if you wish. If that man is blind,
or in danger of blindness, we must have the best oculist in the world for
him.' 'All shall be done that is possible,' said he earnestly. 'But till I
examine him in the morning we can do nothing. I am myself an oculist;
that is my department in St. Stephen's Hospital. I have an idea of what
is wrong, but I cannot diagnose exactly until I can use the
ophthalmoscope.' His words gave Stephen confidence. Laying her hand on
his arm unconsciously in the extremity of pity she said earnestly:
'Oh, do what you can for him. He must be a noble creature; and all that
is possible must be done. I shall never rest happily if through any
failing on my part he suffers as you fear.' 'I shall do all I can,' he said with equal earnestness, touched with her
eager pity. 'And I shall not trust myself alone, if any other can be of
service. Depend upon it, Lady de Lannoy, all shall be as you wish.' There was little sleep in the Castle that night till late. Mr. Hilton
slept on a sofa in the Queen's Room after he had administered a narcotic
to his patient. As soon as the eastern sky began to quicken, he rode, as he had arranged
during the evening, to Dr. Winter's house at Lannoch Port where he was
staying. After selecting such instruments and drugs as he required, he
came back in the dogcart. It was still early morning when he regained the Castle. He found Lady de
Lannoy up and looking anxiously for him. Her concern was somewhat abated
when he was able to tell her that his patient still slept. It was a painful scene for Mr. Hilton when his patient woke. Fortunately
some of the after-effects of the narcotic remained, for his despair at
realising that he was blind was terrible. It was not that he was
violent; to be so under his present circumstances would have been foreign
to Harold's nature. But there was a despair which was infinitely more
sad to witness than passion. He simply moaned to himself:
'Blind! Blind!' | Stoker, Bram - The Man |
and again in every phase of horrified amazement, as
though he could not realise the truth: 'Blind! Blind!' The Doctor laid
his hand on his breast and said very gently:
'My poor fellow, it is a dreadful thing to face, to think of. But as yet
I have not been able to come to any conclusion; unable even to examine
you. I do not wish to encourage hopes that may be false, but there are
cases when injury is not vital and perhaps only temporary. In such case
your best chance, indeed your only chance, is to keep quiet. You must
not even think if possible of anything that may excite you. I am now
about to examine you with the ophthalmoscope. You are a man; none of us
who saw your splendid feat last night can doubt your pluck. Now I want
you to use some of it to help us both. You, for your recovery, if such
is possible; me, to help me in my work. I have asked some of your late
companions who tell me that on shipboard you were not only well and of
good sight, but that you were remarkable even amongst strong men. Whatever it is you suffer from must have come on quickly. Tell me all
you can remember of it.' The Doctor listened attentively whilst Harold told all he could remember
of his sufferings. When he spoke of the return of old rheumatic pains
his hearer said involuntarily: 'Good!' Harold paused; but went on at
once. The Doctor recognised that he had rightly appraised his remark,
and by it judged that he was a well-educated man. Something in the
method of speaking struck him, and he said, as nonchalantly as he could:
'By the way, which was your University?' 'Cambridge. Trinity.' He spoke without thinking, and the instant he had
done so stopped. The sense of his blindness rushed back on him. He
could not see; and his ears were not yet trained to take the place of his
eyes. He must guard himself. Thenceforward he was so cautious in his
replies that Mr. Hilton felt convinced there was some purpose in his
reticence. He therefore stopped asking questions, and began to examine
him. He was unable to come to much result; his opinion was shown in his
report to Lady de Lannoy:
'I am unable to say anything definite as yet. The case is a most
interesting one; as a case and quite apart from the splendid fellow who
is the subject of it. I have hopes that within a few days I may be able
to know more. I need not trouble you with surgical terms; but later on
if the diagnosis supports the supposition at present in my mind I shall
be able to speak more fully. In the meantime I shall, with your
permission, wait here so that I may watch him myself.' 'Oh you are good. Thank you! Thank you!' said Stephen. She had so
taken the man under her own care that she was grateful for any kindness
shown to him. 'Not at all,' said Mr. Hilton. 'Any man who behaved as that fellow did
has a claim on any of us who may help him. No time of mine could be
better spent.' When he went back to the patient's room he entered softly, for he thought
he might be asleep. The room was, according to his instructions, quite
dark, and as it was unfamiliar to him he felt his way cautiously. Harold,
however, heard the small noise he made and said quietly:
'Who is there?' 'It is I; Hilton.' 'Are you alone?' 'Yes.' 'Look round the room and see. Then lock the door and come and talk to me
if you will. You will pity a poor blind fellow, I know. The darkness
has come down upon me so quickly that I am not accustomed to it!' There
was a break in his voice which moved the other. He lit a candle, feeling
that the doing so would impress his patient, and went round the room; not
with catlike movement this time--he wanted the other to hear him. When
he had turned the key in the lock, as sharply as he could, he came to the
bedside and sat down. Harold spoke again after a short pause:
'Is that candle still lit?' 'Yes! Would you like it put out?' 'If you don't mind! Again I say pity me and pardon me. But I want to
ask you something privately, between our two selves; and I will feel more
of equality than if you were looking at me, whilst I cannot see you.' Mr
Hilton blew out the candle. 'There! We are equal now.' 'Thank you!' A long pause; then he went on:
'When a man becomes suddenly blind is there usually, or even
occasionally, any sort of odd sight? . . . Does he see anything like a
dream, a vision?' 'Not that I know of. I have never heard of such a case. As a rule
people struck blind by lightning, which is the most common cause,
sometimes remember with extraordinary accuracy the last thing they have
seen. Just as though it were photographed on the retina!' 'Thank you! Is such usually the recurrence of any old dream or anything
they have much thought of?' 'Not that I know of. It would be unusual!' Harold waited a long time
before he spoke again. When he did so it was in a different voice; a
constrained voice. The Doctor, accustomed to take enlightenment from
trivial details, noted it:
'Now tell me, Mr. Hilton, something about what has happened. Where am
I?' 'In Lannoy Castle.' 'Where is it?' 'In Angleshire!' 'Who does it belong to?' 'Lady de Lannoy. The Countess de Lannoy; they tell me she is a Countess
in her own right.' 'It is very good of her to have me here. Is she an old lady?' 'No! A young one. Young and very beautiful.' After a pause before his
query:
'What's she like? Describe her to me!' 'She is young, a little over twenty. Tall and of a very fine figure. She
has eyes like black diamonds, and hair like a flame!' For a long time
Harold remained still. Then he said:
'Tell me all you know or have learned of this whole affair. How was I
rescued, and by whom?' So the Doctor proceeded to give him every detail
he knew of. When he was quite through, the other again lay still for a
long time. The silence was broken by a gentle tap at the door. The
Doctor lit a candle. He turned the key softly, so that no one would
notice that the door was locked. Something was said in a low whisper. Then the door was gently closed, and the Doctor returning said:
'Lady Lannoy wants, if it will not disturb you, to ask how you are. Ordinarily I should not let anyone see you. But she is not only your
hostess, but, as I have just told you, it was her ride to the headland,
where she burned the house to give you light, which was the beginning of
your rescue. Still if you think it better not . . . !' 'I hardly like anybody to see me like this!' said Harold, feebly seeking
an excuse. 'My dear man,' said the other, 'you may be easy in your mind, she won't
see much of you. You are all bandages and beard. She'll have to wait a
while before she sees you.' 'Didn't she see me last night?' 'Not she! Whilst we were trying to restore you she was rushing back to
the Castle to see that all was ready for you, and for the others from the
wreck.' This vaguely soothed Harold. If his surmise was correct, and if she had not seen him then, it was well
that he was bandaged now. He felt that it would not do to refuse to let
her see him; it might look suspicious. | Stoker, Bram - The Man |
So after pausing a short while he
said in a low voice:
'I suppose she had better come now. We must not keep her waiting!' When
the Doctor brought her to his bedside Stephen felt in a measure awed. His
bandaged face and head and his great beard, singed in patches, looked to
her in the dim light rather awesome. In a very gentle voice she said
kind things to the sick man, who acknowledged them in a feeble whisper. The Doctor, a keen observer, noticed the change in his voice, and
determined to understand more. Stephen spoke of his bravery, and of how
it was due to him that all on the ship were saved; and as she spoke her
emotion moved her so much that her sweet voice shook and quivered. To
the ears of the man who had now only sound to guide him, it was music of
the sweetest he had ever heard. Fearing lest his voice should betray
him, he whispered his own thanks feebly and in few words. When Stephen went away the Doctor went with her; it was more than an hour
before he returned. He found his patient in what he considered a state
of suppressed excitement; for, though his thoughts were manifestly
collected and his words were calm, he was restless and excited in other
ways. He had evidently been thinking of his own condition; for shortly
after the Doctor came in he said:
'Are we alone?' 'Quite!' 'I want you to arrange that there shall not be any nurse with me.' 'My dear sir! Don't handicap me, and yourself, with such a restriction. It is for your own good that you should have regular and constant
attention.' 'But I don't wish it. Not for the present at all events. I am not
accustomed to a nurse, and shall not feel comfortable. In a few days
perhaps . . . ' The decided tone of his voice struck the other. Keeping
his own thoughts and intentions in abeyance, even to himself, he answered
heartily:
'All right! I shall not have any nurse, at present.' 'Thanks!' There was relief in the tone which seemed undue, and Mr.
Hilton again took mental note. Presently he asked a question, but in
such a tone that the Doctor pricked up his ears. There was a
premeditated self-suppression, a gravity of restraint, which implied some
falsity; some intention other than the words conveyed:
'It must have been a job to carry me up those stairs.' The Doctor was
doubting everything, but as the safest attitude he stuck to literal truth
so far as his words conveyed it:
'Yes. You are no light weight!' To himself he mused:
'How did he know there were stairs? He cannot know it; he was senseless! Therefore he must be guessing or inquiring!' Harold went on:
'I suppose the Castle is on high ground. Can you see far from the
windows? I suppose we are up a good height?' 'From the windows you can see all round the promontory. But we are not
high up; that is, the room is not high from the ground, though the Castle
is from the sea.' Harold asked again, his voice vibrating in the note of
gladness:
'Are we on the ground floor then?' 'Yes.' 'And I suppose the gardens are below us?' 'Yes.' The answer was given quickly, for a thought was floating through
him: Why did this strong brave man, suddenly stricken blind, wish to know
whether his windows were at a height? He was not surprised when his
patient reaching out a hand rested it on his arm and said in an imploring
tone:
'It should be moonlight; full moon two nights ago. Won't you pull up the
blind and describe to me all you see? . . . Tell me fully . . . Remember,
I am blind!' This somehow fixed the Doctor's thought:
'Suicide! But I must convey the inutility of such effort by inference,
not falsity.' Accordingly he began to describe the scene, from the very base of the
wall, where below the balcony the great border was glorious with a mass
of foliage plants, away to the distant sea, now bathed in the flood of
moonlight. Harold asked question after question; the Doctor replying
accurately till he felt that the patient was building up a concrete idea
of his surroundings near and far. Then he left him. He stood for a long
time out in the passage thinking. He said to himself as he moved away:
'The poor fellow has some grim intention in his mind. I must not let him
know that I suspect; but to-night I will watch without his knowing it!' CHAPTER XXXIV--WAITING
Mr. Hilton telegraphed at once countermanding, for the present, the nurse
for whom he had sent. That night, when the household had all retired, he came quietly to his
patient's room, and entering noiselessly, sat silent in a far corner. There was no artificial right; the patient had to be kept in darkness. There was, however, a bright moonlight; sufficient light stole in through
the edges of the blinds to allow him, when his eyes grew accustomed, to
see what might happen. Harold lay quite still till the house was quiet. He had been thinking,
ever since he had ascertained the identity of Stephen. In his weakness
and the paralysing despair of his blindness all his former grief and
apprehension had come bank upon him in a great wave; veritably the tide
of circumstances seemed to run hard against him. He had had no idea of
forcing himself upon Stephen; and yet here he was a guest in her house,
without her knowledge or his own. She had saved his life by her energy
and resource. Fortunately she did not as yet know him; the bandages, and
his act in suppressing his voice, had so far protected him. But such
could not last for long. He could not see to protect himself, and take
precautions as need arose. And he knew well that Stephen's nature would
not allow her to be satisfied without doing all that was possible to help
one who had under her eyes made a great effort on behalf of others, and
to whom there was the added bond that his life was due to her. In but a
little time she must find out to whom she ministered. What then would happen? Her kindness was such that when she realised the
blindness of her old friend she might so pity him that out of the depths
of her pity she would forgive. She would take back all the past; and now
that she knew of his old love for her, would perhaps be willing to marry
him. Back flooded the old memory of her independence and her theory of
sexual equality. If out of any selfish or mistaken idea she did not
hesitate to ask a man to marry her, would it be likely that when the
nobler and more heroic side of her nature spoke she would hesitate to a
similar act in pursuance of her self-sacrifice? So it might be that she would either find herself once again flouted, or
else married to a man she did not love. Such a catastrophe should not happen, whatever the cost to him. He
would, blind as he was, steal away in the night and take himself out of
her life; this time for ever. Better the ingratitude of an unknown man,
the saving of whose life was due to her, than the long dull routine of a
spoiled life, which would otherwise be her unhappy lot. When once this idea had taken root in his mind he had taken such steps as
had been open to him without endangering the secrecy of his motive. | Stoker, Bram - The Man |
Thanks to his subtle questioning of the Doctor, he now knew that his room
was close to the ground, so that he would easily drop from the window and
steal away with out immediate danger of any restraining accident. If he
could once get away he would be all right. There was a large sum to his
credit in each of two London banks. He would manage somehow to find his
way to London; even if he had to walk and beg his way. He felt that now in the silence of the night the time had come. Quietly
he rose and felt his way to the door, now and again stumbling and
knocking against unknown obstacles in the manner of the recently blind. After each such noise he paused and listened. He felt as if the very
walls had ears. When he reached the door he turned the key softly. Then
he breathed more freely. He felt that he was at last alone and free to
move without suspicion. Then began a great and arduous search; one that was infinitely difficult
and exasperating; and full of pathos to the sympathetic man who watched
him in silence. Mr. Hilton could not understand his movements as he felt
his way about the room, opening drawers and armoires, now and again
stooping down and feeling along the floor. He did not betray his
presence, however, but moved noiselessly away as the other approached. It
was a hideously real game of blindman's-buff, with perhaps a life as the
forfeit. Harold went all over the room, and at last sat down on the edge of his
bed with a hollow suppressed groan that was full of pain. He had found
his clothes, but realised that they were now but rags. He put on the
clothes, and then for a long time sat quiet, rocking gently to and fro as
one in pain, a figure of infinite woe. At last he roused himself. His
mind was made up; the time for action had come. He groped his way
towards the window looking south. The Doctor, who had taken off his
shoes, followed him with catlike stealthiness. He easily threw open the window, for it was already partly open for
ventilation. When Mr. Hilton saw him sit on the rail of the balcony and begin to raise
his feet, getting ready to drop over, he rushed forward and seized him. Harold instinctively grappled with him; the habit of his Alaskan life
amidst continual danger made in such a case action swift as thought. Mr.
Hilton, with the single desire to prevent him from killing himself, threw
himself backward and pulled Harold with him to the stone floor. Harold, as he held him in a grip of iron, thundered out, forgetful in the
excitement of the moment the hushed voice to which he had limited
himself:
'What do you want? who are you?' 'H-s-s-sh! I am Mr. Hilton.' Harold relaxed the rigour of his grasp but
still held him firmly:
'How did you come here? I locked my door!' 'I have been in the room a long time. I suspected something, and came to
watch; to prevent your rash act.' 'Rash act! How?' 'Why, man, if you didn't kill, you would at least cripple yourself.' 'How can I cripple myself when the flower-bed is only a few feet below?' 'There are other dangers for a man who--a man in your sad state. And,
besides, have I no duty to prevent a suicide!' Here a brilliant idea
struck Harold. This man had evidently got some wrong impression; but it
would serve to shield his real purpose. He would therefore encourage it. For the moment, of course, his purpose to escape unnoticed was foiled;
but he would wait, and in due time seize another opportunity. In a
harder and more determined tone than he had yet used he said:
'I don't see what right you have to interfere. I shall kill myself if I
like.' 'Not whilst you are in my care!' This was spoken with a resolution equal
to his own. Then Mr. Hilton went on, more softly and with infinite
compassion: 'Moreover, I want to have a talk with you which may alter
your views.' Harold interrupted, still playing the game of hiding his
real purpose:
'I shall do as I wish; as I intend.' 'You are injuring yourself even now by standing in the draught of that
open window. Your eyes will feel it before long . . . Are you mad . . . ?' Harold felt a prick like a pin in his neck; and turned to seize his
companion. He could not find him, and for a few moments stumbled through
the dark, raging . . . It seemed a long time before he remembered anything. He had a sense of
time lapsed; of dreamland thoughts and visions. Then gradually
recollection came back. He tried to move; but found it impossible. His
arms and legs were extended wide and were tied; he could feel the cord
hurting his wrists and ankles as he moved. To him it was awful to be
thus blind and helpless; and anger began to surge up. He heard the voice
of Mr. Hilton close by him speaking in a calm, grave, sympathetic tone:
'My poor fellow, I hated to take such a step; but it was really necessary
for your own safety. You are a man, and a brave one. Won't you listen
to me for a few minutes? When you have heard what I have to say I shall
release you. In the meantime I apologise for the outrage, as I dare say
you consider it!' Harold was reasonable; and he was now blind and
helpless. Moreover, there was something in the Doctor's voice that
carried a sense of power with it. 'Go on! I shall listen!' He compelled himself to quietude. The Doctor
saw, and realised that he was master of himself. There were some snips
of scissors, and he was free. 'See! all I want is calm for a short time, and you have it. May I go
on?' 'Go on!' said Harold, not without respect. The Doctor after a pause
spoke:
'My poor fellow, I want you to understand that I wish to help you, to do
all in my power to restore to you that which you seem to have lost! I
can sympathise with your desire to quit life altogether now that the best
part of it, sight, seems gone. I do not pretend to judge the actions of
my fellows; and if you determine to carry out your purpose I shall not be
able to prevent you for ever. I shall not try to. But you certainly
shall not do so till you know what I know! I had wished to wait till I
could be a little more certain before I took you into confidence with
regard to my guessing as to the future. But your desire to destroy
yourself forces my hand. Now let me tell you that there is a possibility
of the removal of the cause of your purpose.' 'What do you mean?' gasped Harold. He was afraid to think outright and
to the full what the other's words seemed to imply. 'I mean,' said the other solemnly, 'that there is a possibility, more
than a possibility, that you may recover your sight!' As he spoke there
was a little break in his voice. He too was somewhat unnerved at the
situation. Harold lay still. The whole universe seemed to sway, and then whirl
round him in chaotic mass. Through it at length he seemed to hear the
calm voice:
'At first I could not be sure of my surmise, for when I used the
ophthalmoscope your suffering was too recent to disclose the cause I
looked for. Now I am fairly sure of it. | Stoker, Bram - The Man |
What I have since heard from
you has convinced me; your having suffered from rheumatic fever, and the
recrudescence of the rheumatic pain after your terrible experience of the
fire and that long chilling swim with so seemingly hopeless an end to it;
the symptoms which I have since noticed, though they have not been as
enlightening to me as they might be. Your disease, as I have diagnosed
it, is an obscure one and not common. I have not before been able to
study a case. All these things give me great hopes.' 'Thank God! Thank God!' the voice from the bed was now a whisper. 'Thank God! say I too. This that you suffer from is an acute form of
inflammation of the optic nerve. It may of course end badly; in
permanent loss of sight. But I hope--I believe, that in your case it
will not be so. You are young, and you are immensely strong; not merely
muscularly, but in constitution. I can see that you have been an
athlete, and no mean one either. All this will stand to you. But it
will take time. It will need all your own help; all the calm restraint
of your body and your mind. I am doing all that science knows; you must
do the rest!' He waited, giving time to the other to realise his ideas. Harold lay still for a long time before he spoke:
'Doctor.' The voice was so strangely different that the other was more
hopeful at once. He had feared opposition, or conflict of some kind. He
answered as cheerily as he could:
'Yes! I am listening.' 'You are a good fellow; and I am grateful to you, both for what you have
done and what you have told me. I cannot say how grateful just yet; hope
unmans me at present. But I think you deserve that I should tell you the
truth!' The other nodded; he forgot that the speaker could not see. 'I was not intending to commit suicide. Such an idea didn't even enter
my head. To me, suicide is the resource of a coward. I have been in too
many tight places to ever fear that.' 'Then in the name of goodness why were you trying to get out of that
window?' 'I wanted to escape; to get away!' 'In your shirt and trousers; and they are not over much! Without even
slippers!' A faint smile curled round the lips of the injured man. Hope
was beginning to help already. 'Even that way!' 'But man alive! you were going to your death. How could you expect to
get away in such an outfit without being discovered? When you were
missed the whole countryside would have been up, and even before the hue-
and-cry the first person who saw you would have taken charge of you.' 'I know! I know! I had thought of it all. But I was willing to chance
it. I had my own reasons!' He was silent a while. The Doctor was
silent too. Each man was thinking in his own way. Presently the Doctor
spoke:
'Look here, old chap! I don't want to pry into your secrets; but, won't
you let me help you? I can hold my tongue. I want to help you. You
have earned that wish from any man, and woman too, who saw the burning
ship and what you did to save those on board. There is nothing I would
not do for you. Nothing! I don't ask you to tell me all; only enough
for me to understand and help. I can see that you have some overpowering
wish to get away. Some reason that I cannot fathom, certainly without a
clue. You may trust me, I assure you. If you could look into my face,
my eyes, you would understand. But--There! take my hand. It may tell
you something!' Harold took the hand placed in his, and held it close. He pressed his
other hand over it also, as though the effect of the two hands would
bring him double knowledge. It was infinitely pathetic to see him trying
to make his untrained fingers do the duty of his trained eyes. But,
trained or not, his hands had their instinct. Laying down gently the
hand he held he said, turning his bandaged eyes in the direction of his
companion:
'I shall trust you! Are we alone; absolutely alone?' 'Absolutely!' 'Have I your solemn promise that anything I say shall never go beyond
yourself?' 'I promise. I can swear, if it will make your mind more easy in the
matter.' 'What do you hold most sacred in the world?' Harold had an odd thought;
his question was its result. 'All told, I should think my profession! Perhaps it doesn't seem to you
much to swear by; but it is all my world! But I have been brought up in
honour, and you may trust my promise--as much as anything I could swear.' 'All right! My reason for wanting to get away was because I knew Lady de
Lannoy!' 'What!' Then after a pause: 'I should have thought that was a reason for
wanting to stay. She seems not only one of the most beautiful, but the
sweetest woman I ever met.' 'She is all that! And a thousand times more!' 'Then why--Pardon me!' 'I cannot tell you all; but you must take it that my need to get away is
imperative.' After pondering a while Mr. Hilton said suddenly:
'I must ask your pardon again. Are you sure there is no mistake. Lady
de Lannoy is not married; has not been. She is Countess in her own
right. It is quite a romance. She inherited from some old branch of
more than three hundred years ago.' Again Harold smiled; he quite saw
what the other meant. He answered gravely
'I understand. But it does not alter my opinion; my purpose. It is
needful--absolutely and imperatively needful that I get away without her
recognising me, or knowing who I am.' 'She does not know you now. She has not seen you yet.' 'That is why I hoped to get away in time; before she should recognise me. If I stay quiet and do all you wish, will you help me?' 'I will! And what then?' 'When I am well, if it should be so, I shall steal away, this time
clothed, and disappear out of her life without her knowing. She may
think it ungrateful that one whom she has treated so well should behave
so badly. But that can't be helped. It is the lesser evil of the two.' 'And I must abet you? All right! I will do it; though you must forgive
me if you should ever hear that I have abused you and said bad things of
you. It will have to be all in the day's work if I am not ultimately to
give you away. I must take steps at once to keep her from seeing you. I
shall have to invent some story; some new kind of dangerous disease,
perhaps. I shall stay here and nurse you myself!' Harold spoke in
joyful gratitude:
'Oh, you _are_ good. But can you spare the time? How long will it all
take?' 'Some weeks! Perhaps!' He paused as if thinking. 'Perhaps in a month's
time I shall unbandage your eyes. You will then see; or . . . ' 'I understand! I shall be patient!' In the morning Mr. Hilton in reporting to Lady de Lannoy told her that he
considered it would be necessary to keep his patient very quiet, both in
mind and body. In the course of the conversation he said:
'Anything which might upset him must be studiously avoided. He is not an
easy patient to deal with; he doesn't like people to go near him. I
think, therefore, it will be well if even you do not see him. He seems
to have an odd distrust of people, especially of women. | Stoker, Bram - The Man |
It may be that
he is fretful in his blindness, which is in itself so trying to a strong
man. But besides, the treatment is not calculated to have a very buoyant
effect. It is apt to make a man fretful to lie in the dark, and know
that he has to do so for indefinite weeks. Pilocarpin, and salicylate of
soda, and mercury do not tend towards cheerfulness. Nor do blisters on
the forehead add to the content of life!' 'I quite understand,' said Stephen, 'and I will be careful not to go near
him till he is well. Please God! it may bring him back his sight. Thank
you a thousand times for your determination to stay with him.' So it was that for more than two weeks Harold was kept all alone. No one
attended him but the Doctor. He slept in the patient's room for the
whole of the first week, and never had him out of sight for more than a
few minutes at a time. He was then able to leave him alone for longer
periods, and settled himself in the bedroom next to him. Every hour or
two he would visit him. Occasionally he would be away for half a day,
but never for more. Stephen rigidly observed the Doctor's advice
herself, and gave strict orders that his instructions were to be obeyed. Harold himself went through a period of mental suffering. It was agony
to him to think of Stephen being so near at hand, and yet not to be able
to see her, or even to hear her voice. All the pain of his loss of her
affection seemed to crowd back on him, and with it the new need of
escaping from her unknown. More than ever he felt it would not do that
she should ever learn his identity. Her pity for him, and possibly her
woman's regard for a man's effort in time of stress, might lead through
the gates of her own self-sacrifice to his restoration to his old place
in her affections. Nay! it could not be his old place; for at the close
of those days she had learned of his love for her. CHAPTER XXXV--A CRY
The third week had nearly elapsed, and as yet no one was allowed to see
the patient. For a time Stephen was inclined to be chagrined. It is not pleasant to
have even the most generous and benevolent intentions thwarted; and she
had set her mind on making much of this man whom fate and his own bravery
had thrown athwart her life. But in these days Stephen was in some ways
a changed woman. She had so much that she wished to forget and that she
would have given worlds to recall, that she could not bear even to think
of any militant or even questioning attitude. She even began to take
herself to task more seriously than she had ever done with regard to
social and conventional duties. When she found her house full of so many
and so varied guests, it was borne in upon her that such a position as
her own, with such consequent duties, called for the presence of some
elder person of her own sex and of her own class. No better proof of Stephen's intellectual process and its result could be
adduced than her first act of recognition: she summoned an elderly lady
to live with her and matronise her house. This lady, the widow of a
distant relation, complied with all the charted requirements of
respectability, and had what to Stephen's eyes was a positive gift: that
of minding her own business and not interfering in any matter whatever. Lady de Lannoy, she felt, was her own master and quite able to take care
of herself. Her own presence was all that convention required. So she
limited herself to this duty, with admirable result to all, herself
included. After a few days Stephen would almost forget that she was
present. Mr. Hilton kept bravely to his undertaking. He never gave even a hint of
his hopes of the restoration of sight; and he was so assiduous in his
attention that there arose no opportunity of accidental discovery of the
secret. He knew that when the time did come he would find himself in a
very unpleasant situation. Want of confidence, and even of intentional
deceit, might be attributed to him; and he would not be able to deny nor
explain. He was, however; determined to stick to his word. If he could
but save his patient's sight he would be satisfied. But to Stephen all the mystery seemed to grow out of its first shadowy
importance into something real. There was coming to her a vague idea
that she would do well not to manifest any concern, any anxiety, any
curiosity. Instinct was at work; she was content to trust it, and wait. One forenoon she received by messenger a letter which interested her
much. So much that at first she was unwilling to show it to anyone, and
took it to her own boudoir to read over again in privacy. She had a sort
of feeling of expectancy with regard to it; such as sensitive natures
feel before a thunderstorm. The letter was natural enough in itself. It
was dated that morning from Varilands, a neighbouring estate which
marched with Lannoy to the south. 'MY DEAR MADAM,--Will you pardon me a great liberty, and allow my
little girl and me to come to see you to-day? I shall explain when we
meet. When I say that we are Americans and have come seven thousand
miles for the purpose, you will, I am sure, understand that it is no
common interest which has brought us, and it will be the excuse for
our eagerness. I should write you more fully, but as the matter is a
confidential one I thought it would be better to speak. We shall be
doubly grateful if you will have the kindness to see us alone. I
write as a mother in making this appeal to your kindness; for my
child--she is only a little over eight years old--has the matter so
deeply in her heart that any disappointment or undue delay would I
fear affect her health. We presume to take your kindness for granted
and will call a little before twelve o'clock. 'I may perhaps say (in case you should feel any hesitation as to my
_bona fides_) that my husband purchased some years ago this estate. We
were to have come here to live in the early summer, but were kept in
the West by some important business of his. 'Believe me, yours sincerely,
'ALICE STONEHOUSE.' Stephen had, of course, no hesitation as to receiving the lady. Even had
there been objection, the curiosity she had in common with her kind would
have swept difficulties aside. She gave orders that when Mrs. Stonehouse
arrived with her daughter they were to be shown at once into the Mandarin
drawing-room. That they would probably stay for lunch. She would see
them alone. A little before twelve o'clock Mrs. Stonehouse and Pearl arrived, and
were shown into the room where Lady de Lannoy awaited them. The high
sun, streaming in from the side, shone on her beautiful hair, making it
look like living gold. When the Americans came in they were for an
instant entranced by her beauty. One glance at Mrs. Stonehouse's sweet
sympathetic face was enough to establish her in Stephen's good graces
forever. As for Pearl, she was like one who has unexpectedly seen a
fairy or a goddess. | Stoker, Bram - The Man |
She had been keeping guardedly behind her mother,
but on the instant she came out fearlessly into the open. Stephen advanced quickly and shook hands with Mrs. Stonehouse, saying
heartily:
'I am so glad you have come. I am honoured in being trusted.' 'Thank you so much, Lady de Lannoy. I felt that you would not mind,
especially when you know why we came. Indeed I had no choice. Pearl
insisted on it; and when Pearl is urgent--we who love her have all to
give way. This is Pearl!' In an instant Stephen was on her knees by the beautiful child. The red rosebud of a mouth was raised to her kiss, and the little arms
went lovingly round her neck and clung to her. As the mother looked on
delighted she thought she had never seen a more beautiful sight. The two
faces so different, and yet with so much in common. The red hair and the
flaxen, both tints of gold. The fine colour of each heightened to a
bright flush in their eagerness. Stephen was so little used to children,
and yet loved them so, that all the womanhood in her, which is possible
motherhood, went out in an instant to the lovely eager child. She felt
the keenest pleasure when the little thing, having rubbed her silk-gloved
palms over her face, and then holding her away so that she could see her
many beauties, whispered in her ear:
'How pretty you are!' 'You darling!' whispered Stephen in reply. 'We must love each other very
much, you and I!' When the two ladies had sat down, Stephen holding Pearl in her lap, Mrs.
Stonehouse said:
'I suppose you have wondered, Lady de Lannoy, what has brought us here?' 'Indeed I was very much interested.' 'Then I had better tell you all from the beginning so that you may
understand.' She proceeded to give the details of the meeting with Mr.
Robinson on the _Scoriac_. Of how Pearl took to him and insisted on
making him her special friend; of the terrible incident of her being
swept overboard, and of the gallant rescue. Mrs. Stonehouse was much
moved as she spoke. All that fearful time, of which the minutes had
seemed years of agony, came back to her so vividly at times that she
could hardly speak. Pearl listened too; all eagerness, but without fear. Stephen was greatly moved and held Pearl close to her all the time, as
though protecting her. When the mother spoke of her feeling when she saw
the brave man struggling up and down the giant waves, and now and again
losing sight of him in the trough of the sea, she put out one hand and
held the mother's with a grasp which vibrated in sympathy, whilst the
great tears welled over in her eyes and ran down her cheeks. Pearl,
watching her keenly, said nothing, but taking her tiny cambric
handkerchief from her pocket silently wiped the tears away, and clung all
the tighter. It was her turn to protect now! Pearl's own time for tears came when her mother began to tell this new
and sympathetic friend of how she became so much attached to her rescuer
that when she knew he would not be coming to the West with them, but
going off to the wildest region of the far North, her health became
impaired; and that it was only when Mr. Robinson promised to come back to
see her within three years that she was at all comforted. And how, ever
since, she had held the man in her heart and thought of him every day;
sleeping as well as waking, for he was a factor in her dreams! Stephen was more than ever moved, for the child's constancy touched her
as well as her grief. She strained the little thing in her strong young
arms, as though the fervency of her grasp would bring belief and comfort;
as it did. She in her turn dried the others' eyes. Then Mrs. Stonehouse
went on with her story:
'We were at Banff, high up in the Rockies, when we read of the burning
and wrecking of the _Dominion_. It is, as you know, a Montreal boat of
the Allan Line; so that naturally there was a full telegraphic report in
all the Canadian papers. When we read of the brave man who swam ashore
with the line and who was unable to reach the port but swam out across
the bay, Pearl took it for granted that it must have been "The Man," as
she always called Mr. Robinson. When by the next paper we learned that
the man's name _was_ Robinson nothing would convince her that it was not
_her_ Mr. Robinson. My husband, I may tell you, had firmly come to the
same conclusion. He had ever since the rescue of our child always looked
for any news from Alaska, whither he knew Mr. Robinson had gone. He
learned that up away in the very far North a new goldfield had been
discovered by a man of the same name; and that a new town, Robinson City,
began to grow up in the wilderness, where the condition of life from the
cold was a new experience to even the most hardy gold miners. Then we
began to think that the young hero who had so gallantly saved our darling
was meeting some of his reward . . . !' She paused, her voice breaking. Stephen was in a glow of holy feeling. Gladness, joy, gratitude, enthusiasm; she knew not which. It all seemed
like a noble dream which was coming true. Mrs. Stonehouse went on:-
'From Californian papers of last month we learned that Robinson, of
Robinson City, had sailed for San Francisco, but had disappeared when the
ship touched at Portland; and then the whole chain of his identity seemed
complete. Nothing would satisfy Pearl but that we should come at once to
England and see "The Man," who was wounded and blind, and do what we
could for him. Her father could not then come himself; he had important
work on hand which he could not leave without some preparation. But he
is following us and may be here at any time. 'And now, we want you to help us, Lady de Lannoy. We are not sure yet of
the identity of Mr. Robinson, but we shall know the instant we see him,
or hear his voice. We have learned that he is still here. Won't you let
us? Do let us see him as soon as ever you can!' There was a pleading
tone in her voice which alone would have moved Stephen, even had she not
been wrought up already by the glowing fervour of her new friend. But she paused. She did not know what to say; how to tell them that as
yet she herself knew nothing. She, too, in the depths of her own heart
knew--_knew_--that it was the same Robinson. And she also knew that both
identities were one with another. The beating of her heart and the wild
surging of her blood told her all. She was afraid to speak lest her
voice should betray her. She could not even think. She would have to be alone for that. Mrs. Stonehouse, with the wisdom and power of age, waited, suspending
judgment. But Pearl was in a fever of anxiety; she could imagine nothing
which could keep her away from The Man. But she saw that there was some
difficulty, some cause of delay. So she too added her pleading. Putting
her mouth close to Lady de Lannoy's ear she whispered very faintly, very
caressingly:
'What is your name? Your own name? Your very own name?' 'Stephen, my darling!' 'Oh, won't you let us see The Man, Stephen; dear Stephen! | Stoker, Bram - The Man |
I love him so;
and I do _so_ want to see him. It is ages till I see him! Won't you let
me? I shall be so good--Stephen!' And she strained her closer in her
little arms and kissed her all over face, cheeks and forehead and eyes
and mouth wooingly. Stephen returned the embrace and the kisses, but
remained silent a little longer. Then she found voice:
'I hardly know what to say. Believe me, I should--I shall, do all I can;
but the fact is that I am not in authority. The Doctor has taken him in
charge and will not let anyone go near him: He will not even have a
nurse, but watches and attends to him himself. He says it might be fatal
if anything should occur to agitate him. Why, even I am not allowed to
see him!' 'Haven't you seen him yet at all; ever, ever, Stephen?' asked Pearl, all
her timidity gone. Stephen smiled--a wan smile it was, as she answered:
'I saw him in the water, but it was too far away to distinguish. And it
was only by firelight.' 'Oh yes, I know,' said Pearl; 'Mother and Daddy told me how you had
burned the house down to give him light. Didn't you want to see him more
after that? I should!' Stephen drew the impulsive child closer as she
answered:
'Indeed I did, dear. But I had to think of what was good for him. I
went to his room the next day when he was awake, and the Doctor let me
come in for only a moment.' 'Well! What did you see. Didn't you know him?' She forgot that the
other did not know him from her point of view. But the question went
through Stephen's heart like a sword. What would she not have given to
have known him! What would she not give to know him now! . . . She spoke
mechanically:
'The room was quite dark. It is necessary, the Doctor says, that he be
kept in the dark. I saw only a big beard, partly burned away by the
fire; and a great bandage which covered his eyes!' Pearl's hold relaxed,
she slipped like an eel to the floor and ran over to her mother. Her new
friend was all very well, but no one would do as well as mother when she
was in trouble. 'Oh mother, mother! My Robinson had no beard!' Her mother stroked her
face comfortingly as she answered:
'But, my dear, it is more than two years since you saw him. Two years
and three months, for it was in June that we crossed.' How the date
thrilled Stephen. It verified her assumption. Mrs. Stonehouse did not notice, but went on:
'His beard would have grown. Men wear beards up in the cold place where
he was.' Pearl kissed her; there was no need for words. Throwing
herself again on Stephen's knees she went on with her questioning:
'But didn't you hear him?' 'I heard very little, darling. He was very weak. It was only the
morning after the wreck, and he spoke in a whisper!' Then with an
instinct of self-preservation she added: 'But how could I learn anything
by hearing him when he was a stranger to me? I had never even heard of
Mr. Robinson!' As she was speaking she found her own ideas, the proofs of her own
conviction growing. This was surely another link in the chain of proving
that all three men were but one. But in such case Harold must know; must
have tried to hide his identity! She feared, with keen eyes upon her, to pursue the thought. But her
blood began to grow cold and her brain to swim. With an effort she went
on:
'Even since then I have not been allowed to go near him. Of course I
must obey orders. I am waiting as patiently as I can. But we must ask
the Doctor if he thinks his patient will see you--will let you see
him--though he will not let me.' This she added with a touch of what she
felt: regret rather than bitter ness. There was no room for bitterness
in her full heart where Harold was concerned. 'Will you ask the Doctor now?' Pearl did not let grass grow under her
feet. For answer Stephen rang the bell, and when a servant appeared
asked:
'Is Mr. Hilton in the house?' 'I think not, your Ladyship. He said he was going over to Port Lannoch. Shall I inquire if he left word at what time he would be back?' 'If you please!' The man returned in a few minutes with the butler, who
said:
'Mr. Hilton said, your Ladyship, that he expected to be back by one
o'clock at latest.' 'Please ask him on his arrival if he will kindly come here at once. Do
not let us be disturbed until then.' The butler bowed and withdrew. 'Now,' said Stephen, 'as we have to wait till our tyrant comes, won't you
tell me all that went on after The Man had left you?' Pearl brightened
up at once. Stephen would have given anything to get away even for a
while. Beliefs and hopes and fears were surging up, till she felt
choking. But the habit of her life, especially her life of the last two
years, gave her self-control. And so she waited, trying with all her
might to follow the child's prattle. After a long wait Pearl exclaimed: 'Oh! I do wish that Doctor would
come. I want to see The Man!' She was so restless, marching about the
room, that Stephen said:
'Would you like to go out on the balcony, darling; of course if Mother
will let you? It is quite safe, I assure you, Mrs. Stonehouse. It is
wide and open and is just above the flower-borders, with a stone tail. You can see the road from it by which Mr. Hilton comes from Port Lannoch. He will be riding.' Pearl yielded at once to the diversion. It would at
any rate be something to do, to watch. Stephen opened the French window
and the child ran out on the balcony. When Stephen came back to her seat Mrs. Stonehouse said quietly:
'I am glad she is away for a few minutes. She has been over wrought, and
I am always afraid for her. She is so sensitive. And after all she is
only a baby!' 'She is a darling!' said Stephen impulsively; and she meant it. Mrs.
Stonehouse smiled gratefully as she went on:
'I suppose you noticed what a hold on her imagination that episode of
Mollie Watford at the bank had. Mr. Stonehouse is, as perhaps you know,
a very rich man. He has made his fortune himself, and most honourably;
and we are all very proud of him, and of it. So Pearl does not think of
the money for itself. But the feeling was everything; she really loves
Mr. Robinson; as indeed she ought! He has done so much for us that it
would be a pride and a privilege for us to show our gratitude. My
husband, between ourselves, wanted to make him his partner. He tells me
that, quite independent of our feeling towards him, he is just the man he
wanted. And if indeed it was he who discovered the Alaskan goldfield and
organised and ruled Robinson City, it is a proof that Mr. Stonehouse's
judgment was sound. Now he is injured, and blind; and our little Pearl
loves him. If indeed he be the man we believe he is, then we may be able
to do something which all his millions cannot buy. He will come to us,
and be as a son to us, and a brother to Pearl. We will be his eyes; and
nothing but love and patience will guide his footsteps!' She paused, her
mouth quivering; then she went on:
'If it is not our Mr. Robinson, then it will be our pleasure to do all
that is necessary for his comfort. | Stoker, Bram - The Man |
If he is a poor man he will never
want . . . It will be a privilege to save so gallant a man from hardship
. . . ' Here she came to a stop. Stephen too was glad of the pause, for the emotion which the words and
their remembrances evoked was choking her. Had not Harold been as her
own father's son. As her own brother! . . . She turned away, fearing
lest her face should betray her. All at once Mrs. Stonehouse started to her feet, her face suddenly white
with fear; for a cry had come to their ears. A cry which even Stephen
knew as Pearl's. The mother ran to the window. The balcony was empty. She came back into the room, and, ran to the
door. But on the instant a voice that both women knew was heard from without:
'Help there! Help, I say! The child has fainted. Is there no one
there? And I am blind!' CHAPTER XXXVI--LIGHT
Harold had been in a state of increasing restlessness. The month of
waiting which Dr. Hilton had laid down for him seemed to wear away with
extraordinary slowness; this was increased by the lack of companionship,
and further by the cutting off of even the little episodes usual to daily
life. His patience, great as it was naturally and trained as it had been
by the years of self-repression, was beginning to give way. Often and
often there came over him a wild desire to tear off the irksome bandages
and try for himself whether the hopes held out to him were being even
partially justified. He was restrained only by the fear of perpetual
blindness, which came over him in a sort of cold wave at each reaction. Time, too, added to his fear of discovery; but he could not but think
that his self-sought isolation must be a challenge to the curiosity of
each and all who knew of it. And with all these disturbing causes came
the main one, which never lessened but always grew: that whatever might
happen Stephen would be further from him than ever. Look at the matter
how he would; turn it round in whatsoever possible or impossible way, he
could see no relief to this gloomy conclusion. For it is in the nature of love that it creates or enlarges its own pain. If troubles or difficulties there be from natural causes, then it will
exaggerate them into nightmare proportions. But if there be none, it
will create them. Love is in fact the most serious thing that comes to
man; where it exists all else seem as phantoms, or at best as actualities
of lesser degree. During the better part of two years his troubles had
but slept; and as nothing wakes the pangs of old love better than the
sound of a voice, all the old acute pain of love and the agony that
followed its denial were back with him. Surely he could never, never
believe that Stephen did not mean what she had said to him that morning
in the beech grove. All his new resolution not to hamper her with the
burden of a blind and lonely-hearted man was back to the full. In such mood had he been that morning. He was additionally disturbed
because the Doctor had gone early to Port Lannoch; and as he was the only
person with whom he could talk, he clung to him with something of the
helpless feeling of a frightened child to its nurse. The day being full of sunshine the window was open, and only the dark-
green blind which crackled and rustled with every passing breeze made the
darkness of the room. Harold was dressed and lay on a sofa placed back
in the room, where the few rays of light thus entering could not reach
him. His eyes and forehead were bandaged as ever. For some days the
Doctor, who had his own reasons and his own purpose, had not taken them
off; so the feeling of blind helplessness was doubly upon him. He knew
he was blind; and he knew also that if he were not he could not in his
present condition see. All at once he started up awake. His hearing had in the weeks of
darkness grown abnormally acute, and some trifling sound had recalled him
to himself. It might have been inspiration, but he seemed to be
conscious of some presence in the room. As he rose from the sofa, with the violent motion of a strong man
startled into unconscious activity, he sent a shock of fear to the eager
child who had strayed into the room through the open window. Had he
presented a normal appearance, she would not have been frightened. She
would have recognised his identity despite the changes, and have sprung
to him so impulsively that she would have been in his arms before she had
time to think. But now all she saw was a great beard topped with a mass
of linen and lint, which obscured all the rest of the face and seemed in
the gloom like a gigantic and ominous turban. In her fright she screamed out. He in turn, forgetful for the moment of
his intention of silence, called aloud:
'Who is that?' Pearl, who had been instinctively backing towards the
window by which she had entered, and whose thoughts in her fright had
gone back to her mother--refuge in time of danger--cried out:
'Mother, Mother! It is him! It is The Man!' She would have run towards
him in spite of his forbidding appearance; but the shock had been too
much for her. The little knees trembled and gave way; the brain reeled;
and with a moan she sank on the floor in a swoon. Harold knew the voice the instant she spoke; there was no need for the
enlightening words
'Pearl! Pearl!' he cried. 'Come to me, darling!' But as he spoke he
heard her moan, and the soft thud of her little body on the thick carpet. He guessed the truth and groped his way towards where the sound had been,
for he feared lest he might trample upon her in too great eagerness. Kneeling by her he touched her little feet, and then felt his way to her
face. And as he did so, such is the double action of the mind, even in
the midst of his care the remembrance swept across his mind of how he had
once knelt in just such manner in an old church by another little
senseless form. In his confusion of mind he lost the direction of the
door, and coming to the window pushed forward the flapping blind and went
out on the balcony. He knew from the freshness of the air and the
distant sounds that he was in the open. This disturbed him, as he wished
to find someone who could attend to the fainting child. But as he had
lost the way back to the room now, he groped along the wall of the Castle
with one hand, whilst he held Pearl securely in the other. As he went he
called out for help. When he came opposite the window of the Mandarin room Mrs. Stonehouse saw
him; she ran to him and caught Pearl in her arms. She was so agitated,
so lost in concern for the child that she never even thought to speak to
the man whom she had come so far to seek. She wailed over the child:
'Pearl! Pearl! What is it, darling? It is Mother!' She laid the girl
on the sofa, and taking the flowers out of a glass began to sprinkle
water on the child's face. Harold knew her voice and waited in patience. Presently the child sighed; the mother, relieved, thought of other things
at last and looked around her. There was yet another trouble. | Stoker, Bram - The Man |
There on the floor, where she had slipped
down, lay Lady de Lannoy in a swoon. She called out instinctively,
forgetting for the moment that the man was blind, but feeling all the old
confidence which he had won in her heart:
'Oh! Mr. Robinson, help me! Lady de Lannoy has fainted too, and I do
not know what to do!' As she spoke she looked up at him and remembered
his blindness. But she had no time to alter her words; the instant she
had spoken Harold, who had been leaning against the window-sash, and
whose mind was calmer since with his acute hearing he too had heard Pearl
sigh, seemed to leap into the room. 'Where is she? Where is she? Oh, God, now am I blind indeed!' It gave her a pang to hear him and to see him turn helplessly with his
arms and hands outstretched as though he would feel for her in the air. Without pause, and under an instinctive and uncontrollable impulse, he
tore the bandages from his eyes. The sun was streaming in. As he met it
his eyes blinked and a cry burst from him; a wild cry whose joy and
surprise pierced even through the shut portals of the swooning woman's
brain. Not for worlds would she ever after have lost the memory of that
sound:
'Light! light! Oh, God! Oh, God! I am not blind!' But he looked round him still in terrified wonder:
'Where is she? Where is she? I cannot see her! Stephen! Stephen! where are you?' Mrs. Stonehouse, bewildered, pointed where Stephen's
snow-white face and brilliant hair seemed in the streaming sunlight like
ivory and gold:
'There! There!' He caught her arm mechanically, and putting his eyes to
her wrist, tried to look along her pointed finger. In an instant he
dropped her arm moaning. 'I cannot see her! What is it that is over me? This is worse than to be
blind!' He covered his face with his hands and sobbed. He felt light strong fingers on his forehead and hands; fingers whose
touch he would have known had they been laid on him were he no longer
quick. A voice whose music he had heard in his dreams for two long years
said softly:
'I am here, Harold! I am here! Oh! do not sob like that; it breaks my
heart to hear you!' He took his hands from his face and held hers in
them, staring intently at her as though his passionate gaze would win
through every obstacle. That moment he never forgot. Never could forget! He saw the room all
rich in yellow. He saw Pearl, pale but glad-eyed, lying on a sofa
holding the hand of her mother, who stood beside her. He saw the great
high window open, the lines of the covered stone balcony without, the
stretch of green sward all vivid in the sunshine, and beyond it the blue
quivering sea. He saw all but that for which his very soul longed;
without to see which sight itself was valueless . . . But still he
looked, and looked; and Stephen saw in his dark eyes, though he could not
see her, that which made her own eyes fill and the warm red glow on her
face again . . . Then she raised her eyes again, and the gladness of her
beating heart seemed the answer to his own. For as he looked he saw, as though emerging from a mist whose obscurity
melted with each instant, what was to him the one face in all the world. He did not think then of its beauty--that would come later; and besides
no beauty of one born of woman could outmatch the memorised beauty which
had so long held his heart. But that he had so schooled himself in long
months of gloomy despair, he would have taken her in his arms there and
then; and, heedless of the presence of others, have poured out his full
heart to her. Mrs. Stonehouse saw and understood. So too Pearl, who though a child was
a woman-child; softly they rose up to steal away. But Stephen saw them;
her own instincts, too, told her that her hour had not come. What she
hoped for must come alone! So she called to her guests:
'Don't go! Don't go, Mrs. Stonehouse. You know now that Harold and I
are old friends, though neither of us knew it--till this moment. We were
brought up as . . . almost as brother and sister. Pearl, isn't it lovely
to see your friend . . . to see The Man again?' She was so happy that she could only express herself, with dignity,
through the happiness of others. Pearl actually shrieked with joy as she rushed across the room and flung
herself into Harold's arms as he stooped to her. He raised her; and she
kissed him again and again, and put her little hands all over his face
and stroked, very, very gently, his eyes, and said:
'Oh, I am so glad! And so glad your poor eyes are unbind again! May I
call you Harold, too?' 'You darling!' was all he could say as he kissed her, and holding her in
one arm went across and shook hands with Mrs. Stonehouse, who wrung his
hand hard. There was a little awkwardness in the group, for none of them knew what
would be best to do next. In the midst of it there came a light knock at
the door, and Mr. Hilton entered saying:
'They told me you wished to see me at once--Hulloa!' He rushed across
the room and took Harold by the shoulders, turning his face to the light. He looked in his eyes long and earnestly, the others holding their
breaths. Presently he said, without relaxing his gaze:
'Did you see mistily at first?' 'Yes.' 'Seeing at the periphery; but the centre being opaque?' 'Yes! How did you know? Why, I couldn't see'--see pointing to
Stephen--'Lady de Lannoy; though her face was right in front of me!' Dr. Hilton took his hands from his patient's shoulders and shook him
warmly by both hands:-
'I am glad, old fellow! It was worth waiting for, wasn't it? But I say,
it was a dangerous thing to take off those bandages before I permitted. However, it has done no harm! But it was lucky that I mistrusted your
patience and put the time for the experiment a week later than I thought
necessary . . . What is it?' He turned from one to the other
questioningly; there was a look on Harold's face that he did not quite
comprehend. 'H-s-h,' said the latter warningly, 'I'll tell you all about it . . . some time!' The awkward pause was broken by Pearl, who came to the Doctor and said:
'I must kiss you, you know. It was you who saved The Man's eyes. Stephen
has told me how you watched him!' The Doctor was somewhat taken aback;
as yet he was ignorant of Pearl's existence. However, he raised the
child in his arms and kissed her, saying:
'Thank you, my dear! I did all I could. But he helped much himself;
except at the very last. Don't you ever go and take off bandages, if you
should ever have the misfortune to have them on, without the doctor's
permission!' Pearl nodded her head wisely and then wriggled out of his
arms and came again to Harold, looking up at him protectingly and saying
in an old-fashioned way:
'How are you feeling now? None the worse, I hope, _Harold_!' The Man lifted her up and kissed her again. When he set her down she
came over to Lady de Lannoy and held up her arms to be lifted:
'And I must kiss you again too, Stephen!' | Stoker, Bram - The Man |
If Lady de Lannoy hadn't loved
the sweet little thing already she would have loved her for that! The door was opened, and the butler announced:
'Luncheon is served, your Ladyship.' * * * * *
After a few days Harold went over to Varilands to stay for a while with
the Stonehouses. Mr. Stonehouse had arrived, and both men were rejoiced
to meet again. The elder never betrayed by word or sign that he
recognised the identity of the other person of the drama of whom he had
told him and who had come so accidentally into his life; and the younger
was grateful to him for it. Harold went almost every day to Lannoy, and
sometimes the Stonehouses went with him; at other times Stephen paid
flying visits to Varilands. She did not make any effort to detain
Harold; she would not for worlds have made a sign which might influence
him. She was full now of that diffidence which every woman has who
loves. She felt that she must wait; must wait even if the waiting lasted
to her grave. She felt, as every woman does who really loves, that she
had found her Master. And Harold, to whom something of the same diffidence was an old story,
got the idea that her reticence was a part of the same feeling whose
violent expression had sent him out into the wilderness. And with the
thought came the idea of his duty, implied in her father's dying trust:
'Give her time! . . . Let her choose!' For him the clock seemed to have
stopped for two whole years, and he was back at the time when the
guardianship of his boy life was beginning to yield to the larger and
more selfish guardianship of manhood. Stephen, noticing that he did not come near her as closely as she felt he
might, and not realising his true reason--for when did love ever realise
the true reason of the bashfulness of love?--felt a chillness which in
turn reacted on her own manner. And so these two ardent souls, who yearned for each other's love and the
full expression of it, seemed as if they might end after all in drifting
apart. Each thought that their secret was concealed. But both secrets
were already known to Mrs. Stonehouse, who knew nothing; and to Mr.
Stonehouse, who knew everything. Even Pearl had her own ideas, as was
once shown in a confidence when they were alone in Stephen's bedroom
after helping her to finish her dressing, just as Stephen herself had at
a similar age helped her Uncle Gilbert. After some coy leading up to the
subject of pretty dresses, the child putting her little mouth to the
other's ear whispered:
'May I be your bridesmaid, Stephen?' The woman was taken aback; but she
had to speak at once, for the child's eyes were on her:
'Of course you will, darling. But I--I may never be married.' 'You! You must! I know someone who will make you!' Stephen's heart
beat hard and rapidly. The child's talk, though sweet and dear, was more
than embarrassing. With, however, the desire to play with fire, which is
a part of the nature of women, she answered:
'You have some queer ideas, little one, in that pretty knowledge-box of
yours.' 'Oh! he never told me. But I know it all the same! And you know it too,
Stephen!' This was getting too close to be without danger; so she tried
to divert the thought from herself:
'My darling, you may guess about other people, though I don't say you
ought; but you must not guess about me!' 'All right!' then she held up her arms to be lifted on the other's knee
and said:
'I want to whisper to you!' Her voice and manner were so full of feeling
that somehow the other was moved. She bent her head, and Pearl taking
her neck in her little palms, said:
'I thought, oh! long ago, that I would marry him myself. But you knew
him first . . . And he only saved me . . . But you saved him!' . . . And
then she laid her head down on the throbbing bosom, and sobbed . . . And Stephen sobbed too. Before they left the room, Stephen said to her, very gravely, for the
issue might be one of great concern:
'Of course, Pearl dear, our secrets are all between ourselves!' Pearl
crossed her two forefingers and kissed them. But she said nothing; she
had sworn! Stephen went on:
'And, darling, you will remember too that one must never speak or even
think if they can help it about anyone's marrying anyone else till they
say so themselves! What is it, dear, that you are smiling at?' 'I know, Stephen! I musn't take off the bandage till the Doctor says
so!' Stephen smiled and kissed her. Hand in hand, Pearl chattering merrily,
they went down to the drawing-room. CHAPTER XXXVII--GOLDEN SILENCE
Each day that passed seemed to add to the trouble in the heart of these
young people; to widen the difficulty of expressing themselves. To
Stephen, who had accepted the new condition of things and whose whole
nature had bloomed again under the sunshine of hope, it was the less
intolerable. She had set herself to wait, as had countless thousands of
women before her; and as due proportion will, till the final cataclysm
abolishes earthly unions. But Harold felt the growth, both positive and
negative, as a new torture; and he began to feel that he would be unable
to go through with it. In his heart was the constant struggle of hope;
and in opposition to it the seeming realisation of every new fancy of
evil. That bitter hour, when the whole of creation was for him turned
upside down, was having its sad effect at last. Had it not been for that
horrid remembrance he would have come to believe enough in himself to put
his future to the test. He would have made an opportunity at which
Stephen and himself would have with the fires of their mutual love burned
away the encircling mist. There are times when a single minute of
commonsense would turn sorrow into joy; and yet that minute, our own
natures being the opposing forces, will be allowed to pass. Those who loved these young people were much concerned about them. Mrs.
Stonehouse took their trouble so much to heart that she spoke to her
husband about it, seriously advising that one or other of them should
make an effort to bring things in the right way for their happiness. The
woman was sure of the woman's feeling. It is from men, not women, that
women hide their love. By side-glances and unthinking moments women note
and learn. The man knew already, from his own lips, of the man's
passion. But his lips were sealed by his loyalty; and he said earnestly:
'My dear, we must not interfere. Not now, at any rate; we might cause
them great trouble. I am as sure as you are that they really love each
other. But they must win happiness by themselves and through themselves
alone. Otherwise it would never be to them what it ought to be; what it
might be; what it will be!' So these friends were silent, and the little tragedy developed. Harold's
patience began to give way under the constant strain of self-suppression. Stephen tried to hide her love and fear, under the mask of a gracious
calm. This the other took for indifference. At last there came an hour which was full of new, hopeless agony to
Stephen. | Stoker, Bram - The Man |
She heard Harold, in a fragment of conversation, speak to Mr.
Stonehouse of the need of returning to Alaska. That sounded like a word
of doom. In her inmost heart she knew that Harold loved her; and had she
been free she would have herself spoken the words which would have drawn
the full truth to them both. But how could she do so, having the
remembrance of that other episode; when, without the reality of love, she
had declared herself? . . . Oh! the shame of it . . . The folly! . . . And Harold knew it all! How could he ever believe that it was real this
time! . . . By the exercise of that self-restraint which long suffering had taught
her, Stephen so managed to control herself that none of her guests
realised what a blow she had received from a casual word. She bore
herself gallantly till the last moment. After the old fashion of her
youth, she had from the Castle steps seen their departure. Then she took
her way to her own room, and locked herself in. She did not often, in
these days, give way to tears; when she did cry it was as a luxury, and
not from poignant cause. Her deep emotion was dry-eyed as of old. Now,
she did not cry, she sat still, her hands clasped below her knees, with
set white face gazing out on the far-off sea. For hours she sat there
lonely; staring fixedly all the time, though her thoughts were whirling
wildly. At first she had some vague purpose, which she hoped might
eventually work out into a plan. But thought would not come. Everywhere
there was the same beginning: a wild, burning desire to let Harold
understand her feeling towards him; to blot out, with the conviction of
trust and love, those bitter moments when in the madness of her
overstrung passion she had heaped such insult upon him. Everywhere the
same end: an impasse. He seemingly could not, would not, understand. She
knew now that the man had diffidences, forbearances, self-judgments and
self-denials which made for the suppression, in what he considered to be
her interest, of his own desires. This was tragedy indeed! Again and
again came back the remembrance of that bitter regret of her Aunt
Laetitia, which no happiness and no pain of her own had ever been able to
efface:
'To love; and be helpless! To wait, and wait, and wait; with heart all
aflame! To hope, and hope; till time seemed to have passed away, and all
the world to stand still on your hopeless misery! To know that a word
might open up Heaven; and yet to have to remain mute! To keep back the
glances that could enlighten, to modulate the tones that might betray! To
see all you hoped for passing away . . . !' At last she seemed to understand the true force of pride; which has in it
a thousand forces of its own, positive, negative, restrainful. Oh! how
blind she had been! How little she had learned from the miseries that
the other woman whom she loved had suffered! How unsympathetic she had
been; how self-engrossed; how callous to the sensibilities of others! And
now to her, in her turn, had come the same suffering; the same galling of
the iron fetters of pride, and of convention which is its original
expression! Must it be that the very salt of youth must lose its savour,
before the joys of youth could be won! What, after all, was youth if out
of its own inherent power it must work its own destruction! If youth was
so, why not then trust the wisdom of age? If youth could not act for its
own redemption . . . Here the rudiment of a thought struck her and changed the current of her
reason. A thought so winged with hope that she dared not even try to
complete it! . . . She thought, and thought till the long autumn shadows
fell around her. But the misty purpose had become real. After dinner she went up alone to the mill. It was late for a visit, for
the Silver Lady kept early hours. But she found her friend as usual in
her room, whose windows swept the course of the sun. Seeing that her
visitor was in a state of mental disturbance such as she had once before
exhibited, she blew out the candles and took the same seat in the eastern
window she had occupied on the night which they both so well remembered. Stephen understood both acts, and was grateful afresh. The darkness
would be a help to her in what she had to say; and the resumption of the
old seat and attitude did away with the awkwardness of new confidence. During the weeks that had passed Stephen had kept her friend informed of
the rescue and progress of the injured man. Since the discovery of
Harold's identity she had allowed her to infer her feeling towards him. Shyly she had conveyed her hopes that all the bitter part of the past
might be wiped out. To the woman who already knew of the love that had
always been, but had only awakened to consciousness in the absence of its
object, a hint was sufficient to build upon. She had noticed the gloom
that had of late been creeping over the girl's happiness; and she had
been much troubled about it. But she had thought it wiser to be silent;
she well knew that should unhappily the time for comfort come, it must be
precluded by new and more explicit confidence. So she too had been
anxiously waiting the progress of events. Now; as she put her arms round
the girl she said softly; not in the whisper which implies doubt of some
kind, but in the soft voices which conveys sympathy and trust:
'Tell me, dear child!' And then in broken words shyly spoken, and spoken in such a way that the
silences were more eloquent than the words, the girl conveyed what was in
her heart. The other listened, now and again stroking the beautiful
hair. When all was said, there was a brief pause. The Silver Lady spoke
no word; but the pressure of her delicate hand conveyed sympathy. In but a half-conscious way, in words that came so shrinkingly through
the darkness that they hardly reached the ear bent low to catch them,
came Stephen's murmured thought:
'Oh, if he only knew! And I can't tell him; I can't! dare not! I must
not. How could I dishonour him by bearing myself towards him as to that
other . . . worthless . . . ! Oh! the happy, happy girls, who have
mothers . . . !' All the muscles of her body seemed to shrink and
collapse, till she was like an inert mass at the Silver Lady's feet. But the other understood! After a long, long pause; when Stephen's sobbing had died away; when
each muscle of her body had become rigid on its return to normal calm;
the Silver Lady began to talk of other matters, and conversation became
normal. Stephen's courage seemed somehow to be restored, and she talked
brightly. Before they parted the Silver Lady made a request. She said in her
natural voice:
'Couldst thou bring that gallant man who saved so many lives, and to whom
the Lord was so good in the restoration of his sight, to see me? Thou
knowest I have made a resolution not to go forth from this calm place
whilst I may remain. But I should like to see him before he returns to
that far North where he has done such wonders. | Stoker, Bram - The Man |
He is evidently a man of
kind heart; perhaps he will not mind coming to see a lonely woman who is
no longer young. There is much I should like to ask him of that land of
which nothing was known in my own youth. Perhaps he will not mind seeing
me alone.' Stephen's heart beat furiously. She felt suffocating with
new hope, for what could be but good from Harold's meeting with that
sweet woman who had already brought so much comfort into her own life? She was abashed, and yet radiant; she seemed to tread on air as she stood
beside her friend saying farewell. She did not wish to speak. So the
two women kissed and parted. It had been arranged that two days hence the Stonehouse party were to
spend the day at Lannoy, coming before lunch and staying the night, as
they wanted in the afternoon to return a visit at some distance to the
north of Lannoy. Harold was to ride over with them. When the Varilands party arrived, Stephen told them of Sister Ruth's wish
to see Harold. Pearl at once proffered a request that she also should be
taken at some other time to see the Silver Lady. Harold acquiesced
heartily; and it was agreed that some time in the late afternoon he
should pay the visit. Stephen would bring him. Strangely enough, she felt no awkwardness, no trepidation, as they rode
up the steep road to the Mill. When the introduction had been effected, and half an hour had been
consumed in conventional small talk, Stephen, obedience to a look from
the Silver Lady, rose. She said in they most natural way she could:
'Now Sister Ruth, I will leave you two alone, if you do not mind. Harold
can tell you all you want to know about Alaska; and perhaps, if you are
very good, he will tell some of his adventures! Good afternoon, dear. I
wish you were to be with us to-night; but I know your rule. I go for my
ride. Sultan has had no exercise for five days; and he looked at me
quite reproachfully when we met this morning. Au revoir, Harold. We
shall meet at dinner!' When she had gone Harold came back from the door, and stood in the window
looking east. The Silver Lady came and stood beside him. She did not
seem to notice his face, but in the mysterious way of women she watched
him keenly. She wished to satisfy her own mind before she undertook her
self-appointed task. Her eyes were turned towards the headland towards which Stephen on her
white Arab was galloping at breakneck speed. He was too good a horseman
himself, and he knew her prowess on horseback too well to have any
anxiety regarding such a rider at Stephen. It was not fear, then, that
made his face so white, and his eyes to have such an illimitable sadness. The Silver Lady made up her mind. All her instincts were to trust him. She recognised a noble nature, with which truth would be her surest
force. 'Come,' she said, 'sit here, friend; where another friend has often sat
with me. From this you can see all the coastline, and all that thou
wilt!' Harold put a chair beside the one she pointed out; and when she
was seated he sat also. She began at once with a desperate courage:
'I have wanted much to see thee. I have heard much of thee, before thy
coming.' There was something in the tone of her voice which arrested his
attention, and he looked keenly at her. Here, in the full light, her
face looked sadly white and he noticed that her lips trembled. He said
with all the kindliness of his nature, for from the first moment he had
seen her he had taken to her, her purity and earnestness and sweetness
appealing to some aspiration within him:
'You are pale! I fear you are not well! May I call your maid? Can I do
anything for you?' She waved her hand gently:
'Nay! It is nothing. It is but the result of a sleepless night and much
thought.' 'Oh! I wish I had known! I could have put off my visit; and I could
have come any other time to suit you.' She smiled gently:
'I fear that would have availed but little. It was of thy coming that I
was concerned.' Seeing his look of amazement, she went on quickly, her
voice becoming more steady as she lost sight of herself in her task:
'Be patient a little with me. I am an old woman; and until recently it
has been many and many years since the calm which I sought here has been
ruffled. I had come to believe that for me earthly troubles were no
more. But there has come into my life a new concern. I have heard so
much of thee, and before thy coming.' The recurrence of the phrase
struck him. He would have asked how such could be, but he deemed it
better to wait. She went on:
'I have been wishful to ask thy advice. But why should not I tell thee
outright that which troubles me? I am not used, at least for these many
years, to dissemble. I can but trust thee in all; and lean on thy man's
mercy to understand, and to aid me!' 'I shall do all in my power, believe me!' said Harold simply. 'Speak
freely!' She pointed out of the window, where Stephen's white horse
seemed on the mighty sweep of green sward like a little dot. 'It is of her that I would speak to thee!' Harold's heart began to beat
hard; he felt that something was coming. The Silver Lady went on:
'Why thinkest thou that she rideth at such speed? It is her habit!' He
waited. She continued:
'Doth it not seem to thee that such reckless movement is the result of
much trouble; that she seeketh forgetfulness?' He knew that she was
speaking truly; and somehow the conviction was borne upon him that she
knew his secret heart, and was appealing to it. If it was about Stephen! If her disquiet was about her; then God bless her! He would be patient
and grateful. The Quaker's voice seemed to come through his thought, as
though she had continued speaking whilst he had paused:
'We have all our own secrets. I have had mine; and I doubt not that thou
hast had, may still have, thine own. Stephen hath hers! May I speak to
thee of her?' 'I shall be proud! Oh! madam, I thank you with all my heart for your
sweet kindness to her. I cannot say what I feel; for she has always been
very dear to me!' In the pause before she spoke again the beating of his
own heart seemed to re-echo the quick sounds of Stephen's galloping
horse. He was surprised at the method of her speech when it did come;
for she forgot her Quaker idiom, and spoke in the phrasing of her youth:
'Do you love her still?' 'With all my soul! More than ever!' 'Then, God be thanked; for it is in your power to do much good. To
rescue a poor, human, grieving soul from despair!' Her words conveyed
joy greater than she knew. Harold did not himself know why the air
seemed filled with sounds that seemed to answer every doubt of his life. He felt, understood, with that understanding which is quicker than
thought. The Silver Lady went on now with a rush:
'See, I have trusted you indeed! I have given away another woman's
secret; but I do it without fear. | Stoker, Bram - The Man |
I can see that you also are troubled;
and when I look back on my own life and remember the trouble that sent me
out of the world; a lonely recluse here in this spot far from the stress
of life, I rejoice that any act of mine can save such another tragedy as
my own. I see that I need not go into detail. You know that I am
speaking truth. It was before you came so heroically on this new scene
that she told me her secret. At a time when nothing was known of you
except that you had disappeared. When she laid bare her poor bleeding
heart to me, she did it in such wise that for an instant I feared that it
was a murder which she had committed. Indeed, she called it so! You
understand that I know all your secret; all her part in it at least. And
I know that you understand what loving duty lies before you. I see it in
your eyes; your brave, true eyes! Go! and the Lord be with thee!' Her
accustomed idiom had returned with prayer. She turned her head away,
and, standing up, leaned against the window. Bending over, he took her
hand and said simply:
'God bless you! I shall come back to thank you either to-night or to-
morrow; and I hope that she will be with me.' He went quickly out of the room. The woman stood for long looking out of
the window, and following with tear-dimmed eyes the movement of his great
black horse as he swept across country straight as the crow flies,
towards the headland whither Stephen had gone. * * * * *
Stephen passed over the wide expanse without thought; certainly without
memory of it. Never in her after-life could she recall any thought that
had passed through her mind from the time she left the open gate of the
windmill yard till she pulled up her smoking, panting horse beside the
ruin of the fisher's house. Stephen was not unhappy! She was not happy in any conscious form. She
was satisfied rather than dissatisfied. She was a woman! A woman who
waited the coming of a man! For a while she stood at the edge of the cliff, and looked at the turmoil
of the tide churning on the rocks below. Her heart went out in a great
burst of thankfulness that it was her hand which had been privileged to
aid in rescuing so dear a life. Then she looked around her. Ostensibly
it was to survey the ruined house; but in reality to search, even then
under her lashes, the whole green expanse sloping up to the windmill for
some moving figure. She saw that which made her throat swell and her
ears to hear celestial music. But she would not allow herself to think,
of that at all events. She was all woman now; all-patient, and
all-submissive. She waited the man; and the man was coming! For a few minutes she walked round the house as though looking at it
critically for some after-purpose. After the wreck Stephen had suggested
to Trinity House that there should be a lighthouse on the point; and
offered to bear the expense of building it. She was awaiting the answer
of the Brethren; and of course nothing would be done in clearing the
ground for any purpose till the answer had come. She felt now that if
that reply was negative, she would herself build there a pleasure-house
of her own. Then she went to the edge of the cliff, and went down the zigzag by which
the man and horse had gone to their gallant task. At the edge of the
flat rock she sat and thought. And through all her thoughts passed the rider who even now was thundering
over the green sward on his way to her. In her fancy at first, and later
in her ears, she could hear the sound of his sweeping gallop. It was thus that a man should come to a woman! She had no doubts now. Her quietude was a hymn of grateful praise! The sound stopped. With all her ears she listened, her heart now
beginning to beat furiously. The sea before her, all lines and furrows
with the passing tide, was dark under the shadow of the cliff; and the
edge of the shadow was marked with the golden hue of sunset. And then she saw suddenly a pillar of shadow beyond the line of the
cliff. It rested but a moment, moved swiftly along the edge, and then
was lost to her eyes. But to another sense there was greater comfort: she heard the clatter of
rolling pebbles and the scramble of eager feet. Harold was hastening
down the zigzag. Oh! the music of that sound! It woke all the finer instincts of the
woman. All the dross and thought of self passed away. Nature, sweet and
simple and true, reigned alone. Instinctively she rose and came towards
him. In the simple nobility of her self-surrender and her purpose, which
were at one with the grandeur of nature around her, to be negative was to
be false. Since he had spoken with the Silver Lady Harold had swept through the
air; the rush of his foaming horse over the sward had been but a slow
physical progress, which mocked the on-sweep of his mind. In is rapid
ride he too had been finding himself. By the reading of his own soul he
knew now that love needs a voice; that a man's love, to be welcomed to
the full, should be dominant and self-believing. When the two saw each other's eyes there was no need for words. Harold
came close, opening wide his arms, Stephen flew to them. In that divine moment, when their mouths met, both knew that their souls | Stoker, Bram - The Man |
Produced by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
_It isn't much of a secret, but
it's the only one. The trick is ..._
Don't Think About It
By WILLIAM W. STUART
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Worlds of If Science Fiction, November 1960. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Tommy wasn't really a timid child. Sometimes he didn't understand
things and was puzzled. More often, grown-ups couldn't or wouldn't
understand things that were perfectly clear to him and he was more
puzzled. Occasionally such things worried and even upset him a little. Then Momma and sometimes Daddy would translate bafflement into silly
adult terms and think that he was afraid. It was that way about the hole in the closet when Tommy was just a bit
over three. Tommy wasn't really afraid. Mr. Bear was afraid and the
thing did puzzle Tommy. So he asked about it, but he never did get any
sensible or satisfactory answers, and that did worry and perhaps even
upset him a little. But he wasn't afraid, even before Daddy finally told him, "Now, Tommy,
boy. Don't think about it and it won't scare you. Really, there is
nothing there to hurt you, if you just don't think about it. So don't
you think about it any more--there's Daddy's big boy." This certainly was not any sort of explanation. But still Tommy did try
hard not to think about it, as Daddy said. And now he really doesn't
think about it at all any more. Or about Aunt Martha, either. The hole was in the closet in Tommy's room. Tommy and Momma and Daddy
lived in a not very big, not very new frame house on the edge of the
city and Aunt Martha lived with them. Tommy didn't--at least not yet,
although there were promises--have any brothers or sisters. But he
did have his own room and a family of his own, too. It was the extra
bedroom and it had a closet that was cramped and with no light. Tommy
liked his room. It was small, with a small bed, and it belonged to
him, along with his family of Mr. Bear and Old Rabbit and Kokey Koala. It was also in easy crying range of Momma and Daddy's room and Aunt
Martha's room, so if Mr. Bear, who was the timid one, got frightened in
the night, Tommy could cry--purely in Mr. Bear's behalf--to bring help. Or at least company. Tommy and his family all liked the closet well enough too, except for
the shelf that was out of reach even from the "don't climb" stool. The
closet was good to hide in or play bear cave or rabbit hole and fine
for finding missing toys after Momma had a spell of playing cleaning
house. The day Tommy found the hole in the closet was the week after his
third birthday. Daddy was at work. Momma was out shopping. It was a
rainy afternoon. Aunt Martha was sitting with Tommy and the afternoon
television. * * * * *
He was in his room with his family and they all agreed as soon as they
heard the television coming on strong that it would be a very poor
afternoon to waste on a nap. Besides, Mr. Bear's feelings had been
hurt by having been somewhat left out of things recently in favor of
new birthday presents, now largely broken or tiresome. To make it up
to him, Tommy and Old Rabbit and Kokey all agreed to play bear cave in
the closet. It was a nice game and going well enough, except for some
grumbling from Kokey Koala, who always wanted to argue and claimed that
bears lived in trees, not caves. But then--and it was Mr. Bear's fault for wanting it darker, so he
could hibernate--the closet door shut tight. That didn't seem so
serious at first. It would only mean a scolding for being out of bed
when Aunt Martha would come to open it after Tommy hollered loud
enough. And then there was the hole in the closet, back in the corner
next to the broken drum. They all saw it and they heard the Ugly Thing
talking or thinking at them. It stretched out a part of itself at Mr.
Bear, who was the closest. It didn't grab Mr. Bear, but he was terrified just the same. And none
of them liked it. They didn't like it at all. The Ugly Thing couldn't
come out of the hole because the hole wasn't big enough yet, but it
tried and it was making the hole bigger. And it kept thinking at them,
red thoughts, and hungry, as it tore at the edges of the hole. The
family all looked to Tommy, so Tommy cried and yelled. Finally Aunt Martha heard him and came to open the door. Then the
afternoon sunlight streamed across the floor into the closet and the
ugly red thoughts from the Thing pulled back, far back, so you could
barely notice them, and you couldn't see the hole any more, even though
you knew it was still there. At least Tommy and Mr. Bear and Old Rabbit
and Kokey Koala knew. After she opened the closet door and carried Tommy from the closet to
the living room, Aunt Martha scolded. She wasn't really mad because
she had waited until a commercial interrupted her television program
before answering the cries from the closet. But she scolded because she
was Aunt Martha and scolding was what Aunt Martha did. A really good
cry, even one worked up strictly as a service for a companion, takes a
little time to turn off. Then, after a few settling gulps, Tommy tried
to explain. "Auntie. Aunt Martha, there's a hole in the cave--in the closet--and
there's a Thing inside of it." He looked at Mr. Bear whom he was holding by one foot and at Kokey,
dropped by Aunt Martha on the sofa, for confirmation. Then, quickly, he
wriggled down from Auntie's lap. Old Rabbit! * * * * *
Bravely, Tommy ran to the closet and was relieved. The door was open
and, in the gray afternoon light, the hole was still not to be seen. Old Rabbit, who always had a bad temper, was annoyed and snappish at
having been left behind. But he was there and all right. Tommy rescued
him and ran back to Aunt Martha. "It was hungry," he continued his explanation. Aunt Martha, as always, was difficult. "Who is hungry? You shouldn't be
hungry, Tommy. You just had your lunch an hour ago. Do you want a glass
of milk?" "Not me hungry." Tommy was impatient. Aunt Martha never seemed able to
grasp any idea more complex than a glass of milk or wet pants. Little
boys, in her mind, nearly always either wanted the one or had the
other. Such things she could and did attend to with a virtuous sense of
duty done. But anything else was beyond her. "Tommy! Are your pants wet?" Tommy sighed in resignation and wet his pants. It was the only thing
to do. Otherwise Auntie would fuss and fume, accomplishing nothing,
understanding nothing, for the rest of the afternoon. Ten minutes later, in dry pants, he finished an unwanted glass of milk. Aunt Martha, conscience appeased, returned to soap opera. | Stuart, William W. - Don't Think About It |
Tommy and his
family, nap safely forgotten, played away the afternoon--but not in the
closet or even, as was usual on rainy days, in Tommy's room. Instead,
finding Daddy's old briefcase full of papers, they played office in the
family room, with Old Rabbit grumbling about having to be Miss Wicksey,
who drove the electric typewriter in Daddy's office. Momma and Daddy came home together at a bit after five. Tommy took his
scolding about messing up Daddy's papers in good part. He had expected
it. But Aunt Martha was angry about the scolding she got for letting
him, mild though it was. In retaliation, she said, "Tommy, you were a naughty, naughty boy. And for being so naughty you must take your big bear and your rabbit
and the little bear or whatever the thing is and put them away in the
closet. And leave them there till tomorrow." "No! No, no, no, I won't! It isn't fair. They weren't bad. And the Ugly
Thing is in the hole and it might come out and it's hungry and--and my
family is all afraid." "Tommy!" Aunt Martha's voice was sharp. "You stop that nonsense and put
your toys--"
"Wait. Wait up now," said Daddy, who also lived in the grown-up world,
but who sometimes tried to understand things. "What is this about a
hole in the closet? What about something being hungry?" "That's all," said Tommy. "The Ugly Thing in the hole in the closet. It
_is_ hungry." There was more to it than that, of course, but how could a thing like
that be explained through a wall of grown, closed minds? There was
the hole in the closet. You couldn't exactly see it. You could only
sort of feel seeing it and the hairy Thing--at least it seemed hairy
and shapeless, or having many different shapes and a mouth and sharp
teeth--and it had reached out with something and touched Mr. Bear and
would have eaten him too, if he had blood. But then it had pulled back
from Mr. Bear and red hunger thoughts came stronger and stronger. Even
now, stretching out from the hole where it was hidden there in the
closet, Tommy could feel the reaching, greedy thoughts. But he couldn't
explain all that. "There is a hole in the closet," Tommy said again. * * * * *
But he knew that not even Daddy would understand. Of course Momma
wouldn't. Not Momma, who was loving but very busy and just sat so
often, dreaming or listening to baby sister that they said was in her
stomach, so big and fat now as to leave little lap room. Momma was
too occupied looking inward to look out much at Tommy. Daddy, to give
him credit, was nearly always willing to look, but there were so many
things he couldn't see. Still Tommy had to try. "The Ugly Thing in the hole. It wants something to eat." "Oh, Tommy! Such horrible nonsense!" That was Momma. She wasn't even
going to think about it. It is a question sometimes whether baby
sisters are worth all the bother and trouble. "Now, Tommy." Daddy was being helpful. "You say there is a hole in your
closet? And that there is something in the hole?" "Well-ll. Sort of." Really, the Ugly Thing wasn't so much in the hole
as on the other side of it. But that was close enough. "All right then, Tommy. Suppose you show it to me." "What?" "Show me the hole, Tommy." "Now?" "Yes." "The hole in the closet?" "Tommy!" "Yes, Daddy." This wasn't going to work out to anything good and Tommy
didn't want to go back to the closet and close the closet door anyway. The Thing didn't eat Mr. Bear because Mr. Bear didn't have blood. But
Daddy had and ... "Tommy!" They went to the closet. At least, if he was risking a Daddy, Tommy
thought, he was protecting Mr. Bear and the others. "Now where is this hole, Tommy?" "Over there by the corner." Tommy pointed. Daddy went into the closet to look. Tommy started to close the door. In
the black dark, Daddy would see what Tommy meant about the Thing in the
hole. From the outside, Tommy started to close the door. It was a small
closet and hardly big enough for both of them. "Tommy! What are you trying to do? Open that door." "But--" After all, the hole wasn't there, or scarcely seemed to be
there, except in the dark. "Open it up wider. Hm-m. I believe I do see. Wait till I get my
lighter.... Say, by George, I believe you're right. There _is_ a little
hole there. Looks like a mouse hole." There it was, as Tommy might have known. Grown-ups will always avoid
seeing the important things. Of course there was a mouse hole there,
the home of the little old Mr. Mouse with the wiggly nose and the gray
whiskers. He had been nice. But he wasn't there any more and Tommy had
a pretty clear idea of what had happened to him. That poor little old
Mr. Mouse had had blood. "But, Daddy--"
It was hopeless. "Dorrie! Martha!" Daddy's hunting instinct was
aroused. "Have we got a mouse trap? Any cheese? There is a hole in that
closet, a little old mouse hole and I'm going to--"
Well, perhaps this would be better than if he hadn't found anything. Tommy followed Daddy about as he finally located a mouse trap. No
cheese? He cut a little piece of meat for bait. Of course Tommy knew no
trap would catch the Ugly Thing. "What in the world happened to my lighter?" Daddy wanted to know. Tommy
didn't answer that. But at least everybody, even Aunt Martha, had
forgotten about shutting Tommy's family up in the closet. For now that
was enough. But later, after supper, after bath, after the shooting picture on the
TV, it was time for bed. "Daddy?" "Get on to bed now, son. Past bedtime. Hop to it." "Daddy, I want to sleep with you and Momma tonight." * * * * *
Well, it was a mighty dark night. The afternoon rain had built up into
a real storm. Mr. Bear was terrified. Kokey was scared and even tough
Old Rabbit didn't want to sleep in Tommy's room with the Ugly Thing in
the hole so hungry and waiting to rip its way out of the hole when it
got dark enough--and only the street light outside the room to keep
away the dark because they would never let Tommy keep his light on at
night. "My family and me don't want to sleep in my room tonight." "Now, Tommy, just because it's a little stormy--Daddy's big boy isn't
afraid of a little wind and rain?" "I'm not afraid, Daddy. It's my family. You know how families are. You
always say about Momma--"
"Never mind that now. To bed. Your own bed." "But Daddy, there's the Ugly Thing in the hole! And it's hungry!" "The mouse?" Daddy went to look at his trap, switching on the light in Tommy's room. He came back in a minute. "The little devil!" Did Daddy know? No. "The little devil got away with the bait, clean as a whistle. Only a
little plaster dust or something left in the trap where I put the meat." Mr. Bear shivered. "Now don't be foolish, Bear. You don't _have_ blood. The Ugly Thing won't get you," Tommy told him softly. But Mr. Bear
wouldn't listen. He was a cry-baby, a scaredy-cat. But to tell the
truth--the real, honest truth--the whole family and even Tommy didn't
feel too good about it. "Tommy? What was that you were saying?" "Daddy! | Stuart, William W. - Don't Think About It |
I wanna sleep with you and Momma. Me and my family. We're
scared of that Thing." Tommy knew it was no less than his duty to
protect them all. "Oh, now, Tommy! You don't mean to say you're afraid of a little old
mouse? A big boy like you?" "Well, Mr. Bear is--I don't--Daddy! It is there, honest it is, in that
hole and it's hungry and it'll come out in the dark and--"
"Tommy! A little mouse! Get on into your room now and no more argument." Tommy's face began to crumple. If he had to, he would fight this one
out all the way--tears, tantrum, kick, scream, gasp, hold his breath
and turn blue--
"Now, now, Tommy-boy." Daddy did mean well and sometimes he was even
right and so Tommy always did try to do what Daddy said. "Tommy, you
mustn't let things like that bother you. If we can't catch the little
mouse, forget it. There's nothing more we can do, so just don't think
about it. You see?" Sniff. "No." "Don't think about it, that's all. There is nothing there that can hurt
you, if you just don't think about it. So don't think about it--that's
Daddy's big boy." "Well-ll.... And then can we sleep with you and Momma?" Aunt Martha rang in her nickel's worth. "A boy ought to be ashamed to
be afraid of a little mouse." "It's not--"
"Not what?" "Uh--it's Mr. Bear that's afraid. Of the--"
"And you just stop that nonsense about those ridiculous stuffed
animals, you hear me? Nobody should make such a fuss about a little
mouse." "Momma does. Momma!" Tommy let two fat tears trickle down his cheeks, a
warning, but he meant them too. "Momma-a-a, can't we--"
"All right, all right! Stop this stupid wrangling! You know how it
gets on my nerves. For goodness' sake, let him sleep with us tonight. Anyway, _I_ don't blame him. I wouldn't sleep a wink in the same room
with a mouse. Be sure you shut our door tonight. Tight." "You're spoiling the child," said Aunt Martha sourly. "Auntie," said Tommy, "I bet you're chicken to let your door stay open." "Well!" huffed Aunt Martha. "The impertinence! I certainly _shall_ keep
my door open. No mouse is going to keep me from getting good, fresh
air." * * * * *
Tommy was a very bright little boy. Now, with the door shut in Momma
and Daddy's room, and Aunt Martha's door open, he wouldn't think about
the Ugly Thing in the hole--waiting for dark, real dark--to come
out--and eat. "All right, Tommy. This once you can sleep with your mother and me. Get
on to bed and mind you sleep quiet. And don't spread those stuff--your
family all over the bed either." "Yes, Daddy. And, Daddy--"
"What?" "I won't think about it now, the Thing in the hole." Tommy said his good nights. Tonight he even kissed Aunt Martha as if
he meant it. And he took his family and he went to bed in Momma and
Daddy's room. He did not think about the Ugly Thing. He went right to sleep, lying at
the edge of the big, big bed. Tommy, and Old Rabbit, and Kokey Koala,
and even Mr. Bear went right to sleep. Outside the wind blew hard and harder and the rain drove down and it
was dark. The television reception was bad. Everyone went to bed early. Good night. Lights out. In Tommy's room it was quite dark with only the faint, watery rays of
the street light on the corner swimming in through the rain. In the
closet there was a stirring, a fumbling, a tearing and the hole in the
blackness grew, was forced, bigger, wider, as the Thing pushed and
ripped at whatever was barring it from the warm, red, oozing food it
craved; it must have; it would have. And, in a sudden gust, the wind blew harder still. Somewhere in town,
blocks away, a wire fell and blue sparks flashed and crackled in
the dripping night. In Tommy's house the refrigerator went off, the
electric clocks stopped. The street light blinked once and was gone and
in Tommy's closet there was a sudden, mighty surge of effort, a break,
and something, not a sound, but something, a harsh and bloody sense or
feel of rending greed flowing outward from the closet in a wave. Aunt Martha, in her sleep, said, "No. Oh, no!" Daddy interrupted a snore with a strained grunt. Momma whimpered softly
and hugged to herself her swollen stomach. Tommy blinked and was awake. Soothingly, he patted Kokey and Old
Rabbit. He squeezed Mr. Bear's paw. Then he slipped his hand into the
opening in Mr. Bear's overalls and took out Daddy's cigarette lighter. He knew how to work it. But first he waited. "Don't think about it," Daddy had told him and he didn't think about
it, really. But he couldn't help feeling it. The Ugly Thing was out,
clear out of the hole now, and moving. He could feel that and the awful
hunger moving with it. Aunt Martha's room was closest and her door was
open. Momma and Daddy's room was closed. The Ugly Thing moved fast,
faster, and reached out, thirsting, hungering....
From Aunt Martha's room came the quavering wail and from the Thing
there flowed a sense of vicious, evil joy. There it was, but was it enough? Tommy hugged Mr. Bear once, tightly, and slipped noiselessly from the
bed. He wasn't thinking about it, he couldn't, he wouldn't think about
it. But he knew what he had to do. He had the lighter. At the bedroom
door he worked it. Opened the door a crack; thrust it out. And then, in
a little rush, back to bed where he lay quietly, and he didn't think
about it, he and Mr. Bear and Old Rabbit and Kokey Koala. * * * * *
After a little, the sense of feeding hunger was gone and the feel of
the Ugly Thing was gone, back into the hole in the closet, forced back
by the flickering yellow light of the flames started by the cigarette
lighter. Then, when the smell of smoke grew thick in the room and he
could hear the crackling of the fire burning the house, Tommy shook
Daddy awake. It wasn't hard to get out through the bedroom window, except for Momma. But she made it all right. And Tommy had a little trouble holding
tightly to each member of his family as Daddy lifted him out of the
window, but they made it all right too. Of course Aunt Martha didn't
make it--how could she? But it was fun watching the firemen in the rain
from the Krausmeyer's porch next door as the house and the closet with
the hole in the closet all burned up together. Aunt Martha? "Funny thing," Tommy heard one fireman say to another the next day, in
the sunshine, as they looked over the smouldering ash, "the old bat
must have been as dry as dust inside. Twenty years in the department
and I never did see a body so completely consumed--teeth, a little
bone.... Hey, get on away from here, son! Get along on home with you!" Daddy and Momma said Aunt Martha had gone away on a trip. Tommy might
have known pretty well where she had gone, if he had thought about it,
but he didn't think about it. None of his family did. What for? Aunt
Martha had had to go away, sure. She went. All right, who missed Aunt
Martha? Anyway, there were lights in all of the closets in the new house they
moved to and lots of room for everyone, even baby sister. | Stuart, William W. - Don't Think About It |
And there
were no holes, not even mouse holes, in any of the closets. | Stuart, William W. - Don't Think About It |
Produced by Sankar Viswanathan, Greg Weeks, and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
Transcriber's Note:
This etext was produced from Weird Tales August-September 1936. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.
copyright on this publication was renewed. The Medici Boots
By PEARL NORTON SWET
_The amethyst-covered boots had been worn by an evil wanton
in medieval Florence--but what malefic power did they carry
over into our own time?_
* * * * *
For fifty years they lay under glass in the Dickerson museum and they
were labeled "The Medici Boots." They were fashioned of creamy
leather, pliable as a young girl's hands. They were threaded with
silver, appliqued with sapphire silks and scarlet, and set on the tip
of each was a pale and lovely amethyst. Such were the Medici boots. Old Silas Dickerson, globe-trotter and collector, had brought the
boots from a dusty shop in Florence when he was a young man filled
with the lust for travel and adventure. The years passed and Silas
Dickerson was an old man, his hair white, his eyes dim, his veined
hands trembling with the ague that precedes death. When he was ninety and the years of his wanderings over, Silas
Dickerson died one morning as he sat in a high-backed Venetian chair
in his private museum. The Fourteenth Century gold-leaf paintings, the
Japanese processional banners, the stolen bones of a Normandy
saint--all the beloved trophies of his travels must have watched the
dead man impassively for hours before his housekeeper found him. The old man sat with his head thrown back against the faded tapestry
of the Venetian chair, his eyes closed, his bony arms extended along
the beautifully carved arms of the chair, and on his lap lay the
Medici boots. It was high noon when they found him, and the sun was streaming
through the stained-glass window above the chair and picking at the
amethysts, so that the violet stones seemed to eye Marthe, the old
housekeeper, with an impudent glitter. Marthe muttered a prayer and
crossed herself, before she ran like a scared rabbit with the news of
the master's death. [Illustration: "She imparted to me those terrible secrets of the Black
Arts which were deep in her soul."] Silas Dickerson's only surviving relatives, the three young
Delameters, did not take too seriously the note which was found among
the papers in the museum's desk. Old Silas had written the note. It
was addressed to John Delameter, for John was his uncle's favorite,
but John's pretty wife, Suzanne, and his twin brother, Doctor Eric,
read it over his shoulder; and they all smiled tolerantly. Old
Dickerson had written of things incomprehensible to the young moderns:
"The contents of my private museum are yours, John, to do with as you
see fit. Merely as a suggestion, I would say that the Antiquarian
Society would snap up many of the things. A very few are of no
particular value, except to me. One thing I want done, however. The
Medici boots of ivory leather must either be destroyed or be put for
ever under glass in a _public_ museum. I prefer that they be
destroyed, for they are a dangerous possession. They have gone to the
adulterous rendezvous celebrated in the scandalous verses of Lorenzo
the Magnificent. They have shod the feet of a murderess. They were
cursed by the Church as trappings of the Devil, inciting the wearer to
foul deeds and intrigue. "I shall not disturb you with all their hideous history, but I repeat,
they are a dangerous possession. I have taken care to keep them under
lock and key, behind plate glass, for more than fifty years. I have
never taken them out. Destroy the Medici boots, before they destroy
you!" "But he did take them out!" cried Suzanne. "Uncle was holding the
boots when--when Marthe found him there in the museum." John reread the note, and looked thoughtfully at his young wife. "Yes. Perhaps he was preparing to destroy them right then. Of course, I
think the poor old fellow took things a bit too seriously--he was very
old, you know, and Marthe says he practically lived in this museum of
his." "And why call a pair of old boots dangerous? Of course, we all know
the Medicis were plenty dangerous, but the Medici boots--that's
ridiculous, John. Besides----"
Suzanne paused provocatively, her red lips pouting. She looked down at
her trimly shod feet. "Besides, I'd like to try on those Medici
boots--just once. They're lovely, I think." John was frowning thoughtfully. He scarcely heard her suggestion. He
spoke to Eric, instead, and his voice seemed a bit troubled. "I believe that Uncle _was_ getting ready to destroy those boots that
very morning he died; else why should he have taken them from their
case--after fifty years?" "Yes, I believe you're right, John, because that note is dated fully a
month before Uncle's death. I think he brooded over leaving those
boots to one he cared for. Poor old man!" "I wouldn't call him so, Eric. He had his dreams of adventure realized
more fully than most men. I--I think I'll do as he says. I'll destroy
the Medici boots." "If you'd feel better about it," assented his brother. But Suzanne did
not speak. She was looking at her shoe, pursing her lips thoughtfully,
seeing her feet encased in the gay embroideries of the Medici boots. John seemed relieved by his decision. "Yes, I'd better do it. We'll be
getting back to town in a few days. Old Erskine, you know, Uncle's
lawyer, is coming down this afternoon. Then soon we'll be on the wing,
Susie and I--Vienna, Paris, the Alps--thanks to Uncle." "Maybe you think I'm not thankful for my chance at a bit more work at
Johns Hopkins," said Eric, and they did not again speak of the Medici
boots. * * * * *
The deaf old lawyer of the Dickerson estate arrived, and Suzanne, with
the easy capability that was part of her charm, saw that he was made
comfortable. At seven there was a perfect dinner served on the awninged terrace
outside the softly lit living-room. The stars aided the two little
rosy lamps on the table, and swaying willows beside a stone-encircled
pool swung the incense of the garden about them. As dinner ended, John took from the pocket of his coat a small,
limp-leather book. He pushed back his dessert plate and laid the book
on the table, tapping it with a finger as he spoke. "This is the history of the Medici boots. It was in the little
wall-safe in the museum. After all Uncle said of the Medici boots,
shall we read it?" And turning to the old lawyer, he told of Silas
Dickerson's letter concerning the boots. Erskine shook his head, smiling. "Most collectors get an exaggerated
sense of the supernatural. Read this, by all means--it should prove
interesting." "Yes, read it, John." Suzanne and Eric spoke almost together. So, in the circle of rosy light at their little table, John read the
story of the Medici boots. | Swet, Pearl Norton - The Medici Boots |
It was not a long story and it was told in
the language of an anonymous translator, but as John read on, his
listeners were drawn together, as by a spell. They scarcely breathed,
and the summer night that was so mildly beautiful seemed to take on a
sense of hovering danger. "In the palace of Giuliano de' Medici I have lived long. I am
an old woman now, as the years are reckoned in this infamous
place, though I am but fifty and three. "Separated from my betrothed, duped, sold into the marble
labyrinth of this hateful palace, it was long before my
spirit broke and I went forth, bejeweled and attired in
elegance, among the silk-clad Florentines. I was labeled the
most beautiful mistress of any of the Medici. I was smirked
at, fawned upon for my lord's favors, obscenely jested about
in the orgies that took place in the great banquet hall of
the palace. "But in my heart always lay the remembrance of my lost love,
and in my soul grew black hatred for the Medici and all their
kind. I, who had dreamed only of a modest home, a kind
husband, black-haired, trusting little children, was made a
tool of the Medici infamy. "In time, I almost felt myself in league with the Devil. Secretly, and with a growing sense of elation, I made
frequent rendezvous with a foul hag whose very name was
anathema to the churchly folk of Florence. In her hole of a
room in a certain noisome street, she imparted to me those
terrible secrets of the Black Arts which were deep in her
soul. It was amusing that she was paid in Medici gold. "The corruption of the Medici bred in them fear; in me a sort
of reckless bravery. It was I who poisoned the wine of many a
foe of the Medici. It was I who put the point of a dagger in
the heart of the old Prince de Vittorio, whose lands and
power and palaces were coveted by my lord, Giuliano. "After a time, bloodshed became an exhilaration to me; the
death agonies of those who drank the poisoned cup became more
interesting than the flattery of the Medici followers. Even
the ladies of the house of the Medici did me the honor of
their subtly barbed friendliness. "Through this very friendliness, I conceived my plan of sweet
revenge upon the monsters who had ruined my life. With so
great a hatred boiling in my soul that my mind reeled, my
senses throbbed, my heart rose in my throat like a spurt of
flame, I cursed three things of exquisite beauty with all the
fervor of my newly learned lessons in devilish lore. "These three beautiful objects I presented to three ladies of
the house of Medici--presented them with honeyed words of
mock humility. A necklace of jeweled links--I pledged myself
to the Devil and willed that the golden necklace would
tighten on the soft throat of a lady of the Medici while she
slept, and strangle her into black death. A bracelet of
filigree and sapphires--to pierce by its hidden silver needle
the blue vein in a white Medici wrist, so that her life's
blood would spurt and she would know the terror that the
house of the Medici gave to others. "Last, and most ingenious, a pair of creamy boots, pliable,
embroidered in silver and silks, encrusted with amethysts--my
betrothal jewels. In my hatred I cursed the boots, willing
that the wearer, as long as a shred of the boots remained,
should kill as I had killed, poison as I had poisoned, leave
all thoughts of home and husband and live in wantonness and
evil. So I cursed the beautiful boots, forgetting, in my
hate, that perhaps another than a Medici might, in the years
to come, wear them and become the Devil's pawn, even as I am
now. "In my life, the Medici will have the boots, of that I feel
sure; but after that--I can only hope that this bloody
history of the boots may be found when I am no more, and may
it be a warning. "I have lived to see my gifts received and worn, and I have
laughed in my soul to see my curses bring death and terror
and evil to three Medici women. I know not what will become
of the golden necklace, the bracelet, or the boots. The boots
may be lost or stolen, or they may lie in a Medici palace for
age on age, but the curse will cling to them till they are
destroyed. So I pray that no woman, save a Medici, will ever
wear them. "As I live and breathe and do the bidding of the lords of
Florence, the accursed Medici--I have told the truth. When I
am dead, perhaps they will find this book, and, in hell, I
shall know and be glad. "MARIA MODENA DI CAVOURI. "Florence, 1476." * * * * *
"Whew!" said old Erskine. John laughed. "I don't suppose this charming history would have been
any more thrilling if I had read it from the original book, in
Italian, of course. Wonder where Uncle got it! There was no mention of
it being in the library--but there it was." "Now, will you destroy those boots?" asked Eric, and he was not
entirely in jest. But Suzanne said, laughingly, "Not before I find out if the Medici
lady had a smaller foot than I! Are they still in the museum, John?" "Never you mind, my dear. They're not for the likes of you." "Oh, don't be silly, John. This is 1935, not the Fifteenth Century." And they laughed at Suzanne's earnestness. The book that held the story of the Medici boots lay on the white
cloth, looking like a book of lovely verse. Suzanne, a small white blur against the summer dark, sat quietly while
the men talked of Silas Dickerson, his life, his mania for collecting,
his death that had so fittingly come to him in his museum. It was
nearly twelve when Suzanne left the men on the terrace and with a
quiet "good-night" entered the living-room and crossed to the long,
shining stairs. The men went on with their talk. Once, John, looking toward the
jutting wing that was the museum, exclaimed, "Look at that, will you? Why--I'd swear I saw a light in the museum." "You locked it, didn't you?" asked Eric. "Of course; the key's in my desk upstairs. H-m. I'm probably mistaken,
but it did seem as though a light shone there just a moment ago." "Reflection from the living-room window, I think. Country life is
making you jittery, John." And Eric laughed at his brother. The men sat on, reluctant to leave the beauty of the night, and it was
almost two o'clock when they finally went inside. John said, "I think I'll not disturb Suzanne." And he went to sleep in
a wide four-postered bed in a room next to his wife. Eric and the old
lawyer were in rooms across the hall. * * * * *
The still summer night closed about the house of Silas Dickerson, and
when the moon lay dying against the bank of cloud, puffed across a sky
by the little wind that came before dawn, young Doctor Eric Delameter
awoke, suddenly and completely, to a feeling of clammy apprehension. | Swet, Pearl Norton - The Medici Boots |
He had not locked his door, and now, across the grayness of the room,
he saw it slowly opening. A hand was closed around the edge of the door--a woman's hand, small
and white and jeweled. Eric sat straight and tense on the edge of his
bed, peering across the room. A woman, young and slender, in a long,
trailing gown, came toward him smiling. It was Suzanne. With a gasp, Eric watched her approach till she stood directly before
him. "Suzanne! You are asleep? Suzanne, shall I call John?" He thought that perhaps he should not waken her; there were things one
must remember about sleep-walkers, but physicians scarcely believed
them. Eric was puzzled, too, by her costume. It was not a night-robe she
wore, but an elaborate, trailing dress upon which embroideries in
silver shone faintly. Her short black curls were bound about three
times with strands of pearly beads, her slim white arms were loaded
with bracelets. The pointed toes of little shoes peeped beneath her
gown, little shoes of creamy leather. An amethyst gleamed on each
shoe. The sight of these amethystine tips affected Eric strangely, much as
though he had looked at something hideously repulsive. He stood up and
put out a hand to touch Suzanne's arm. "Suzanne," he said, gently. "Let me take you to John. Shall I?" Suzanne looked up at him, and her brown eyes, usually so merry, were
deeply slumberous, not with sleep, but with a look of utter abandon. She shook her pearl-bound head slowly, smilingly. "No, not John. I want you, Eric." "Mad! Suzanne must be mad!" was Eric's quick thought, but her caress
was swifter than his thought. Both jewel-laden arms about his neck,
Suzanne kissed him, her red lips pouting warmly upon his. "Suzanne! You don't know what you're doing." He grasped both her hands
in his and with a haste that would have seemed ludicrous to him had he
viewed the scene in a picture-play, he hurried her out of his room and
across the hall. Eric opened her door softly and with no gentle hand shoved Suzanne
inside her room. She seemed like a little animal in his grasp. She
hissed at him; clawed and scratched at his hand. But when he had shut
the door, she did not open it again, and after a moment he went back
to his own room. * * * * *
His mouth set in a firm line, his heart beating fast, Eric locked his
door with a noiseless turn of the key. It was almost dawn, and the
garden lay like a rare pastel outside his window; but Eric saw none of
it. He scarcely thought, though his lips moved, as if chaotic words
were struggling for utterance. He looked down at his hand, where two long red scratches oozed a
trickle of blood. After he had washed his hand, he lay down on his bed
and covered his eyes with his arm, against the picture of Suzanne. Above all else there stood out the gleaming tips of her little shoes,
as he had glimpsed them through the dim light of his room when she
came toward him. "She wore the Medici boots! The Medici boots! Suzanne must have taken
them from the museum!" Over and over he said it--"The Medici boots! The Medici boots!" Eric rather dreaded breakfast, but when he came down at eight, to the
terrace where a rustic table was set invitingly, he found John and the
lawyer awaiting him. John greeted his brother affectionately. "Morning, old boy! Hope you slept well. Why so solemn? Feeling seedy?" "No, no. I am perfectly all right," Eric replied hastily, relieved
that Suzanne was not present. He added with a scarcely noticeable
hesitation, "Suzanne not coming down?" "No," replied John, easily. "She seemed to want to sleep awhile. Sent
her regrets. She'll see us at lunch." John went on. "I certainly had a nightmare last night. Thought a woman
in a long, shining dress came into my room and tried to stab me. This
morning I found that a glass on my bed-table was overturned and
broken, and, by George, I'd cut my wrist on it." He showed a jagged cut on his wrist. "Take a look, Doctor Eric." Eric looked at the cut, carefully. "Not bad, but you might have bled
to death, had it been a quarter of an inch to the left. If you like,
I'll fix it up a bit for you after breakfast." Eric's voice was calm enough, but his pulse was pounding, his heart
sick. All morning he rode through the countryside adjoining the
Dickerson estate, but he let the mare go as she liked and where she
liked, for his mind was busy with the events of the hour before dawn. He knew that the slash on his brother's wrist was made by steel, not
glass. Yet when the ride was over, he could not bring himself to tell
John of Suzanne's visit. "She must have been sleep-walking, though I can't account for the way
she was decked out. I've always thought Suzanne extremely modest in
her dress, certainly not inclined to load herself with jewelry. And
those boots! John must get them today and destroy them, as he said. Silly, perhaps, but----" His thoughts went on and on, always returning
to the Medici boots, in spite of himself. * * * * *
Eric came back from his ride at eleven o'clock, with as troubled a
mind as when he began it. He almost feared to see Suzanne at lunch. When he did meet her with John and Mr. Erskine on the cool, shaded
porch where they lunched, he saw there was nothing to fear. The
amorous, clinging woman of the hour before dawn was not there at all. There was only the Suzanne whom Eric knew and loved as a sister. Here, again, was their merry little Suzanne, somewhat spoiled by her
husband, it is true, but a Suzanne sweetly feminine, almost childish
in a crisp, white frock and little, low-heeled sandals. Their talk was
lazily pleasant--of tennis honors and horses, of the prize delphiniums
in the garden, of the tiny maltese kitten which Suzanne had brought up
from the stables late that morning and installed in a pink-bowed
basket on the porch. She showed the kitten to Eric, handling its tiny
paws gently, hushing its plaintive mews with ridiculous pet names. "Perhaps I'm a bigger fool than I know. Perhaps it never happened,
except in a dream," Eric told himself, unhappily. "And yet----"
He looked at the red marks on his hand, marks made by a furious
Suzanne in that hour before the dawn. Too, he remembered the cut on
John's wrist, the cut so near the vein. Eric declined John's invitation to go through the museum with him that
afternoon, but he said with a queer sense of diffidence, "While
you're there, John, you'd better get rid of the Medici boots. Creepy
things to have around, I think." "They'll be destroyed, all right. But Suzanne is just bound to try
them on. I'll get them, though, and do as Uncle said." Eric remained on the terrace, speculating somewhat on just what John
and Suzanne would do, now that the huge fortune of Silas Dickerson was
theirs. Eric was not envious of his brother's good luck, and he was
thankful for his share in old Silas' generosity. At five o'clock he entered the hall, just as Suzanne hurried in from
the kitchen. She spread our her hands, laughingly. | Swet, Pearl Norton - The Medici Boots |
"With my own fair hands I've made individual almond tortonis for
dessert. Cook thinks I'm a wonder! Each masterpiece in a fluted silver
dish, silver candies sprinkled on the pink whipped cream! O-oh!" She made big eyes in mock gluttony. Eric forgot, for a moment, that
there ever had been another Suzanne. "You're nothing but a little girl, Suzie. You with your rhapsodies
over pink whipped cream! But it's sweet of you to go to such trouble
on a warm afternoon. See you and the whatever-you-call-'ems at
dinner!" "They're tortonis, Eric, tortonis." Suzanne ran lightly up the stairs. Eric followed more slowly. He
entered his room thinking that there were some things which must be
explained in this house with the old museum. * * * * *
Twenty minutes before dinner Eric and John were on the terrace waiting
for Suzanne. John was talkative, which was just as well, as he might
have wondered at his brother's silence. Eric was torn between a desire
to tell his brother his reluctant suspicions concerning the Medici
boots and Suzanne and his inclination to leave things alone till the
boots could be destroyed. He said, diffidently, "John, has Suzanne those--those boots?" John chuckled. "Why, yes. I saw them in her room. Do you know she went
down to the museum last night and took those boots? It _was_ a light I
saw in the museum. It was her light. Suzanne has ideas. Wants to wear
the boots just once, she says, to lay the ghost of this
what's-her-name--Maria Modena. Suzanne says she couldn't sleep much
last night. Got up early and tried on those boots. Well, I think I'll
destroy 'em tomorrow. Uncle's wish, so I'll do it." "Tried them on, did she? Well, if you should ask me, I'd say that
history of the boots was a bit too exciting for Suzanne. It _was_ a
haunting story. Uncle must have swallowed it, hook, line, and sinker,
eh?" "Of course. His letter showed that. But Suzanne lives in the present,
not the past, as Uncle did. I suppose Suzanne will wear those boots,
or she won't feel satisfied. I don't exactly like the idea, I must
confess." Something like an electric shock passed through Eric. He said,
somewhat breathlessly, "I don't think Suzanne ought to have the Medici
boots." John looked at him curiously and laughed. "I never knew you were
superstitious, Eric. But do you really think----"
"I don't know what I think, John. But if she were my wife, I'd take
those boots away from her. Uncle may have known what he was talking
about." "Well, I think she's intending to wear them at dinner, so prepare to
be dazzled. Here she is, now. Greetings, sweet-heart!" Suzanne swept across the terrace, her gown goldly shimmering, pearls
bound about her head, as Eric had seen her in the dim hour before
dawn. Again the rows of bracelets were weighting her slim arms. And
she wore the Medici boots, the amethyst tips peeping beneath her
shining dress. John, ever ready for gay clowning, arose and bowed low. "Hail,
Empress! A-ah, the dress you got in Florence on our honeymoon, isn't
it? And those darned Medici boots!" Suzanne unsmilingly extended her hand for him to kiss. John arched an eyebrow, comically. "What's the matter, honey? Going
regal on me?" And retaining her hand, he kissed each of her fingers. Suzanne snatched away her hand, and the glance she gave her husband
was one of venomous hauteur. To Eric she turned a look that was an
open caress, leaning toward him, putting a hand on his arm, as he
stood beside his chair, stern-lipped, with eyes that would not look at
John's hurt bewilderment. The three sat down then, in the low wicker chairs, and waited for
dinner--three people with oddly different emotions. John was hurt,
slightly impatient with his bride; Eric was furious with Suzanne,
though there was in his heart the almost certain knowledge that the
Suzanne beside them on the terrace was not the Suzanne they knew, but
a cruelly strange woman, the product of a sinister force, unknown and
compelling. No one, looking on Suzanne's red-lipped and heavy-lidded beauty, could
miss the knowledge that here was a woman dangerously subtle, carrying
a power more devastating than the darting lightning that now and then
showed itself over the tree-tops of the garden. Eric began to feel
something of this, and there shaped in his mind a wariness, a defense
against this woman who was not Suzanne. "No _al fresco_ dining tonight," said John, as the darkening sky was
veined by a sudden spray of blue-green light. "Rain on the way. Pretty
good storm, I'd say." "I like it," replied Suzanne, drawing in a deep breath of the sultry
air. John laughed. "Since when, sweet-heart? You usually shake and shiver
through a thunderstorm." Suzanne ignored him. She smiled at Eric and said in a low tone, "And
if I should lose my bravery, you would take care of me, wouldn't you,
Eric?" Before Eric could reply, dinner was announced, and he felt a relief
and also a dread. This dinner was going to be difficult. John offered his arm to his wife, smiling at her, hoping for a smile
in return, but Suzanne shrugged and said in a caressing voice, "Eric?" * * * * *
Eric could only bow stiffly and offer his arm, while John walked
slowly beside them, his face thoughtful, his gay spirits gone. During
dinner, however, he tried to revive the lagging conversation. Suzanne
spoke in a staccato voice and her choice of words seemed strange to
Eric, almost as though she were translating her own thoughts from a
foreign tongue. And finally Suzanne's promised dessert came, cool and tempting in its
silver dishes. Eric saw a chance to make the talk more natural. He
said, gayly, "Johnny, your wife's a chef, a famous pastry chef. Behold
the work of her hands! What did you say it was, Suzanne?" "This? Oh--I do not know what it is called." "But this afternoon as you were leaving the kitchen--didn't you say it
was almond something or other?" She shook her head, smiling. "Perhaps it is. I wouldn't know." The maid had placed the tray with the three silver dishes of dessert
before Suzanne, that she might put on them the final sprinkling of
delicate silver candies. Daintily, Suzanne sifted the shining bubbles
over the fluff of cream. Eric, watching her, felt very little surprize
when he saw Suzanne, with almost legerdemain deftness, sift upon one
dish a film of pinkish powder which could not be detected after it lay
on the pink cream. Waiting, he knew not for what moment, he watched Suzanne pass the
silver dishes herself, saw her offer the one with the powdered top to
John. And it was then that their attention was attracted by the
entrance of the maltese kitten. So tiny it was, so brave in its
careening totter across the shiny floor, small tail hoisted like a
sail, that John and Eric laughed aloud. Suzanne merely glanced down at the little creature and turned away. The kitten, however, came to her chair, put up a tiny paw and caught
its curved claws in the fragile stuff of Suzanne's gown. | Swet, Pearl Norton - The Medici Boots |
Instantly,
her face became distorted with rage and she kicked out at the kitten,
savagely, and with set lips. It seemed to Eric that the amethysts on
the Medici boots winked wickedly in the light of the big chandelier. The kitten was flung some ten feet away, and lay in a small, panting
heap. John sprang up. "Suzanne! How could you?" He took the kitten in his
arms and soothed it. "Why its heart's beating like a trip-hammer," he said. "I don't
understand, Suzanne----"
As the kitten grew quiet, he took a large rose-leaf from the
table-flowers and spread it with a heaping spoonful of the pink cream
from his dessert. Then he put the kitten on the floor beside it. "Here, little one. Lick this up. It's fancy eating. Suzanne's sorry. I
know she is." The kitten, with the greed of its kind, devoured the cream, covering
its small nose and whiskers with a pinkish film. Suzanne sat back in
her chair, fingering her bracelets, her eyes on Eric's face. John
watched the kitten, and Eric watched, too--watched tensely, for he
sensed what would happen to it. The kitten finished the cream, licked its paws and whiskers and turned
to walk away. Then it spun around in a frantic convulsion, and in a
moment lay dead on its back, its tiny fed tongue protruding, its paws
rigid. Outside, the storm glowered, and in the chartreuse light of the forked
lightning, the great chandelier was turned to a sickly radiance. Thunder rolled like muffled drums. Suddenly Suzanne began to laugh, peal after peal of terrible laughter,
and then, after a glare of lightning, the big chandelier winked out. The room was plunged into stormy darkness, and they could hear the
rain lashing through the garden to hurl itself against the windows. "Don't be frightened, Suzanne." It was John's solicitous voice, and it
was followed by a quick movement from Suzanne's side of the table. A sheet of blue-green light illumined the room for an instant, and
Eric saw Suzanne struggling in her husband's arms, one jeweled arm
uplifted and in her hand a shining dagger. * * * * *
With a bound that was almost involuntary, Eric reached them and struck
at the knife in Suzanne's hand. It clattered to the floor. And as
though the fury of the storm and Suzanne's madness both were spent,
the slashing rain and the lightning stopped abruptly, and Suzanne
ceased to struggle. "Light the candles, Eric--quickly--on the mantel to your right! Suzanne is hurt!" In the candle-light, palely golden and swaying, Eric saw Suzanne
slumped limply in John's arms. The hem of her golden dress was redly
wet and one cream-colored little shoe was fast becoming soaked with
blood from a slash across the instep. "Let's get her over to the window-seat, Eric. Do something for
her!--Oh, sweet-heart, don't moan like that!" There was no question or
reproach in John's voice, only compassion. Eric took off his coat, rolled up his sleeves. His mouth was grimly
set, his hands steady, his voice crisply professional. "Take off those
shoes, John. She'll--be herself, then. I mean that she'll be
Suzanne--not a murderess of the Medicis. Take them off, John! They're
at the bottom of this." "You mean----" John's voice was breathless, his lips trembling. "I mean those hellish boots have changed Suzanne from a sweet and
lovely girl to--well, do as I tell you. I'll be back with gauze and
some things I need." When Eric hurried back, there were three servants grouped at the
dining-room door. He spoke to them bruskly and they left, wide-eyed
and whispering. Eric closed the door. While the wet leaves tapped against the windows and stars struggled
through the clouds, Eric worked, silently, expertly, grimly, by the
light of a flashlight held in John's unsteady hands and the light of
the flickering candles. The house lights were all snuffed out by the
storm. "There," Eric gave a satisfied grunt. The brothers stood looking at
Suzanne, who seemed asleep. Her golden dress glimmered in the
candle-light and the pearls were slipping from her dark hair. The
Medici boots lay in a limp and bloody heap in a corner, where Eric had
flung them. "When she awakes, I shouldn't tell her about any of this, if I were
you, John." "There are things you haven't told me, Eric, aren't there? Things
about--the Medici boots?" Eric looked steadily at his brother. "Yes, old fellow; and after I've told
you, those boots must be destroyed. We'll burn them before this night is
over. We mustn't move her now. We'll go out on the terrace--it's wet
there, but the air is fresh. Did you smell--something peculiar?" For, as they passed the corner where the Medici boots lay slashed and
bloody, Eric could have sworn that there came to him a horrid odor,
fetid, hotly offensive--the odor of iniquity and ancient bloody death. | Swet, Pearl Norton - The Medici Boots |
Produced by Greg Weeks, Stephen Blundell and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net
The MONSTER
By S. M. TENNESHAW
What will cosmic rays do to a living organism? Will they destroy life, or produce immortality? The eminent Dr. Blair Gaddon thought he knew ...
Fred Trent pulled his coupe into the curb and leaned his head out the
open window beside him. "Hi, Joan, need any help?" He called to a trim-looking girl in a nurse's uniform. Joan Drake was
holding on to a leash with both hands, and her slender body was tugging
against the leash as she strained against the pull of a Great Dane on
the other end. She looked over her shoulder as Trent called out, her blonde hair
glinting in the warm afternoon sunlight. Blue eyes smiled an impish
greeting at him. "Hello, Fred. No thanks. Brutus and I get along famously." Trent opened the car door and got out. He walked up the sidewalk and
stood beside the girl. [Illustration: They watched as white-hot flames shot from the base of
the cradled rocket. There was a tremendous roaring, and then the rocket
slowly lifted upward.] "Business must be mighty slack for the great gland specialist, Stanley
Fenwick. Is this all he can find for his pretty nurse to do?" The girl sniffed. "Walking Brutus around has its compensations. At least
he doesn't get fresh--like some people I know." Fred grinned as he saw the huge dog suddenly turn on its leash and raise
itself off the ground to stick out a long rapier-like tongue and lick
the girl's cheek before she could move her head away. "Down, Brutus! Down!" she called out, half-laughing. Trent stepped in and pulled the big animal away from the girl, patting
the dog's head as he did so. "What was that you said about getting fresh?" Trent asked her. "Looks to
me like the dog's life is the best around the Fenwick offices." "Just don't get any ideas!" Joan Drake shot back. "I've already got them," he replied. "Which reminds me, am I seeing you
tonight?" The girl held a tight grip on the leash and looked at him coyly. "Let's see. We'll take in a movie, stop for a bite to eat at Joe's
Hamburger Palace, and then drive out to North Butte. You'll park the car
and then you'll ask me when I'm going to quit my job and settle down
raising a family for you, and I'll say--"
"You'll say not until I get the biggest scoop in Arizona, a big raise,
and a bonus as a down payment on a house," he completed her sentence. "There! You see? We might just as well not have our date. In effect,
we've had it already." He looked at her for a long moment, and when he spoke again his voice
had lost its humorous note. "You forgot one very important item. When I ask you that usual question,
and after you give your usual answer, I'll take you in my arms and tell
you how much you mean to me, and--"
"You win," she interrupted him. "I had forgotten about that." * * * * *
The dog started to pull against the leash again and Fred reached out to
help her hold the big animal in check. Then she looked at him again. "What brings you to the outskirts of Tucson? Don't tell me there's a big
story breaking on the edge of town." He shook his head. "Not exactly. I'm on my way to the Rocket Research
Proving Grounds. Just a routine story on the experiment they're going to
pull off this evening. I've got to interview Mathieson, Gaddon, and a
few other scientists on the project." The girl laughed. "That's something of a coincidence. Dr. Blair Gaddon
is in Dr. Fenwick's office right now." Fred Trent's eyebrows raised in surprise. "That so? Something wrong with him?" "No. He's just having a physical checkup. Seems to be worried about his
heart. Dr. Fenwick didn't need me since it's a routine job, so I took
Brutus for a walk." Trent nodded. "That's a bit of luck. I think I'll stick around and give
Gaddon a lift out to the Proving Grounds. I wanted to talk to him
anyway." "In that case," the girl replied, "you can give me a hand putting Brutus
back in his kennel. Once he gets out he's something of a problem." Fred nodded, taking the leash from her hands and feeling the big dog tug
against him. "Never could figure out why Fenwick wanted a big hound like this. Seems
to me a terrier would be more practical." "That's a matter of taste," Joan answered. "Dr. Fenwick is very fond of
Brutus--and so am I for that matter. But tell me something about this
experiment you're covering." They had turned in at a large Spanish type house that Trent knew served
as a combination living quarters and office for the famous gland
specialist. He shrugged. "Don't know much about it myself. They're shooting off this new type
rocket, a really big affair, loaded with all sorts of instruments. Some
sort of experiment with cosmic rays. The rocket will go up to the outer
layers of the Earth's atmosphere, where a clocked mechanism will release
a parachute-attached section containing the instruments. This will float
back to the surface of the Earth. "There is one interesting thing about it though. They're also including
a live animal with the instruments. A cat I believe. They want to see
what effect the cosmic rays will have on a living creature." The girl turned a shocked face toward him as they walked up the steps to
the front door of the house. Trent could see a panel in the center of
the door that opened from the inside, and over it, the sign, _Doctor is
in, please ring_. "But I think that's positively cruel!" Joan Drake said earnestly. "Subjecting an innocent animal to what may be certain death!" Fred laughed at her concern. "Hold on, now. You should be the last one
to take such an attitude. Doesn't medical science experiment on animals
to find out about human ailments?" "That's different," the girl insisted, opening the door and leading the
way into a long hall. "Doctors know what they are doing--but this is a
sheer waste of life ..."
* * * * *
Trent let the dog pull him down the hall toward a door at the end which
he knew opened on the backyard where the Great Dane was kept. "Seems to me it's much the same thing," he answered her. "Scientists
want to explore the mysteries of space, and the only way to do it is
with an animal. Or would you like to make the trip--maybe I can arrange
it? Would make a big story, just the one I've been waiting for." "I believe you would at that!" she mocked, opening the rear door. "Here, give me the leash." Trent handed over the leash to her and watched as she released the huge
dog. Brutus flicked out a long tongue once again and caught the girl's
cheek in a wet caress before she straightened. "Brutus! Now get along with you!" The dog took a leisurely bound through the door and into the backyard. Trent glanced through the door at the tall fenced-in yard with the large
kennel that might well have served as a small garage. He stood beside
the girl watching the big animal romp for a few moments, then she shut
the door and they turned back down the hall. | Tenneshaw, S. M. - The Monster |
"I'll have to go inside now, Fred," she said. "If you want to wait for
Gaddon, have a seat. It shouldn't be long." She started to turn in at a door marked private, when Fred pulled her
gently around and before she could stop him, had kissed her. "I was getting mighty jealous of Brutus. Now I feel better." "I don't know which of you I prefer," she shot back, then smiled and
pulled away from him. He watched her open the office door and close it after her. * * * * *
He had lit his second cigarette and gotten halfway through his third
magazine on the rack beside the chair when the office door opened again. He heard the pleasant voice of Dr. Stanley Fenwick. "If every man had a heart as strong as yours, Blair, we wouldn't need
half the doctors we have." Then he heard the deep, gruff voice of Dr. Blair Gaddon half laugh. "Thanks a lot, Fenwick. You've taken a load off my mind. Goodbye, Miss
Drake." He heard Joan reply and then saw Dr. Fenwick usher the physicist out
into the hall. Trent rose as the two men approached. "Why, hello, Trent," Dr. Fenwick said. Trent nodded at the tall, white-coated figure of the famous gland
specialist. "Afternoon, doctor." Fenwick smiled at him. "Don't tell me you're waiting to see me?" Fred shook his head. "Not exactly. I was waiting to see Dr. Gaddon
though. I was on my way out to the Proving Grounds and I happened to
stop by and talk to Miss Drake." He turned to the physicist, a bulky man
with firm, hard features, who moved his large body with an almost
cat-like grace. "I hope you don't mind, Dr. Gaddon. Possibly I can give you a lift back
out to the Base. I'm covering the launching for my paper." Gaddon smiled at him. "But of course I don't mind. And I'll take you up
on that offer. It'll save me a trip back to town to take one of the
staff cars." * * * * *
The words had a friendly note to them, as did the smile on Gaddon's
face. And yet, somehow, Fred Trent found that he did not like this man. It was nothing he could put his finger on, nothing he could rationalize,
unless it was the coldly calculating look in the scientist's eyes. "That's fine, doctor," Trent replied. "Shall we go?" He turned and said good-bye to Fenwick and passed a smiling glance at
the girl. He could see her blush slightly as Fenwick caught the glance
and laughed. Then they were out of the house and Trent led the way to
his car. Inside, he started the motor and drove away. Beside him, Gaddon lit a
cigar and blew a long plume of smoke through the open window. "You said you wanted to talk to me, Trent?" Fred nodded. "That's right, doctor. I'm writing up the rocket experiment
for my paper, and I thought maybe you could give me a few details of
interest." He paused for a moment, then asked: "Would it be too personal
to ask if your visit to Dr. Fenwick had anything to do with the coming
experiment?" Gaddon shot a quick glance at him. "Why do you ask that?" Fred Trent shrugged. "It was just a thought. I heard Dr. Fenwick talking
about your heart, but you look pretty healthy to me, so I thought maybe
it was because Fenwick is a gland specialist and you might be talking to
him about examining the cat after the rocket returns ..."
Gaddon laughed roughly. "A mighty clever reasoning, Trent, but not quite
correct. The fact is, I was seeing the doctor for personal reasons. Just
a physical checkup. It had nothing to do with the rocket experiment or
the effect of the cosmic rays on the animal we're including in the
experiment." "It was just a thought, doctor," Trent replied, as he moved the coupe
out on the open highway away from Tucson and toward the Rocket Proving
Grounds on the desert flats in the distance. "So now that we've disposed of that, what else would you like to know?" Gaddon asked him, a peculiar edge to his voice that Trent did not miss. "Well, I would like to get a first hand bit of information on just
exactly what you plan to prove with this experiment. If I'm correct, Dr.
Mathieson, the head of the project, contends that cosmic rays may be
lethal, and this experiment is to prove his point." The physicist snorted. "It is no secret that Mathieson and myself
disagree violently on that subject." Trent's eyebrows raised. "Is that so? I wasn't aware of it?" Gaddon paused, seeing that his words had slipped out too freely. Finally
he said, "What I meant to say, Trent, is that up until now it has not
been a public issue of disagreement. And I would prefer to have it
remain a private matter until after the experiment." "I see," Trent mused. "You have my word that I won't print anything you
say without your permission. But just what is the difference of opinion
between you and Mathieson?" Gaddon took a long pull at his cigar and waited a few moments before
replying. It was apparent to Trent that he was debating continuing the
subject with a newspaperman. But Trent had gauged the man correctly. There was a flair of vanity in Gaddon that dated back to his English
ancestry. Trent remembered that Gaddon, quite a figure in English
scientific circles, had created a stir when he had come over to the
United States to assist in rocket research at the Arizona proving
grounds. It seemed that Gaddon had not wanted to take a back seat to the
famed American scientist, Mathieson. It had made a few gossip columns in
the newspapers before Washington put an official clamp on the matter. * * * * *
Now, as Trent waited for the Englishman to reply, he could almost sense
the thoughts that were going through Gaddon's mind. The Englishman was
debating whether to take an open stand against the viewpoints of his
American colleague. But Trent felt that the British stubbornness in the
man would make him reveal his own theories. Especially since Trent had
already promised not to print anything without Gaddon's permission. That
would give him an opportunity to gloat safely, should his own ideas be
proven correct. "Very well, Trent, I'll take you at your professional word to keep this
matter confidential. But if what I contend is correct, you'll have a big
story to tell." Trent waited expectantly, not wanting to break the Englishman's train of
thought. "The fact is, Trent, that Mathieson is all wrong. To go even further,
most of your American scientists don't have the haziest idea of exactly
what the cosmic rays are. We in Britain have made quite exhaustive
studies of the phenomena." Trent didn't bother to argue with him. He only nodded his head. It would
have been silly, he knew, to contradict Gaddon, to tell him that the
English didn't know a thing more about the cosmic rays than the American
scientists, that American science had made, and was continually making,
exhaustive research into that scientific field of study on as great if
not more so a scale than Britain could possibly achieve. It was only
Gaddon's vanity talking, Trent knew, so he let him put in the barb of
ridicule, waiting. | Tenneshaw, S. M. - The Monster |
"I was sent over here, as you may know, to aid in the current
experiment. To formulate it as a matter of fact. This test is being
conducted to determine just what effect cosmic rays will have on a
living organism. As I said, Mathieson, and your other scientists are of
the opinion that the rays are lethal. That they will destroy life. In
effect, that they are death rays. "But I contend that they are wrong. What would you say if I told you
that cosmic rays are the very source of life and energy in the
universe?" Trent whistled judiciously, and noted that Gaddon's face smiled at the
apparent surprise Trent evinced. "You find that a startling statement?" Trent nodded. "I'd say that it sounded like the beginning of a very
interesting theory." "And you would be right," Gaddon replied, warming to his subject. "It is
my contention that the cosmic rays will prove to be the fountain of
youth that men have sought through the ages. That they will react on the
glands of a living creature and produce immortality. "Now take your choice. Whose theory would you rather believe? Mathieson's idiotic claims of a death ray, or mine as a source of the
utmost benefit to science?" Trent took a moment before replying. When he did so, he spoke with tact,
and also with the feeling that his trip to Fenwick's office had proven
very valuable. For there was a story here. A big story. "I'd say, doctor, that I'd like to believe your theory was correct. But
isn't it a little premature to be so definite about it?" Gaddon snorted. "No more premature than Mathieson's. And I'll tell you
something else, Trent. You may not realize it, but you're about to take
part in what may be the biggest story of the century. And when it
breaks, you'll remember our conversation here. I intend to prove that
your American scientists are wrong." Trent noticed the personal emphasis that Gaddon put in his last
statement, but he was drawn away from the conversation as he turned the
coupe into the guarded entrance to the proving grounds. There was a moment of credential flashing to the guards, and a
respectful salute to the scientist in the car beside Trent. Then Trent
moved his coupe through the entrance and up the cement roadway to the
Administration building. As Gaddon got out of the car he turned to Trent. "I'll leave you here. The members of the Press will be conducted to the
launching site at dusk. I'll see you then. In the meantime, don't forget
that you've given your word not to release any of the information I've
given you." Trent nodded and watched him walk away. He followed the Englishman with
his eyes, a frown crossing his face. There was something too cocksure
about the man. His ridicule of American scientists could be ignored, but
the way he spoke about his theory, as if it had already been a proven
fact against the ideas of Mathieson....
A faint chill ran up Fred Trent's back. He couldn't explain it. But it
was there. An ominous note of foreboding. He shrugged it off and left his car to walk toward the Administration
building. * * * * *
The remaining hours of the afternoon dragged by in a monotony of idle
speculation. Trent listened to the gathered newspapermen discussing the
coming experiment at dusk, accompanied them as Dr. Mathieson, the head
of the project, conducted them on a tour of the project, to the
launching site, and then back to the central building. The launching site itself had been an impressive sight. The huge
rockets, much in appearance like the famed V2 of World War II, but on a
much larger scale, were cradled in their launching platforms like some
huge monsters about to be unleashed into the unsuspecting heavens. They had listened as Mathieson explained the various number of
instruments that were being included in the first rocket, to record its
hurtling trip through the atmosphere to the outermost layers of the
Earth's surface. And they had been told of the other, and to the gathered newspapermen,
the most interesting part, the inclusion of a cat in the rocket, in a
large oxygen-fed chamber, to study the effects of the cosmic rays on a
living creature. Then back to the central building. Back to wait. And the tension began
to mount. For the shadows were lengthening, the sun sinking behind the
horizon to the west. The moment was now close at hand. * * * * *
A stocky figure detached itself from the shadows beside the huge bulk of
the laboratory building and slowly edged out into the dusk. It paused momentarily, to survey the scene. Sharp eyes scanned the
looming rockets and their launching platforms, watchful, alert. They
finally settled upon the armed guard who walked a measured distance back
and forth in front of the rockets. Then the figure moved forward again,
cautiously, purposefully. The distance from the giant rockets shortened gradually, and then the
guard, turning to retrace his steps, saw the approaching figure. There was a snapping sound as a rifle was brought into position, and a
rapping command barked out. "Halt! Who goes there?" The shadowy figure halted abruptly a short distance away from the guard. And a voice answered. "Dr. Blair Gaddon." The guard's rifle snapped into present arms and then back to the
soldier's right shoulder. "Oh, it's you, sir. Is there anything wrong? The launching is set for
fifteen minutes from now, isn't it?" Gaddon walked slowly up to the soldier and the guard could then see his
face in the thickening shadows. "That's right," Gaddon replied. "I'm making a last minute inspection." The guard nodded. "Dr. Mathieson and the newspapermen will be along any
minute, sir?" Gaddon moved closer to the soldier, and then suddenly his hand came out
of his coat pocket and there was a gun in it. "Drop your rifle, soldier. Quick!" The guard stared at the scientist in shocked astonishment. "What is this, sir? A gag?" Gaddon motioned with his gun. "It is no gag! Do as I say--or must I shoot?" * * * * *
There was an ominous note in Gaddon's voice. And a strained quality to
it that told the guard the man meant what he said. Very slowly the
soldier removed the rifle from his shoulder and dropped it to the
ground. Gaddon motioned with his gun. "Now step back! Move!" The guard moved slowly back a pace, and then the Englishman stepped
forward and kicked the rifle away from the man. Then he motioned around
the rocket. "Now move over around the side of the number one rocket to the far side
of number two." He watched as the guard turned and began to walk slowly around the huge
base of the waiting rocket. He followed the soldier. "I don't know what this is all about, Dr. Gaddon," the guard protested. "But I can tell you one thing, you're playing with the United States
Government right now. When Dr. Mathieson hears about this--"
"When Dr. Mathieson hears about this, soldier, I'll be a long way from
here--out at the edge of space itself!" | Tenneshaw, S. M. - The Monster |
Gaddon could hear the guard draw in his breath sharply, but the man kept
walking around to the far side of the second rocket cradle. "You can't mean that you're going to go up--"
The soldier's voice broke off uncertainly and Gaddon laughed shortly. "You are a discerning man, soldier. That is exactly what I intend to do. And I warn you, don't make a false move or I'll shoot. My plans are made
and I intend to carry them out!" They had reached the far side of the second rocket now, away from view
of the rest of the buildings, out of sight. Away in the distance the
faint outlines of the great wire fence circling the testing grounds
could be seen, and beyond that, the twinkling lights of Tucson, already
visible in the dusk. "This is far enough," Gaddon said suddenly. He watched as the soldier halted. Then Gaddon moved up quickly behind
the man. Before the soldier sensed what was about to occur, Gaddon's
hand raised over his head and the butt of the weapon in his hand crashed
against the back of the man's head. There was a soft groan in the shadows as the soldier crumpled limply to
the ground. In the silence that followed, Gaddon's tense breathing was
the only sound. He looked down at the still body of the unconscious man,
then he quickly turned and retraced his footsteps back the way he had
come. When he had reached the far side of the first rocket, he stopped before
the metal steps of the cradle leading up to the closed door of the
rocket. He looked quickly about him, making sure that nobody was in
close proximity, then he threw his gun under the rocket beside the rifle
of the soldier, and ran up the steps. A cool breeze sprang up in the western night and whispered softly around
Gaddon as he fumbled for a moment with a switch set in the smooth side
of the rocket beside the sealed door. There was a click, finally, and the door slid open. Gaddon took a last look about him and then quietly slipped through the
opening. A moment later there was the sound of the door sliding shut. Inside the rocket, Gaddon lit a small pocket flash and looked around
him. A soft sound struck his ears. The mewing sound of a cat. He turned
the flash on the startled animal and a low laughter crept from his
throat. He moved through the large instrument chamber then and sat on the floor
beside the cat. Then the flash went out and his laughter came again ...
* * * * *
"All right, gentlemen, the time has come. In a few minutes an automatic
control, synchronized with controls in the rocket will be set off in the
main laboratory building. If we want to watch the launching we'll have
to hurry." Fred Trent listened to the voice of Mathieson, and saw the famed
American scientist start out of the central lobby toward the launching
site. The gathered newspapermen followed, their voices filled with
excitement now that the moment had come. Trent followed along with them, but felt a peculiar tenseness within
him. He had been watching for Gaddon to make his appearance. But as yet
the Englishman had not showed up. Was it possible that he wasn't going
to watch the rocket launching? As Trent followed the others out into the
gathering night, he frowned to himself. It was certainly strange. And
entirely unlike the blustering manner Gaddon had displayed on the drive
back from Tucson. Or had the man suddenly realized that he had made a
fool of himself and was taking this easy way out? But that too didn't seem natural. And Trent found himself edging
forward through the ranks of the newsmen, until he had reached the side
of Mathieson. The scientist was talking to one of the journalists as they rounded the
corner of the Administration building. Now the rockets were in sight,
standing tall and immense in the shadows. Mathieson held his hand up in a gesture of halt, and the men behind him
drew into a compact circle. Fred turned to Mathieson. "Dr. Mathieson, isn't Dr. Gaddon going to be here for the launching?" The head of the rocket project turned to Trent. Fred could see a
suddenly puzzled look in his eyes. "Yes, that is strange ..." Then he laughed. "I suppose Gaddon is in the
laboratory supervising the firing controls. Well, if he wants to miss
the show, that's his fault. He knows the schedule." Trent accepted the scientist's words without replying. But he still
wasn't satisfied. What was it that Gaddon had said in the car about the
biggest story of the year? What had the man meant? Question after
question arose in Trent's mind as he stood there, and always the queer
feeling inside him grew in intensity. He could not place his finger on
it, but somehow, he knew that something was wrong. But then his suspicions were put aside for the moment as he heard
Mathieson say:
"All right, gentlemen, the time is nearly here. In precisely one minute
the rocket will be fired." The statement was made with a quiet eagerness, and then suddenly the
gathered witnesses grew silent. Trent's eyes, along with the others, fastened on the looming bulk of the
waiting rocket. And the seconds ticked off in Fred's mind. As he counted them, he thought that it seemed impossible that within a
very few moments that gigantic hulk of smooth, tapered metal would
dislodge itself from the cradle it rested in with a burst of roaring
flame. That in another few seconds it would shoot into the blackened
sky, and in a few short minutes would reach unbelievable heights in the
heavens, to the edge of space itself before the automatic controls
released the instrument section to be returned safely to earth. And the seconds passed. "Time!" Trent heard the voice of Mathieson rap the word out sharply. And then there was a roar of sound from the cradled rocket. A spear of flame shot from its base, exploding the night into a
brilliant display of pyrotechnics. * * * * *
The roaring grew louder as the tremendous power of the now unleashed
rockets took hold of the night air. Fred watched as the flames grew
white-hot bright, and then he saw the gigantic rocket shudder in its
cradle. The shudder grew into a spasm of movement, and then slowly, but steadily
growing faster, the rocket lifted from its cradle. Fred's eyes were fastened on the rocket now, a feeling of awe sweeping
through him. He suddenly realized how puny man was against the forces
man could unleash. Forces that here were being utilized to scientific
ends, but forces that upon a moment's notice, could in turn be unleashed
upon the rest of humanity in a burning, devastating terror of death. And as the thought flitted across his mind, he saw the rocket gather
speed as it left its cradle. It was now rising in a swift, sure arc,
lashing into the dark sky like a fury. And then the terrible speed of the rocket took hold against the forces
of gravity and it shot into the heavens, its roaring becoming a fading
hiss of sound, the brilliant flash of flame from its exploding tubes, a
receding beacon of light that gradually faded to a pinpoint far over
their heads. | Tenneshaw, S. M. - The Monster |
After the terrific thunder of sound that had accompanied the launching
of the rocket, the sudden silence now was almost palpable. The gathered
witnesses stood mutely, awe still in their eyes, their ears still
ringing with the sound of the takeoff. Finally the voice of Mathieson broke the quiet night air. "Well, gentlemen, that's it. Tomorrow morning we'll scout the returned
section. It should land somewhere in the open country to the south. We've computed that pretty carefully. I guess that's about all for--"
His voice broke off suddenly and Fred Trent heard what must have
distracted the scientist. A man was shouting from the vicinity of the second rocket, and as they
looked, a dim figure could be seen staggering away from the side of the
other rocket, coming slowly toward them. "Good Lord!" Mathieson breathed. "What's that man doing out there? He
could have been killed!" Then suddenly they saw the staggering figure stumble on the ground. And then Trent and the others were racing across the ground to the side
of the fallen man. When they reached him, Mathieson came forward and knelt beside the
figure. "Why, it's one of the guards!" he said in shocked surprise. And it was then that the strange feeling of foreboding hit Fred again. As he knelt beside the groaning guard, it swept over him in a chilling
wave. He lifted the man's head from the ground and the guard opened his
eyes. He recognized the face of Mathieson as the scientist looked
anxiously in his direction. "Good heavens, man, what happened? You were ordered to leave five
minutes before launching time!" The guard's mouth opened as he struggled to a sitting position. The
man's hand reached up and touched the back of his head painfully. "Sir--Gaddon--Dr. Gaddon attacked me ..."
There was a momentary stunned silence as the soldier's words sunk in on
the gathered men. "_What?_" Mathieson's voice was incredulous. And as Trent watched the soldier nod his head, the suspicion he had felt
suddenly overwhelmed him in a grim realization. Even as the soldier
blurted out pain-filled words, Trent knew somehow what he was going to
say. "Gaddon--he pulled a gun on me ... He forced me to the far side of
number two--he said he was going up in the rocket--he said he had
plans--then he hit me with the gun ... I came to when the rocket went
off--I was away from the blasts, luckily ..."
Then the soldier was standing on his feet again, swaying as he fought to
clear his fogged senses. But Trent was no longer aware of the soldier. And he saw that Mathieson
was no longer looking at the guard. For a brief instant their eyes met,
and Trent saw a stunned look in the scientist's, then Fred's gaze swept
up into the night. Up into the darkened sky where, miles above them, the
hurtling rocket was even now reaching the apex of its flight. Up where a man rode on a perilous trip into the unknown. * * * * *
Gaddon hunched in the darkness of the rocket, waiting. He had counted
the remaining minutes off, one by one. And he knew that finally the
moment was at hand. It would be too late now to stop him. They had not noticed his absence,
and if they had, they would not delay the launching for him. He had
taken that fact into consideration. And now that the moment was close to completion, he felt a glowing sense
of triumph within him. He would now show those fools, and especially
Mathieson. He would prove conclusively that cosmic rays were what he had
said they were--a source of the energy of life, a fountain from which
youth and vitality would pour, making his body immortal. He would go
down in history as one of the greats of science. A man who had risked
his life to prove his theory. A man who would be the first to achieve
the goal of the ages, the dream of the philosophers, eternal life. The triumph would be his. _All_ his! And the rocket tubes exploded into sound. Gaddon tensed in the darkness, gripping the safety straps he had
attached to himself. Beside him he felt the cat let out a frightened
mewing sound as the roar of the exploding rocket power grew. He felt the
furry body rubbing against his side, seeking sanctuary against this
dread sound. And then the rocket trembled with sudden movement. It was slow at first, but then it grew faster, and Gaddon felt a faint
intensity of fear in his temples at the shuddering power of that
movement. And then he felt the blood draining from his head, making him faint with
dizziness as the rocket accelerated suddenly into a terrible burst of
speed. He could feel it moving swiftly through the atmosphere now, feel the
tortured rush of air that whipped against the sides of the projectile in
a moaning dirge that mingled with the roar of the exploding rocket fuel. And as the seconds passed, he became accustomed somewhat to the
increasing velocity of the projectile, and the dizziness passed from his
head. Then he became aware of the trembling body of the cat beside him
and a soft laughter rose in his throat. But it died stillborn as the roar of the rockets grew to a thundering
hiss now in his ears. And he felt the cool sweetness of the automatically released oxygen fill
the chamber about him and he drank it into his lungs hungrily. With each second now, he knew the projectile was racing higher into the
rarefied atmosphere, heading steadily out to where the air of earth
would be almost non-existent. And a grim smile crossed his face in the darkness, for he knew that
shortly the rocket would enter the outermost layers and the cosmic rays
would play with all their energies upon the projectile. And he tensed suddenly. There was a glow that sprang into being in the chamber about him. It was dim at first. But it grew steadily in intensity around him,
revealing the interior of the chamber in its weird light. An exultation swept through him then. He knew they had entered the field
of the cosmic rays, and that the manifestation of light he saw was a
result of those forces of nature. Beside him the cat mewed plaintively in fear and huddled closer against
Gaddon's body. His eyes watched the tiny creature for a moment and then
swept around the large chamber at the massed instrument panels that were
recording every minute fraction of a second of the flight. And the glow grew. And suddenly the hissing of the exploding rocket fuel began to diminish
in volume. The apex of the flight was nearly at hand then. And the glow around Gaddon began to color. From a weird phosphorescent
whiteness it changed to a dull but intense yellow. And with the change,
a strange feeling crept through his body. * * * * *
It tugged at him with invisible hands. It played upon his every nerve,
his every fiber, the innermost feelings of his sensibility. It grew
stronger, this alien probing within him, grew as the glow pulsed in the
chamber around him. And suddenly, instead of a fierce feeling of triumph, a sense of dread
swept through him. | Tenneshaw, S. M. - The Monster |
He fought at the gripping sensations within him,
tried to dispel them, to no avail. They grew stronger, like invisible
hands that were changing the very essence of life inside him. And as the thought passed through his suddenly tortured mind, he
realized that was exactly what was taking place. A change. A change
beyond his comprehension, beyond the understanding of any man. Beyond--
And the whining fearful mew of the cat beside him changed. It tensed
against his body, and the whine in its animal throat became an irate
hiss. He looked down and saw the hackles rising on the back of the cat,
saw the creature looking up at him now, not with wide frightened eyes of
appeal, but with a ferocity of wildness that brought a chill to his
inner being. And the glow grew around him, brilliant yellow in texture now. And with
the increasing brilliance of the light, the feeling of change grew
within him. It was stronger than he now. It held his every heartbeat in its pulsing
grip. It throbbed in his temples, ached to the ends of his toes, set
his body aflame with it. And the cat suddenly lunged against him, its sharpened claws biting
through his garments and into his flesh. His hands reached down in a quick movement and gripped the body of the
cat. He tore the raking claws away from his body and held the cat in the
air beside him. The creature writhed in his grasp, fighting madly to escape. And as his
grip tightened on the animal, the eyes of the cat suddenly locked with
his. He felt the forces within him reach a crescendo at that moment. And his
body was frozen immobile, his eyes locked on the cat's eyes, burning
into the animal, the animal burning into him. Burning and burning ... It could only have been a matter of seconds, he knew. But they were
seconds that stretched into the farthermost reaches of eternity. Seconds
that lived a million years and passed in another fleeting instant. And then he could move again. And he felt strange as he moved. It was as if he was another person, as
if the body he moved was alien to him, as if it had never belonged to
him, to any man, to any thing. And his eyes tore away from the now dulled expression in the cat's eyes. He did not find it strange that this was so. He knew in some inner sense
that the mighty life force in him had quelled the cat. Had stilled the
fighting in its feline eyes. And he saw his hands clutching the body of the cat. He stared at them for a long disbelieving moment. For they were not the
hands he had known. They were not the hands of Blair Gaddon. They were
not the hands of any man. They were long and tapered and claw-like. There was dark fuzzy fur around them, fur that was cat-like. Deep within him a fear struggled upward through his mind. A cold dread
that forced his lips to move, to utter a gasp of the terror he felt. And the sound left his lips. It left his lips and echoed terribly in his ears. A harsh sound. A
mewing sound. _A cat sound ..._
The creature in his grasp struggled feebly then. It was a small
movement, a movement without vitality, almost without life. And as the
creature moved, a sense of rage welled up inside him. A rage that he
could not control, an anger that he wanted to unleash to its fullest. And as it took possession of him, the human part of his mind shrieked
and forced words from his lips. "_You fiend! You fiend of hell!_"
And his fingers crept up to the neck of the cat and closed in a mighty
grip. He felt the animal give a single desperate effort in his grasp,
but his grip tightened and he saw the mouth of the creature open wide
and heard a faint hissing gasp as its tongue stuck far out and its eyes
bulged in a last moment of life. Then the animal lay limp in his claw-like hands and he dropped it to the
floor of the rocket chamber, a growl of frustration leaving his lips. He stared at the cat's body for a moment, then his fingers stole up and
touched his face. He felt the hairy coarseness of it, the furry tingle
of his once smooth skin. And he screamed into the now fading glow that
he knew was the energy of the cosmic rays. "No! No! It can't be true! I haven't _changed_ like this! I--I--_meowrr_ ..."
Around him the thunder of the rocket fuel suddenly vanished into
silence, and then the rocket gave a lurch. Deep within his mind he knew that the instrument section had been
released from the main body of the projectile, and even now he knew the
sealed chamber was falling back toward the earth, back toward the
atmosphere where the parachute would take hold and drift the chamber
safely down to the Arizona soil. And a dread closed over him in that moment. Back to the men. Back to the
things of men. Back he must go, a mewing thing that was not a man. A
thing that he felt was taking hold of him, driving the last vestige of
human instinct from him. He fought it. He fought it mewing on the floor of the rocket chamber. * * * * *
"He must have gone mad!" Fred Trent pulled his gaze from the sky and looked with stunned eyes at
the figure of Dr. Mathieson standing beside him. The scientist was
trembling with an inner feeling, and his head was shaking in disbelief. "Gaddon! The man is going to his death! It's insane!" Again Mathieson's voice broke the silence in the huddled group of men. Then the newspapermen came to life and excited talk became a jabber of
words around them. Trent took the arm of Mathieson and turned him. He
tried to lead the scientist away from the newspapermen but one of them
stepped forward and grabbed his arm. "But why did he do it, doctor? The man must have had a reason!" Mathieson shook his head numbly. "I--I don't know, unless ..." his voice trailed off for a moment and
then he spoke again. "Unless he really believed what he said ..."
"What did he say, doctor?" the newsman asked. There was a puzzled note to Mathieson's voice as he answered. "He disagreed with me on the supposed effects of the cosmic rays. It has
been my contention that they are of lethal effect, and Gaddon
maintained that I was wrong. He kept insisting that they were a source
of life energy. That was why we decided to experiment with an animal--to
see what effect the rays would have on a living creature ...
"But this! I never dreamed of such a possibility--to prove his point he
signed his own death warrant!" "That's a story, doctor, a real story!" Trent heard the newsman exclaim excitedly. And then it came to him that
the real story was as yet untold. The real story that had been unfolded
in his car earlier that day. Fred moved suddenly away from the clamor of the newsmen around the
scientist. He knew what he had to do. He hurried across the ground to his waiting coupe outside the
Administration building. Then he got behind the wheel and started the
motor. He drove to the gate and waited until the guard passed him through, then
he turned up the road toward Tucson. As he drove he felt an odd tenseness sweep through him. | Tenneshaw, S. M. - The Monster |
For he was
thinking of what Gaddon had said on the drive up to the Proving Grounds. He was remembering the man's words on the cosmic rays and the secret of
eternal life they held. And Fred Trent knew that this was the biggest
story. The story that he alone held. It was the big break that he had
been waiting for. It would be his exclusive. The inside, personal story
of a man who had died to prove his theory. Told as Gaddon himself had
related it. With all the vanity of the man, all the pompous assurance he
had shown. It would make the headlines and feature sections all over the
country. The story of a man who had flown to his death in quest of
immortality. And then Trent's thoughts grew sober suddenly. But was he going to his
death? Could he be sure that Mathieson was right? That Gaddon was
suffering from some streak of insanity that had manifested itself in
this final venture of madness? Or could it be that Gaddon might be
right, that ...
Trent set his lips and sighed. No, that couldn't be true. It was beyond
the comprehension of man. What mattered now was the story. The story that would put his name in a
thousand papers all over the country. And he thought in that moment of
Joan Drake. A warm smile pulled at his lips as he thought of her. This
would force her to quit her job now and marry him. The one condition she
had made--he had finally overcome. He thought of the date he was supposed to have with her that evening. It would have to be postponed until later. The story came first. And
then ... He drove his car swiftly through the outskirts of the city and into the
main part of town. Then he pulled up before the offices of the _Tucson
Star_ and left his car at the curb. * * * * *
He entered the building, took the elevator to his floor and walked into
the city room. The clatter of typewriters met his ears and the sound was
sweet to him in that moment. He crossed swiftly to his desk and sat dawn. Then he motioned to a copy
boy. The boy came up to his desk. "Jerry, tell the chief to hold up the form on page one. I've got a
special--an accident out at the Proving Grounds. Headline copy." The youth hurried away toward the office of the City Editor, and Fred
picked up his phone and dialed a number. He waited a moment and then the
voice of Joan Drake came across the wire. "Dr. Fenwick's office." "Joan, this is Fred." The girl's voice laughed across the wire. "Don't tell me you're planning
to break our date? Just when I get all dressed up." A smile crossed Trent's lips. "You're almost psychic, honey. Fact is, I
was calling to tell you I'll be a little late." There was a pause and when the girl spoke again there was an injured
note in her voice. "Well, that's a fine thing. I wait here deliberately after hours for you
to pick me up and now you tell me you'll be late! Just what's so more
important than me right now?" "I haven't got time to tell you now, Joan, but believe me, I've got the
break of the year. A story that will rock the front pages across the
country. I'll tell you all about it later. You can wait at Fenwick's
place. He won't mind, will he?" He could hear the girl sniff on the other end of the wire. "I don't suppose he will, but I don't think I can say the same for
myself." "That's a good girl," Trent laughed. "Just wait for me. It may be an
hour or so--"
"An _hour_ or so! What are you writing, the great American novel?" He looked up and saw the frowning face of the City Editor approaching
his desk. He spoke hurriedly. "I've got to sign off now. The boss is coming up. I'll see you later. Give my regards to Brutus." He replaced the phone as the editor reached his desk. "What's all this about a remake on the front page, Trent?" Fred nodded. "That's right, chief. The biggest story since the atom
bomb. Listen!" He gave a short account of what had happened, and then added the
personal details of his talk with Gaddon. He saw the eyes of the editor
widen as he went on, and by the time he had finished, there was a look
of excitement on the editor's face. "Get to that story, Trent. Write it hot, and write it fast. I'll hold
the first form and tear down the front page. Stress the human interest
angle. Play it up big. We'll hit the news wires with it after we go to
press." Then a smile crossed the editor's face. "And you'll get a by-line on
this, Trent, that ought to put you in for some big money. Nice work." Then he turned on his heel and was hurrying across the city room toward
his glassed-in office, hollering for a copy boy as he went. Trent turned back to his desk and slipped a sheet of paper into his
typewriter. There was a tenseness around his eyes as he brought his
fingers down on the keys. For a moment the old questions rose again in
his mind. _Was Gaddon right? Could it be possible that ..._
Then he forgot everything but the story. And his fingers clicked against
the keys, putting it down on paper. * * * * *
The rocket chamber swayed gently through the night air, whistling its
way slowly downward, moving more slowly as the great parachute above it
caught in the rapidly thickening density of the cabin's atmosphere. Inside it, the thing that had been Gaddon, the thing that was no longer
a man, sat on the floor of the chamber, idly toying with the dead body
of the cat. Strange thoughts coursed through the mind inside its head. Half of the
mind that belonged to Gaddon, and half of the mind that was an alien
thing, a creature unnamed. There was a thought of killing and the thought was good. The claw-like
hands played with the cat's dead body, fondling it idly, wishing it
were still alive so that it might die again. And the other part of its mind, the part that still knew it was Gaddon,
rebelled against the thought. Tried to drive it away. Tried to move that
alien intelligence into the rear of his consciousness. A growl left his lips as he struggled with it. And then a whimpering
sound. For now the alien thought of killing and the joy it had experienced as
the cat died scant moments before, was replaced by another thought. A
thought of loneliness. It was a weird feeling, an utter loneliness that came from the great
void beyond man's planet. It cried out in silent protest for it knew it
was alone in this world of men. And it knew it would remain alone, friendless. For what manner of men
such as the other part of its mind showed would react in a friendly
fashion? Where would be their common meeting ground? There could only be
one, it knew. And that one was fear. Fear and the hate that went with
it. A growl left its lips again, and Gaddon's thoughts tried to force their
way through. Tried and failed again. But was it necessary to want companionship? It thought about that for a
moment. And then the alien beast thoughts grew sharper, clearer. It knew
suddenly that it did not want man's compassion. It knew that there was
only one driving thought in it. Hate. Hate that would inspire fear. | Tenneshaw, S. M. - The Monster |
Fear
that would freeze its victim into terror. And terror that would be
replaced by death. And then it would be happy again. Happy to sit and
fondle the thing that had been alive. And it knew something else. It
knew that a hunger would have to be satisfied. A hunger that called for
flesh. Deep, primeval thoughts raced through it then. Thoughts that were
spawned in the ancient jungles of a new and steaming world. A world
where great cats roamed, where screams of cat-rage split the air as
tawny bodies arced in lightning leaps to land on the trembling bodies of
their victims. It was a satisfying thought. A thought that spanned the
ages of Earth, a sense that was inherent in all cat minds through the
ages. And as the thought raced through that portion of its mind, the part that
was Gaddon struggled to fight it back. For it realized with a sickness
that spread horror through it that the thought was part of the animal
existence that had been created in him. Part of the monster that lay by
instinct in all feline creatures. And Gaddon knew that the dead creature
at his feet, the limp and twisted body of the cat, had died long before
his hands had crushed it in their mighty grip. For the essence of that
life, that animal existence, had been merged with him, fused by a mighty
source from outer space. * * * * *
And as he struggled with the thought, fought to regain the balance of
control of the strange body that was now his, the rocket chamber swayed
in a gust of wind from without. And as he clutched the sides of the
chamber with his strong claw-like hands, the chamber gave a bounding
lurch as it struck the ground a glancing blow. There was a grating sound as the metal chamber gouged into the earth,
sank its weight upon the Arizona soil. And the thing was thrown
violently against the side of the chamber. Then there was quiet again. Gaddon's mind fought to the fore, took control of that feline man-shape
that was his, struggled to its feet and moved in a lithe bound to the
opposite side of the chamber. A clawed hand reached up where Gaddon
knew the release mechanism of the door lay, and pressed it. The door slid back with a sliding sound and the cool night air rushed in
upon it. Gaddon moved his cat-body through the opening and bounded to the ground
in a lithe, powerful movement. He felt new muscles react as he landed on
the ground, and knew that there was a great strength in them. Strength
that was waiting to be used. And he felt the other thoughts starting to move forward in his mind
again and he forced them back. He knew he must keep control of that
mind. For there was something that he must do. He thought desperately about it. And the pattern became clearer in his
mind. The cosmic rays. The reaction in his body. He had sought immortality in
the door to outer space and had found a monster waiting for him. A force
that had changed his glands, grown the shaggy fur on his body. Glands
that had warped his mind. Opened an age-old cunning of feline thought. _Glands._
Gaddon's thoughts whipped the word. Held it. Knew it must be the answer. And then it found a prayer of hope. And a name that went with that
thought. "Fenwick! I've got to reach Fenwick before it's too late. _Before it's
too late!_"
His voice came hoarsely, strangely formed. And he looked wildly about
him. He saw, off in the distance, a glowing of lights in the night. And
he knew somehow that it was the city of Tucson. And in that city, at its very edge, was a house he must reach. He stumbled away into the darkness, feeling his limbs move rapidly
then, smoothly, covering the ground in great leaping strides. And though Gaddon's thoughts kept the balance of control, deep inside
his mind, the monster growled with a cunning laughter ...
* * * * *
Fred Trent pulled the last sheet of paper from his typewriter and leaned
back in his chair exhausted. That was it, the end of the story. He waved
his hand at a copy boy and the boy ran up to take the final page. Each
sheet had been taken like that, to be immediately set in the composing
room. Now it was finished, the story of the year. And as Trent slowly lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply, he knew that he
had done a good job on the story. And a smile crossed his face as he
thought of it. His future was assured now. There could be no more
stopgaps, no more delays in his plans to marry Joan and settle down. And
the girl would have to agree. For the first time in many months, Fred
felt that his troubles were over with. And the feeling was nice. It
spread through him and he was content. He glanced at his wrist watch and frowned. The story had taken longer
than he had anticipated. It was nearly eleven. Some of the enthusiasm
ran out of him as he thought of Joan waiting for him at Fenwick's. He
could imagine how angry she must be by now. He got up quickly from his desk and reached for his hat. As he started
to walk away, the phone on his desk rang. He stepped back and picked up the receiver. "Trent speaking." "_Fred!_"
Trent heard his name uttered in terror across the wire and he felt a
chill run through him as he recognized the voice. It was Joan Drake. "Joan, what's wrong?" he asked anxiously. "Fred! Come quickly! Bring help before it's too late--he'll kill us!" "Joan! For God's sake, calm down! Now what's the matter?" His voice held
a tenseness in it as he spoke. "It's Gaddon, Fred! Only it isn't Gaddon--it's a monster! He'll kill
us!" "_Gaddon?_" Trent's voice spoke incredulously. "But that's imposs--"
"Oh, Fred, hurry-- I--oh--no--no! Keep away--"
He heard the girl scream over the phone then. And he heard something
else. A growling sound. A sound of animal noise unlike any other sound
he had ever heard. And then as he shouted into the phone: "Joan! Joan!" the line went dead. He stood for a moment, staring stupidly at the receiver in his hand. Then he slammed it back on its cradle and turned. He nearly knocked over
the copy boy who hollered at him. "Hey, Trent, the boss wants you in his office!" But he swept by the boy unheeding. He didn't wait for the elevator. He
took the stairs in leaping bounds, and then he was on the main floor of
the building and out on the street. He slammed the door of his car shut and started the motor. His hands
trembled as he meshed the gears and shot the coupe away from the curb. Then he was moving swiftly through the traffic. As he turned down the street where Fenwick's office was, Fred Trent's
mind was a whirl of confused thought. There was fear there. Fear and dread. And there was puzzlement too. A
puzzlement that made his brain spin. Joan had spoken with terror in her
voice. Terror that had said somebody was going to kill. And Joan was
not a girl to be easily frightened. And she had mentioned Gaddon's
name. Gaddon, the man who had shot into the heavens in an experimental
rocket. Gaddon, who was supposed to be dead. | Tenneshaw, S. M. - The Monster |
* * * * *
He felt now that same feeling that had crept through him after the
launching. The feeling that had whispered in his mind that maybe Gaddon
had been right after all. That maybe he wouldn't die. That maybe ... And
now the dread swept him. For he thought of the sound he had heard over
the phone. The last sound before the line went dead. The sound of an
animal growling in wrath. And he remembered the girl's scream about a
monster. A cold sweat was on his forehead as he pulled the coupe into the curb in
front of the Fenwick house. He switched off the motor and closed the car
door after him. Then he was hurrying up the walk to the front door, his eyes taking in
the house in a swift glance, noting that the lights were lit in the
consultation room. Lights that slivered out from the closed venetian
blinds. He stood then on the front porch, his hand closing over the knob of the
door. It was locked. He pressed the bell then and heard its clarion sound inside the house. But other than that there was nothing to be heard. A deep, ominous
silence that somehow brought a feeling of panic to him. Was he too late? And then suddenly the panel in the front of the door opened and a face
peered out at him. Fred Trent felt the blood drain from his lips. A paralysis seemed to
grip his body at what he saw framed in the opening. For it was not the face of a human being. And yet, it was not the face
of an animal. It was a horrible, twisted, cat-like visage that peered
out at him, furred and ugly, with bared teeth and glowing, feline eyes. And as he looked, a sound came from the twisted lips. It was the same
sound he had heard over the telephone. The sound of a growling rage. And as the sound hit his ears, a terrible realization swept over him. For his eyes, riveted on that monstrous countenance, had registered an
impossible fact upon his mind. _As twisted as it was, as horribly changed into an animal grimace, it
was the face of someone he knew--the English scientist, Blair Gaddon!_
And then suddenly the face vanished from the opening. And Fred Trent
felt his paralysis leave him. He knew now that he should never have come
alone. That he should have called the police first. That he--
The door swung open then and Trent found himself facing the thing that
had been Gaddon. He took a backward step and started to turn and run for his car and
help, but he was too slow. An arm shot out and a claw-like hand suddenly gripped his shoulder in a
swift, steel-like movement. He felt himself being pulled forward and
into the house, as another growl snarled from the lips of the creature. Trent tried to break the grip of that vise-like hand. He tried to smash
his fist into the ugly visage of a face that confronted him. But he was
like a child in that grip. And like a child, he was hurled across the
hall, and he heard the door slam shut behind him. As he got slowly to his feet and turned to face the creature, he heard a
sobbing sound from the open door of the consultation room. It was the
voice of Joan Drake. And then the monster had reached him and the clawed hand reached out
and spun him through the doorway, into the consultation room. And he
heard a growling voice utter harshly: "You will regret this
interference, Trent!" And he knew that it was the voice of Blair Gaddon. And yet he also knew
that it was not the same voice. It was changed. It had a bestial quality
to it. Then Trent looked around him. He saw Joan Drake, huddled in a corner of
the room, beside Dr. Stanley Fenwick. The specialist was sitting in a
chair, holding his right hand to his mouth. Fred could see blood oozing
from a gash in the surgeon's lips. * * * * *
And then he heard another sound. A sound from without the house, coming
from the rear. It was the baying of Brutus. The big dog must have sensed
the presence of the monster. And it was protesting in its animal voice,
a mournful dirge. Then his attention was drawn once again to the animal body of Blair
Gaddon. And now that the first shock had left him, Trent stared at the
man. He heard the girl sob. "Fred! I told you to bring help--"
"Be quiet!" the voice of Gaddon issued from the twisted lips. And the
girl's sob stifled itself in a look of dread. Then the face that had been Gaddon turned to Trent. There was a twisted
leer to it, and Fred sensed that there was a struggle going on in that
warped mind. "You are Gaddon? The Blair Gaddon who went up with the experimental
rocket?" Trent's voice came incredulously. The face of the creature twisted in a grimace of acknowledgment. "Yes, Trent. I am Blair Gaddon. I am not a pretty sight to look at, am
I?" Words left the twisted lips, and there was a bestial pain in them. "But--you're supposed to be dead! Mathieson--"
A strange sound of irony came from Gaddon. "Mathieson was right about the cosmic rays--I know that now. Look at me! You see what has happened to me? I sought immortality through the life
energy of space--and look at me!" Horror reflected in Fred's eyes in that moment. For he felt the pained
terror in the voice of the animal shape before him. And he saw the
claw-like hands clench spasmodically. "My glands!" the voice screamed. "The cosmic rays reacted on them--fed
the essence of the cat into them--changed me into this monstrous being!" Trent stared at the rage-filled face. Felt the emotion that was sweeping
through the creature. Felt a sudden compassion that was erased by the
bestial look that came into the monster's eyes. And then it turned toward the chair where Fenwick sat. The doctor was
looking at the creature, his eyes wide and terrified. "But what do you expect me to do for you, Gaddon? Why do you stand here
threatening--" Fenwick's voice came hoarsely. "Why? You fool! Because there is so little time! I am changing! Even now
my human instincts are nearly gone!... You're a gland specialist! There
is something you can do--stop this change--stop it!" Fenwick shook his head slowly. "You're raving like a madman, Gaddon. I'm
not a God--do you think I can change something that is beyond human
understanding? If you'll only let me call in the authorities ..."
A growl of rage left Gaddon's animal lips. "Authorities! So you can have
me put in cage like a wild beast? So you and your medical experts can
stand and watch me as you would a freak? You're a fool! You'll help me
now! You'll do something--before it's too late! Do you hear me?" The creature advanced slowly upon the doctor, and the girl backed away
to the far wall, fear mirrored in her eyes. Then Fred Trent stepped forward, his voice tense. "Hold on, Gaddon--of course the doctor will help you--_won't_ you,
Fenwick?" There was an urgent emphasis in Trent's last words, and his eyes caught
those of the surgeon's, and held them in a meaningful look. He couldn't
say what he wanted to, but the message in his eyes was imparted to
Fenwick, and the doctor suddenly nodded. "Yes--yes, of course ... | Tenneshaw, S. M. - The Monster |
But you'll have to remain quiet, Gaddon, and be
patient a moment...."
The creature stopped its advance upon Fenwick then. And a growl rumbled
in Gaddon's animal throat. Then Fred watched as the doctor stepped swiftly to a table with
instruments and hurriedly began to prepare a hypodermic. "I'll give you a special extract injection to start...." Fenwick
explained as he worked. And Trent knew that the doctor was preparing an injection that would
subdue the monster. That would enable them to call the police....
And the eyes of Gaddon watched the fingers of the surgeon prepare the
hypodermic. And for a single moment the human part of Gaddon's monster
mind relaxed its tenacious hold. * * * * *
There was a rumble of raging thought deep within his twisted brain. It
swept up, gripped the human element, and enveloped it. A hoarse mewing
sound left the twisted lips as the mind became a single, bestial thing. And now it thought with a viciousness. It knew now that it was finally
in control. That the full change had been completed. And it knew
suddenly what it wanted. Its animal eyes stared at the three humans. And it felt a hatred for the
men who did not understand it. And it felt a desire for the woman who
feared it. A desire that crept out of the primeval jungles. That swept
through it to find one of its kind. And there was the vague instinct
that was Gaddon, who told it how to fulfill that desire. Gaddon, who
knew where the secret lay. And then there was the driving urge that swept up from the animal ages. The urge to kill, to destroy what was hated. And the eyes of the monster
fastened on the figure of Fenwick as the doctor turned from the table,
the hypodermic in his hand. "All right, Gaddon ..."
The voice of Fenwick trailed off. And Fred Trent stared at the face of
the monster. What he saw there brought a chill to his being. And he
heard the girl gasp from the far corner of the room, as her eyes too saw
the change that had spread over the face of the creature. For there was no longer any vestige of human recognition in that face. There was no longer any trace of the man who had been Gaddon. There was
only the monster now. The twisted, leering lips of an animal mind. A harsh growl left those lips then and the creature moved forward toward
the surgeon. Trent knew what was happening, and he knew what he must do. There was
death on that bestial face. Death that was reaching out ... He heard the dim baying of the Great Dane from the rear of the house as
he leaped forward. Then his fist lashed out and caught the animal face in a lashing blow. His knuckles felt numb as he screamed:
"The hypodermic--doctor--quick!" Then the creature turned on him and a long arm shot out. Trent felt a
claw rake across his face and felt the burning bite of that claw sink
into his flesh. Then, as he tried to dodge away from the beast and bring
his fist up again, the monster leaped at him and Trent felt a powerful
blow crash against his chin. He spun back, falling to the floor, his head hitting the edge of an
examining table. His senses reeled and he felt the blood running down
his cheek, a warm, sticky stream that dripped to the floor. He fought to keep his consciousness as he saw the beast turn away from
him, satisfied that he was out of the way. Then he saw it leap at the
stunned figure of Fenwick. He heard the girl scream in terror and he saw Fenwick's arm come up with
the hypodermic. He saw the doctor try to bring the needle down in a jab,
but the monster's arm swept the needle aside and then a claw-like hand
gripped Fenwick's throat. There was a gasp of terror from Fenwick's lips as those fingers closed
around his neck. Then the hypodermic fell from his nerveless hand and he
fought to break away. A deep rumbling growl spat from the lips of the monster as it closed
with the struggling figure of Fenwick. Then the claws that were its
hands raked the surgeon's throat in a feline rage. Trent watched with numbed eyes, fighting back the wave of blackness that
threatened to overcome him, and he saw the figure of Fenwick suddenly go
limp in the grip of the monster. He saw a spurt of blood burst from the man's torn throat, and then the
creature dropped the limp body. It fell to the floor, and a wave of red washed across the floor from the
mangled throat. The monster stood over the lifeless body, a triumphant
sound issuing from its twisted lips. Then it turned toward the girl. Trent tried to move. He tried to push back the weakness that numbed his
body. But he couldn't. His head swam with the pain of the blow he had
received, and he could only watch through half-closed eyes as the
monster reached out for the girl. Joan Drake screamed once as the long arms reached out for her. Then her
voice ended abruptly as she fell to the floor in a faint. The monster stood over her for a moment, then it reached down and picked
up her body in its blood splattered-arms. It turned for a moment, holding the girl, and shot a hate-filled glance
at Trent's limp figure. Then it moved swiftly across the room and out into the hall. And the baying of the Great Dane sounded angrily in Fred Trent's ears ...
* * * * *
With a superhuman effort Fred Trent forced the numbness from his body
and moved slowly to his feet. A horror gripped him that brought a new
strength to his body, flooded it. He stepped over the body of Fenwick, forcing his eyes away from the
grisly sight of it as he dashed to the hallway. "Joan--_Joan_!" The girl's name came hoarsely from his lips as he ran into the hall and
stared at the open door of the house. He ran to the door and out into
the night. His eyes stared wildly into the darkness, searching the street. But he
saw nothing but his parked car at the curb. The monster had vanished. And with him, the unconscious girl. A hopeless despair welled up inside Trent at that moment. For he knew he
could never hope to find the creature now. And by the time help came it
would be too late. They would find Joan's mangled body ... The baying of the Great Dane rang in his ears then. The huge dog's howls
of rage thundered in his ears and he heard the hound crash its great
body against the closed door at the end of the hall, striving to get
through. And then a cry of hope left Trent's lips. He turned and ran back into
the house. He grabbed the long leash from its wall hook beside the rear
door and then he swung the door partway open. "Brutus! Quiet, Brutus!" The head of the Great Dane struggled through the partly opened door, a
snarl of rage welling from the huge dog's mouth as Trent shouted at it. Then he slipped the leash into its metal ring around the neck of the dog
and pulled the door open. The animal rushed into the hall, nearly tearing the leash from Fred
Trent's hands as it lunged forward. The dog paused beside the open door of the consultation room where the
body of Fenwick lay dead and still on the floor. The animal lifted its
muzzle and sniffed the air. | Tenneshaw, S. M. - The Monster |
A howl of anguished rage left it then and
Trent knew that the dog sensed its master had been murdered. And then it
caught the scent of the monster, the thing that had caused its wild rage
to be unleashed, and it leaped forward, down the hall and out the front
door into the night. Trent held the leash tightly in his hands, running behind the straining
dog, jumping over a low hedge after the animal as it headed down the
shadowed street to the edge of the city. And then the last house was behind them and Trent was racing behind the
dog out into the desert land beyond. * * * * *
His breath was an aching fire in his throat. His legs were numbed beyond
feeling. They were parts of his body that simply refused to stop moving,
though every nerve and muscle in them screamed in protest. It seemed like he had been running for hours, half tripping, stumbling
across the darkened ground behind the seemingly tireless body of the
Great Dane. They ran in near silence now. Only the sounds of their labored breathing
mingled with the night wind. The howls of rage no longer issued from the
throat of the huge dog. There was only its panting breath, and the
strain of its mighty body as it sought to tear loose from the man
holding it. But Trent held grimly to the leash, running as fast as his numbed body
would go. And he knew he could not go much further. That soon he would drop to the
ground in exhaustion. That his last reserve of energy was nearly spent. And then his eyes peered through the darkness ahead and he saw a glow of
lights in the distance. And suddenly he knew those lights. And he became
aware of where they were racing toward. It was the Rocket Proving Grounds! And the fence of the government project loomed close ahead. And as they neared the fence, Trent's eyes pierced the darkness and he
saw a jagged tear in the metal mesh of the fence. A tear that stood as
high as a man, a hole through which a man could have entered. The Great Dane bounded toward that hole and Trent followed the dog
through it. He felt the animal pause momentarily and he nearly stumbled
over a body lying on the ground at his feet just inside the fence. His heart stood still for a moment and the girl's name sped to his lips. But he never uttered the word. For he suddenly saw that it was the body
of a guard. A body whose torn throat lay red and gory in death. And then the Great Dane let a howl of anger out on the night wind, and
the beast leaped forward again, Trent running behind it. And ahead of them, Trent saw a great looming shape in the darkness, and
as his eyes fell upon it, a despairing terror gripped him. It was the second rocket! Standing in its cradle, silent in the night, a
shaft of metal that looked skyward. And a realization of what the monster had in mind struck him. He knew
now where they were headed. He knew why the monster had torn the fence,
why a guard had been killed where he stood. And as if the thought had been a prelude, he saw the rocket loom before
them as the Great Dane bounded around its base. And he saw the metal stairway leading up to the middle of the giant
projectile. And at the top of those stairs, going into the now open rocket chamber,
was the monster, holding the unconscious girl in its arms. The Great Dane saw the creature in the same instant. And a terrible howl
of rage welled from its throat. It gave a lunge forward then that broke
Trent's grip from the leash he held. And the dog was free. * * * * *
The monster turned in the same moment and saw them. A roar of feline
anger left its throat as the huge dog leaped up the steps toward the
platform above. The monster dropped the girl's body on the narrow platform and backed
toward the opening of the rocket chamber. Then the Great Dane reached the platform and poised itself for a leap. Trent was dashing forward toward the stairs as the dog's body flew
through the air. He saw the flashing jaws of the animal snap at the
throat of the monster, as its heavy body smashed against it. Then the arms of the creature were tearing at the dog as it was forced
back into the rocket chamber. Trent's feet flew up the stairs, his breath a tortured gasp in his
throat. He saw the girl stir on the platform, as consciousness returned
to her. "Joan!" Her name sped from his lips as he reached the top step. Then his hands
closed around the girl's shoulders, lifting her to her feet. The snarl of the Great Dane reached his ears from the rocket chamber,
and the answering roar of rage from the monster as they fought. His eyes
saw the vague, terrible shadows of them, heard the snapping jaws of the
dog, and the raking claws. And then he was dragging the girl down the steps. They reached the ground and Trent pulled her away from the rocket, felt
her come to life in his arms, heard the sob on her lips. But his head turned away from her and he stared anxiously up at the open
rocket chamber. He heard the bodies of the monster and the dog slam against the inner
side of the chamber, and then he saw the door of the rocket close. He
knew that the automatic mechanism must have been touched in the battle. And even as the thought ran through his mind he heard a sudden roar of
flaming sound. The night lit up in a sheet of brilliant light and a wave
of flame spread out from the base of the rocket. Trent pulled the girl away from that blinding sheet of exploding energy,
and his eyes stared in grim fascination as they ran. He saw the rocket shudder in its cradle and then lift slowly. It was as
if time had turned back and he were watching an identical scene that had
happened earlier that day. Only it wasn't the same scene. It was now a scene of horror. For he knew
that the monster and the dog were in that rocket. The rocket that would
shoot skyward in moments, even as its companion had done. Would reach
into the outer fringes of the Earth's atmosphere where the cosmic rays
would envelop it, would react upon the animals inside it. And a terrible dread spread through Trent at the thought. For if the
first change had been terrible enough, what would happen now? And as he thought, he saw the rocket lift slowly from its cradle and
gather speed as it shot upward into the night. * * * * *
The blinding light of the exploding rocket fuel lit the proving grounds
like a huge beacon of incandescence, and Trent was aware of shouts ahead
of him, and running feet. Then he was surrounded by men from the project, and he caught the glint
of alert weapons and uniforms. He felt arms grab him and the girl and heard questions pounding at him. But then he saw a face he knew. And he tore away from the arms of the
guards and shouted. "Dr. Mathieson! Listen to me!" The scientist stepped up to him and Trent gripped his arm in the fading
light of the vanishing rocket. "What's happened here?" the scientist demanded. "Aren't you one of the
newsmen--"
Trent interrupted him. He poured out a string of words. | Tenneshaw, S. M. - The Monster |
Words that told
what had happened. And as he talked he saw the eyes of the scientist
widen in disbelief. And he heard the guards grow silent around him. Felt
every ear listening with awe to his words. And when he had finished there was a long moment of silence. And then
Joan Drake moved tremblingly up beside Trent and she spoke:
"It's true, doctor! Every word Fred said is true!" And one of the guards broke in:
"The word just came in from post four. The fence was torn to pieces--and
Giddings has been murdered--just as they said!" Then the silence again. And the face of Mathieson was grim as Trent
broke through the quiet:
"--Doctor--that monster who was Gaddon--he's up there now! When the
cosmic rays change him and the dog and the chamber is released ..."
The scientist shook his head slowly, a look of awe in his eyes. "It won't release, Trent," he said. Fred Trent looked at him questioningly. "Gaddon must have forgotten one thing," the scientist continued. "That
rocket was also an experimental project. But not for the same purpose. It was to test a new type of explosive ..."
Mathieson's voice trailed off and silence closed over the small group
then. There was no need to say anything further. There was only the tension of
waiting, the tension that showed in every eye. And the girl moved closer to Trent, her body trembling against his. They waited. The seconds passed like moments in eternity. Slowly they
marched by, one by one. And then a minute. And the tension grew. They heard it then. Off in the distance. Out in the waste of the open
desert land. A thundering sound. An explosion that rolled in a wave of
sound. And with it a flash of brilliant light. Light that seared through the
night in a terrible wave. And with it the thunder of the explosive
warhead. And then silence. After a long moment the voice of Mathieson came through the quiet night
wind. "... It's over. Gaddon is--dead. Poor fool, he fumbled with the tools of
creation, tools that man is not ready to wield ..."
And Trent heard one of the soldiers gasp, "What a story! _What_ a
story!" But he knew, as he held the girl against him, felt her body relax beside
his, that it was a story he didn't want to write. He wanted only to forget ...
Transcriber's Note:
This etext was produced from _Amazing Stories_ April 1949. Extensive
research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on
this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and typographical | Tenneshaw, S. M. - The Monster |
Produced by Thomas Berger, Eric Eldred, Charles Franks and
the Online Distributed Proofreading Team. The Novels Of Ivan Turgenev
KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK
And Other Stories
Translated From The Russian
By
Constance Garnett
* * * * *
CONTENTS:
KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK
THE INN
LIEUTENANT YERGUNOV'S STORY
THE DOG
THE WATCH
* * * * *
KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK
A STUDY
I
We all settled down in a circle and our good friend Alexandr
Vassilyevitch Ridel (his surname was German but he was Russian to the
marrow of his bones) began as follows:
I am going to tell you a story, friends, of something that happened to
me in the 'thirties ... forty years ago as you see. I will be
brief--and don't you interrupt me. I was living at the time in Petersburg and had only just left the
University. My brother was a lieutenant in the horse-guard artillery. His battery was stationed at Krasnoe Selo--it was summer time. My
brother lodged not at Krasnoe Selo itself but in one of the
neighbouring villages; I stayed with him more than once and made the
acquaintance of all his comrades. He was living in a fairly decent
cottage, together with another officer of his battery, whose name was
Ilya Stepanitch Tyeglev. I became particularly friendly with him. Marlinsky is out of date now--no one reads him--and even his name is
jeered at; but in the 'thirties his fame was above everyone's--and in
the opinion of the young people of the day Pushkin could not hold
candle to him. He not only enjoyed the reputation of being the
foremost Russian writer; but--something much more difficult and more
rarely met with--he did to some extent leave his mark on his
generation. One came across heroes _à la_ Marlinsky everywhere,
especially in the provinces and especially among infantry and
artillery men; they talked and corresponded in his language; behaved
with gloomy reserve in society--"with tempest in the soul and flame in
the blood" like Lieutenant Byelosov in the "_Frigate Hope_." Women's hearts were "devoured" by them. The adjective applied to them
in those days was "fatal." The type, as we all know, survived for many
years, to the days of Petchorin. [Footnote: The leading character in
Lermontov's _A Hero of Our Time_.--_Translator's Note_.] All
sorts of elements were mingled in that type. Byronism, romanticism,
reminiscences of the French Revolution, of the Dekabrists--and the
worship of Napoleon; faith in destiny, in one's star, in strength of
will; pose and fine phrases--and a miserable sense of the emptiness of
life; uneasy pangs of petty vanity--and genuine strength and daring;
generous impulses--and defective education, ignorance; aristocratic
airs--and delight in trivial foppery.... But enough of these general
reflections. I promised to tell you the story. II
Lieutenant Tyeglev belonged precisely to the class of those "fatal"
individuals, though he did not possess the exterior commonly
associated with them; he was not, for instance, in the least like
Lermontov's "fatalist." He was a man of medium height, fairly solid
and round-shouldered, with fair, almost white eyebrows and eyelashes;
he had a round, fresh, rosy-cheeked face, a turn-up nose, a low
forehead with the hair growing thick over the temples, and full,
well-shaped, always immobile lips: he never laughed, never even smiled. Only when he was tired and out of heart he showed his square teeth,
white as sugar. The same artificial immobility was imprinted on all his
features: had it not been for that, they would have had a good-natured
expression. His small green eyes with yellow lashes were the
only thing not quite ordinary in his face: his right eye was very
slightly higher than his left and the left eyelid drooped a little,
which made his eyes look different, strange and drowsy. Tyeglev's
countenance, which was not, however, without a certain attractiveness,
almost always wore an expression of discontent mingled with
perplexity, as though he were chasing within himself a gloomy thought
which he was never able to catch. At the same time he did not give one
the impression of being stuck up: he might rather have been taken for
an aggrieved than a haughty man. He spoke very little, hesitatingly,
in a husky voice, with unnecessary repetitions. Unlike most
"fatalists," he did not use particularly elaborate expressions in
speaking and only had recourse to them in writing; his handwriting was
quite like a child's. His superiors regarded him as an officer of no
great merit--not particularly capable and not over-zealous. The
brigadier-general, a man of German extraction, used to say of him: "He
has punctuality but not precision." With the soldiers, too, Tyeglev
had the character of being neither one thing nor the other. He lived
modestly, in accordance with his means. He had been left an orphan at
nine years old: his father and mother were drowned when they were
being ferried across the Oka in the spring floods. He had been
educated at a private school, where he had the reputation of being one
of the slowest and quietest of the boys, and at his own earnest desire
and through the good offices of a cousin who was a man of influence,
he obtained a commission in the horse-guards artillery; and, though
with some difficulty, passed his examination first as an ensign and
then as a second lieutenant. His relations with other officers were
somewhat strained. He was not liked, was rarely visited--and he
hardly went to see anyone. He felt the presence of strangers a
constraint; he instantly became awkward and unnatural ... he had no
instinct for comradeship and was not on really intimate terms with
anyone. But he was respected, and respected not for his character nor
for his intelligence and education--but because the stamp which
distinguishes "fatal" people was discerned in him. No one of his
fellow officers expected that Tyeglev would make a career or
distinguish himself in any way; but that Tyeglev might do something
extraordinary or that Tyeglev might become a Napoleon was not
considered impossible. For that is a matter of a man's "star"--and he
was regarded as a "man of destiny," just as there are "men of sighs"
and "of tears." III
Two incidents that marked the first steps in his career did a great
deal to strengthen his "fatal" reputation. On the very first day after
receiving his commission--about the middle of March--he was walking
with other newly promoted officers in full dress uniform along the
embankment. The spring had come early that year, the Neva was melting;
the bigger blocks of ice had gone but the whole river was choked up
with a dense mass of thawing icicles. The young men were talking and
laughing ... suddenly one of them stopped: he saw a little dog some
twenty paces from the bank on the slowly moving surface of the river. Perched on a projecting piece of ice it was whining and trembling all
over. "It will be drowned," said the officer through his teeth. | Turgenev, Ivan Sergeevich - Knock, Knock, Knock and Other Stories |
The
dog was slowly being carried past one of the sloping gangways that led
down to the river. All at once Tyeglev without saying a word ran down
this gangway and over the thin ice, sinking in and leaping out again,
reached the dog, seized it by the scruff of the neck and getting
safely back to the bank, put it down on the pavement. The danger to
which Tyeglev had exposed himself was so great, his action was so
unexpected, that his companions were dumbfoundered--and only spoke all
at once, when he had called a cab to drive home: his uniform was wet
all over. In response to their exclamations, Tyeglev replied coolly
that there was no escaping one's destiny--and told the cabman to drive
on. "You might at least take the dog with you as a souvenir," cried one of
the officers. But Tyeglev merely waved his hand, and his comrades
looked at each other in silent amazement. The second incident occurred a few days later, at a card party at the
battery commander's. Tyeglev sat in the corner and took no part in the
play. "Oh, if only I had a grandmother to tell me beforehand what
cards will win, as in Pushkin's _Queen of Spades_," cried a
lieutenant whose losses had nearly reached three thousand. Tyeglev
approached the table in silence, took up a pack, cut it, and saying
"the six of diamonds," turned the pack up: the six of diamonds was the
bottom card. "The ace of clubs!" he said and cut again: the bottom
card turned out to be the ace of clubs. "The king of diamonds!" he
said for the third time in an angry whisper through his clenched
teeth--and he was right the third time, too ... and he suddenly turned
crimson. He probably had not expected it himself. "A capital trick! Do
it again," observed the commanding officer of the battery. "I don't go
in for tricks," Tyeglev answered drily and walked into the other room. How it happened that he guessed the card right, I can't pretend to
explain: but I saw it with my own eyes. Many of the players present
tried to do the same--and not one of them succeeded: one or two did
guess _one_ card but never two in succession. And Tyeglev had
guessed three! This incident strengthened still further his reputation
as a mysterious, fatal character. It has often occurred to me since
that if he had not succeeded in the trick with the cards, there is no
knowing what turn it would have taken and how he would have looked at
himself; but this unexpected success clinched the matter. IV
It may well be understood that Tyeglev clutched at this reputation. It
gave him a special significance, a special colour ... "_Cela le
posait_," as the French express it--and with his limited
intelligence, scanty education and immense vanity, such a reputation
just suited him. It was difficult to acquire it but to keep it up cost
nothing: he had only to remain silent and hold himself aloof. But it
was not owing to this reputation that I made friends with Tyeglev and,
I may say, grew fond of him. I liked him in the first place because I
was rather an unsociable creature myself--and saw in him one of my own
sort, and secondly, because he was a very good-natured fellow and in
reality, very simple-hearted. He aroused in me a feeling of something
like compassion; it seemed to me that apart from his affected
"fatality," he really was weighed down by a tragic fate which he did
not himself suspect. I need hardly say I did not express this feeling
to him: could anything be more insulting to a "fatal" hero than to be
an object of pity? And Tyeglev, on his side, was well-disposed to me;
with me he felt at ease, with me he used to talk--in my presence he
ventured to leave the strange pedestal on which he had been placed
either by his own efforts or by chance. Agonisingly, morbidly vain as
he was, yet he was probably aware in the depths of his soul that there
was nothing to justify his vanity, and that others might perhaps look
down on him ... but I, a boy of nineteen, put no constraint on him;
the dread of saying something stupid, inappropriate, did not oppress
his ever-apprehensive heart in my presence. He sometimes even
chattered freely; and well it was for him that no one heard his
chatter except me! His reputation would not have lasted long. He not
only knew very little, but read hardly anything and confined himself
to picking up stories and anecdotes of a certain kind. He believed in
presentiments, predictions, omens, meetings, lucky and unlucky days,
in the persecution and benevolence of destiny, in the mysterious
significance of life, in fact. He even believed in certain
"climacteric" years which someone had mentioned in his presence and
the meaning of which he did not himself very well understand. "Fatal"
men of the true stamp ought not to betray such beliefs: they ought to
inspire them in others.... But I was the only one who knew Tyeglev on
that side. V
One day--I remember it was St. Elijah's day, July 20th--I came to stay
with my brother and did not find him at home: he had been ordered off
for a whole week somewhere. I did not want to go back to Petersburg; I
sauntered about the neighbouring marshes, killed a brace of snipe and
spent the evening with Tyeglev under the shelter of an empty barn
where he had, as he expressed it, set up his summer residence. We had
a little conversation but for the most part drank tea, smoked pipes
and talked sometimes to our host, a Russianised Finn or to the pedlar
who used to hang about the battery selling "fi-ine oranges and
lemons," a charming and lively person who in addition to other talents
could play the guitar and used to tell us of the unhappy love which he
cherished in his young days for the daughter of a policeman. Now that
he was older, this Don Juan in a gay cotton shirt had no experience of
unsuccessful love affairs. Before the doors of our barn stretched a
wide plain gradually sloping away in the distance; a little river
gleamed here and there in the winding hollows; low growing woods could
be seen further on the horizon. Night was coming on and we were left
alone. As night fell a fine damp mist descended upon the earth, and,
growing thicker and thicker, passed into a dense fog. The moon rose up
into the sky; the fog was soaked through and through and, as it were,
shimmering with golden light. Everything was strangely shifting,
veiled and confused; the faraway looked near, the near looked far
away, what was big looked small and what was small looked big ...
everything became dim and full of light. We seemed to be in fairyland,
in a world of whitish-golden mist, deep stillness, delicate sleep....
And how mysteriously, like sparks of silver, the stars filtered
through the mist! We were both silent. The fantastic beauty of the
night worked upon us: it put us into the mood for the fantastic. VI
Tyeglev was the first to speak and talked with his usual hesitating
incompleted sentences and repetitions about presentiments ... about
ghosts. | Turgenev, Ivan Sergeevich - Knock, Knock, Knock and Other Stories |
On exactly such a night, according to him, one of his friends,
a student who had just taken the place of tutor to two orphans and was
sleeping with them in a lodge in the garden, saw a woman's figure
bending over their beds and next day recognised the figure in a
portrait of the mother of the orphans which he had not previously
noticed. Then Tyeglev told me that his parents had heard for several
days before their death the sound of rushing water; that his
grandfather had been saved from death in the battle of Borodino
through suddenly stooping down to pick up a simple grey pebble at the
very instant when a volley of grape-shot flew over his head and broke
his long black plume. Tyeglev even promised to show me the very pebble
which had saved his grandfather and which he had mounted into a
medallion. Then he talked of the lofty destination of every man and of
his own in particular and added that he still believed in it and that
if he ever had any doubts on that subject he would know how to be rid
of them and of his life, as life would then lose all significance for
him. "You imagine perhaps," he brought out, glancing askance at me,
"that I shouldn't have the spirit to do it? You don't know me ... I
have a will of iron." "Well said," I thought to myself. Tyeglev pondered, heaved a deep sigh and dropping his chibouk out of
his hand, informed me that that day was a very important one for him. "This is the prophet Elijah's day--my name day.... It is ... it is
always for me a difficult time." I made no answer and only looked at him as he sat facing me, bent,
round-shouldered, and clumsy, with his drowsy, lustreless eyes fixed
on the ground. "An old beggar woman" (Tyeglev never let a single beggar pass without
giving alms) "told me to-day," he went on, "that she would pray for my
soul.... Isn't that strange?" "Why does the man want to be always bothering about himself!" I
thought again. I must add, however, that of late I had begun noticing
an unusual expression of anxiety and uneasiness on Tyeglev's face, and
it was not a "fatal" melancholy: something really was fretting and
worrying him. On this occasion, too, I was struck by the dejected
expression of his face. Were not those very doubts of which he had
spoken to me beginning to assail him? Tyeglev's comrades had told me
that not long before he had sent to the authorities a project for some
reforms in the artillery department and that the project had been
returned to him "with a comment," that is, a reprimand. Knowing his
character, I had no doubt that such contemptuous treatment by his
superior officers had deeply mortified him. But the change that I
fancied I saw in Tyeglev was more like sadness and there was a more
personal note about it. "It's getting damp, though," he brought out at last and he shrugged
his shoulders. "Let us go into the hut--and it's bed-time, too." He
had the habit of shrugging his shoulders and turning his head from
side to side, putting his right hand to his throat as he did so, as
though his cravat were constricting it. Tyeglev's character was
expressed, so at least it seemed to me, in this uneasy and nervous
movement. He, too, felt constricted in the world. We went back into the hut, and both lay down on benches, he in the
corner facing the door and I on the opposite side. VII
Tyeglev was for a long time turning from side to side on his bench and
I could not get to sleep, either. Whether his stories had excited my
nerves or the strange night had fevered my blood--anyway, I could not
go to sleep. All inclination for sleep disappeared at last and I lay
with my eyes open and thought, thought intensely, goodness knows of
what; of most senseless trifles--as always happens when one is
sleepless. Turning from side to side I stretched out my hands.... My
finger hit one of the beams of the wall. It emitted a faint but
resounding, and as it were, prolonged note.... I must have struck a
hollow place. I tapped again ... this time on purpose. The same sound was repeated. I knocked again.... All at once Tyeglev raised his head. "Ridel!" he said, "do you hear? Someone is knocking under the window." I pretended to be asleep. The fancy suddenly took me to play a trick
at the expense of my "fatal" friend. I could not sleep, anyway. He let his head sink on the pillow. I waited for a little and again
knocked three times in succession. Tyeglev sat up again and listened. I tapped again. I was lying facing
him but he could not see my hand.... I put it behind me under the
bedclothes. "Ridel!" cried Tyeglev. I did not answer. "Ridel!" he repeated loudly. "Ridel!" "Eh? What is it?" I said as though just waking up. "Don't you hear, someone keeps knocking under the window, wants to
come in, I suppose." "Some passer-by," I muttered. "Then we must let him in or find out who it is." But I made no answer, pretending to be asleep. Several minutes passed.... I tapped again. Tyeglev sat up at once and
listened. "Knock ... knock ... knock! Knock ... knock ... knock!" Through my half-closed eyelids in the whitish light of the night I
could distinctly see every movement he made. He turned his face first
to the window then to the door. It certainly was difficult to make out
where the sound came from: it seemed to float round the room, to glide
along the walls. I had accidentally hit upon a kind of sounding board. "Ridel!" cried Tyeglev at last, "Ridel! Ridel!" "Why, what is it?" I asked, yawning. "Do you mean to say you don't hear anything? There is someone
knocking." "Well, what if there is?" I answered and again pretended to be asleep
and even snored. Tyeglev subsided. "Knock ... knock ... knock!" "Who is there?" Tyeglev shouted. "Come in!" No one answered, of course. "Knock ... knock ... knock!" Tyeglev jumped out of bed, opened the window and thrusting out his
head, cried wildly, "Who is there? Who is knocking?" Then he
opened the door and repeated his question. A horse neighed in the
distance--that was all. He went back towards his bed. "Knock ... knock ... knock!" Tyeglev instantly turned round and sat down. "Knock ... knock ... knock!" He rapidly put on his boots, threw his overcoat over his shoulders and
unhooking his sword from the wall, went out of the hut. I heard him
walk round it twice, asking all the time, "Who is there? Who goes
there? Who is knocking?" Then he was suddenly silent, stood still
outside near the corner where I was lying and without uttering another
word, came back into the hut and lay down without taking off his boots
and overcoat. "Knock ... knock ... knock!" I began again. "Knock ... knock ... knock!" But Tyeglev did not stir, did not ask who was knocking, and merely
propped his head on his hand. Seeing that this no longer acted, after an interval I pretended to
wake up and, looking at Tyeglev, assumed an air of astonishment. "Have you been out?" I asked. "Yes," he answered unconcernedly. "Did you still hear the knocking?" "Yes." "And you met no one?" "No." "And did the knocking stop?" "I don't know. | Turgenev, Ivan Sergeevich - Knock, Knock, Knock and Other Stories |
I don't care now." "Now? Why now?" Tyeglev did not answer. I felt a little ashamed and a little vexed with him. I could not bring
myself to acknowledge my prank, however. "Do you know what?" I began, "I am convinced that it was all your
imagination." Tyeglev frowned. "Ah, you think so!" "You say you heard a knocking?" "It was not only knocking I heard." "Why, what else?" Tyeglev bent forward and bit his lips. He was evidently hesitating. "I was called!" he brought out at last in a low voice and turned away
his face. "You were called? Who called you?" "Someone...." Tyeglev still looked away. "A woman whom I had hitherto
only believed to be dead ... but now I know it for certain." "I swear, Ilya Stepanitch," I cried, "this is all your imagination!" "Imagination?" he repeated. "Would you like to hear it for yourself?" "Yes." "Then come outside." VIII
I hurriedly dressed and went out of the hut with Tyeglev. On the side
opposite to it there were no houses, nothing but a low hurdle fence
broken down in places, beyond which there was a rather sharp slope
down to the plain. Everything was still shrouded in mist and one could
scarcely see anything twenty paces away. Tyeglev and I went up to the
hurdle and stood still. "Here," he said and bowed his head. "Stand still, keep quiet and
listen!" Like him I strained my ears, and I heard nothing except the ordinary,
extremely faint but universal murmur, the breathing of the night. Looking at each other in silence from time to time we stood motionless
for several minutes and were just on the point of going on. "Ilyusha ..." I fancied I heard a whisper from behind the hurdle. I glanced at Tyeglev but he seemed to have heard nothing--and still
held his head bowed. "Ilyusha ... ah, Ilyusha," sounded more distinctly than before--so
distinctly that one could tell that the words were uttered by a woman. We both started and stared at each other. "Well?" Tyeglev asked me in a whisper. "You won't doubt it now, will
you?" "Wait a minute," I answered as quietly. "It proves nothing. We must
look whether there isn't anyone. Some practical joker...."
I jumped over the fence--and went in the direction from which, as far
as I could judge, the voice came. I felt the earth soft and crumbling under my feet; long ridges
stretched before me vanishing into the mist. I was in the kitchen
garden. But nothing was stirring around me or before me. Everything
seemed spellbound in the numbness of sleep. I went a few steps
further. "Who is there?" I cried as wildly as Tyeglev had. "Prrr-r-r!" a startled corn-crake flew up almost under my feet and
flew away as straight as a bullet. Involuntarily I started.... What
foolishness! I looked back. Tyeglev was in sight at the spot where I left him. I
went towards him. "You will call in vain," he said. "That voice has come to us--to
me--from far away." He passed his hand over his face and with slow steps crossed the road
towards the hut. But I did not want to give in so quickly and went
back into the kitchen garden. That someone really had three times
called "Ilyusha" I could not doubt; that there was something plaintive
and mysterious in the call, I was forced to own to myself.... But who
knows, perhaps all this only appeared to be unaccountable and in
reality could be explained as simply as the knocking which had
agitated Tyeglev so much. I walked along beside the fence, stopping from time to time and
looking about me. Close to the fence, at no great distance from our
hut, there stood an old leafy willow tree; it stood out, a big dark
patch, against the whiteness of the mist all round, that dim whiteness
which perplexes and deadens the sight more than darkness itself. All
at once it seemed to me that something alive, fairly big, stirred on
the ground near the willow. Exclaiming "Stop! Who is there?" I rushed
forward. I heard scurrying footsteps, like a hare's; a crouching
figure whisked by me, whether man or woman I could not tell.... I
tried to clutch at it but did not succeed; I stumbled, fell down and
stung my face against a nettle. As I was getting up, leaning on the
ground, I felt something rough under my hand: it was a chased brass
comb on a cord, such as peasants wear on their belt. Further search led to nothing--and I went back to the hut with the
comb in my hand, and my cheeks tingling. IX
I found Tyeglev sitting on the bench. A candle was burning on the
table before him and he was writing something in a little album which
he always had with him. Seeing me, he quickly put the album in his
pocket and began filling his pipe. "Look here, my friend," I began, "what a trophy I have brought back
from my expedition!" I showed him the comb and told him what had
happened to me near the willow. "I must have startled a thief," I
added. "You heard a horse was stolen from our neighbour yesterday?" Tyeglev smiled frigidly and lighted his pipe. I sat down beside him. "And do you still believe, Ilya Stepanitch," I said, "that the voice
we heard came from those unknown realms...."
He stopped me with a peremptory gesture. "Ridel," he began, "I am in no mood for jesting, and so I beg you not
to jest." He certainly was in no mood for jesting. His face was changed. It
looked paler, longer and more expressive. His strange, "different"
eyes kept shifting from one object to another. "I never thought," he began again, "that I should reveal to
another ... another man what you are about to hear and what ought
to have died ... yes, died, hidden in my breast; but it seems it is
to be--and indeed I have no choice. It is destiny! Listen." And he told me a long story. I have mentioned already that he was a poor hand at telling stories,
but it was not only his lack of skill in describing events that had
happened to him that impressed me that night; the very sound of his
voice, his glances, the movements which he made with his fingers and
his hands--everything about him, indeed, seemed unnatural,
unnecessary, false, in fact. I was very young and inexperienced in
those days and did not know that the habit of high-flown language and
falsity of intonation and manner may become so ingrained in a man that
he is incapable of shaking it off: it is a sort of curse. Later in
life I came across a lady who described to me the effect on her of her
son's death, of her "boundless" grief, of her fears for her reason, in
such exaggerated language, with such theatrical gestures, such
melodramatic movements of her head and rolling of her eyes, that I
thought to myself, "How false and affected that lady is! She did not
love her son at all!" And a week afterwards I heard that the poor
woman had really gone out of her mind. Since then I have become much
more careful in my judgments and have had far less confidence in my
own impressions. X
The story which Tyeglev told me was, briefly, as follows. He had
living in Petersburg, besides his influential uncle, an aunt, not
influential but wealthy. | Turgenev, Ivan Sergeevich - Knock, Knock, Knock and Other Stories |
As she had no children of her own she had
adopted a little girl, an orphan, of the working class, given her a
liberal education and treated her like a daughter. She was called
Masha. Tyeglev saw her almost every day. It ended in their falling in
love with one another and Masha's giving herself to him. This was
discovered. Tyeglev's aunt was fearfully incensed, she turned the
luckless girl out of her house in disgrace, and moved to Moscow where
she adopted a young lady of noble birth and made her her heiress. On
her return to her own relations, poor and drunken people, Masha's lot
was a bitter one. Tyeglev had promised to marry her and did not keep
his promise. At his last interview with her, he was forced to speak
out: she wanted to know the truth and wrung it out of him. "Well," she
said, "if I am not to be your wife, I know what there is left for me
to do." More than a fortnight had passed since that last interview. "I never for a moment deceived myself as to the meaning of her last
words," added Tyeglev. "I am certain that she has put an end to her
life and ... and that it was _her_ voice, that it was _she_
calling me ... to follow her there ... I _recognised_ her
voice.... Well, there is but one end to it." "But why didn't you marry her, Ilya Stepanitch?" I asked. "You ceased
to love her?" "No; I still love her passionately." At this point I stared at Tyeglev. I remembered another friend of
mine, a very intelligent man, who had a very plain wife, neither
intelligent nor rich and was very unhappy in his marriage. When
someone in my presence asked him why he had married and suggested that
it was probably for love, he answered, "Not for love at all. It simply
happened." And in this case Tyeglev loved a girl passionately and did
not marry her. Was it for the same reason, then? "Why don't you marry her, then?" I asked again. Tyeglev's strange, drowsy eyes strayed over the table. "There is ... no answering that ... in a few words," he began,
hesitating. "There were reasons.... And besides, she was ... a
working-class girl. And then there is my uncle.... I was obliged to
consider him, too." "Your uncle?" I cried. "But what the devil do you want with your uncle
whom you never see except at the New Year when you go to congratulate
him? Are you reckoning on his money? But he has got a dozen children
of his own!" I spoke with heat.... Tyeglev winced and flushed ... flushed unevenly,
in patches. "Don't lecture me, if you please," he said dully. "I don't justify
myself, however. I have ruined her life and now I must pay the
penalty...."
His head sank and he was silent. I found nothing to say, either. XI
So we sat for a quarter of an hour. He looked away--I looked at
him--and I noticed that the hair stood up and curled above his
forehead in a peculiar way, which, so I have heard from an army doctor
who had had a great many wounded pass through his hands, is always a
symptom of intense overheating of the brain.... The thought struck me
again that fate really had laid a heavy hand on this man and that his
comrades were right in seeing something "fatal" in him. And yet
inwardly I blamed him. "A working-class girl!" I thought, "a fine sort
of aristocrat you are yourself!" "Perhaps you blame me, Ridel," Tyeglev began suddenly, as though
guessing what I was thinking. "I am very ... unhappy myself. But what
to do? What to do?" He leaned his chin on his hand and began biting the broad flat nails
of his short, red fingers, hard as iron. "What I think, Ilya Stepanitch, is that you ought first to make
certain whether your suppositions are correct.... Perhaps your lady
love is alive and well." ("Shall I tell him the real explanation of
the taps?" flashed through my mind. "No--later.") "She has not written to me since we have been in camp," observed
Tyeglev. "That proves nothing, Ilya Stepanitch." Tyeglev waved me off. "No! she is certainly not in this world. She
called me." He suddenly turned to the window. "Someone is knocking again!" I could not help laughing. "No, excuse me, Ilya Stepanitch! This time
it is your nerves. You see, it is getting light. In ten minutes the
sun will be up--it is past three o'clock--and ghosts have no power in
the day." Tyeglev cast a gloomy glance at me and muttering through his teeth
"good-bye," lay down on the bench and turned his back on me. I lay down, too, and before I fell asleep I remember I wondered why
Tyeglev was always hinting at ... suicide. What nonsense! What humbug! Of his own free will he had refused to marry her, had cast her off ...
and now he wanted to kill himself! There was no sense in it! He could
not resist posing! With these thoughts I fell into a sound sleep and when I opened my
eyes the sun was already high in the sky--and Tyeglev was not in the
hut. He had, so his servant said, gone to the town. XII
I spent a very dull and wearisome day. Tyeglev did not return to
dinner nor to supper; I did not expect my brother. Towards evening a
thick fog came on again, thicker even than the day before. I went to
bed rather early. I was awakened by a knocking under the window. It was _my_ turn to be startled! The knock was repeated and so insistently distinct that one could have
no doubt of its reality. I got up, opened the window and saw Tyeglev. Wrapped in his great-coat, with his cap pulled over his eyes, he stood
motionless. "Ilya Stepanitch!" I cried, "is that you? I gave up expecting you. Come in. Is the door locked?" Tyeglev shook his head. "I do not intend to come in," he pronounced in
a hollow tone. "I only want to ask you to give this letter to the
commanding officer to-morrow." He gave me a big envelope sealed with five seals. I was
astonished--however, I took the envelope mechanically. Tyeglev at once
walked away into the middle of the road. "Stop! stop!" I began. "Where are you going? Have you only just come? And what is the letter?" "Do you promise to deliver it?" said Tyeglev, and moved away a few
steps further. The fog blurred the outlines of his figure. "Do you
promise?" "I promise ... but first--"
Tyeglev moved still further away and became a long dark blur. "Good-bye," I heard his voice. "Farewell, Ridel, don't remember evil
against me.... And don't forget Semyon...."
And the blur itself vanished. This was too much. "Oh, the damned _poseur_," I thought. "You
must always be straining after effect!" I felt uneasy, however; an
involuntary fear clutched at my heart. I flung on my great-coat and
ran out into the road. XIII
Yes; but where was I to go? The fog enveloped me on all sides. For
five or six steps all round it was a little transparent--but further
away it stood up like a wall, thick and white like cotton wool. | Turgenev, Ivan Sergeevich - Knock, Knock, Knock and Other Stories |
I
turned to the right along the village street; our house was the last
but one in the village and beyond it came waste land overgrown here
and there with bushes; beyond the waste land, a quarter of a mile from
the village, there was a birch copse through which flowed the same
little stream that lower down encircled our village. The moon stood, a
pale blur in the sky--but its light was not, as on the evening before,
strong enough to penetrate the smoky density of the fog and hung, a
broad opaque canopy, overhead. I made my way out on to the open ground
and listened.... Not a sound from any direction, except the calling of
the marsh birds. "Tyeglev!" I cried. "Ilya Stepanitch!! Tyeglev!!" My voice died away near me without an answer; it seemed as though the
fog would not let it go further. "Tyeglev!" I repeated. No one answered. I went forward at random. Twice I struck against a fence, once I
nearly fell into a ditch, and almost stumbled against a peasant's
horse lying on the ground. "Tyeglev! Tyeglev!" I cried. All at once, almost behind me, I heard a low voice, "Well, here I am. What do you want of me?" I turned round quickly. Before me stood Tyeglev with his hands hanging at his sides and with
no cap on his head. His face was pale; but his eyes looked animated
and bigger than usual. His breathing came in deep, prolonged gasps
through his parted lips. "Thank God!" I cried in an outburst of joy, and I gripped him by both
hands. "Thank God! I was beginning to despair of finding you. Aren't
you ashamed of frightening me like this? Upon my word, Ilya
Stepanitch!" "What do you want of me?" repeated Tyeglev. "I want ... I want you, in the first place, to come back home with me. And secondly, I want, I insist, I insist as a friend, that you explain
to me at once the meaning of your actions--and of this letter to the
colonel. Can something unexpected have happened to you in Petersburg?" "I found in Petersburg exactly what I expected," answered Tyeglev,
without moving from the spot. "That is ... you mean to say ... your friend ... this Masha...."
"She has taken her life," Tyeglev answered hurriedly and as it were
angrily. "She was buried the day before yesterday. She did not even
leave a note for me. She poisoned herself." Tyeglev hurriedly uttered these terrible words and still stood
motionless as a stone. I clasped my hands. "Is it possible? How dreadful! Your presentiment
has come true.... That is awful!" I stopped in confusion. Slowly and with a sort of triumph Tyeglev
folded his arms. "But why are we standing here?" I began. "Let us go home." "Let us," said Tyeglev. "But how can we find the way in this fog?" "There is a light in our windows, and we will make for it. Come
along." "You go ahead," answered Tyeglev. "I will follow you." We set off. We
walked for five minutes and our beacon light still did not appear; at
last it gleamed before us in two red points. Tyeglev stepped evenly
behind me. I was desperately anxious to get home as quickly as
possible and to learn from him all the details of his unhappy
expedition to Petersburg. Before we reached the hut, impressed by what
he had said, I confessed to him in an access of remorse and a sort of
superstitious fear, that the mysterious knocking of the previous
evening had been my doing ... and what a tragic turn my jest had
taken! Tyeglev confined himself to observing that I had nothing to do with
it--that something else had guided my hand--and this only showed how
little I knew him. His voice, strangely calm and even, sounded close
to my ear. "But you do not know me," he added. "I saw you smile
yesterday when I spoke of the strength of my will. You will come to
know me--and you will remember my words." The first hut of the village sprang out of the fog before us like some
dark monster ... then the second, our hut, emerged--and my setter dog
began barking, probably scenting me. I knocked at the window. "Semyon!" I shouted to Tyeglev's servant,
"hey, Semyon! Make haste and open the gate for us." The gate creaked and opened; Semyon crossed the threshold. "Ilya Stepanitch, come in," I said, and I looked round. But no Ilya
Stepanitch was with me. Tyeglev had vanished as though he had sunk
into the earth. I went into the hut feeling dazed. XIV
Vexation with Tyeglev and with myself succeeded the amazement with
which I was overcome at first. "Your master is mad!" I blurted out to Semyon, "raving mad! He
galloped off to Petersburg, then came back and is running about all
over the place! I did get hold of him and brought him right up to the
gate--and here he has given me the slip again! To go out of doors on a
night like this! He has chosen a nice time for a walk!" "And why did I let go of his hand?" I reproached myself. Semyon looked
at me in silence, as though intending to say something--but after the
fashion of servants in those days he simply shifted from one foot to
the other and said nothing. "What time did he set off for town?" I asked sternly. "At six o'clock in the morning." "And how was he--did he seem anxious, depressed?" Semyon looked down. "Our master is a deep one," he began. "Who can make him out? He told
me to get out his new uniform when he was going out to town--and then
he curled himself." "Curled himself?" "Curled his hair. I got the curling tongs ready for him." That, I confess, I had not expected. "Do you know a young lady," I
asked Semyon, "a friend of Ilya Stepanitch's. Her name is Masha." "To be sure I know Marya Anempodistovna! A nice young lady." "Is your master in love with this Marya ... et cetera?" Semyon heaved a sigh. "That young lady is Ilya Stepanitch's undoing. For he is desperately in love with her--and can't bring himself to
marry her--and sorry to give her up, too. It's all his honour's
faintheartedness. He is very fond of her." "What is she like then, pretty?" I inquired. Semyon assumed a grave air. "She is the sort that the gentry like." "And you?" "She is not the right sort for us at all." "How so?" "Very thin in the body." "If she died," I began, "do you think Ilya Stepanitch would not
survive her?" Semyon heaved a sigh again. "I can't venture to say that--there's no
knowing with gentlemen ... but our master is a deep one." I took up from the table the big, rather thick letter that Tyeglev had
given me and turned it over in my hands.... The address to "his honour
the Commanding Officer of the Battery, Colonel So and So" (the name,
patronymic, and surname) was clearly and distinctly written. The word
_urgent_, twice underlined, was written in the top left-hand
corner of the envelope. "Listen, Semyon," I began. "I feel uneasy about your master. I fancy
he has some mischief in his mind. We must find him." "Yes, sir," answered Semyon. "It is true there is such a fog that one cannot see a couple of yards
ahead; but all the same we must do our best. We will each take a
lantern and light a candle in each window--in case of need." "Yes, sir," repeated Semyon. | Turgenev, Ivan Sergeevich - Knock, Knock, Knock and Other Stories |
He lighted the lanterns and the candles
and we set off. XV
I can't describe how we wandered and lost our way! The lanterns were
of no help to us; they did not in the least dissipate the white,
almost luminous mist which surrounded us. Several times Semyon and I
lost each other, in spite of the fact that we kept calling to each
other and hallooing and at frequent intervals shouted--I: "Tyeglev! Ilya Stepanitch!" and Semyon: "Mr. Tyeglev! Your honour!" The fog so
bewildered us that we wandered about as though in a dream; soon we
were both hoarse; the fog penetrated right into one's chest. We
succeeded somehow by help of the candles in the windows in reaching
the hut again. Our combined action had been of no use--we merely
handicapped each other--and so we made up our minds not to trouble
ourselves about getting separated but to go each our own way. He went
to the left, I to the right and I soon ceased to hear his voice. The
fog seemed to have found its way into my brain and I wandered like one
dazed, simply shouting from time to time, "Tyeglev! Tyeglev!" "Here!" I heard suddenly in answer. Holy saints, how relieved I was! How I rushed in the direction from
which the voice came.... A human figure loomed dark before me.... I
made for it. At last! But instead of Tyeglev I saw another officer of the same battery,
whose name was Tyelepnev. "Was it you answered me?" I asked him. "Was it you calling me?" he asked in his turn. "No; I was calling Tyeglev." "Tyeglev? Why, I met him a minute ago. What a fool of a night! One
can't find the way home." "You saw Tyeglev? Which way did he go?" "That way, I fancy," said the officer, waving his hand in the air. "But one can't be sure of anything now. Do you know, for instance,
where the village is? The only hope is the dogs barking. It is a fool
of a night! Let me light a cigarette ... it will seem like a light on
the way." The officer was, so I fancied, a little exhilarated. "Did Tyeglev say anything to you?" I asked. "To be sure he did! I said to him, 'good evening, brother,' and he
said, 'good-bye.' 'How good-bye? Why good-bye.' 'I mean to shoot
myself directly with a pistol.' He is a queer fish!" My heart stood still. "You say he told you ..."
"He is a queer fish!" repeated the officer, and sauntered off. I hardly had time to recover from what the officer had told me, when
my own name, shouted several times as it seemed with effort, caught my
ear. I recognised Semyon's voice. I called back ... he came to me. XVI
"Well?" I asked him. "Have you found Ilya Stepanitch?" "Yes, sir." "Where?" "Here, not far away." "How ... have you found him? Is he alive?" "To be sure. I have been talking to him." (A load was lifted from
my heart.) "His honour was sitting in his great-coat under a birch
tree ... and he was all right. I put it to him, 'Won't you come home,
Ilya Stepanitch; Alexandr Vassilitch is very much worried about you.' And he said to me, 'What does he want to worry for! I want to be in the
fresh air. My head aches. Go home,' he said, 'and I will come later.'" "And you left him?" I cried, clasping my hands. "What else could I do? He told me to go ... how could I stay?" All my fears came back to me at once. "Take me to him this minute--do you hear? This minute! O Semyon,
Semyon, I did not expect this of you! You say he is not far off?" "He is quite close, here, where the copse begins--he is sitting there. It is not more than five yards from the river bank. I found him as I
came alongside the river." "Well, take me to him, take me to him." Semyon set off ahead of me. "This way, sir.... We have only to get
down to the river and it is close there." But instead of getting down to the river we got into a hollow and
found ourselves before an empty shed. "Hey, stop!" Semyon cried suddenly. "I must have come too far to the
right.... We must go that way, more to the left...."
We turned to the left--and found ourselves among such high, rank weeds
that we could scarcely get out.... I could not remember such a tangled
growth of weeds anywhere near our village. And then all at once a marsh
was squelching under our feet, and we saw little round moss-covered
hillocks which I had never noticed before either.... We turned
back--a small hill was sharply before us and on the top of it stood a
shanty--and in it someone was snoring. Semyon and I shouted several
times into the shanty; something stirred at the further end of it, the
straw rustled--and a hoarse voice shouted, "I am on guard." We turned back again ... fields and fields, endless fields.... I felt
ready to cry.... I remembered the words of the fool in _King
Lear_: "This night will turn us all to fools or madmen." "Where are we to go?" I said in despair to Semyon. "The devil must have led us astray, sir," answered the distracted
servant. "It's not natural ... there's mischief at the bottom of it!" I would have checked him but at that instant my ear caught a sound,
distinct but not loud, that engrossed my whole attention. There was a
faint "pop" as though someone had drawn a stiff cork from a narrow
bottle-neck. The sound came from somewhere not far off. Why the sound
seemed to me strange and peculiar I could not say, but at once I went
towards it. Semyon followed me. Within a few minutes something tall and broad
loomed in the fog. "The copse! here is the copse!" Semyon cried, delighted. "Yes,
here ... and there is the master sitting under the birch-tree.... There he is, sitting where I left him. That's he, surely enough!" I looked intently. A man really was sitting with his back towards us,
awkwardly huddled up under the birch-tree. I hurriedly approached and
recognised Tyeglev's great-coat, recognised his figure, his head bowed
on his breast. "Tyeglev!" I cried ... but he did not answer. "Tyeglev!" I repeated, and laid my hand on his shoulder. Then he
suddenly lurched forward, quickly and obediently, as though he were
waiting for my touch, and fell onto the grass. Semyon and I raised him
at once and turned him face upwards. It was not pale, but was lifeless
and motionless; his clenched teeth gleamed white--and his eyes,
motionless, too, and wide open, kept their habitual, drowsy and
"different" look. "Good God!" Semyon said suddenly and showed me his hand stained
crimson with blood.... The blood was coming from under Tyeglev's
great-coat, from the left side of his chest. He had shot himself from a small, single-barreled pistol which was
lying beside him. The faint pop I had heard was the sound made by the
fatal shot. XVII
Tyeglev's suicide did not surprise his comrades very much. I have told
you already that, according to their ideas, as a "fatal" man he was
bound to do something extraordinary, though perhaps they had not
expected that from him. | Turgenev, Ivan Sergeevich - Knock, Knock, Knock and Other Stories |
In the letter to the colonel he asked him, in
the first place, to have the name of Ilya Tyeglev removed from the
list of officers, as he had died by his own act, adding that in his
cash-box there would be found more than sufficient money to pay his
debts,--and, secondly, to forward to the important personage at that
time commanding the whole corps of guards, an unsealed letter which
was in the same envelope. This second letter, of course, we all read;
some of us took a copy of it. Tyeglev had evidently taken pains over
the composition of this letter. "You know, Your Excellency" (so I remember the letter began), "you are
so stern and severe over the slightest negligence in uniform when a
pale, trembling officer presents himself before you; and here am I now
going to meet our universal, righteous, incorruptible Judge, the
Supreme Being, the Being of infinitely greater consequence even than
Your Excellency, and I am going to meet him in undress, in my
great-coat, and even without a cravat round my neck." Oh, what a painful and unpleasant impression that phrase made upon me,
with every word, every letter of it, carefully written in the dead
man's childish handwriting! Was it worth while, I asked myself, to
invent such rubbish at such a moment? But Tyeglev had evidently been
pleased with the phrase: he had made use in it of the accumulation of
epithets and amplifications _à la_ Marlinsky, at that time in
fashion. Further on he had alluded to destiny, to persecution, to his
vocation which had remained unfulfilled, to a mystery which he would
bear with him to the grave, to people who had not cared to understand
him; he had even quoted lines from some poet who had said of the crowd
that it wore life "like a dog-collar" and clung to vice "like a
burdock"--and it was not free from mistakes in spelling. To tell the
truth, this last letter of poor Tyeglev was somewhat vulgar; and I can
fancy the contemptuous surprise of the great personage to whom it was
addressed--I can imagine the tone in which he would pronounce "a
worthless officer! ill weeds are cleared out of the field!" Only at the very end of the letter there was a sincere note from
Tyeglev's heart. "Ah, Your Excellency," he concluded his epistle, "I
am an orphan, I had no one to love me as a child--and all held aloof
from me ... and I myself destroyed the only heart that gave itself to
me!" Semyon found in the pocket of Tyeglev's great-coat a little album from
which his master was never separated. But almost all the pages had
been torn out; only one was left on which there was the following
calculation:
Napoleon was born Ilya Tyeglev was born
on August 15th, 1769. on January 7th, 1811. 1769 1811
15 7
8* 1+
----- -----
Total 1792 Total 1819
* August--the 8th month + January--the 1st month
of the year. of the year. 1 1
7 8
9 1
2 9
--- ---
Total 19! Total 19! Napoleon died on May Ilya Tyeglev died on
5th, 1825. April 21st, 1834. 1825 1834
5 21
5* 7+
----- -----
Total 1835 Total 1862
* May--the 5th month + July--the 7th month
of the year. of the year. 1 1
8 8
3 6
5 23
-- --
Total 17! Total 17! Poor fellow! Was not this perhaps why he became an artillery officer? As a suicide he was buried outside the cemetery--and he was
immediately forgotten. XVIII
The day after Tyeglev's burial (I was still in the village waiting for
my brother) Semyon came into the hut and announced that Ilya wanted to
see me. "What Ilya?" I asked. "Our pedlar." I told Semyon to call him. He made his appearance. He expressed some regret at the death of the
lieutenant; wondered what could have possessed him....
"Was he in debt to you?" I asked. "No, sir. He always paid punctually for everything he had. But I tell
you what," here the pedlar grinned, "you have got something of mine." "What is it?" "Why, that," he pointed to the brass comb lying on the little toilet
table. "A thing of little value," the fellow went on, "but as it was a
present ..."
All at once I raised my head. Something dawned upon me. "Your name is Ilya?" "Yes, sir." "Was it you, then, I saw under the willow tree the other night?" The pedlar winked, and grinned more broadly than ever. "Yes, sir." "And it was _your_ name that was called?" "Yes, sir," the pedlar repeated with playful modesty. "There is a
young girl here," he went on in a high falsetto, "who, owing to the
great strictness of her parents----"
"Very good, very good," I interrupted him, handed him the comb and
dismissed him. "So that was the 'Ilyusha,'" I thought, and I sank into philosophic
reflections which I will not, however, intrude upon you as I don't
want to prevent anyone from believing in fate, predestination and such
like. When I was back in Petersburg I made inquiries about Masha. I even
discovered the doctor who had treated her. To my amazement I heard
from him that she had died not through poisoning but of cholera! I
told him what I had heard from Tyeglev. "Eh! Eh!" cried the doctor all at once. "Is that Tyeglev an artillery
officer, a man of middle height and with a stoop, speaks with a lisp?" "Yes." "Well, I thought so. That gentleman came to me--I had never seen him
before--and began insisting that the girl had poisoned herself. 'It
was cholera,' I told him. 'Poison,' he said. 'It was cholera, I tell
you,' I said. 'No, it was poison,' he declared. I saw that the fellow
was a sort of lunatic, with a broad base to his head--a sign of
obstinacy, he would not give over easily.... Well, it doesn't matter,
I thought, the patient is dead.... 'Very well,' I said, 'she poisoned
herself if you prefer it.' He thanked me, even shook hands with
me--and departed." I told the doctor how the officer had shot himself the same day. The doctor did not turn a hair--and only observed that there were all
sorts of queer fellows in the world. "There are indeed," I assented. Yes, someone has said truly of suicides: until they carry out their
design, no one believes them; and when they do, no one regrets them. Baden, 1870. | Turgenev, Ivan Sergeevich - Knock, Knock, Knock and Other Stories |
* * * * *
THE INN
On the high road to B., at an equal distance from the two towns
through which it runs, there stood not long ago a roomy inn, very well
known to the drivers of troikas, peasants with trains of waggons,
merchants, clerks, pedlars and the numerous travellers of all sorts
who journey upon our roads at all times of the year. Everyone used to
call at the inn; only perhaps a landowner's coach, drawn by six
home-bred horses, would roll majestically by, which did not prevent
either the coachman or the groom on the footboard from looking with
peculiar feeling and attention at the little porch so familiar to them;
or some poor devil in a wretched little cart and with three five-kopeck
pieces in the bag in his bosom would urge on his weary nag when he
reached the prosperous inn, and would hasten on to some night's lodging
in the hamlets that lie by the high road in a peasant's hut, where he
would find nothing but bread and hay, but, on the other hand, would not
have to pay an extra kopeck. Apart from its favourable situation, the
inn with which our story deals had many attractions: excellent water in
two deep wells with creaking wheels and iron buckets on a chain; a
spacious yard with a tiled roof on posts; abundant stores of oats in
the cellar; a warm outer room with a very huge Russian stove with long
horizontal flues attached that looked like titanic shoulders, and
lastly two fairly clean rooms with the walls covered with reddish
lilac paper somewhat frayed at the lower edge with a painted wooden
sofa, chairs to match and two pots of geraniums in the windows, which
were, however, never cleaned--and were dingy with the dust of years. The inn had other advantages: the blacksmith's was close by, the mill
was just at hand; and, lastly, one could get a good meal in it, thanks
to the cook, a fat and red-faced peasant woman, who prepared rich and
appetizing dishes and dealt out provisions without stint; the nearest
tavern was reckoned not half a mile away; the host kept snuff which
though mixed with wood-ash, was extremely pungent and pleasantly
irritated the nose; in fact there were many reasons why visitors of
all sorts were never lacking in that inn. It was liked by those who
used it--and that is the chief thing; without which nothing, of course,
would succeed and it was liked principally as it was said in the
district, because the host himself was very fortunate and successful
in all his undertakings, though he did not much deserve his good
fortune; but it seems if a man is lucky, he is lucky. The innkeeper was a man of the working class called Naum Ivanov. He
was a man of middle height with broad, stooping shoulders; he had a
big round head and curly hair already grey, though he did not look
more than forty; a full and fresh face, a low but white and smooth
forehead and little bright blue eyes, out of which he looked in a very
queer way from under his brows and yet with an insolent expression, a
combination not often met with. He always held his head down and
seemed to turn it with difficulty, perhaps because his neck was very
short. He walked at a trot and did not swing his arms, but slowly
moved them with his fists clenched as he walked. When he smiled, and
he smiled often without laughing, as it were smiling to himself, his
thick lips parted unpleasantly and displayed a row of close-set,
brilliant teeth. He spoke jerkily and with a surly note in his voice. He shaved his beard, but dressed in Russian style. His costume
consisted of a long, always threadbare, full coat, full breeches and
shoes on his bare feet. He was often away from home on business and he
had a great deal of business--he was a horse-dealer, he rented land,
had a market garden, bought up orchards and traded in various ways--but
his absences never lasted long; like a kite, to which he had
considerable resemblance, especially in the expression of his eyes, he
used to return to his nest. He knew how to keep that nest in order. He
was everywhere, he listened to everything and gave orders, served out
stores, sent things out and made up his accounts himself, and never
knocked off a farthing from anyone's account, but never asked more
than his due. The visitors did not talk to him, and, indeed, he did not care to
waste words. "I want your money and you want my victuals," he used to
say, as it were, jerking out each word: "We have not met for a
christening; the traveller has eaten, has fed his beasts, no need to
sit on. If he is tired, let him sleep without chattering." The
labourers he kept were healthy grown-up men, but docile and well
broken in; they were very much afraid of him. He never touched
intoxicating liquor and he used to give his men ten kopecks for vodka
on the great holidays; they did not dare to drink on other days. People like Naum quickly get rich ... but to the magnificent position
in which he found himself--and he was believed to be worth forty or
fifty thousand roubles--Naum Ivanov had not arrived by the strait
path.... The inn had existed on the same spot on the high road twenty years
before the time from which we date the beginning of our story. It is
true that it had not then the dark red shingle roof which made Naum
Ivanov's inn look like a gentleman's house; it was inferior in
construction and had thatched roofs in the courtyard, and a humble
fence instead of a wall of logs; nor had it been distinguished by the
triangular Greek pediment on carved posts; but all the same it had
been a capital inn--roomy, solid and warm--and travellers were glad to
frequent it. The innkeeper at that time was not Naum Ivanov, but a
certain Akim Semyonitch, a serf belonging to a neighbouring lady,
Lizaveta Prohorovna Kuntse, the widow of a staff officer. This Akim
was a shrewd trading peasant who, having left home in his youth with
two wretched nags to work as a carrier, had returned a year later with
three decent horses and had spent almost all the rest of his life on
the high roads; he used to go to Kazan and Odessa, to Orenburg and to
Warsaw and abroad to Leipsic and used in the end to travel with two
teams, each of three stout, sturdy stallions, harnessed to two huge
carts. Whether it was that he was sick of his life of homeless
wandering, whether it was that he wanted to rear a family (his wife
had died in one of his absences and what children she had borne him
were dead also), anyway, he made up his mind at last to abandon his
old calling and to open an inn. With the permission of his mistress,
he settled on the high road, bought in her name about an acre and a
half of land and built an inn upon it. The undertaking prospered. He
had more than enough money to furnish and stock it. | Turgenev, Ivan Sergeevich - Knock, Knock, Knock and Other Stories |
The experience he
had gained in the course of his years of travelling from one end of
Russia to another was of great advantage to him; he knew how to please
his visitors, especially his former mates, the drivers of troikas,
many of whom he knew personally and whose good-will is particularly
valued by innkeepers, as they need so much food for themselves and
their powerful beasts. Akim's inn became celebrated for hundreds of
miles round. People were even readier to stay with him than with his
successor, Naum, though Akim could not be compared with Naum as a
manager. Under Akim everything was in the old-fashioned style, snug,
but not over clean; and his oats were apt to be light, or musty; the
cooking, too, was somewhat indifferent: dishes were sometimes put on
the table which would better have been left in the oven and it was not
that he was stingy with the provisions, but just that the cook had not
looked after them. On the other hand, he was ready to knock off
something from the price and did not refuse to trust a man's word for
payment--he was a good man and a genial host. In talking, in
entertaining, he was lavish, too; he would sometimes chatter away over
the samovar till his listeners pricked up their ears, especially when
he began telling them about Petersburg, about the Circassian steppes,
or even about foreign parts; and he liked getting a little drunk with
a good companion, but not disgracefully so, more for the sake of
company, as his guests used to say of him. He was a great favourite
with merchants and with all people of what is called the old school,
who do not set off for a journey without tightening up their belts and
never go into a room without making the sign of the cross, and never
enter into conversation with a man without first wishing him good
health. Even Akim's appearance disposed people in his favour: he was
tall, rather thin, but graceful even at his advanced years; he had a
long face, with fine-looking regular features, a high and open brow, a
straight and delicate nose and a small mouth. His brown and prominent
eyes positively shone with friendly gentleness, his soft, scanty hair
curled in little rings about his neck; he had very little left on the
top of his head. Akim's voice was very pleasant, though weak; in his
youth he had been a good singer, but continual travelling in the open
air in the winter had affected his chest. But he talked very smoothly
and sweetly. When he laughed wrinkles like rays that were very
charming came round his eyes:--such wrinkles are only to be seen in
kind-hearted people. Akim's movements were for the most part
deliberate and not without a certain confidence and dignified courtesy
befitting a man of experience who had seen a great deal in his day. In fact, Akim--or Akim Semyonitch as he was called even in his
mistress's house, to which he often went and invariably on Sundays
after mass--would have been excellent in all respects--if he had not
had one weakness which has been the ruin of many men on earth, and was
in the end the ruin of him, too--a weakness for the fair sex. Akim's
susceptibility was extreme, his heart could never resist a woman's
glance: he melted before it like the first snow of autumn in the
sun ... and dearly he had to pay for his excessive sensibility. For the first year after he had set up on the high road Akim was so
busy with building his yard, stocking the place, and all the business
inseparable from moving into a new house that he had absolutely no
time to think of women and if any sinful thought came into his mind he
immediately drove it away by reading various devotional works for
which he cherished a profound respect (he had learned to read when
first he left home), singing the psalms in a low voice or some other
pious occupation. Besides, he was then in his forty-sixth year and at
that time of life every passion grows perceptibly calmer and cooler
and the time for marrying was past. Akim himself began to think that,
as he expressed it, this foolishness was over and done with ... But
evidently there is no escaping one's fate. Akim's former mistress, Lizaveta Prohorovna Kuntse, the widow of an
officer of German extraction, was herself a native of Mittau, where
she had spent the first years of her childhood and where she had
numerous poor relations, about whom she concerned herself very little,
especially after a casual visit from one of her brothers, an infantry
officer of the line. On the day after his arrival he had made a great
disturbance and almost beaten the lady of the house, calling her "du
lumpenmamselle," though only the evening before he had called her in
broken Russian: "sister and benefactor." Lizaveta Prohorovna lived
almost permanently on her pretty estate which had been won by the
labours of her husband who had been an architect. She managed it
herself and managed it very well. Lizaveta Prohorovna never let slip
the slightest advantage; she turned everything into profit for
herself; and this, as well as her extraordinary capacity for making a
farthing do the work of a halfpenny, betrayed her German origin; in
everything else she had become very Russian. She kept a considerable
number of house serfs, especially many maids, who earned their salt,
however: from morning to night their backs were bent over their work. She liked driving out in her carriage with grooms in livery on the
footboard. She liked listening to gossip and scandal and was a clever
scandal-monger herself; she liked to lavish favours upon someone, then
suddenly crush him with her displeasure, in fact, Lizaveta Prohorovna
behaved exactly like a lady. Akim was in her good graces; he paid her
punctually every year a very considerable sum in lieu of service; she
talked graciously to him and even, in jest, invited him as a guest ...
but it was precisely in his mistress's house that trouble was in store
for Akim. Among Lizaveta Prohorovna's maidservants was an orphan girl of twenty
called Dunyasha. She was good-looking, graceful and neat-handed;
though her features were irregular, they were pleasing; her fresh
complexion, her thick flaxen hair, her lively grey eyes, her
little round nose, her rosy lips and above all her half-mocking,
half-provocative expression--were all rather charming in their way. At
the same time, in spite of her forlorn position, she was strict, almost
haughty in her deportment. She came of a long line of house serfs. Her
father, Arefy, had been a butler for thirty years, while her
grandfather, Stepan had been valet to a prince and officer of the
Guards long since dead. She dressed neatly and was vain over her
hands, which were certainly very beautiful. Dunyasha made a show of
great disdain for all her admirers; she listened to their compliments
with a self-complacent little smile and if she answered them at all it
was usually some exclamation such as: "Yes! Likely! As though I
should! What next!" These exclamations were always on her lips. | Turgenev, Ivan Sergeevich - Knock, Knock, Knock and Other Stories |
Dunyasha had spent about three years being trained in Moscow where she
had picked up the peculiar airs and graces which distinguish
maidservants who have been in Moscow or Petersburg. She was spoken of
as a girl of self-respect (high praise on the lips of house serfs)
who, though she had seen something of life, had not let herself down. She was rather clever with her needle, too, yet with all this Lizaveta
Prohorovna was not very warmly disposed toward her, thanks to the
headmaid, Kirillovna, a sly and intriguing woman, no longer young. Kirillovna exercised great influence over her mistress and very
skilfully succeeded in getting rid of all rivals. With this Dunyasha Akim must needs fall in love! And he fell in love
as he had never fallen in love before. He saw her first at church: she
had only just come back from Moscow.... Afterwards, he met her several
times in his mistress's house; finally he spent a whole evening with
her at the steward's, where he had been invited to tea in company with
other highly respected persons. The house serfs did not disdain him,
though he was not of their class and wore a beard; he was a man of
education, could read and write and, what was more, had money; and he
did not dress like a peasant but wore a long full coat of black cloth,
high boots of calf leather and a kerchief on his neck. It is true that
some of the house serfs did say among themselves that: "One can see
that he is not one of us," but to his face they almost flattered him. On that evening at the steward's Dunyasha made a complete conquest of
Akim's susceptible heart, though she said not a single word in answer
to his ingratiating speeches and only looked sideways at him from time
to time as though wondering why that peasant was there. All that only
added fuel to the flames. He went home, pondered and pondered and made
up his mind to win her hand.... She had somehow "bewitched" him. But
how can I describe the wrath and indignation of Dunyasha when five
days later Kirillovna with a friendly air invited her into her room
and told her that Akim (and evidently he knew how to set to work) that
bearded peasant Akim, to sit by whose side she considered almost an
indignity, was courting her. Dunyasha first flushed crimson, then she gave a forced laugh, then she
burst into tears; but Kirillovna made her attack so artfully, made the
girl feel her own position in the house so clearly, so tactfully
hinted at the presentable appearance, the wealth and blind devotion of
Akim and finally mentioned so significantly the wishes of their
mistress that Dunyasha went out of the room with a look of hesitation
on her face and meeting Akim only gazed intently into his face and did
not turn away. The indescribably lavish presents of the love-sick man
dissipated her last doubts. Lizaveta Prohorovna, to whom Akim in his
joy took a hundred peaches on a large silver dish, gave her consent to
the marriage, and the marriage took place. Akim spared no expense--and
the bride, who on the eve of her wedding at her farewell party to her
girl friends sat looking a figure of misery, and who cried all the
next morning while Kirillovna was dressing her for the wedding, was
soon comforted.... Her mistress gave her her own shawl to wear in the
church and Akim presented her the same day with one like it, almost
superior. And so Akim was married, and took his young bride home.... They began
their life together.... Dunyasha turned out to be a poor housewife, a
poor helpmate to her husband. She took no interest in anything, was
melancholy and depressed unless some officer sitting by the big
samovar noticed her and paid her compliments; she was often absent,
sometimes in the town shopping, sometimes at the mistress's house,
which was only three miles from the inn. There she felt at home, there
she was surrounded by her own people; the girls envied her finery. Kirillovna regaled her with tea; Lizaveta Prohorovna herself talked to
her. But even these visits did not pass without some bitter
experiences for Dunyasha.... As an innkeeper's wife, for instance, she
could not wear a hat and was obliged to tie up her head in a kerchief,
"like a merchant's lady," said sly Kirillovna, "like a working woman,"
thought Dunyasha to herself. More than once Akim recalled the words of his only relation, an uncle
who had lived in solitude without a family for years: "Well,
Akimushka, my lad," he had said, meeting him in the street, "I hear
you are getting married." "Why, yes, what of it?" "Ech, Akim, Akim. You are above us peasants now, there's no denying
that; but you are not on her level either." "In what way not on her level?" "Why, in that way, for instance," his uncle had answered, pointing to
Akim's beard, which he had begun to clip in order to please his
betrothed, though he had refused to shave it completely.... Akim
looked down; while the old man turned away, wrapped his tattered
sheepskin about him and walked away, shaking his head. Yes, more than once Akim sank into thought, cleared his throat and
sighed.... But his love for his pretty wife was no less; he was proud
of her, especially when he compared her not merely with peasant women,
or with his first wife, to whom he had been married at sixteen, but
with other serf girls; "look what a fine bird we have caught," he
thought to himself.... Her slightest caress gave him immense pleasure. "Maybe," he thought, "she will get used to it; maybe she will get into
the way of it." Meanwhile her behaviour was irreproachable and no one
could say anything against her. Several years passed like this. Dunyasha really did end by growing
used to her way of life. Akim's love for her and confidence in her
only increased as he grew older; her girl friends, who had been
married not to peasants, were suffering cruel hardships, either from
poverty or from having fallen into bad hands.... Akim went on getting
richer and richer. Everything succeeded with him--he was always lucky;
only one thing was a grief: God had not given him children. Dunyasha
was by now over five and twenty; everyone addressed her as Avdotya
Arefyevna. She never became a real housewife, however--but she grew
fond of her house, looked after the stores and superintended the woman
who worked in the house. It is true that she did all this only after a
fashion; she did not keep up a high standard of cleanliness and order;
on the other hand, her portrait painted in oils and ordered by herself
from a local artist, the son of the parish deacon, hung on the wall of
the chief room beside that of Akim. She was depicted in a white dress
with a yellow shawl with six strings of big pearls round her neck,
long earrings, and a ring on every finger. | Turgenev, Ivan Sergeevich - Knock, Knock, Knock and Other Stories |
The portrait was
recognisable though the artist had painted her excessively stout and
rosy--and had made her eyes not grey but black and even slightly
squinting.... Akim's was a complete failure, the portrait had come out
dark--_à la_ Rembrandt--so that sometimes a visitor would go up
to it, look at it and merely give an inarticulate murmur. Avdotya had
taken to being rather careless in her dress; she would fling a big
shawl over her shoulders, while the dress under it was put on anyhow:
she was overcome by laziness, that sighing apathetic drowsy laziness
to which the Russian is only too liable, especially when his
livelihood is secure....
With all that, the fortunes of Akim and his wife prospered
exceedingly; they lived in harmony and had the reputation of an
exemplary pair. But just as a squirrel will wash its face at the very
instant when the sportsman is aiming at it, man has no presentiment of
his troubles, till all of a sudden the ground gives way under him like
ice. One autumn evening a merchant in the drapery line put up at Akim's
inn. He was journeying by various cross-country roads from Moscow to
Harkov with two loaded tilt carts; he was one of those travelling
traders whose arrival is sometimes awaited with such impatience by
country gentlemen and still more by their wives and daughters. This
travelling merchant, an elderly man, had with him two companions, or,
speaking more correctly, two workmen, one thin, pale and hunchbacked,
the other a fine, handsome young fellow of twenty. They asked for
supper, then sat down to tea; the merchant invited the innkeeper and
his wife to take a cup with him, they did not refuse. A conversation
quickly sprang up between the two old men (Akim was fifty-six); the
merchant inquired about the gentry of the neighbourhood and no one
could give him more useful information about them than Akim; the
hunchbacked workman spent his time looking after the carts and finally
went off to bed; it fell to Avdotya to talk to the other one.... She
sat by him and said little, rather listening to what he told her, but
it was evident that his talk pleased her; her face grew more animated,
the colour came into her cheeks and she laughed readily and often. The
young workman sat almost motionless with his curly head bent over the
table; he spoke quietly, without haste and without raising his voice;
but his eyes, not large but saucily bright and blue, were rivetted on
Avdotya; at first she turned away from them, then she, too, began
looking him in the face. The young fellow's face was fresh and smooth
as a Crimean apple; he often smiled and tapped with his white fingers
on his chin covered with soft dark down. He spoke like a merchant, but
very freely and with a sort of careless self-confidence and went on
looking at her with the same intent, impudent stare.... All at once he
moved a little closer to her and without the slightest change of
countenance said to her: "Avdotya Arefyevna, there's no one like you
in the world; I am ready to die for you." Avdotya laughed aloud. "What is it?" asked Akim. "Why, he keeps saying such funny things," she said, without any
particular embarrassment. The old merchant grinned. "Ha, ha, yes, my Naum is such a funny fellow, don't listen to him." "Oh! Really! As though I should," she answered, and shook her head. "Ha, ha, of course not," observed the old man. "But, however," he went
on in a singsong voice, "we will take our leave; we are thoroughly
satisfied, it is time for bed, ..." and he got up. "We are well satisfied, too," Akim brought out and he got up, "for
your entertainment, that is, but we wish you a good night. Avdotyushka, come along." Avdotya got up as it were unwillingly. Naum, too, got up after her ...
the party broke up. The innkeeper and his wife went off to the little
lobby partitioned off, which served them as a bedroom. Akim was
snoring immediately. It was a long time before Avdotya could get to
sleep.... At first she lay still, turning her face to the wall, then
she began tossing from side to side on the hot feather bed, throwing
off and pulling up the quilt alternately ... then she sank into a light
doze. Suddenly she heard from the yard a loud masculine voice: it was
singing a song of which it was impossible to distinguish the words,
prolonging each note, though not with a melancholy effect. Avdotya
opened her eyes, propped herself on her elbows and listened.... The
song went on.... It rang out musically in the autumn air. Akim raised his head. "Who's that singing?" he asked. "I don't know," she answered. "He sings well," he added, after a brief pause. "Very well. What a
strong voice. I used to sing in my day," he went on. "And I sang well,
too, but my voice has gone. That's a fine voice. It must be that young
fellow singing, Naum is his name, isn't it?" And he turned over on the
other side, gave a sigh and fell asleep again. It was a long time before the voice was still ... Avdotya listened and
listened; all at once it seemed to break off, rang out boldly once
more and slowly died away.... Avdotya crossed herself and laid her
head on the pillow.... Half an hour passed.... She sat up and softly
got out of bed. "Where are you going, wife?" Akim asked in his sleep. She stopped. "To see to the little lamp," she said, "I can't get to sleep." "You should say a prayer," Akim mumbled, falling asleep. Avdotya went up to the lamp before the ikon, began trimming it and
accidentally put it out; she went back and lay down. Everything was
still. Early next morning the merchant set off again on his journey with his
companions. Avdotya was asleep. Akim went half a mile with them: he
had to call at the mill. When he got home he found his wife dressed
and not alone. Naum, the young man who had been there the night
before, was with her. They were standing by the table in the window
talking. When Avdotya saw Akim, she went out of the room without a
word, and Naum said that he had come for his master's gloves which the
latter, he said, had left behind on the bench; and he, too, went away. We will now tell the reader what he has probably guessed already:
Avdotya had fallen passionately in love with Naum. It is hard to say
how it could have happened so quickly, especially as she had hitherto
been irreproachable in her behaviour in spite of many opportunities
and temptations to deceive her husband. Later on, when her intrigue
with Naum became known, many people in the neighbourhood declared that
he had on the very first evening put a magic potion that was a love
spell in her tea (the efficacy of such spells is still firmly believed
in among us), and that this could be clearly seen from the appearance
of Avdotya who, so they said, soon after began to pine away and look
depressed. However that may have been, Naum began to be frequently seen in Akim's
yard. | Turgenev, Ivan Sergeevich - Knock, Knock, Knock and Other Stories |
At first he came again with the same merchant and three months
later arrived alone, with wares of his own; then the report spread
that he had settled in one of the neighbouring district towns, and
from that time forward not a week passed without his appearing on the
high road with his strong, painted cart drawn by two sleek horses
which he drove himself. There was no particular friendship between
Akim and him, nor was there any hostility noticed between them; Akim
did not take much notice of him and only thought of him as a sharp
young fellow who was rapidly making his way in the world. He did not
suspect Avdotya's real feelings and went on believing in her as
before. Two years passed like this. One summer day it happened that Lizaveta Prohorovna--who had somehow
suddenly grown yellow and wrinkled during those two years in spite of
all sorts of unguents, rouge and powder--about two o'clock in the
afternoon went out with her lap dog and her folding parasol for a
stroll before dinner in her neat little German garden. With a faint
rustle of her starched petticoats, she walked with tiny steps along
the sandy path between two rows of erect, stiffly tied-up dahlias,
when she was suddenly overtaken by our old acquaintance Kirillovna,
who announced respectfully that a merchant desired to speak to her on
important business. Kirillovna was still high in her mistress's favour
(in reality it was she who managed Madame Kuntse's estate) and she had
some time before obtained permission to wear a white cap, which gave
still more acerbity to the sharp features of her swarthy face. "A merchant?" said her mistress; "what does he want?" "I don't know what he wants," answered Kirillovna in an insinuating
voice, "only I think he wants to buy something from you." Lizaveta Prohorovna went back into the drawing-room, sat down in her
usual seat--an armchair with a canopy over it, upon which a climbing
plant twined gracefully--and gave orders that the merchant should be
summoned. Naum appeared, bowed, and stood still by the door. "I hear that you want to buy something of me," said Lizaveta
Prohorovna, and thought to herself, "What a handsome man this merchant
is." "Just so, madam." "What is it?" "Would you be willing to sell your inn?" "What inn?" "Why, the one on the high road not far from here." "But that inn is not mine, it is Akim's." "Not yours? Why, it stands on your land." "Yes, the land is mine ... bought in my name; but the inn is his." "To be sure. But wouldn't you be willing to sell it to me?" "How could I sell it to you?" "Well, I would give you a good price for it." Lizaveta Prohorovna was silent for a space. "It is really very queer what you are saying," she said. "And what
would you give?" she added. "I don't ask that for myself but for
Akim." "For all the buildings and the appurtenances, together with the land
that goes with it, of course, I would give two thousand roubles." "Two thousand roubles! That is not enough," replied Lizaveta
Prohorovna. "It's a good price." "But have you spoken to Akim?" "What should I speak to him for? The inn is yours, so here I am
talking to you about it." "But I have told you.... It really is astonishing that you don't
understand me." "Not understand, madam? But I do understand." Lizaveta Prohorovna looked at Naum and Naum looked at Lizaveta
Prohorovna. "Well, then," he began, "what do you propose?" "I propose ..." Lizaveta Prohorovna moved in her chair. "In the first
place I tell you that two thousand is too little and in the second
..."
"I'll add another hundred, then." Lizaveta Prohorovna got up. "I see that you are talking quite off the point. I have told you
already that I cannot sell that inn--am not going to sell it. I
cannot ... that is, I will not." Naum smiled and said nothing for a space. "Well, as you please, madam," he said, shrugging his shoulders. "I beg
to take leave." He bowed and took hold of the door handle. Lizaveta Prohorovna turned round to him. "You need not go away yet, however," she said, with hardly perceptible
agitation. She rang the bell and Kirillovna came in from the study. "Kirillovna, tell them to give this gentleman some tea. I will see you
again," she added, with a slight inclination of her head. Naum bowed again and went out with Kirillovna. Lizaveta Prohorovna
walked up and down the room once or twice and rang the bell again. This time a page appeared. She told him to fetch Kirillovna. A few
moments later Kirillovna came in with a faint creak of her new
goatskin shoes. "Have you heard," Lizaveta Prohorovna began with a forced laugh, "what
this merchant has been proposing to me? He is a queer fellow, really!" "No, I haven't heard. What is it, madam?" and Kirillovna faintly
screwed up her black Kalmuck eyes. "He wants to buy Akim's inn." "Well, why not?" "But how could he? What about Akim? I gave it to Akim." "Upon my word, madam, what are you saying? Isn't the inn yours? Don't
we all belong to you? And isn't all our property yours, our
mistress's?" "Good gracious, Kirillovna, what are you saying?" Lizaveta Prohorovna
pulled out a batiste handkerchief and nervously blew her nose. "Akim
bought the inn with his own money." "His own money? But where did he get the money? Wasn't it through your
kindness? He has had the use of the land all this time as it is. It
was all through your gracious permission. And do you suppose, madam,
that he would have no money left? Why, he is richer than you are, upon
my word, he is!" "That's all true, of course, but still I can't do it.... How could I
sell the inn?" "And why not sell it," Kirillovna went on, "since a purchaser has
luckily turned up? May I ask, madam, how much he offers you?" "More than two thousand roubles," said Lizaveta Prohorovna softly. "He will give more, madam, if he offers two thousand straight off. And
you will arrange things with Akim afterwards; take a little off his
yearly duty or something. He will be thankful, too." "Of course, I must remit part of his duty. But no, Kirillovna, how can
I sell it?" and Lizaveta Prohorovna walked up and down the room. "No,
that's out of the question, that won't do ... no, please don't speak
of it again ... or I shall be angry." But in spite of her agitated mistress's warning, Kirillovna did
continue speaking of it and half an hour later she went back to Naum,
whom she had left in the butler's pantry at the samovar. "What have you to tell me, good madam?" said Naum, jauntily turning
his tea-cup wrong side upwards in the saucer. "What I have to tell you is that you are to go in to the mistress; she
wants you." "Certainly," said Naum, and he got up and followed Kirillovna into the
drawing-room. The door closed behind them.... When the door opened again and Naum
walked out backwards, bowing, the matter was settled: Akim's inn
belonged to him. He had bought it for 2800 paper roubles. It was
arranged that the legal formalities should take place as quickly as
possible and that till then the matter should not be made public. | Turgenev, Ivan Sergeevich - Knock, Knock, Knock and Other Stories |
Lizaveta Prohorovna received a deposit of a hundred roubles and two
hundred went to Kirillovna for her assistance. "It has not cost me
much," thought Naum as he got into his coat, "it was a lucky chance." While the transaction we have described was going forward in the
mistress's house, Akim was sitting at home alone on the bench by the
window, stroking his beard with a discontented expression. We have
said already that he did not suspect his wife's feeling for Naum,
although kind friends had more than once hinted to him that it was
time he opened his eyes; it is true that he had noticed himself that
of late his wife had become rather difficult, but we all know that the
female sex is capricious and changeable. Even when it really did
strike him that things were not going well in his house, he merely
dismissed the thought with a wave of his hand; he did not like the
idea of a squabble; his good nature had not lessened with years and
indolence was asserting itself, too. But on that day he was very much
out of humour; the day before he had overheard quite by chance in the
street a conversation between their servant and a neighbouring peasant
woman. The peasant woman asked the servant why she had not come to see her on
the holiday the day before. "I was expecting you," she said. "I did set off," replied the servant, "but as ill-luck would have it,
I ran into the mistress ... botheration take her." "Ran into her?" repeated the peasant woman in a sing-song voice and
she leaned her cheek on her hand. "And where did you run into her, my
good girl?" "Beyond the priest's hemp-patch. She must have gone to the hemp-patch
to meet her Naum, but I could not see them in the dusk, owing to the
moon, maybe, I don't know; I simply dashed into them." "Dashed into them?" the other woman repeated. "Well, and was she
standing with him, my good girl?" "Yes, she was. He was standing there and so was she. She saw me and
said, 'Where are you running to? Go home.' So I went home." "You went home?" The peasant woman was silent. "Well, good-bye,
Fetinyushka," she brought out at last, and trudged off. This conversation had an unpleasant effect on Akim. His love for
Avdotya had cooled, but still he did not like what the servant had
said. And she had told the truth: Avdotya really had gone out that
evening to meet Naum, who had been waiting for her in the patch of
dense shade thrown on the road by the high motionless hemp. The dew
bathed every stalk of it from top to bottom; the strong, almost
overpowering fragrance hung all about it. A huge crimson moon had just
risen in the dingy, blackish mist. Naum heard the hurried footsteps of
Avdotya a long way off and went to meet her. She came up to him, pale
with running; the moon lighted up her face. "Well, have you brought it?" he asked. "Brought it--yes, I have," she answered in an uncertain voice. "But,
Naum Ivanitch----"
"Give it me, since you have brought it," he interrupted her, and held
out his hand. She took a parcel from under her shawl. Naum took it at once and
thrust it in his bosom. "Naum Ivanitch," Avdotya said slowly, keeping her eyes fixed on him,
"oh, Naum Ivanitch, you will bring my soul to ruin." It was at that instant that the servant came up to them. And so Akim was sitting on the bench discontentedly stroking his
beard. Avdotya kept coming into the room and going out again. He
simply followed her with his eyes. At last she came into the room and
after taking a jerkin from the lobby was just crossing the threshold,
when he could not restrain himself and said, as though speaking to
himself:
"I wonder," he began, "why it is women are always in a fuss? It's no
good expecting them to sit still. That's not in their line. But
running out morning or evening, that's what they like. Yes." Avdotya listened to her husband's words without changing her position;
only at the word "evening," she moved her head slightly and seemed to
ponder. "Once you begin talking, Semyonitch," she commented at last with
vexation, "there is no stopping you." And with a wave of her hand she went away and slammed the door. Avdotya certainly did not appreciate Akim's eloquence and often in the
evenings when he indulged in conversation with travellers or fell to
telling stories she stealthily yawned or went out of the room. Akim
looked at the closed door. "Once you begin talking," he repeated in an
undertone.... "The fact is, I have not talked enough to you. And who
is it? A peasant like any one of us, and what's more...." And he got
up, thought a little and tapped the back of his head with his fist. Several days passed in a rather strange way. Akim kept looking at his
wife as though he were preparing to say something to her, and she, for
her part, looked at him suspiciously; meanwhile, they both preserved a
strained silence. This silence, however, was broken from time to time
by some peevish remark from Akim in regard to some oversight in the
housekeeping or in regard to women in general. For the most part
Avdotya did not answer one word. But in spite of Akim's good-natured
weakness, it certainly would have come to a decisive explanation
between him and Avdotya, if it had not been for an event which
rendered any explanation useless. One morning Akim and wife were just beginning lunch (owing to the
summer work in the fields there were no travellers at the inn) when
suddenly a cart rattled briskly along the road and pulled up sharply
at the front door. Akim peeped out of window, frowned and looked down:
Naum got deliberately out of the cart. Avdotya had not seen him, but
when she heard his voice in the entry the spoon trembled in her hand. He told the labourers to put up the horse in the yard. At last the
door opened and he walked into the room. "Good-day," he said, and took off his cap. "Good-day," Akim repeated through his teeth. "Where has God brought
you from?" "I was in the neighbourhood," replied Naum, and he sat down on the
bench. "I have come from your lady." "From the lady," said Akim, not getting up from his seat. "On
business, eh?" "Yes, on business. My respects to you, Avdotya Arefyevona." "Good morning, Naum Ivanitch," she answered. All were silent. "What have you got, broth, is it?" began Naum. "Yes, broth," replied Akim and all at once he turned pale, "but not
for you." Naum glanced at Akim with surprise. "Not for me?" "Not for you, and that's all about it." Akim's eyes glittered and he
brought his fist on the table. "There is nothing in my house for you,
do you hear?" "What's this, Semyonitch, what is the matter with you?" "There's nothing the matter with me, but I am sick of you, Naum
Ivanitch, that's what it is." The old man got up, trembling all over. "You poke yourself in here too often, I tell you." Naum, too, got up. "You've gone clean off your head, old man," he said with a jeer. "Avdotya Arefyevna, what's wrong with him?" "I tell you," shouted Akim in a cracked voice, "go away, do you
hear? ... You have nothing to do with Avdotya Arefyevna ... | Turgenev, Ivan Sergeevich - Knock, Knock, Knock and Other Stories |
I tell
you, do you hear, get out!" "What's that you are saying to me?" Naum asked significantly. "Go out of the house, that's what I am telling to you. Here's God and
here's the door ... do you understand? Or there will be trouble." Naum took a step forward. "Good gracious, don't fight, my dears," faltered Avdotya, who till
then had sat motionless at the table. Naum glanced at her. "Don't be uneasy, Avdotya Arefyevna, why should we fight? Fie,
brother, what a hullabaloo you are making!" he went on, addressing
Akim. "Yes, really. You are a hasty one! Has anyone ever heard of
turning anyone out of his house, especially the owner of it?" Naum
added with slow deliberateness. "Out of his house?" muttered Akim. "What owner?" "Me, if you like." And Naum screwed up his eyes and showed his white teeth in a grin. "You? Why, it's my house, isn't it?" "What a slow-witted fellow you are! I tell you it's mine." Akim gazed at him open-eyed. "What crazy stuff is it you are talking? One would think you had gone
silly," he said at last. "How the devil can it be yours?" "What's the good of talking to you?" cried Naum impatiently. "Do you
see this bit of paper?" he went on, pulling out of his pocket a sheet
of stamped paper, folded in four, "do you see? This is the deed of
sale, do you understand, the deed of sale of your land and your house;
I have bought them from the lady, from Lizaveta Prohorovna; the deed
was drawn up at the town yesterday; so I am master here, not you. Pack
your belongings today," he added, putting the document back in his
pocket, "and don't let me see a sign of you here to-morrow, do you
hear?" Akim stood as though struck by a thunderbolt. "Robber," he moaned at last, "robber.... Heigh, Fedka, Mitka, wife,
wife, seize him, seize him--hold him." He lost his head completely. "Mind now, old man," said Naum menacingly, "mind what you are about,
don't play the fool...."
"Beat him, wife, beat him!" Akim kept repeating in a tearful voice,
trying helplessly and in vain to get up. "Murderer, robber.... She is
not enough for you, you want to take my house, too, and everything.... But no, stop a bit ... that can't be.... I'll go myself, I'll speak
myself ... how ... why should she sell it? Wait a bit, wait a bit." And he dashed out bareheaded. "Where are you off to, Akim Ivanitch?" said the servant Fetinya,
running into him in the doorway. "To our mistress! Let me pass! To our mistress!" wailed Akim, and
seeing Naum's cart which had not yet been taken into the yard, he
jumped into it, snatched the reins and lashing the horse with all his
might set off at full speed to his mistress's house. "My lady, Lizaveta Prohorovna," he kept repeating to himself all the
way, "how have I lost your favour? I should have thought I had done my
best!" And meantime he kept lashing and lashing the horse. Those who met him
moved out of his way and gazed after him. In a quarter of an hour Akim had reached Lizaveta Prohorovna's house,
had galloped up to the front door, jumped out of the cart and dashed
straight into the entry. "What do you want?" muttered the frightened footman who was sleeping
sweetly on the hall bench. "The mistress, I want to see the mistress," said Akim loudly. The footman was amazed. "Has anything happened?" he began. "Nothing has happened, but I want to see the mistress." "What, what," said the footman, more and more astonished, and he
slowly drew himself up. Akim pulled himself up.... He felt as though cold water had been
poured on him. "Announce to the mistress, please, Pyotr Yevgrafitch," he said with a
low bow, "that Akim asks leave to see her." "Very good ... I'll go ... I'll tell her ... but you must be drunk,
wait a bit," grumbled the footman, and he went off. Akim looked down and seemed confused.... His determination had
evaporated as soon as he went into the hall. Lizaveta Prohorovna was confused, too, when she was informed that Akim
had come. She immediately summoned Kirillovna to her boudoir. "I can't see him," she began hurriedly, as soon as the latter
appeared. "I absolutely cannot. What am I to say to him? I told you he
would be sure to come and complain," she added in annoyance and
agitation. "I told you." "But why should you see him?" Kirillovna answered calmly, "there is no
need to. Why should you be worried! No, indeed!" "What is to be done then?" "If you will permit me, I will speak to him." Lizaveta Prohorovna raised her head. "Please do, Kirillovna. Talk to him. You tell him ... that I found it
necessary ... but that I will compensate him ... say what you think
best. Please, Kirillovna." "Don't you worry yourself, madam," answered Kirillovna, and she went
out, her shoes creaking. A quarter of an hour had not elapsed when their creaking was heard
again and Kirillovna walked into the boudoir with the same unruffled
expression on her face and the same sly shrewdness in her eyes. "Well?" asked her mistress, "how is Akim?" "He is all right, madam. He says that it must all be as you graciously
please; that if only you have good health and prosperity he can get
along very well." "And he did not complain?" "No, madam. Why should he complain?" "What did he come for, then?" Lizaveta Prohorovna asked in some
surprise. "He came to ask whether you would excuse his yearly payment for next
year, that is, until he has been compensated." "Of course, of course," Lizaveta Prohorovna caught her up eagerly. "Of
course, with pleasure. And tell him, in fact, that I will make it up
to him. Thank you, Kirillovna. I see he is a good-hearted man. Stay,"
she added, "give him this from me," and she took a three-rouble note
out of her work-table drawer, "Here, take this, give it to him." "Certainly, madam," answered Kirillovna, and going calmly back to her
room she locked the note in an iron-cased box which stood at the head
of her bed; she kept in it all her spare cash, and there was a
considerable amount of it. Kirillovna had reassured her mistress by her report but the
conversation between herself and Akim had not been quite what she
represented. She had sent for him to the maid's room. At first he had
not come, declaring that he did not want to see Kirillovna but
Lizaveta Prohorovna herself; he had, however, at last obeyed and gone
by the back door to see Kirillovna. He found her alone. He stopped at
once on getting into the room and leaned against the wall by the door;
he would have spoken but he could not. Kirillovna looked at him intently. "You want to see the mistress, Akim Semyonitch?" she began. He simply nodded. "It's impossible, Akim Semyonitch. And what's the use? What's done
can't be undone, and you will only worry the mistress. She can't see
you now, Akim Semyonitch." "She cannot," he repeated and paused. "Well, then," he brought out at
last, "so then my house is lost?" "Listen, Akim Semyonitch. I know you have always been a sensible man. Such is the mistress's will and there is no changing it. You can't
alter that. | Turgenev, Ivan Sergeevich - Knock, Knock, Knock and Other Stories |
Whatever you and I might say about it would make no
difference, would it?" Akim put his arm behind his back. "You'd better think," Kirillovna went on, "shouldn't you ask the
mistress to let you off your yearly payment or something?" "So my house is lost?" repeated Akim in the same voice. "Akim Semyonitch, I tell you, it's no use. You know that better than
I do." "Yes. Anyway, you might tell me what the house went for?" "I don't know, Akim Semyonitch, I can't tell you.... But why are you
standing?" she added. "Sit down." "I'd rather stand, I am a peasant. I thank you humbly." "You a peasant, Akim Semyonitch? You are as good as a merchant, let
alone a house-serf! What do you mean? Don't distress yourself for
nothing. Won't you have some tea?" "No, thank you, I don't want it. So you have got hold of my house
between you," he added, moving away from the wall. "Thank you for
that. I wish you good-bye, my lady." And he turned and went out. Kirillovna straightened her apron and went
to her mistress. "So I am a merchant, it seems," Akim said to himself, standing before
the gate in hesitation. "A nice merchant!" He waved his hand and
laughed bitterly. "Well, I suppose I had better go home." And entirely forgetting Naum's horse with which he had come, he
trudged along the road to the inn. Before he had gone the first mile
he suddenly heard the rattle of a cart beside him. "Akim, Akim Semyonitch," someone called to him. He raised his eyes and saw a friend of his, the parish clerk, Yefrem,
nicknamed the Mole, a little, bent man with a sharp nose and
dim-sighted eyes. He was sitting on a bundle of straw in a wretched
little cart, and leaning forward against the box. "Are you going home?" he asked Akim. Akim stopped
"Yes." "Shall I give you a lift?" "Please do." Yefrem moved to one side and Akim climbed into the cart. Yefrem, who
seemed to be somewhat exhilarated, began lashing at his wretched
little horse with the ends of his cord reins; it set off at a weary
trot continually tossing its unbridled head. They drove for nearly a mile without saying one word to each other. Akim sat with his head bent while Yefrem muttered to himself,
alternately urging on and holding back his horse. "Where have you been without your cap, Semyonitch?" he asked Akim
suddenly and, without waiting for an answer, went on, "You've left it
at some tavern, that's what you've done. You are a drinking man; I
know you and I like you for it, that you are a drinker; you are not a
murderer, not a rowdy, not one to make trouble; you are a good
manager, but you are a drinker and such a drinker, you ought to have
been pulled up for it long ago, yes, indeed; for it's, a nasty
habit.... Hurrah!" he shouted suddenly at the top of his voice,
"Hurrah! Hurrah!" "Stop! Stop!" a woman's voice sounded close by, "Stop!" Akim looked round. A woman so pale and dishevelled that at first he
did not recognise her, was running across the field towards the cart. "Stop! Stop!" she moaned again, gasping for breath and waving her
arms. Akim started: it was his wife. He snatched up the reins. "What's the good of stopping?" muttered Yefrem. "Stopping for a woman? Gee-up!" But Akim pulled the horse up sharply. At that instant Avdotya ran up
to the road and flung herself down with her face straight in the dust. "Akim Semyonitch," she wailed, "he has turned me out, too!" Akim looked at her and did not stir; he only gripped the reins
tighter. "Hurrah!" Yefrem shouted again. "So he has turned you out?" said Akim. "He has turned me out, Akim Semyonitch, dear," Avdotya answered,
sobbing. "He has turned me out. The house is mine, he said, so you can
go." "Capital! That's a fine thing ... capital," observed Yefrem. "So I suppose you thought to stay on?" Akim brought out bitterly,
still sitting in the cart. "How could I! But, Akim Semyonitch," went on Avdotya, who had raised
her head but let it sink to the earth again, "you don't know, I ...
kill me, Akim Semyonitch, kill me here on the spot." "Why should I kill you, Arefyevna?" said Akim dejectedly, "you've been
your own ruin. What's the use?" "But do you know what, Akim Semyonitch, the money ... your money ...
your money's gone.... Wretched sinner as I am, I took it from under
the floor, I gave it all to him, to that villain Naum.... Why did you
tell me where you hid your money, wretched sinner as I am? ... It's
with your money he has bought the house, the villain." Sobs choked her voice. Akim clutched his head with both hands. "What!" he cried at last, "all the money, too ... the money and the
house, and you did it.... Ah! You took it from under the floor, you
took it.... I'll kill you, you snake in the grass!" And he leapt out
of the cart. "Semyonitch, Semyonitch, don't beat her, don't fight," faltered
Yefrem, on whom this unexpected adventure began to have a sobering
effect. "No, Akim Semyonitch, kill me, wretched sinner as I am; beat me, don't
heed him," cried Avdotya, writhing convulsively at Akim's feet. He stood a moment, looked at her, moved a few steps away and sat down
on the grass beside the road. A brief silence followed. Avdotya turned her head in his direction. "Semyonitch! hey, Semyonitch," began Yefrem, sitting up in the cart,
"give over ... you know ... you won't make things any better. Tfoo,
what a business," he went on as though to himself. "What a damnable
woman.... Go to him," he added, bending down over the side of the cart
to Avdotya, "you see, he's half crazy." Avdotya got up, went nearer to Akim and again fell at his feet. "Akim Semyonitch!" she began, in a faint voice. Akim got up and went back to the cart. She caught at the skirt of his
coat. "Get away!" he shouted savagely, and pushed her off. "Where are you going?" Yefrem asked, seeing that he was getting in
beside him again. "You were going to take me to my home," said Akim, "but take me to
yours ... you see, I have no home now. They have bought mine." "Very well, come to me. And what about her?" Akim made no answer. "And me? Me?" Avdotya repeated with tears, "are you leaving me all
alone? Where am I to go?" "You can go to him," answered Akim, without turning round, "the man
you have given my money to.... Drive on, Yefrem!" Yefrem lashed the horse, the cart rolled off, Avdotya set up a
wail....
Yefrem lived three-quarters of a mile from Akim's inn in a little
house close to the priest's, near the solitary church with five
cupolas which had been recently built by the heirs of a rich merchant
in accordance with the latter's will. Yefrem said nothing to Akim all
the way; he merely shook his head from time to time and uttered such
ejaculations as "Dear, dear!" and "Upon my soul!" Akim sat without
moving, turned a little away from Yefrem. At last they arrived. Yefrem
was the first to get out of the cart. A little girl of six in a smock
tied low round the waist ran out to meet him and shouted,
"Daddy! daddy!" "And where is your mother?" asked Yefrem. "She is asleep in the shed." "Well, let her sleep. | Turgenev, Ivan Sergeevich - Knock, Knock, Knock and Other Stories |
Akim Semyonitch, won't you get out, sir, and
come indoors?" (It must be noted that Yefrem addressed him familiarly only when he
was drunk. More important persons than Yefrem spoke to Akim with
formal politeness.) Akim went into the sacristan's hut. "Here, sit on the bench," said Yefrem. "Run away, you little rascals,"
he cried to three other children who suddenly came out of different
corners of the room together with two lean cats covered with wood
ashes. "Get along! Sh-sh! Come this way, Akim Semyonitch, this way!" he went on, making his guest sit down, "and won't you take something?" "I tell you what, Yefrem," Akim articulated at last, "could I have
some vodka?" Yefrem pricked up his ears. "Vodka? You can. I've none in the house, but I will run this minute to
Father Fyodor's. He always has it.... I'll be back in no time." And he snatched up his cap with earflaps. "Bring plenty, I'll pay for it," Akim shouted after him. "I've still
money enough for that." "I'll be back in no time," Yefrem repeated again as he went out of the
door. He certainly did return very quickly with two bottles under his
arm, of which one was already uncorked, put them on the table, brought
two little green glasses, part of a loaf and some salt. "Now this is what I like," he kept repeating, as he sat down opposite
Akim. "Why grieve?" He poured out a glass for Akim and another for
himself and began talking freely. Avdotya's conduct had perplexed him. "It's a strange business, really," he said, "how did it happen? He
must have bewitched her, I suppose? It shows how strictly one must
look after a wife! You want to keep a firm hand over her. All the same
it wouldn't be amiss for you to go home; I expect you have got a lot
of belongings there still." Yefrem added much more to the same effect;
he did not like to be silent when he was drinking. This is what was happening an hour later in Yefrem's house. Akim, who
had not answered a word to the questions and observations of his
talkative host but had merely gone on drinking glass after glass, was
sleeping on the stove, crimson in the face, a heavy, oppressive sleep;
the children were looking at him in wonder, and Yefrem ... Yefrem,
alas, was asleep, too, but in a cold little lumber room in which he
had been locked by his wife, a woman of very masculine and powerful
physique. He had gone to her in the shed and begun threatening her or
telling her some tale, but had expressed himself so unintelligibly and
incoherently that she instantly saw what was the matter, took him by
the collar and deposited him in a suitable place. He slept in the
lumber room, however, very soundly and even serenely. Such is the
effect of habit. * * * * *
Kirillovna had not quite accurately repeated to Lizaveta Prohorovna
her conversation with Akim ... the same may be said of Avdotya. Naum
had not turned her out, though she had told Akim that he had; he had
no right to turn her out. He was bound to give the former owners time
to pack up. An explanation of quite a different character took place
between him and Avdotya. When Akim had rushed out crying that he would go to the mistress,
Avdotya had turned to Naum, stared at him open-eyed and clasped her
hands. "Good heavens!" she cried, "Naum Ivanitch, what does this mean? You've
bought our inn?" "Well, what of it?" he replied. "I have." Avdotya was silent for a while; then she suddenly started. "So that is what you wanted the money for?" "You are quite right there. Hullo, I believe your husband has gone off
with my horse," he added, hearing the rumble of the wheels. "He is a
smart fellow!" "But it's robbery!" wailed Avdotya. "Why, it's our money, my husband's
money and the inn is ours...."
"No, Avdotya Arefyevna," Naum interrupted her, "the inn was not yours. What's the use of saying that? The inn was on your mistress's land, so
it was hers. The money was yours, certainly; but you were, so to say,
so kind as to present it to me; and I am grateful to you and will even
give it back to you on occasion--if occasion arises; but you wouldn't
expect me to remain a beggar, would you?" Naum said all this very calmly and even with a slight smile. "Holy saints!" cried Avdotya, "it's beyond everything! Beyond
everything! How can I look my husband in the face after this? You
villain," she added, looking with hatred at Naum's fresh young face. "I've ruined my soul for you, I've become a thief for your sake, why,
you've turned us into the street, you villain! There's nothing left
for me but to hang myself, villain, deceiver! You've ruined me, you
monster!" And she broke into violent sobbing. "Don't excite yourself, Avdotya Arefyevna," said Naum. "I'll tell you
one thing: charity begins at home, and that's what the pike is in the
sea for, to keep the carp from going to sleep." "Where are we to go now. What's to become of us?" Avdotya faltered,
weeping. "That I can't say." "But I'll cut your throat, you villain, I'll cut your throat." "No, you won't do that, Avdotya Arefyevna; what's the use of talking
like that? But I see I had better leave you for a time, for you are
very much upset.... I'll say good-bye, but I shall be back to-morrow
for certain. But you must allow me to send my workmen here today," he
added, while Avdotya went on repeating through her tears that she
would cut his throat and her own. "Oh, and here they are," he observed, looking out of the window. "Or,
God forbid, some mischief might happen.... It will be safer so. Will
you be so kind as to put your belongings together to-day and they'll
keep guard here and help you, if you like. I'll say goodbye." He bowed, went out and beckoned the workmen to him. Avdotya sank on the bench, then bent over the table, wringing her
hands, then suddenly leapt up and ran after her husband.... We have
described their meeting. When Akim drove away from her with Yefrem, leaving her alone in the
field, for a long time she remained where she was, weeping. When she
had wept away all her tears she went in the direction of her
mistress's house. It was very bitter for her to go into the house,
still more bitter to go into the maids' room. All the maids flew to
meet her with sympathy and consideration. Seeing them, Avdotya could
not restrain her tears; they simply spurted from her red and swollen
eyes. She sank, helpless, on the first chair that offered itself. Someone ran to fetch Kirillovna. Kirillovna came, was very friendly to
her, but kept her from seeing the mistress just as she had Akim. Avdotya herself did not insist on seeing Lizaveta Prohorovna; she had
come to her old home simply because she had nowhere else to go. Kirillovna ordered the samovar to be brought in. For a long while
Avdotya refused to take tea, but yielded at last to the entreaties and
persuasion of all the maids and after the first cup drank another
four. | Turgenev, Ivan Sergeevich - Knock, Knock, Knock and Other Stories |
When Kirillovna saw that her guest was a little calmer and only
shuddered and gave a faint sob from time to time, she asked her where
they meant to move to and what they thought of doing with their
things. Avdotya began crying again at this question, and protesting
that she wanted nothing but to die; but Kirillovna as a woman with a
head on her shoulders, checked her at once and advised her without
wasting time to set to work that very day to move their things to the
hut in the village which had been Akim's and in which his uncle (the
old man who had tried to dissuade him from his marriage) was now
living; she told her that with their mistress's permission men and
horses should be sent to help them in packing and moving. "And as for
you, my love," added Kirillovna, twisting her cat-like lips into a wry
smile, "there will always be a place for you with us and we shall be
delighted if you stay with us till you are settled in a house of your
own again. The great thing is not to lose heart. The Lord has given,
the Lord has taken away and will give again. Lizaveta Prohorovna, of
course, had to sell your inn for reasons of her own but she will not
forget you and will make up to you for it; she told me to tell Akim
Semyonitch so. Where is he now?" Avdotya answered that when he met her he had been very unkind to her
and had driven off to Yefrem's. "Oh, to that fellow's!" Kirillovna replied significantly. "Of course,
I understand that it's hard for him now. I daresay you won't find him
to-day; what's to be done? I must make arrangements. Malashka," she
added, turning to one of the maids, "ask Nikanop Ilyitch to come here:
we will talk it over with him." Nikanop Ilyitch, a feeble-looking man who was bailiff or something of
the sort, made his appearance at once, listened with servility to all
that Kirillovna said to him, said, "it shall be done," went out and
gave orders. Avdotya was given three waggons and three peasants; a
fourth who said that he was "more competent than they were,"
volunteered to join them and she went with them to the inn where she
found her own labourers and the servant Fetinya in a state of great
confusion and alarm. Naum's newly hired labourers, three very stalwart young men, had come
in the morning and had not left the place since. They were keeping
very zealous guard, as Naum had said they would--so zealous that the
iron tyres of a new cart were suddenly found to be missing. It was a bitter, bitter task for poor Avdotya to pack. In spite of the
help of the "competent" man, who turned out, however, only capable of
walking about with a stick in his hand, looking at the others and
spitting on the ground, she was not able to get it finished that day
and stayed the night at the inn, begging Fetinya to spend the night in
her room. But she only fell into a feverish doze towards morning and
the tears trickled down her cheeks even in her sleep. Meanwhile Yefrem woke up earlier than usual in his lumber room and
began knocking and asking to be let out. At first his wife was
unwilling to release him and told him through the door that he had not
yet slept long enough; but he aroused her curiosity by promising to
tell her of the extraordinary thing that had happened to Akim; she
unbolted the door. Yefrem told her what he knew and ended by asking
"Is he awake yet, or not?" "The Lord only knows," answered his wife. "Go and look yourself; he
hasn't got down from the stove yet. How drunk you both were yesterday! You should look at your face--you don't look like yourself. You are as
black as a sweep and your hair is full of hay!" "That doesn't matter," answered Yefrem, and, passing his hand over his
head, he went into the room. Akim was no longer asleep; he was sitting
on the stove with his legs hanging down; he, too, looked strange and
unkempt. His face showed the effects the more as he was not used to
drinking much. "Well, how have you slept, Akim Semyonitch?" Yefrem began. Akim looked at him with lustreless eyes. "Well, brother Yefrem," he said huskily, "could we have some again?" Yefrem took a swift glance at Akim.... He felt a slight tremor at that
moment; it was a tremor such as is felt by a sportsman when he hears
the yap of his dog at the edge of the wood from which he had fancied
all the game had been driven. "What, more?" he asked at last. "Yes, more." "My wife will see," thought Yefrem, "she won't let me out, most
likely. "All right," he pronounced aloud, "have a little patience." He went out and, thanks to skilfully taken precautions, succeeded in
bringing in unseen a big bottle under his coat. Akim took the bottle. But Yefrem did not sit down with him as he had
the day before--he was afraid of his wife--and informing Akim that he
would go and have a look at what was going on at the inn and would see
that his belongings were being packed and not stolen--at once set off,
riding his little horse which he had neglected to feed--but judging
from the bulging front of his coat he had not forgotten his own needs. Soon after he had gone, Akim was on the stove again, sleeping like the
dead.... He did not wake up, or at least gave no sign of waking when
Yefrem returned four hours later and began shaking him and trying to
rouse him and muttering over him some very muddled phrases such as
that "everything was moved and gone, and the ikons have been taken out
and driven away and that everything was over, and that everyone was
looking for him but that he, Yefrem, had given orders and not allowed
them, ..." and so on. But his mutterings did not last long. His wife
carried him off to the lumber room again and, very indignant both with
her husband and with the visitor, owing to whom her husband had been
drinking, lay down herself in the room on the shelf under the
ceiling.... But when she woke up early, as her habit was, and glanced
at the stove, Akim was not there. The second cock had not crowed and
the night was still so dark that the sky hardly showed grey overhead
and at the horizon melted into the darkness when Akim walked out of
the gate of the sacristan's house. His face was pale but he looked
keenly around him and his step was not that of a drunken man.... He
walked in the direction of his former dwelling, the inn, which had now
completely passed into the possession of its new owner--Naum. Naum, too, was awake when Akim stole out of Yefrem's house. He was not
asleep; he was lying on a bench with his sheepskin coat under him. It
was not that his conscience was troubling him--no! he had with amazing
coolness been present all day at the packing and moving of all Akim's
possessions and had more than once addressed Avdotya, who was so
downcast that she did not even reproach him ... his conscience was at
rest but he was disturbed by various conjectures and calculations. He
did not know whether he would be lucky in his new career; he had never
before kept an inn, nor had a home of his own at all; he could not
sleep. "The thing has begun well," he thought, "how will it go
on?" | Turgenev, Ivan Sergeevich - Knock, Knock, Knock and Other Stories |
... Towards evening, after seeing off the last cart with Akim's
belongings (Avdotya walked behind it, weeping), he looked all over the
yard, the cellars, sheds, and barns, clambered up into the loft, more
than once instructed his labourers to keep a very, very sharp look-out
and when he was left alone after supper could not go to sleep. It so
happened that day that no visitor stayed at the inn for the night;
this was a great relief to him. "I must certainly buy a dog from the
miller to-morrow, as fierce a one as I can get; they've taken theirs
away," he said to himself, as he tossed from side to side, and all at
once he raised his head quickly ... he fancied that someone had passed
by the window ... he listened ... there was nothing. Only a cricket
from time to time gave a cautious churr, and a mouse was scratching
somewhere; he could hear his own breathing. Everything was still in
the empty room dimly lighted by the little glass lamp which he had
managed to hang up and light before the ikon in the corner.... He let
his head sink; again he thought he heard the gate creak ... then a
faint snapping sound from the fence.... He could not refrain from
jumping up; he opened the door of the room and in a low voice called,
"Fyodor! Fyodor!" No one answered.... He went out into the passage and
almost fell over Fyodor, who was lying on the floor. The man stirred
in his sleep with a faint grunt; Naum roused him. "What's there? What do you want?" Fyodor began. "What are you bawling for, hold your tongue!" Naum articulated in a
whisper. "How you sleep, you damned fellows! Have you heard nothing?" "Nothing," answered the man.... "What is it?" "Where are the others sleeping?" "Where they were told to sleep.... Why, is there anything ..."
"Hold your tongue--come with me." Naum stealthily opened the door and went out into the yard. It was
very dark outside.... The roofed-in parts and the posts could only be
distinguished because they were a still deeper black in the midst of
the black darkness. "Shouldn't we light a lantern?" said Fyodor in a low voice. But Naum waved his hand and held his breath.... At first he could hear
nothing but those nocturnal sounds which can almost always be heard in
an inhabited place: a horse was munching oats, a pig grunted faintly
in its sleep, a man was snoring somewhere; but all at once his ear
detected a suspicious sound coming from the very end of the yard, near
the fence. Someone seemed to be stirring there, and breathing or blowing. Naum
looked over his shoulder towards Fyodor and cautiously descending the
steps went towards the sound.... Once or twice he stopped, listened
and stole on further.... Suddenly he started.... Ten paces from him,
in the thick darkness there came the flash of a bright light: it was a
glowing ember and close to it there was visible for an instant the
front part of a face with lips thrust out.... Quickly and silently,
like a cat at a mouse, Naum darted to the fire.... Hurriedly rising up
from the ground a long body rushed to meet him and, nearly knocking
him off his feet, almost eluded his grasp; but Naum hung on to it with
all his strength. "Fyodor! Andrey! Petrushka!" he shouted at the top of his voice. "Make
haste! here! here! I've caught a thief trying to set fire to the
place...."
The man whom he had caught fought and struggled violently ... but Naum
did not let him go. Fyodor at once ran to his assistance. "A lantern! Make haste, a lantern! Run for a lantern, wake the
others!" Naum shouted to him. "I can manage him alone for a time--I am
sitting on him.... Make haste! And bring a belt to tie his hands." Fyodor ran into the house.... The man whom Naum was holding suddenly
left off struggling. "So it seems wife and money and home are not enough for you, you want
to ruin me, too," he said in a choking voice. Naum recognised Akim's voice. "So that's you, my friend," he brought out; "very good, you wait a
bit." "Let me go," said Akim, "aren't you satisfied?" "I'll show you before the judge to-morrow whether I am satisfied," and
Naum tightened his grip of Akim. The labourers ran up with two lanterns and cords. "Tie his arms," Naum
ordered sharply. The men caught hold of Akim, stood him up and twisted
his arms behind his back.... One of them began abusing him, but
recognising the former owner of the inn lapsed into silence and only
exchanged glances with the others. "Do you see, do you see!" Naum kept repeating, meanwhile throwing the
light of the lantern on the ground, "there are hot embers in the pot;
look, there's a regular log alight here! We must find out where he got
this pot ... here, he has broken up twigs, too," and Naum carefully
stamped out the fire with his foot. "Search him, Fyodor," he added,
"see if he hasn't got something else on him." Fyodor rummaged Akim's pockets and felt him all over while the old man
stood motionless, with his head drooping on his breast as though he
were dead. "Here's a knife," said Fyodor, taking an old kitchen knife out of the
front of Akim's coat. "Aha, my fine gentleman, so that's what you were after," cried Naum. "Lads, you are witnesses ... here he wanted to murder me and set fire
to the house.... Lock him up for the night in the cellar, he can't get
out of that.... I'll keep watch all night myself and to-morrow as soon
as it is light we will take him to the police captain ... and you are
witnesses, do you hear!" Akim was thrust into the cellar and the door was slammed.... Naum set
two men to watch it and did not go to bed himself. Meanwhile, Yefrem's wife having convinced herself that her uninvited
guest had gone, set about her cooking though it was hardly
daylight.... It was a holiday. She squatted down before the stove to
get a hot ember and saw that someone had scraped out the hot ashes
before her; then she wanted her knife and searched for it in vain;
then of her four cooking pots one was missing. Yefrem's wife had the
reputation of being a woman with brains, and justly so. She stood and
pondered, then went to the lumber room, to her husband. It was not
easy to wake him--and still more difficult to explain to him why he
was being awakened.... To all that she said to him Yefrem made the
same answer. "He's gone away--well, God bless him.... What business is it of mine? He's taken our knife and our pot--well, God bless him, what has it to
do with me?" At last, however, he got up and after listening attentively to his
wife came to the conclusion that it was a bad business, that something
must be done. "Yes," his wife repeated, "it is a bad business; maybe he will be
doing mischief in his despair.... I saw last night that he was not
asleep but was just lying on the stove; it would be as well for you to
go and see, Yefrem Alexandritch." "I tell you what, Ulyana Fyodorovna," Yefrem began, "I'll go myself to
the inn now, and you be so kind, mother, as to give me just a drop to
sober me." Ulyana hesitated. | Turgenev, Ivan Sergeevich - Knock, Knock, Knock and Other Stories |
"Well," she decided at last, "I'll give you the vodka, Yefrem
Alexandritch; but mind now, none of your pranks." "Don't you worry, Ulyana Fyodorovna." And fortifying himself with a glass, Yefrem made his way to the inn. It was only just getting light when he rode up to the inn but, already
a cart and a horse were standing at the gate and one of Naum's
labourers was sitting on the box holding the reins. "Where are you off to?" asked Yefrem. "To the town," the man answered reluctantly. "What for?" The man simply shrugged his shoulders and did not answer. Yefrem
jumped off his horse and went into the house. In the entry he came
upon Naum, fully dressed and with his cap on. "I congratulate the new owner on his new abode," said Yefrem, who knew
him. "Where are you off to so early?" "Yes, you have something to congratulate me on," Naum answered grimly. "On the very first day the house has almost been burnt down." Yefrem started. "How so?" "Oh, a kind soul turned up who tried to set fire to it. Luckily I
caught him in the act; now I am taking him to the town." "Was it Akim, I wonder?" Yefrem asked slowly. "How did you know? Akim. He came at night with a burning log in a pot
and got into the yard and was setting fire to it ... all my men are
witnesses. Would you like to see him? It's time for us to take him, by
the way." "My good Naum Ivanitch," Yefrem began, "let him go, don't ruin the old
man altogether. Don't take that sin upon your soul, Naum Ivanitch. Only think--the man was in despair--he didn't know what he was doing." "Give over that nonsense," Naum cut him short. "What! Am I likely to
let him go! Why, he'd set fire to the house to-morrow if I did." "He wouldn't, Naum Ivanitch, believe me. Believe me you will be easier
yourself for it--you know there will be questions asked, a trial--you
can see that for yourself." "Well, what if there is a trial? I have no reason to be afraid of it." "My good Naum Ivanitch, one must be afraid of a trial." "Oh, that's enough. I see you are drunk already, and to-day a saint's
day, too!" Yefrem all at once, quite unexpectedly, burst into tears. "I am drunk but I am speaking the truth," he muttered. "And for the
sake of the holiday you ought to forgive him." "Well, come along, you sniveller." And Naum went out on to the steps. "Forgive him, for Avdotya Arefyevna's sake," said Yefrem following him
on to the steps. Naum went to the cellar and flung the door wide open. With timid
curiosity Yefrem craned his neck from behind Naum and with difficulty
made out the figure of Akim in the corner of the cellar. The once
well-to-do innkeeper, respected all over the neighbourhood, was
sitting on straw with his hands tied behind him like a criminal. Hearing a noise he raised his head.... It seemed as though he had
grown fearfully thin in those last few days, especially during the
previous night--his sunken eyes could hardly be seen under his high,
waxen-yellow forehead, his parched lips looked dark ... his whole face
was changed and wore a strange expression--savage and frightened. "Get up and come along," said Naum. Akim got up and stepped over the threshold. "Akim Semyonitch!" Yefrem wailed, "you've brought ruin on yourself, my
dear!" Akim glanced at him without speaking. "If I had known why you asked for vodka I would not have given it to
you, I really would not. I believe I would have drunk it all myself! Eh, Naum Ivanitch," he added clutching at Naum's arm, "have mercy upon
him, let him go!" "What next!" Naum replied with a grin. "Well, come along," he added
addressing Akim again. "What are you waiting for?" "Naum Ivanitch," Akim began. "What is it?" "Naum Ivanitch," Akim repeated, "listen: I am to blame; I wanted to
settle my accounts with you myself; but God must be the judge between
us. You have taken everything from me, you know yourself, everything I
had. Now you can ruin me, only I tell you this: if you let me go now,
then--so be it--take possession of everything! I agree and wish you
all success. I promise you as before God, if you let me go you will
not regret it. God be with you." Akim shut his eyes and ceased speaking. "A likely story!" retorted Naum, "as though one could believe you!" "But, by God, you can," said Yefrem, "you really can. I'd stake my
life on Akim Semyonitch's good faith--I really would." "Nonsense," cried Naum. "Come along." Akim looked at him. "As you think best, Naum Ivanitch. It's for you to decide. But you are
laying a great burden on your soul. Well, if you are in such a hurry,
let us start." Naum in his turn looked keenly at Akim. "After all," he thought to himself, "hadn't I better let him go? Or
people will never have done pestering me about him. Avdotya will give
me no peace." While Naum was reflecting, no one uttered a word. The
labourer in the cart who could see it all through the gate did nothing
but toss his head and flick the horse's sides with the reins. The two
other labourers stood on the steps and they too were silent. "Well, listen, old man," Naum began, "when I let you go and tell these
fellows" (he motioned with his head towards the labourers) "not to
talk, shall we be quits--do you understand me--quits ... eh?" "I tell you, you can have it all." "You won't consider me in your debt?" "You won't be in my debt, I shall not be in yours." Naum was silent again. "And will you swear it?" "Yes, as God is holy," answered Akim. "Well, I know I shall regret it," said Naum, "but there, come what
may! Give me your hands." Akim turned his back to him; Naum began untying him. "Now, mind, old man," he added as he pulled the cord off his wrists,
"remember, I have spared you, mind that!" "Naum Ivanitch, my dear," faltered Yefrem, "the Lord will have mercy
upon you!" Akim freed his chilled and swollen hands and was moving towards the
gate. Naum suddenly "showed the Jew" as the saying is--he must have
regretted that he had let Akim off. "You've sworn now, mind!" he shouted after him. Akim turned, and
looking round the yard, said mournfully, "Possess it all, so be it
forever! ... Good-bye." And he went slowly out into the road accompanied by Yefrem. Naum
ordered the horse to be unharnessed and with a wave of his hand went
back into the house. "Where are you off to, Akim Semyonitch? Aren't you coming back to me?" cried Yefrem, seeing that Akim was hurrying to the right out of the
high road. "No, Yefremushka, thank you," answered Akim. "I am going to see what
my wife is doing." "You can see afterwards.... But now we ought to celebrate the
occasion." "No, thank you, Yefrem.... I've had enough. Good-bye." And Akim walked off without looking round. "Well! 'I've had enough'!" the puzzled sacristan pronounced. "And I
pledged my word for him! Well, I never expected this," he added, with
vexation, "after I had pledged my word for him, too!" He remembered that he had not thought to take his knife and his pot
and went back to the inn.... Naum ordered his things to be given to
him but never even thought of offering him a drink. | Turgenev, Ivan Sergeevich - Knock, Knock, Knock and Other Stories |
He returned home
thoroughly annoyed and thoroughly sober. "Well?" his wife inquired, "found?" "Found what?" answered Yefrem, "to be sure I've found it: here is your
pot." "Akim?" asked his wife with especial emphasis. Yefrem nodded his head. "Yes. But he is a nice one! I pledged my word for him; if it had not
been for me he'd be lying in prison, and he never offered me a drop! Ulyana Fyodorovna, you at least might show me consideration and give
me a glass!" But Ulyana Fyodorovna did not show him consideration and drove him out
of her sight. Meanwhile, Akim was walking with slow steps along the road to Lizaveta
Prohorovna's house. He could not yet fully grasp his position; he was
trembling all over like a man who had just escaped from a certain
death. He seemed unable to believe in his freedom. In dull
bewilderment he gazed at the fields, at the sky, at the larks
quivering in the warm air. From the time he had woken up on the
previous morning at Yefrem's he had not slept, though he had lain on
the stove without moving; at first he had wanted to drown in vodka the
insufferable pain of humiliation, the misery of frenzied and impotent
anger ... but the vodka had not been able to stupefy him completely;
his anger became overpowering and he began to think how to punish the
man who had wronged him.... He thought of no one but Naum; the idea of
Lizaveta Prohorovna never entered his head and on Avdotya he mentally
turned his back. By the evening his thirst for revenge had grown to a
frenzy, and the good-natured and weak man waited with feverish
impatience for the approach of night and ran, like a wolf to its prey,
to destroy his old home.... But then he had been caught ... locked
up.... The night had followed. What had he not thought over during
that cruel night! It is difficult to put into words all that a man
passes through at such moments, all the tortures that he endures; more
difficult because those tortures are dumb and inarticulate in the man
himself.... Towards morning, before Naum and Yefrem had come to the
door, Akim had begun to feel as it were more at ease. Everything is
lost, he thought, everything is scattered and gone ... and he
dismissed it all. If he had been naturally bad-hearted he might at
that moment have become a criminal; but evil was not natural to Akim. Under the shock of undeserved and unexpected misfortune, in the
delirium of despair he had brought himself to crime; it had shaken him
to the depths of his being and, failing, had left in him nothing but
intense weariness.... Feeling his guilt in his mind he mentally tore
himself from all things earthly and began praying, bitterly but
fervently. At first he prayed in a whisper, then perhaps by accident
he uttered a loud "Oh, God!" and tears gushed from his eyes.... For a
long time he wept and at last grew quieter.... His thoughts would
probably have changed if he had had to pay the penalty of his
attempted crime ... but now he had suddenly been set free ... and he
was walking to see his wife, feeling only half alive, utterly crushed
but calm. Lizaveta Prohorovna's house stood about a mile from her village to the
left of the cross road along which Akim was walking. He was about to
stop at the turning that led to his mistress's house ... but he walked
on instead. He decided first to go to what had been his hut, where his
uncle lived. Akim's small and somewhat dilapidated hut was almost at the end of the
village; Akin walked through the whole street without meeting a soul. All the people were at church. Only one sick old woman raised a little
window to look after him and a little girl who had run out with an
empty pail to the well gaped at him, and she too looked after him. The
first person he met was the uncle he was looking for. The old man had
been sitting all the morning on the ledge under his window taking
pinches of snuff and warming himself in the sun; he was not very well,
so he had not gone to church; he was just setting off to visit another
old man, a neighbour who was also ailing, when he suddenly saw
Akim.... He stopped, let him come up to him and glancing into his
face, said:
"Good-day, Akimushka!" "Good-day," answered Akim, and passing the old man went in at the
gate. In the yard were standing his horses, his cow, his cart; his
poultry, too, were there.... He went into the hut without a word. The
old man followed him. Akim sat down on the bench and leaned his fists
on it. The old man standing at the door looked at him compassionately. "And where is my wife?" asked Akim. "At the mistress's house," the old man answered quickly. "She is
there. They put your cattle here and what boxes there were, and she
has gone there. Shall I go for her?" Akim was silent for a time. "Yes, do," he said at last. "Oh, uncle, uncle," he brought out with a sigh while the old man was
taking his hat from a nail, "do you remember what you said to me the
day before my wedding?" "It's all God's will, Akimushka." "Do you remember you said to me that I was above you peasants, and now
you see what times have come.... I'm stripped bare myself." "There's no guarding oneself from evil folk," answered the old man,
"if only someone such as a master, for instance, or someone in
authority, could give him a good lesson, the shameless fellow--but as
it is, he has nothing to be afraid of. He is a wolf and he behaves
like one." And the old man put on his cap and went off. Avdotya had just come back from church when she was told that her
husband's uncle was asking for her. Till then she had rarely seen him;
he did not come to see them at the inn and had the reputation of being
queer altogether: he was passionately fond of snuff and was usually
silent. She went out to him. "What do you want, Petrovitch? Has anything happened?" "Nothing has happened, Avdotya Arefyevna; your husband is asking for
you." "Has he come back?" "Yes." "Where is he, then?" "He is in the village, sitting in his hut." Avdotya was frightened. "Well, Petrovitch," she inquired, looking straight into his face, "is
he angry?" "He does not seem so." Avdotya looked down. "Well, let us go," she said. She put on a shawl and they set off
together. They walked in silence to the village. When they began to
get close to the hut, Avdotya was so overcome with terror that her
knees began to tremble. "Good Petrovitch," she said, "go in first.... Tell him that I have
come." The old man went into the hut and found Akim lost in thought, sitting
just as he had left him. "Well?" said Akim raising his head, "hasn't she come?" "Yes," answered the old man, "she is at the gate...."
"Well, send her in here." The old man went out, beckoned to Avdotya, said to her, "go in," and
sat down again on the ledge. Avdotya in trepidation opened the door,
crossed the threshold and stood still. Akim looked at her. "Well, Arefyevna," he began, "what are we going to do now?" "I am guilty," she faltered. "Ech Arefyevna, we are all sinners. What's the good of talking about
it!" | Turgenev, Ivan Sergeevich - Knock, Knock, Knock and Other Stories |
"It's he, the villain, has ruined us both," said Avdotya in a cringing
voice, and tears flowed down her face. "You must not leave it like
that, Akim Semyonitch, you must get the money back. Don't think of me. I am ready to take my oath that I only lent him the money. Lizaveta
Prohorovna could sell our inn if she liked, but why should he rob
us.... Get your money back." "There's no claiming the money back from him," Akim replied grimly,
"we have settled our accounts." Avdotya was amazed. "How is that?" "Why, like this. Do you know," Akim went on and his eyes gleamed, "do
you know where I spent the night? You don't know? In Naum's cellar,
with my arms and legs tied like a sheep--that's where I spent the
night. I tried to set fire to the place, but he caught me--Naum did;
he is too sharp! And to-day he meant to take me to the town but he let
me off; so I can't claim the money from him.... 'When did I borrow
money from you?' he would say. Am I to say to him, 'My wife took it
from under the floor and brought it to you'? 'Your wife is telling
lies,' he will say. Hasn't there been scandal enough for you,
Arefyevna? You'd better say nothing, I tell you, say nothing." "I am guilty, Semyonitch, I am guilty," Avdotya, terrified, whispered
again. "That's not what matters," said Akim, after a pause. "What are we
going to do? We have no home or no money." "We shall manage somehow, Akim Semyonitch. We'll ask Lizaveta
Prohorovna, she will help us, Kiriliovna has promised me." "No, Arefyenva, you and your Kirillovna had better ask her together;
you are berries off the same bush. I tell you what: you stay here and
good luck to you; I shall not stay here. It's a good thing we have no
children, and I shall be all right, I dare say, alone. There's always
enough for one." "What will you do, Semyonitch? Take up driving again?" Akim laughed bitterly. "I should be a fine driver, no mistake! You have pitched on the right
man for it! No, Arefyenva, that's a job not like getting married, for
instance; an old man is no good for the job. I don't want to stay
here, just because I don't want them to point the finger at me--do you
understand? I am going to pray for my sins, Arefyevna, that's what I
am going to do." "What sins have you, Semyonitch?" Avdotya pronounced timidly. "Of them I know best myself, wife." "But are you leaving me all alone, Semyonitch? How can I live without
a husband?" "Leaving you alone? Oh, Arefyevna, how you do talk, really! Much you
need a husband like me, and old, too, and ruined as well! Why, you got
on without me in the past, you can get on in the future. What property
is left us, you can take; I don't want it." "As you like, Semyonitch," Avdotya replied mournfully. "You know
best." "That's better. Only don't you suppose that I am angry with you,
Arefyevna. No, what's the good of being angry when ... I ought to have
been wiser before. I've been to blame. I am punished." (Akim sighed.) "As you make your bed so you must lie on it. I am old, it's time to
think of my soul. The Lord himself has brought me to understanding. Like an old fool I wanted to live for my own pleasure with a young
wife.... No, the old man had better pray and beat his head against the
earth and endure in patience and fast.... And now go along, my dear. I
am very weary, I'll sleep a little." And Akim with a groan stretched himself on the bench. Avdotya wanted to say something, stood a moment, looked at him, turned
away and went out. "Well, he didn't beat you then?" asked Petrovitch sitting bent up on
the ledge when she was level with him. Avdotya passed by him without
speaking. "So he didn't beat her," the old man said to himself; he
smiled, ruffled up his beard and took a pinch of snuff. * * * * *
Akim carried out his intention. He hurriedly arranged his affairs and
a few days after the conversation we have described went, dressed
ready for his journey, to say goodbye to his wife who had settled for
a time in a little lodge in the mistress's garden. His farewell did
not take long. Kirillovna, who happened to be present, advised Akim to
see his mistress; he did so, Lizaveta Prohorovna received him with
some confusion but graciously let him kiss her hand and asked him
where he meant to go. He answered he was going first to Kiev and after
that where it would please the Lord. She commended his decision and
dismissed him. From that time he rarely appeared at home, though he
never forgot to bring his mistress some holy bread.... But wherever
Russian pilgrims gather his thin and aged but always dignified and
handsome face could be seen: at the relics of St. Sergey; on the
shores of the White Sea, at the Optin hermitage, and at the far-away
Valaam; he went everywhere. This year he has passed by you in the ranks of the innumerable
people who go in procession behind the ikon of the Mother of God to
the Korennaya; last year you found him sitting with a wallet on
his shoulders with other pilgrims on the steps of Nikolay, the
wonder-worker, at Mtsensk ... he comes to Moscow almost every spring. From land to land he has wandered with his quiet, unhurried, but
never-resting step--they say he has been even to Jerusalem. He seems
perfectly calm and happy and those who have chanced to converse with
him have said much of his piety and humility. Meanwhile, Naum's
fortunes prospered exceedingly. He set to work with energy and good
sense and got on, as the saying is, by leaps and bounds. Everyone in
the neighbourhood knew by what means he had acquired the inn, they
knew too that Avdotya had given him her husband's money; nobody liked
Naum because of his cold, harsh disposition.... With censure they told
the story of him that once when Akim himself had asked alms under his
window he answered that God would give, and had given him nothing; but
everyone agreed that there never had been a luckier man; his corn came
better than other people's, his bees swarmed more frequently; even his
hens laid more eggs; his cattle were never ill, his horses did not go
lame.... It was a long time before Avdotya could bear to hear his name
(she had accepted Lizaveta Prohorovna's invitation and had reentered
her service as head sewing-maid), but in the end her aversion was
somewhat softened; it was said that she had been driven by poverty to
appeal to him and he had given her a hundred roubles.... She must not
be too severely judged: poverty breaks any will and the sudden and
violent change in her life had greatly aged and humbled her: it was
hard to believe how quickly she lost her looks, how completely she let
herself go and lost heart....
How did it all end? the reader will ask. Why, like this: Naum, after
having kept the inn successfully for about fifteen years, sold it
advantageously to another townsman. | Turgenev, Ivan Sergeevich - Knock, Knock, Knock and Other Stories |
He would never have parted from
the inn if it had not been for the following, apparently
insignificant, circumstance: for two mornings in succession his dog,
sitting before the windows, had kept up a prolonged and doleful howl. He went out into the road the second time, looked attentively at the
howling dog, shook his head, went up to town and the same day agreed
on the price with a man who had been for a long time anxious to
purchase it. A week later he had moved to a distance--out of the
province; the new owner settled in and that very evening the inn was
burnt to ashes; not a single outbuilding was left and Naum's successor
was left a beggar. The reader can easily imagine the rumours that this
fire gave rise to in the neighbourhood.... Evidently he carried his
"luck" away with him, everyone repeated. Of Naum it is said that he
has gone into the corn trade and has made a great fortune. But will it
last long? Stronger pillars have fallen and evil deeds end badly
sooner or later. There is not much to say about Lizaveta Prohorovna. She is still living and, as is often the case with people of her sort,
is not much changed, she has not even grown much older--she only seems
to have dried up a little; on the other hand, her stinginess has
greatly increased though it is difficult to say for whose benefit she
is saving as she has no children and no attachments. In conversation
she often speaks of Akim and declares that since she has understood
his good qualities she has begun to feel great respect for the Russian
peasant. Kirillovna bought her freedom for a considerable sum and
married for love a fair-haired young waiter who leads her a dreadful
life; Avdotya lives as before among the maids in Lizaveta Prohorovna's
house, but has sunk to a rather lower position; she is very poorly,
almost dirtily dressed, and there is no trace left in her of the
townbred airs and graces of a fashionable maid or of the habits of a
prosperous innkeeper's wife.... No one takes any notice of her and she
herself is glad to be unnoticed; old Petrovitch is dead and Akim is
still wandering, a pilgrim, and God only knows how much longer his
pilgrimage will last! 1852. * * * * *
LIEUTENANT YERGUNOV'S STORY
I
That evening Kuzma Vassilyevitch Yergunov told us his story again. He
used to repeat it punctually once a month and we heard it every time
with fresh satisfaction though we knew it almost by heart, in all its
details. Those details overgrew, if one may so express it, the
original trunk of the story itself as fungi grow over the stump of a
tree. Knowing only too well the character of our companion, we did not
trouble to fill in his gaps and incomplete statements. But now Kuzma
Vassilyevitch is dead and there will be no one to tell his story and
so we venture to bring it before the notice of the public. II
It happened forty years ago when Kuzma Vassilyevitch was young. He
said of himself that he was at that time a handsome fellow and a dandy
with a complexion of milk and roses, red lips, curly hair, and eyes
like a falcon's. We took his word for it, though we saw nothing of
that sort in him; in our eyes Kuzma Vassilyevitch was a man of very
ordinary exterior, with a simple and sleepy-looking face and a heavy,
clumsy figure. But what of that? There is no beauty the years will not
mar! The traces of dandyism were more clearly preserved in Kuzma
Vassilyevitch. He still in his old age wore narrow trousers with
straps, laced in his corpulent figure, cropped the back of his head,
curled his hair over his forehead and dyed his moustache with Persian
dye, which had, however, a tint rather of purple, and even of green,
than of black. With all that Kuzma Vassilyevitch was a very worthy
gentleman, though at preference he did like to "steal a peep," that
is, look over his neighbour's cards; but this he did not so much from
greed as carefulness, for he did not like wasting his money. Enough of
these parentheses, however; let us come to the story itself. III
It happened in the spring at Nikolaev, at that time a new town, to
which Kuzma Vassilyevitch had been sent on a government commission. (He was a lieutenant in the navy.) He had, as a trustworthy and
prudent officer, been charged by the authorities with the task of
looking after the construction of ship-yards and from time to time
received considerable sums of money, which for security he invariably
carried in a leather belt on his person. Kuzma Vassilyevitch certainly
was distinguished by his prudence and, in spite of his youth, his
behaviour was exemplary; he studiously avoided every impropriety of
conduct, did not touch cards, did not drink and, even fought shy of
society so that of his comrades, the quiet ones called him "a regular
girl" and the rowdy ones called him a muff and a noodle. Kuzma
Vassilyevitch had only one failing, he had a tender heart for the fair
sex; but even in that direction he succeeded in restraining his
impulses and did not allow himself to indulge in any "foolishness." He
got up and went to bed early, was conscientious in performing his
duties and his only recreation consisted in rather long evening walks
about the outskirts of Nikolaev. He did not read as he thought it
would send the blood to his head; every spring he used to drink a
special decoction because he was afraid of being too full-blooded. Putting on his uniform and carefully brushing himself Kuzma
Vassilyevitch strolled with a sedate step alongside the fences of
orchards, often stopped, admired the beauties of nature, gathered
flowers as souvenirs and found a certain pleasure in doing so; but he
felt acute pleasure only when he happened to meet "a charmer," that
is, some pretty little workgirl with a shawl flung over her shoulders,
with a parcel in her ungloved hand and a gay kerchief on her head. Being as he himself expressed it of a susceptible but modest
temperament Kuzma Vassilyevitch did not address the "charmer," but
smiled ingratiatingly at her and looked long and attentively after
her.... Then he would heave a deep sigh, go home with the same sedate
step, sit down at the window and dream for half an hour, carefully
smoking strong tobacco out of a meerschaum pipe with an amber
mouthpiece given him by his godfather, a police superintendent of
German origin. So the days passed neither gaily nor drearily. IV
Well, one day, as he was returning home along an empty side-street at
dusk Kuzma Vassilyevitch heard behind him hurried footsteps and
incoherent words mingled with sobs. He looked round and saw a girl
about twenty with an extremely pleasing but distressed and tear-stained
face. She seemed to have been overtaken by some great and unexpected
grief. She was running and stumbling as she ran, talking to herself,
exclaiming, gesticulating; her fair hair was in disorder and her shawl
(the burnous and the mantle were unknown in those days) had slipped off
her shoulders and was kept on by one pin. | Turgenev, Ivan Sergeevich - Knock, Knock, Knock and Other Stories |
The girl was dressed like a
young lady, not like a workgirl. Kuzma Vassilyevitch stepped aside; his feeling of compassion
overpowered his fear of doing something foolish and, when she caught
him up, he politely touched the peak of his shako, and asked her the
cause of her tears. "For," he added, and he laid his hand on his cutlass, "I, as an
officer, may be able to help you." The girl stopped and apparently for the first moment did not clearly
understand what he wanted of her; but at once, as though glad of the
opportunity of expressing herself, began speaking in slightly
imperfect Russian. "Oh, dear, Mr. Officer," she began and tears rained down her charming
cheeks, "it is beyond everything! It's awful, it is beyond words! We
have been robbed, the cook has carried off everything, everything,
everything, the dinner service, the lock-up box and our clothes.... Yes, even our clothes, and stockings and linen, yes ... and aunt's
reticule. There was a twenty-five-rouble note and two appliqué spoons
in it ... and her pelisse, too, and everything.... And I told all that
to the police officer and the police officer said, 'Go away, I don't
believe you, I don't believe you. I won't listen to you. You are the
same sort yourselves.' I said, 'Why, but the pelisse ...' and he, 'I
won't listen to you, I won't listen to you.' It was so insulting, Mr. Officer! 'Go away,' he said, 'get along,' but where am I to go?" The girl sobbed convulsively, almost wailing, and utterly distracted
leaned against Kuzma Vassilyevitch's sleeve.... He was overcome with
confusion in his turn and stood rooted to the spot, only repeating
from time to time, "There, there!" while he gazed at the delicate nape
of the dishevelled damsel's neck, as it shook from her sobs. "Will you let me see you home?" he said at last, lightly touching her
shoulder with his forefinger, "here in the street, you understand, it
is quite impossible. You can explain your trouble to me and of course
I will make every effort ... as an officer." The girl raised her head and seemed for the first time to see the
young man who might be said to be holding her in his arms. She was
disconcerted, turned away, and still sobbing moved a little aside. Kuzma Vassilyevitch repeated his suggestion. The girl looked at him
askance through her hair which had fallen over her face and was wet
with tears. (At this point Kuzma Vassilyevitch always assured us that
this glance pierced through him "like an awl," and even attempted once
to reproduce this marvellous glance for our benefit) and laying her
hand within the crooked arm of the obliging lieutenant, set off with
him for her lodging. V
Kuzma Vassilyevitch had had very little to do with ladies and so was
at a loss how to begin the conversation, but his companion chattered
away very fluently, continually drying her eyes and shedding fresh
tears. Within a few minutes Kuzma Vassilyevitch had learnt that her
name was Emilie Karlovna, that she came from Riga and that she had
come to Nikolaev to stay with her aunt who was from Riga, too, that
her papa too had been in the army but had died from "his chest," that
her aunt had a Russian cook, a very good and inexpensive cook but
she had not a passport and that this cook had that very day robbed
them and run away. She had had to go to the police--_in die
Polizei_.... But here the memories of the police superintendent, of
the insult she had received from him, surged up again ... and sobs
broke out afresh. Kuzma Vassilyevitch was once more at a loss what to
say to comfort her. But the girl, whose impressions seemed to come and
go very rapidly, stopped suddenly and holding out her hand, said
calmly:
"And this is where we live!" VI
It was a wretched little house that looked as though it had sunk into
the ground, with four little windows looking into the street. The dark
green of geraniums blocked them up within; a candle was burning in one
of them; night was already coming on. A wooden fence with a hardly
visible gate stretched from the house and was almost of the same
height. The girl went up to the gate and finding it locked knocked on
it impatiently with the iron ring of the padlock. Heavy footsteps were
audible behind the fence as though someone in slippers trodden down at
heel were carelessly shuffling towards the gate, and a husky female
voice asked some question in German which Kuzma Vassilyevitch did not
understand: like a regular sailor he knew no language but Russian. The
girl answered in German, too; the gate opened a very little, admitted
the girl and then was slammed almost in the face of Kuzma
Vassilyevitch who had time, however, to make out in the summer
twilight the outline of a stout, elderly woman in a red dress with a
dimly burning lantern in her hand. Struck with amazement Kuzma
Vassilyevitch remained for some time motionless in the street; but at
the thought that he, a naval officer (Kuzma Vassilyevitch had a very
high opinion of his rank) had been so discourteously treated, he was
moved to indignation and turning on his heel he went homewards. He had
not gone ten paces when the gate opened again and the girl, who had
had time to whisper to the old woman, appeared in the gateway and
called out aloud:
"Where are you going, Mr. Officer! Please come in." Kuzma Vassilyevitch hesitated a little; he turned back, however. VII
This new acquaintance, whom we will call Emilie, led him through a
dark, damp little lobby into a fairly large but low-pitched and untidy
room with a huge cupboard against the further wall and a sofa covered
with American leather; above the doors and between the windows hung
three portraits in oils with the paint peeling off, two representing
bishops in clerical caps and one a Turk in a turban; cardboard boxes
were lying about in the corners; there were chairs of different sorts
and a crooked legged card table on which a man's cap was lying beside
an unfinished glass of kvass. Kuzma Vassilyevitch was followed into
the room by the old woman in the red dress, whom he had noticed at the
gate, and who turned out to be a very unprepossessing Jewess with
sullen pig-like eyes and a grey moustache over her puffy upper lip. Emilie indicated her to Kuzma Vassilyevitch and said:
"This is my aunt, Madame Fritsche." Kuzma Vassilyevitch was a little surprised but thought it his duty to
introduce himself. Madame Fritsche looked at him from under her brows,
made no response, but asked her niece in Russian whether she would
like some tea. "Ah, yes, tea!" answered Emilie. "You will have some tea, won't you,
Mr. Officer? Yes, auntie, give us some tea! But why are you standing,
Mr. Officer? Sit down! Oh, how ceremonious you are! Let me take off my
fichu." When Emilie talked she continually turned her head from one side to
another and jerked her shoulders; birds make similar movements when
they sit on a bare branch with sunshine all round them. | Turgenev, Ivan Sergeevich - Knock, Knock, Knock and Other Stories |
Kuzma Vassilyevitch sank into a chair and assuming a becoming air of
dignity, that is, leaning on his cutlass and fixing his eyes on the
floor, he began to speak about the theft. But Emilie at once
interrupted him. "Don't trouble yourself, it's all right. Auntie has just told me that
the principal things have been found." (Madame Fritsche mumbled
something to herself and went out of the room.) "And there was no need
to go to the police at all; but I can't control myself because I am
so ... You don't understand German? ... So quick, _immer so rasch!_
But I think no more about it ... _aber auch gar nicht!_"
Kuzma Vassilyevitch looked at Emilie. Her face indeed showed no trace
of care now. Everything was smiling in that pretty little face: the
eyes, fringed with almost white lashes, and the lips and the cheeks
and the chin and the dimples in the chin, and even the tip of her
turned-up nose. She went up to the little looking glass beside the
cupboard and, screwing up her eyes and humming through her teeth,
began tidying her hair. Kuzma Vassilyevitch followed her movements
intently.... He found her very charming. VIII
"You must excuse me," she began again, turning from side to side
before the looking glass, "for having so ... brought you home with me. Perhaps you dislike it?" "Oh, not at all!" "As I have told you already, I am so quick. I act first and think
afterwards, though sometimes I don't think at all.... What is your
name, Mr. Officer? May I ask you?" she added going up to him and
folding her arms. "My name is Kuzma Vassilyevitch Yergunov." "Yergu.... Oh, it's not a nice name! I mean it's difficult for me. I
shall call you Mr. Florestan. At Riga we had a Mr. Florestan. He sold
capital _gros-de-Naples_ in his shop and was a handsome man, as
good-looking as you. But how broad-shouldered you are! A regular
sturdy Russian! I like the Russians.... I am a Russian myself ... my
papa was an officer. But my hands are whiter than yours!" She raised
them above her head, waved them several times in the air, so as to
drive the blood from them, and at once dropped them. "Do you see? I
wash them with Greek scented soap.... Sniff! Oh, but don't kiss
them.... I did not do it for that.... Where are you serving?" "In the fleet, in the nineteenth Black Sea company." "Oh, you are a sailor! Well, do you get a good salary?" "No ... not very." "You must be very brave. One can see it at once from your eyes. What
thick eyebrows you've got! They say you ought to grease them with lard
overnight to make them grow. But why have you no moustache?" "It's against the regulations." "Oh, that's not right! What's that you've got, a dagger?" "It's a cutlass; a cutlass, so to say, is the sailor's weapon." "Ah, a cutlass! Is it sharp? May I look?" With an effort, biting her
lip and screwing up her eyes, she drew the blade out of the scabbard
and put it to her nose. "Oh, how blunt! I can kill you with it in a minute!" She waved it at Kuzma Vassilyevitch. He pretended to be frightened and
laughed. She laughed too. "_Ihr habt pardon_, you are pardoned," she pronounced, throwing
herself into a majestic attitude. "There, take your weapon! And how
old are you?" she asked suddenly. "Twenty-five." "And I am nineteen! How funny that is! Ach!" And Emilie went off into
such a ringing laugh that she threw herself back in her chair. Kuzma
Vassilyevitch did not get up from his chair and looked still more
intently at her rosy face which was quivering with laughter and he
felt more and more attracted by her. All at once Emilie was silent and humming through her teeth, as her
habit was, went back to the looking glass. "Can you sing, Mr. Florestan?" "No, I have never been taught." "Do you play on the guitar? Not that either? I can. I have a guitar
set with _perlenmutter_ but the strings are broken. I must buy
some new ones. You will give me the money, won't you, Mr. Officer? I'll sing you a lovely German song." She heaved a sigh and shut her
eyes. "Ah, such a lovely one! But you can dance? Not that,
either? _Unmöglich_! I'll teach you. The _schottische_ and the
_valse-cosaque_. Tra-la-la, tra-la-la," Emilie pirouetted once or
twice. "Look at my shoes! From Warsaw. Oh, we will have some dancing,
Mr. Florestan! But what are you going to call me?" Kuzma Vassilyevitch grinned and blushed to his ears. "I shall call you: lovely Emilie!" "No, no! You must call me: _Mein Schätzchen, mein Zuckerpüppchen_! Repeat it after me." "With the greatest pleasure, but I am afraid I shall find it
difficult...."
"Never mind, never mind. Say: _Mein_." "Me-in." "_Zucker_." "Tsook-ker." "_Püppchen! Püppchen! Püppchen!_"
"Poop ... poop.... That I can't manage. It doesn't sound nice." "No! You must ... you must! Do you know what it means? That's the very
nicest word for a young lady in German. I'll explain it to you
afterwards. But here is auntie bringing us the samovar. Bravo! Bravo! auntie, I will have cream with my tea.... Is there any cream?" "_So schweige doch_," answered the aunt. IX
Kuzma Vassilyevitch stayed at Madame Fritsche's till midnight. He had
not spent such a pleasant evening since his arrival at Nikolaev. It is
true that it occurred to him that it was not seemly for an officer and
a gentleman to be associating with such persons as this native of Riga
and her auntie, but Emilie was so pretty, babbled so amusingly and
bestowed such friendly looks upon him, that he dismissed his rank and
family and made up his mind for once to enjoy himself. Only one
circumstance disturbed him and left an impression that was not quite
agreeable. When his conversation with Emilie and Madame Fritsche was
in full swing, the door from the lobby opened a crack and a man's hand
in a dark cuff with three tiny silver buttons on it was stealthily
thrust in and stealthily laid a big bundle on the chair near the door. Both ladies instantly darted to the chair and began examining the
bundle. "But these are the wrong spoons!" cried Emilie, but her aunt
nudged her with her elbow and carried away the bundle without tying up
the ends. It seemed to Kuzma Vassilyevitch that one end was spattered
with something red, like blood. "What is it?" he asked Emilie. "Is it some more stolen things returned
to you?" "Yes," answered Emilie, as it were, reluctantly. "Some more." "Was it your servant found them?" Emilie frowned. "What servant? We haven't any servant." "Some other man, then?" "No men come to see us." "But excuse me, excuse me.... I saw the cuff of a man's coat or
jacket. And, besides, this cap...."
"Men never, never come to see us," Emilie repeated emphatically. "What
did you see? You saw nothing! And that cap is mine." "How is that?" "Why, just that. I wear it for dressing up.... Yes, it is mine, _und
Punctum_." "Who brought you the bundle, then?" Emilie made no answer and, pouting, followed Madame Fritsche out of
the room. | Turgenev, Ivan Sergeevich - Knock, Knock, Knock and Other Stories |