"Distributed Proofreaders\n\n\n\nTHE COUNTRY OF THE BLIND\n\nAnd Other Stories\n\nH. G. WELLS\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: He stopped, and then made a dash to escape from their\nclosing ranks.]\n\n\n\n\n\n\nINTRODUCTION\n\nThe enterprise of Messrs. T. Nelson & Sons and the friendly accommodation\nof Messrs. Macmillan render possible this collection in one cover of all\nthe short stories by me that I care for any one to read again. Except for\nthe two series of linked incidents that make up the bulk of the book\ncalled _Tales of Space and Time_, no short story of mine of the\nslightest merit is excluded from this volume. Many of very questionable\nmerit find a place; it is an inclusive and not an exclusive gathering.\nAnd the task of selection and revision brings home to me with something of\nthe effect of discovery that I was once an industrious writer of short\nstories, and that I am no longer anything of the kind. I have not written\none now for quite a long time, and in the past five or six years I have\nmade scarcely one a year. The bulk of the fifty or sixty tales from which\nthis present three-and-thirty have been chosen dates from the last\ncentury. This edition is more definitive than I supposed when first I\narranged for it. In the presence of so conclusive an ebb and cessation an\nalmost obituary manner seems justifiable.\n\nI find it a little difficult to disentangle the causes that have\nrestricted the flow of these inventions. It has happened, I remark, to\nothers as well as to myself, and in spite of the kindliest encouragement\nto continue from editors and readers. There was a time when life bubbled\nwith short stories; they were always coming to the surface of my mind, and\nit is no deliberate change of will that has thus restricted my production.\nIt is rather, I think, a diversion of attention to more sustained and more\nexacting forms. It was my friend Mr. C.L. Hind who set that spring going.\nHe urged me to write short stories for the _Pall Mall Budget_, and\npersuaded me by his simple and buoyant conviction that I could do what he\ndesired. There existed at the time only the little sketch, \"The Jilting of\nJane,\" included in this volume--at least, that is the only tolerable\nfragment of fiction I find surviving from my pre-Lewis-Hind period. But I\nset myself, so encouraged, to the experiment of inventing moving and\ninteresting things that could be given vividly in the little space of\neight or ten such pages as this, and for a time I found it a very\nentertaining pursuit indeed. Mr. Hind's indicating finger had shown me an\namusing possibility of the mind. I found that, taking almost anything as a\nstarting-point and letting my thoughts play about it, there would\npresently come out of the darkness, in a manner quite inexplicable, some\nabsurd or vivid little incident more or less relevant to that initial\nnucleus. Little men in canoes upon sunlit oceans would come floating out\nof nothingness, incubating the eggs of prehistoric monsters unawares;\nviolent conflicts would break out amidst the flower-beds of suburban\ngardens; I would discover I was peering into remote and mysterious worlds\nruled by an order logical indeed but other than our common sanity.\n\nThe 'nineties was a good and stimulating period for a short-story writer.\nMr. Kipling had made his astonishing advent with a series of little\nblue-grey books, whose covers opened like window-shutters to reveal\nthe dusty sun-glare and blazing colours of the East; Mr. Barrie had\ndemonstrated what could be done in a little space through the panes of his\n_Window in Thrums_. The _National Observer_ was at the climax of\nits career of heroic insistence upon lyrical brevity and a vivid finish,\nand Mr. Frank Harris was not only printing good short stories by other\npeople, but writing still better ones himself in the dignified pages of\nthe _Fortnightly Review. Longman's Magazine_, too, represented a\n_clientèle_ of appreciative short-story readers that is now\nscattered. Then came the generous opportunities of the _Yellow Book_,\nand the _National Observer_ died only to give birth to the _New\nReview_. No short story of the slightest distinction went for long\nunrecognised. The sixpenny popular magazines had still to deaden down the\nconception of what a short story might be to the imaginative limitation of\nthe common reader--and a maximum length of six thousand words. Short\nstories broke out everywhere. Kipling was writing short stories; Barrie,\nStevenson, Frank-Harris; Max Beerbohm wrote at least one perfect one, \"The\nHappy Hypocrite\"; Henry James pursued his wonderful and inimitable bent;\nand among other names that occur to me, like a mixed handful of jewels\ndrawn from a bag, are George Street, Morley Roberts, George Gissing, Ella\nd'Arcy, Murray Gilchrist, E. Nesbit, Stephen Crane, Joseph Conrad, Edwin\nPugh, Jerome K. Jerome, Kenneth Graham, Arthur Morrison, Marriott Watson,\nGeorge Moore, Grant Allen, George Egerton, Henry Harland, Pett Ridge, W.\nW. Jacobs (who alone seems inexhaustible). I dare say I could recall as\nmany more names with a little effort. I may be succumbing to the\ninfirmities of middle age, but I do not think the present decade can\nproduce any parallel to this list, or what is more remarkable, that the\nlater achievements in this field of any of the survivors from that time,\nwith the sole exception of Joseph Conrad, can compare with the work they\ndid before 1900. It seems to me this outburst of short stories came not\nonly as a phase in literary development, but also as a phase in the\ndevelopment of the individual writers concerned.\n\nIt is now quite unusual to see any adequate criticism of short stories in\nEnglish. I do not know how far the decline in short-story writing may not\nbe due to that. Every sort of artist demands human responses, and few men\ncan contrive to write merely for a publisher's cheque and silence, however\nreassuring that cheque may be. A mad millionaire who commissioned\nmasterpieces to burn would find it impossible to buy them. Scarcely any\nartist will hesitate in the choice between money and attention; and it was\nprimarily for that last and better sort of pay that the short stories of\nthe 'nineties were written. People talked about them tremendously,\ncompared them, and ranked them. That was the thing that mattered.\n\nIt was not, of course, all good talk, and we suffered then, as now, from\nthe _à priori_ critic. Just as nowadays he goes about declaring that\nthe work of such-and-such a dramatist is all very amusing and delightful,\nbut \"it isn't a Play,\" so we' had a great deal of talk about _the_\nshort story, and found ourselves measured by all kinds of arbitrary\nstandards. There was a tendency to treat the short story as though it was\nas definable a form as the sonnet, instead of being just exactly what any\none of courage and imagination can get told in twenty minutes' reading or\nso. It was either Mr. Edward Garnett or Mr. George Moore in a violently\nanti-Kipling mood who invented the distinction between the short story and\nthe anecdote. The short story was Maupassant; the anecdote was damnable.\nIt was a quite infernal comment in its way, because it permitted no\ndefence. Fools caught it up and used it freely. Nothing is so destructive\nin a field of artistic effort as a stock term of abuse. Anyone could say\nof any short story, \"A mere anecdote,\" just as anyone can say\n\"Incoherent!\" of any novel or of any sonata that isn't studiously\nmonotonous. The recession of enthusiasm for this compact, amusing form is\nclosely associated in my mind with that discouraging imputation. One felt\nhopelessly open to a paralysing and unanswerable charge, and one's ease\nand happiness in the garden of one's fancies was more and more marred by\nthe dread of it. It crept into one's mind, a distress as vague and\ninexpugnable as a sea fog on a spring morning, and presently one shivered\nand wanted to go indoors...It is the absurd fate of the imaginative writer\nthat he should be thus sensitive to atmospheric conditions.\n\nBut after one has died as a maker one may still live as a critic, and I\nwill confess I am all for laxness and variety in this as in every field of\nart. Insistence upon rigid forms and austere unities seems to me the\ninstinctive reaction of the sterile against the fecund. It is the tired\nman with a headache who values a work of art for what it does not contain.\nI suppose it is the lot of every critic nowadays to suffer from\nindigestion and a fatigued appreciation, and to develop a self-protective\ntendency towards rules that will reject, as it were, automatically the\nmore abundant and irregular forms. But this world is not for the weary,\nand in the long-run it is the new and variant that matter. I refuse\naltogether to recognise any hard and fast type for the Short Story, any\nmore than I admit any limitation upon the liberties of the Small Picture.\nThe short story is a fiction that may be read in something under an hour,\nand so that it is moving and delightful, it does not matter whether it is\nas \"trivial\" as a Japanese print of insects seen closely between grass\nstems, or as spacious as the prospect of the plain of Italy from Monte\nMottarone. It does not matter whether it is human or inhuman, or whether\nit leaves you thinking deeply or radiantly but superficially pleased. Some\nthings are more easily done as short stories than others and more\nabundantly done, but one of the many pleasures of short-story writing is\nto achieve the impossible.\n\nAt any rate, that is the present writer's conception of the art of the\nshort story, as the jolly art of making something very bright and moving;\nit may be horrible or pathetic or funny or beautiful or profoundly\nilluminating, having only this essential, that it should take from fifteen\nto fifty minutes to read aloud. All the rest is just whatever invention\nand imagination and the mood can give--a vision of buttered slides on a\nbusy day or of unprecedented worlds. In that spirit of miscellaneous\nexpectation these stories should be received. Each is intended to be a\nthing by itself; and if it is not too ungrateful to kindly and\nenterprising publishers, I would confess I would much prefer to see each\nprinted expensively alone, and left in a little brown-paper cover to lie\nabout a room against the needs of a quite casual curiosity. And I would\nrather this volume were found in the bedrooms of convalescents and in\ndentists' parlours and railway trains than in gentlemen's studies. I would\nrather have it dipped in and dipped in again than read severely through.\nEssentially it is a miscellany of inventions, many of which were very\npleasant to write; and its end is more than attained if some of them are\nrefreshing and agreeable to read. I have now re-read them all, and I am\nglad to think I wrote them. I like them, but I cannot tell how much the\nassociations of old happinesses gives them a flavour for me. I make no\nclaims for them and no apology; they will be read as long as people read\nthem. Things written either live or die; unless it be for a place of\njudgment upon Academic impostors, there is no apologetic intermediate\nstate.\n\nI may add that I have tried to set a date to most of these stories, but\nthat they are not arranged in strictly chronological order.\n\nH. G. WELLS.\n\n\n\nCONTENTS.\n\n I. THE JILTING OF JANE\n\n II. THE CONE\n\n III. THE STOLEN BACILLUS\n\n IV. THE FLOWERING OF THE STRANGE ORCHID\n\n V. THE AVU OBSERVATORY\n\n VI. AEPYORNIS ISLAND\n\n VII. THE REMARKABLE CASE OF DAVIDSON'S EYES.\n\n VIII. THE LORD OF THE DYNAMOS.\n\n IX. THE MOTH\n\n X. THE TREASURE IN THE FOREST\n\n XI. THE STORY OF THE LATE MR. ELVESHAM\n\n XII. UNDER THE KNIFE\n\n XIII. THE SEA RAIDERS\n\n XIV. THE OBLITERATED MAN\n\n XV. THE PLATTNER STORY\n\n XVI. THE RED ROOM\n\n XVII. THE PURPLE PILEUS\n\n XVIII. A SLIP UNDER THE MICROSCOPE\n\n XIX. THE CRYSTAL EGG\n\n XX. THE STAR\n\n XXI. THE MAN WHO COULD WORK MIRACLES\n\n XXII. A VISION OF JUDGMENT\n\n XXIII. JIMMY GOGGLES THE GOD\n\n XXIV. MISS WINCHELSEA'S HEART\n\n XXV. A DREAM OF ARMAGEDDON\n\n XXVI. THE VALLEY OF SPIDERS\n\n XXVII. THE NEW ACCELERATOR\n\nXXVIII. THE TRUTH ABOUT PYECRAFT\n\n XXIX. THE MAGIC SHOP\n\n XXX. THE EMPIRE OF THE ANTS\n\n XXXI. THE DOOR IN THE WALL\n\n XXXII. THE COUNTRY OF THE BLIND\n\nXXXIII. THE BEAUTIFUL SUIT\n\n\n\n\n I.\n\n THE JILTING OF JANE.\n\n\nAs I sit writing in my study, I can hear our Jane bumping her way\ndownstairs with a brush and dust-pan. She used in the old days to sing\nhymn tunes, or the British national song for the time being, to these\ninstruments, but latterly she has been silent and even careful over her\nwork. Time was when I prayed with fervour for such silence, and my wife\nwith sighs for such care, but now they have come we are not so glad as we\nmight have anticipated we should be. Indeed, I would rejoice secretly,\nthough it may be unmanly weakness to admit it, even to hear Jane sing\n\"Daisy,\" or, by the fracture of any plate but one of Euphemia's best green\nones, to learn that the period of brooding has come to an end.\n\nYet how we longed to hear the last of Jane's young man before we heard the\nlast of him! Jane was always very free with her conversation to my wife,\nand discoursed admirably in the kitchen on a variety of topics--so well,\nindeed, that I sometimes left my study door open--our house is a small\none--to partake of it. But after William came, it was always William,\nnothing but William; William this and William that; and when we thought\nWilliam was worked out and exhausted altogether, then William all over\nagain. The engagement lasted altogether three years; yet how she got\nintroduced to William, and so became thus saturated with him, was always a\nsecret. For my part, I believe it was at the street corner where the Rev.\nBarnabas Baux used to hold an open-air service after evensong on Sundays.\nYoung Cupids were wont to flit like moths round the paraffin flare of that\ncentre of High Church hymn-singing. I fancy she stood singing hymns there,\nout of memory and her imagination, instead of coming home to get supper,\nand William came up beside her and said, \"Hello!\" \"Hello yourself!\" she\nsaid; and etiquette being satisfied, they proceeded to talk together.\n\nAs Euphemia has a reprehensible way of letting her servants talk to her,\nshe soon heard of him. \"He is _such_ a respectable young man, ma'am,\"\nsaid Jane, \"you don't know.\" Ignoring the slur cast on her acquaintance,\nmy wife inquired further about this William.\n\n\"He is second porter at Maynard's, the draper's,\" said Jane, \"and gets\neighteen shillings--nearly a pound--a week, m'm; and when the head porter\nleaves he will be head porter. His relatives are quite superior people,\nm'm. Not labouring people at all. His father was a greengrosher, m'm, and\nhad a churnor, and he was bankrup' twice. And one of his sisters is in a\nHome for the Dying. It will be a very good match for me, m'm,\" said Jane,\n\"me being an orphan girl.\"\n\n\"Then you are engaged to him?\" asked my wife.\n\n\"Not engaged, ma'am; but he is saving money to buy a ring--hammyfist.\"\n\n\"Well, Jane, when you are properly engaged to him you may ask him round\nhere on Sunday afternoons, and have tea with him in the kitchen;\" for my\nEuphemia has a motherly conception of her duty towards her maid-servants.\nAnd presently the amethystine ring was being worn about the house, even\nwith ostentation, and Jane developed a new way of bringing in the joint so\nthat this gage was evident. The elder Miss Maitland was aggrieved by it,\nand told my wife that servants ought not to wear rings. But my wife looked\nit up in _Enquire Within_ and _Mrs. Motherly's Book of Household\nManagement_, and found no prohibition. So Jane remained with this\nhappiness added to her love.\n\nThe treasure of Jane's heart appeared to me to be what respectable people\ncall a very deserving young man. \"William, ma'am,\" said Jane one day\nsuddenly, with ill-concealed complacency, as she counted out the beer\nbottles, \"William, ma'am, is a teetotaller. Yes, m'm; and he don't smoke.\nSmoking, ma'am,\" said Jane, as one who reads the heart, \"_do_ make\nsuch a dust about. Beside the waste of money. _And_ the smell.\nHowever, I suppose they got to do it--some of them...\"\n\nWilliam was at first a rather shabby young man of the ready-made black\ncoat school of costume. He had watery gray eyes, and a complexion\nappropriate to the brother of one in a Home for the Dying. Euphemia did\nnot fancy him very much, even at the beginning. His eminent respectability\nwas vouched for by an alpaca umbrella, from which he never allowed himself\nto be parted.\n\n\"He goes to chapel,\" said Jane. \"His papa, ma'am----\"\n\n\"His _what_, Jane?\"\n\n\"His papa, ma'am, was Church: but Mr. Maynard is a Plymouth Brother, and\nWilliam thinks it Policy, ma'am, to go there too. Mr. Maynard comes and\ntalks to him quite friendly when they ain't busy, about using up all the\nends of string, and about his soul. He takes a lot of notice, do Mr.\nMaynard, of William, and the way he saves his soul, ma'am.\"\n\nPresently we heard that the head porter at Maynard's had left, and that\nWilliam was head porter at twenty-three shillings a week. \"He is really\nkind of over the man who drives the van,\" said Jane, \"and him married,\nwith three children.\" And she promised in the pride of her heart to make\ninterest for us with William to favour us so that we might get our parcels\nof drapery from Maynard's with exceptional promptitude.\n\nAfter this promotion a rapidly-increasing prosperity came upon Jane's\nyoung man. One day we learned that Mr. Maynard had given William a book.\n\"'Smiles' 'Elp Yourself,' it's called,\" said Jane; \"but it ain't comic. It\ntells you how to get on in the world, and some what William read to me was\n_lovely_, ma'am.\"\n\nEuphemia told me of this, laughing, and then she became suddenly grave.\n\"Do you know, dear,\" she said, \"Jane said one thing I did not like. She\nhad been quiet for a minute, and then she suddenly remarked, 'William is a\nlot above me, ma'am, ain't he?'\"\n\n\"I don't see anything in that,\" I said, though later my eyes were to be\nopened.\n\nOne Sunday afternoon about that time I was sitting at my writing-desk--\npossibly I was reading a good book--when a something went by the window. I\nheard a startled exclamation behind me, and saw Euphemia with her hands\nclasped together and her eyes dilated. \"George,\" she said in an\nawe-stricken whisper, \"did you see?\"\n\nThen we both spoke to one another at the same moment, slowly and solemnly:\n\"_A silk hat! Yellow gloves! A new umbrella!_\"\n\n\"It may be my fancy, dear,\" said Euphemia; \"but his tie was very like\nyours. I believe Jane keeps him in ties. She told me a little while ago,\nin a way that implied volumes about the rest of your costume, 'The master\n_do_ wear pretty ties, ma'am.' And he echoes all your novelties.\"\n\nThe young couple passed our window again on their way to their customary\nwalk. They were arm in arm. Jane looked exquisitely proud, happy, and\nuncomfortable, with new white cotton gloves, and William, in the silk hat,\nsingularly genteel!\n\nThat was the culmination of Jane's happiness. When she returned, \"Mr.\nMaynard has been talking to William, ma'am,\" she said, \"and he is to serve\ncustomers, just like the young shop gentlemen, during the next sale. And\nif he gets on, he is to be made an assistant, ma'am, at the first\nopportunity. He has got to be as gentlemanly as he can, ma'am; and if he\nain't, ma'am, he says it won't be for want of trying. Mr. Maynard has took\na great fancy to him.\"\n\n\"He _is_ getting on, Jane,\" said my wife.\n\n\"Yes, ma'am,\" said Jane thoughtfully; \"he _is_ getting on.\"\n\nAnd she sighed.\n\nThat next Sunday as I drank my tea I interrogated my wife. \"How is this\nSunday different from all other Sundays, little woman? What has happened?\nHave you altered the curtains, or re-arranged the furniture, or where is\nthe indefinable difference of it? Are you wearing your hair in a new way\nwithout warning me? I perceive a change clearly, and I cannot for the life\nof me say what it is.\"\n\nThen my wife answered in her most tragic voice, \"George,\" she said, \"that\nWilliam has not come near the place to-day! And Jane is crying her heart\nout upstairs.\"\n\nThere followed a period of silence. Jane, as I have said, stopped singing\nabout the house, and began to care for our brittle possessions, which\nstruck my wife as being a very sad sign indeed. The next Sunday, and the\nnext, Jane asked to go out, \"to walk with William,\" and my wife, who never\nattempts to extort confidences, gave her permission, and asked no\nquestions. On each occasion Jane came back looking flushed and very\ndetermined. At last one day she became communicative.\n\n\"William is being led away,\" she remarked abruptly, with a catching of the\nbreath, apropos of tablecloths. \"Yes, m'm. She is a milliner, and she can\nplay on the piano.\"\n\n\"I thought,\" said my wife, \"that you went out with him on Sunday.\"\n\n\"Not out with him, m'm--after him. I walked along by the side of them, and\ntold her he was engaged to me.\"\n\n\"Dear me, Jane, did you? What did they do?\"\n\n\"Took no more notice of me than if I was dirt. So I told her she should\nsuffer for it.\"\n\n\"It could not have been a very agreeable walk, Jane.\"\n\n\"Not for no parties, ma'am.\"\n\n\"I wish,\" said Jane, \"I could play the piano, ma'am. But anyhow, I don't\nmean to let _her_ get him away from me. She's older than him, and her\nhair ain't gold to the roots, ma'am.\"\n\nIt was on the August Bank Holiday that the crisis came. We do not clearly\nknow the details of the fray, but only such fragments as poor Jane let\nfall. She came home dusty, excited, and with her heart hot within her.\n\nThe milliner's mother, the milliner, and William had made a party to the\nArt Museum at South Kensington, I think. Anyhow, Jane had calmly but\nfirmly accosted them somewhere in the streets, and asserted her right to\nwhat, in spite of the consensus of literature, she held to be her\ninalienable property. She did, I think, go so far as to lay hands on him.\nThey dealt with her in a crushingly superior way. They \"called a cab.\"\nThere was a \"scene,\" William being pulled away into the four-wheeler by\nhis future wife and mother-in-law from the reluctant hands of our\ndiscarded Jane. There were threats of giving her \"in charge.\"\n\n\"My poor Jane!\" said my wife, mincing veal as though she was mincing\nWilliam. \"It's a shame of them. I would think no more of him. He is not\nworthy of you.\"\n\n\"No, m'm,\" said Jane. \"He _is_ weak.\n\n\"But it's that woman has done it,\" said Jane. She was never known to bring\nherself to pronounce \"that woman's\" name or to admit her girlishness. \"I\ncan't think what minds some women must have--to try and get a girl's young\nman away from her. But there, it only hurts to talk about it,\" said Jane.\n\nThereafter our house rested from William. But there was something in the\nmanner of Jane's scrubbing the front doorstep or sweeping out the rooms, a\ncertain viciousness, that persuaded me that the story had not yet ended.\n\n\"Please, m'm, may I go and see a wedding tomorrow?\" said Jane one day.\n\nMy wife knew by instinct whose wedding. \"Do you think it is wise, Jane?\"\nshe said.\n\n\"I would like to see the last of him,\" said Jane.\n\n\"My dear,\" said my wife, fluttering into my room about twenty minutes\nafter Jane had started, \"Jane has been to the boot-hole and taken all the\nleft-off boots and shoes, and gone off to the wedding with them in a bag.\nSurely she cannot mean--\"\n\n\"Jane,\" I said, \"is developing character. Let us hope for the best.\"\n\nJane came back with a pale, hard face. All the boots seemed to be still in\nher bag, at which my wife heaved a premature sigh of relief. We heard her\ngo upstairs and replace the boots with considerable emphasis.\n\n\"Quite a crowd at the wedding, ma'am,\" she said presently, in a purely\nconversational style, sitting in our little kitchen, and scrubbing the\npotatoes; \"and such a lovely day for them.\" She proceeded to numerous\nother details, clearly avoiding some cardinal incident.\n\n\"It was all extremely respectable and nice, ma'am; but _her_ father\ndidn't wear a black coat, and looked quite out of place, ma'am. Mr.\nPiddingquirk--\"\n\n\"_Who_?\"\n\n\"Mr. Piddingquirk--William that was, ma'am--had white gloves, and a coat\nlike a clergyman, and a lovely chrysanthemum. He looked so nice, ma'am.\nAnd there was red carpet down, just like for gentlefolks. And they say he\ngave the clerk four shillings, ma'am. It was a real kerridge they had--not\na fly. When they came out of church there was rice-throwing, and her two\nlittle sisters dropping dead flowers. And someone threw a slipper, and\nthen I threw a boot--\"\n\n\"Threw a _boot_, Jane!\"\n\n\"Yes, ma'am. Aimed at her. But it hit _him_. Yes, ma'am, hard. Gev\nhim a black eye, I should think. I only threw that one. I hadn't the heart\nto try again. All the little boys cheered when it hit him.\"\n\nAfter an interval--\"I am sorry the boot hit _him_.\"\n\nAnother pause. The potatoes were being scrubbed violently. \"He always\n_was_ a bit above me, you know, ma'am. And he was led away.\"\n\nThe potatoes were more than finished. Jane rose sharply with a sigh, and\nrapped the basin down on the table.\n\n\"I don't care,\" she said. \"I don't care a rap. He will find out his\nmistake yet. It serves me right. I was stuck up about him. I ought not to\nhave looked so high. And I am glad things are as things are.\"\n\nMy wife was in the kitchen, seeing to the higher cookery. After the\nconfession of the boot-throwing, she must have watched poor Jane fuming\nwith a certain dismay in those brown eyes of hers. But I imagine they\nsoftened again very quickly, and then Jane's must have met them.\n\n\"Oh, ma'am,\" said Jane, with an astonishing change of note, \"think of all\nthat _might_ have been! Oh, ma'am, I _could_ have been so happy!\nI ought to have known, but I didn't know...You're very kind to let me talk\nto you, ma'am...for it's hard on me, ma'am...it's har-r-r-r-d--\"\n\nAnd I gather that Euphemia so far forgot herself as to let Jane sob out\nsome of the fullness of her heart on a sympathetic shoulder. My Euphemia,\nthank Heaven, has never properly grasped the importance of \"keeping up her\nposition.\" And since that fit of weeping, much of the accent of bitterness\nhas gone out of Jane's scrubbing and brush work.\n\nIndeed, something passed the other day with the butcher-boy--but that\nscarcely belongs to this story. However, Jane is young still, and time and\nchange are at work with her. We all have our sorrows, but I do not believe\nvery much in the existence of sorrows that never heal.\n\n\n\n\n II.\n\n THE CONE.\n\n\nThe night was hot and overcast, the sky red-rimmed with the lingering\nsunset of midsummer. They sat at the open window, trying to fancy the air\nwas fresher there. The trees and shrubs of the garden stood stiff and\ndark; beyond in the roadway a gas-lamp burnt, bright orange against the\nhazy blue of the evening. Farther were the three lights of the railway\nsignal against the lowering sky. The man and woman spoke to one another in\nlow tones.\n\n\"He does not suspect?\" said the man, a little nervously.\n\n\"Not he,\" she said peevishly, as though that too irritated her. \"He\nthinks of nothing but the works and the prices of fuel. He has no\nimagination, no poetry.\"\n\n\"None of these men of iron have,\" he said sententiously. \"They have no\nhearts.\"\n\n\"_He_ has not,\" she said. She turned her discontented face towards\nthe window. The distant sound of a roaring and rushing drew nearer and\ngrew in volume; the house quivered; one heard the metallic rattle of the\ntender. As the train passed, there was a glare of light above the cutting\nand a driving tumult of smoke; one, two, three, four, five, six, seven,\neight black oblongs--eight trucks--passed across the dim grey of the\nembankment, and were suddenly extinguished one by one in the throat of the\ntunnel, which, with the last, seemed to swallow down train, smoke, and\nsound in one abrupt gulp.\n\n\"This country was all fresh and beautiful once,\" he said; \"and now--it is\nGehenna. Down that way--nothing but pot-banks and chimneys belching fire\nand dust into the face of heaven...But what does it matter? An end comes,\nan end to all this cruelty..._To-morrow.\"_ He spoke the last word in\na whisper.\n\n\"_To-morrow,\"_ she said, speaking in a whisper too, and still staring\nout of the window.\n\n\"Dear!\" he said, putting his hand on hers.\n\nShe turned with a start, and their eyes searched one another's. Hers\nsoftened to his gaze. \"My dear one!\" she said, and then: \"It seems so\nstrange--that you should have come into my life like this--to open--\" She\npaused.\n\n\"To open?\" he said.\n\n\"All this wonderful world\"--she hesitated, and spoke still more softly--\n\"this world of _love_ to me.\"\n\nThen suddenly the door clicked and closed. They turned their heads, and he\nstarted violently back. In the shadow of the room stood a great shadowy\nfigure-silent. They saw the face dimly in the half-light, with\nunexpressive dark patches under the pent-house brows. Every muscle in\nRaut's body suddenly became tense. When could the door have opened? What\nhad he heard? Had he heard all? What had he seen? A tumult of questions.\n\nThe new-comer's voice came at last, after a pause that seemed\ninterminable. \"Well?\" he said.\n\n\"I was afraid I had missed you, Horrocks,\" said the man at the window,\ngripping the window-ledge with his hand. His voice was unsteady.\n\nThe clumsy figure of Horrocks came forward out of the shadow. He made no\nanswer to Raut's remark. For a moment he stood above them.\n\nThe woman's heart was cold within her. \"I told Mr. Raut it was just\npossible you might come back,\" she said in a voice that never quivered.\n\nHorrocks, still silent, sat down abruptly in the chair by her little\nwork-table. His big hands were clenched; one saw now the fire of his eyes\nunder the shadow of his brows. He was trying to get his breath. His eyes\nwent from the woman he had trusted to the friend he had trusted, and then\nback to the woman.\n\nBy this time and for the moment all three half understood one another.\nYet none dared say a word to ease the pent-up things that choked them.\n\nIt was the husband's voice that broke the silence at last.\n\n\"You wanted to see me?\" he said to Raut.\n\nRaut started as he spoke. \"I came to see you,\" he said, resolved to lie to\nthe last.\n\n\"Yes,\" said Horrocks.\n\n\"You promised,\" said Raut, \"to show me some fine effects of moonlight and\nsmoke.\"\n\n\"I promised to show you some fine effects of moonlight and smoke,\"\nrepeated Horrocks in a colourless voice.\n\n\"And I thought I might catch you to-night before you went down to the\nworks,\" proceeded Raut, \"and come with you.\"\n\nThere was another pause. Did the man mean to take the thing coolly? Did\nhe, after all, know? How long had he been in the room? Yet even at the\nmoment when they heard the door, their attitudes ... Horrocks glanced at\nthe profile of the woman, shadowy pallid in the half-light. Then he\nglanced at Raut, and seemed to recover himself suddenly. \"Of course,\" he\nsaid, \"I promised to show you the works under their proper dramatic\nconditions. It's odd how I could have forgotten.\"\n\n\"If I am troubling you--\" began Raut.\n\nHorrocks started again. A new light had suddenly come into the sultry\ngloom of his eyes. \"Not in the least.\" he said.\n\n\"Have you been telling Mr. Raut of all these contrasts of flame and shadow\nyou think so splendid?\" said the woman, turning now to her husband for\nthe first time, her confidence creeping back again, her voice just one\nhalf-note too high--\"that dreadful theory of yours that machinery is\nbeautiful, and everything else in the world ugly. I thought he would not\nspare you, Mr. Raut. It's his great theory, his one discovery in art.\"\n\n\"I am slow to make discoveries,\" said Horrocks grimly, damping her\nsuddenly. \"But what I discover ...\" He stopped.\n\n\"Well?\" she said.\n\n\"Nothing;\" and suddenly he rose to his feet.\n\n\"I promised to show you the works,\" he said to Raut, and put his big,\nclumsy hand on his friend's shoulder. \"And you are ready to go?\"\n\n\"Quite,\" said Raut, and stood up also.\n\nThere was another pause. Each of them peered through the indistinctness of\nthe dusk at the other two.\n\nHorrocks' hand still rested on Raut's shoulder. Raut half fancied still\nthat the incident was trivial after all. But Mrs. Horrocks knew her\nhusband better, knew that grim quiet in his voice, and the confusion in\nher mind took a vague shape of physical evil. \"Very well,\" said Horrocks,\nand, dropping his hand, turned towards the door.\n\n\"My hat?\" Raut looked round in the half-light.\n\n\"That's my work-basket,\" said Mrs. Horrocks with a gust of hysterical\nlaughter. Their hands came together on the back of the chair. \"Here it\nis!\" he said. She had an impulse to warn him in an undertone, but she\ncould not frame a word. \"Don't go!\" and \"Beware of him!\" struggled in her\nmind, and the swift moment passed.\n\n\"Got it?\" said Horrocks, standing with the door half open.\n\nRaut stepped towards him. \"Better say goodbye to Mrs. Horrocks,\" said the\nironmaster, even more grimly quiet in his tone than before.\n\nRaut started and turned. \"Good-evening, Mrs. Horrocks,\" he said, and their\nhands touched.\n\nHorrocks held the door open with a ceremonial politeness unusual in him\ntowards men. Raut went out, and then, after a wordless look at her, her\nhusband followed. She stood motionless while Raut's light footfall and her\nhusband's heavy tread, like bass and treble, passed down the passage\ntogether. The front door slammed heavily. She went to the window, moving\nslowly, and stood watching, leaning forward. The two men appeared for a\nmoment at the gateway in the road, passed under the street lamp, and were\nhidden by the black masses of the shrubbery. The lamplight fell for a\nmoment on their faces, showing only unmeaning pale patches, telling\nnothing of what she still feared, and doubted, and craved vainly to know.\nThen she sank down into a crouching attitude in the big arm-chair, her\neyes-wide open and staring out at the red lights from the furnaces that\nflickered in the sky. An hour after she was still there, her attitude\nscarcely changed.\n\nThe oppressive stillness of the evening weighed heavily upon Raut. They\nwent side by side down the road in silence, and in silence turned into the\ncinder-made byway that presently opened out the prospect of the valley.\n\nA blue haze, half dust, half mist, touched the long valley with mystery.\nBeyond were Hanley and Etruria, grey and dark masses, outlined thinly by\nthe rare golden dots of the street lamps, and here and there a gas-lit\nwindow, or the yellow glare of some late-working factory or crowded\npublic-house. Out of the masses, clear and slender against the evening\nsky, rose a multitude of tall chimneys, many of them reeking, a few\nsmokeless during a season of \"play.\" Here and there a pallid patch and\nghostly stunted beehive shapes showed the position of a pot-bank or a\nwheel, black and sharp against the hot lower sky, marked some colliery\nwhere they raise the iridescent coal of the place. Nearer at hand was the\nbroad stretch of railway, and half-invisible trains shunted--a steady\npuffing and rumbling, with every run a ringing concussion and a rhymthic\nseries of impacts, and a passage of intermittent puffs of white steam\nacross the further view. And to the left, between the railway and the\ndark mass of the low hill beyond, dominating the whole view, colossal,\ninky-black, and crowned with smoke and fitful flames, stood the great\ncylinders of the Jeddah Company Blast Furnaces, the central edifices of\nthe big ironworks of which Horrocks was the manager. They stood heavy and\nthreatening, full of an incessant turmoil of flames and seething molten\niron, and about the feet of them rattled the rolling-mills, and the\nsteam-hammer beat heavily and splashed the white iron sparks hither and\nthither. Even as they looked, a truckful of fuel was shot into one of the\ngiants, and the red flames gleamed out, and a confusion of smoke and black\ndust came boiling upwards towards the sky.\n\n\"Certainly you get some colour with your furnaces,\" said Raut, breaking a\nsilence that had become apprehensive.\n\nHorrocks grunted. He stood with his hands in his pockets, frowning down at\nthe dim steaming railway and the busy ironworks beyond, frowning as if he\nwere thinking out some knotty problem.\n\nRaut glanced at him and away again. \"At present your moonlight effect is\nhardly ripe,\" he continued, looking upward; \"the moon is still smothered\nby the vestiges of daylight.\"\n\nHorrocks stared at him with the expression of a man who has suddenly\nawakened. \"Vestiges of daylight? ... Of course, of course.\" He too looked\nup at the moon, pale still in the midsummer sky. \"Come along,\" he said\nsuddenly, and gripping Raut's arm in his hand, made a move towards the\npath that dropped from them to the railway.\n\nRaut hung back. Their eyes met and saw a thousand things in a moment that\ntheir lips came near to say. Horrocks's hand tightened and then relaxed.\nHe let go, and before Raut was aware of it, they were arm in arm, and\nwalking, one unwillingly enough, down the path.\n\n\"You see the fine effect of the railway signals towards Burslem,\" said\nHorrocks, suddenly breaking into loquacity, striding fast and tightening\nthe grip of his elbow the while--\"little green lights and red and white\nlights, all against the haze. You have an eye for effect, Raut. It's fine.\nAnd look at those furnaces of mine, how they rise upon us as we come down\nthe hill. That to the right is my pet--seventy feet of him. I packed him\nmyself, and he's boiled away cheerfully with iron in his guts for five\nlong years. I've a particular fancy for _him_. That line of red\nthere--a lovely bit of warm orange you'd call it, Raut--that's the\npuddlers' furnaces, and there, in the hot light, three black figures--did\nyou see the white splash of the steam-hammer then?--that's the rolling\nmills. Come along! Clang, clatter, how it goes rattling across the floor!\nSheet tin, Raut,--amazing stuff. Glass mirrors are not in it when that\nstuff comes from the mill. And, squelch! there goes the hammer again. Come\nalong!\"\n\nHe had to stop talking to catch at his breath. His arm twisted into Raut's\nwith benumbing tightness. He had come striding down the black path towards\nthe railway as though he was possessed. Raut had not spoken a word, had\nsimply hung back against Horrocks's pull with all his strength.\n\n\"I say,\" he said now, laughing nervously, but with an undertone of snarl\nin his voice, \"why on earth are you nipping my arm off, Horrocks, and\ndragging me along like this?\"\n\nAt length Horrocks released him. His manner changed again. \"Nipping your\narm off?\" he said. \"Sorry. But it's you taught me the trick of walking\nin that friendly way.\"\n\n\"You haven't learnt the refinements of it yet then,\" said Raut, laughing\nartificially again. \"By Jove! I'm black and blue.\" Horrocks offered no\napology. They stood now near the bottom of the hill, close to the fence\nthat bordered the railway. The ironworks had grown larger and spread out\nwith their approach. They looked up to the blast furnaces now instead of\ndown; the further view of Etruria and Hanley had dropped out of sight with\ntheir descent. Before them, by the stile, rose a notice-board, bearing,\nstill dimly visible, the words, \"BEWARE OF THE TRAINS,\" half hidden by\nsplashes of coaly mud.\n\n\"Fine effects,\" said Horrocks, waving his arm. \"Here comes a train. The\npuffs of smoke, the orange glare, the round eye of light in front of it,\nthe melodious rattle. Fine effects! But these furnaces of mine used to be\nfiner, before we shoved cones in their throats, and saved the gas.\"\n\n\"How?\" said Raut. \"Cones?\"\n\n\"Cones, my man, cones. I'll show you one nearer. The flames used to flare\nout of the open throats, great--what is it?--pillars of cloud by day, red\nand black smoke, and pillars of fire by night. Now we run it off--in\npipes, and burn it to heat the blast, and the top is shut by a cone.\nYou'll be interested in that cone.\"\n\n\"But every now and then,\" said Raut, \"you get a burst of fire and smoke up\nthere.\"\n\n\"The cone's not fixed, it's hung by a chain from a lever, and balanced by\nan equipoise. You shall see it nearer. Else, of course, there'd be no way\nof getting fuel into the thing. Every now and then the cone dips, and out\ncomes the flare.\"\n\n\"I see,\" said Raut. He looked over his shoulder. \"The moon gets brighter,\"\nhe said.\n\n\"Come along,\" said Horrocks abruptly, gripping his shoulder again, and\nmoving him suddenly towards the railway crossing. And then came one of\nthose swift incidents, vivid, but so rapid that they leave one doubtful\nand reeling. Half-way across, Horrocks's hand suddenly clenched upon him\nlike a vice, and swung him backward and through a half-turn, so that he\nlooked up the line. And there a chain of lamp-lit carriage windows\ntelescoped swiftly as it came towards them, and the red and yellow lights\nof an engine grew larger and larger, rushing down upon them. As he grasped\nwhat this meant, he turned his face to Horrocks, and pushed with all his\nstrength against the arm that held him back between the rails. The\nstruggle did not last a moment. Just as certain as it was that Horrocks\nheld him there, so certain was it that he had been violently lugged out of\ndanger.\n\n\"Out of the way,\" said Horrocks with a gasp, as the train came rattling\nby, and they stood panting by the gate into the ironworks.\n\n\"I did not see it coming,\" said Raut, still, even in spite of his own\napprehensions, trying to keep up an appearance of ordinary intercourse.\n\nHorrocks answered with a grunt. \"The cone,\" he said, and then, as one who\nrecovers himself, \"I thought you did not hear.\"\n\n\"I didn't,\" said Raut.\n\n\"I wouldn't have had you run over then for the world,\" said Horrocks.\n\n\"For a moment I lost my nerve,\" said Raut.\n\nHorrocks stood for half a minute, then turned abruptly towards the\nironworks again. \"See how fine these great mounds of mine, these\nclinker-heaps, look in the night! That truck yonder, up above there! Up\nit goes, and out-tilts the slag. See the palpitating red stuff go sliding\ndown the slope. As we get nearer, the heap rises up and cuts the blast\nfurnaces. See the quiver up above the big one. Not that way! This way,\nbetween the heaps. That goes to the puddling furnaces, but I want to show\nyou the canal first.\" He came and took Raut by the elbow, and so they went\nalong side by side. Raut answered Horrocks vaguely. What, he asked\nhimself, had really happened on the line? Was he deluding himself with his\nown fancies, or had Horrocks actually held him back in the way of the\ntrain? Had he just been within an ace of being murdered?\n\nSuppose this slouching, scowling monster _did_ know anything? For a\nminute or two then Raut was really afraid for his life, but the mood\npassed as he reasoned with himself. After all, Horrocks might have heard\nnothing. At any rate, he had pulled him out of the way in time. His odd\nmanner might be due to the mere vague jealousy he had shown once before.\nHe was talking now of the ash-heaps and the canal. \"Eigh?\" said Horrocks.\n\n\"What?\" said Raut. \"Rather! The haze in the moonlight. Fine!\"\n\n\"Our canal,\" said Horrocks, stopping suddenly. \"Our canal by moonlight and\nfirelight is immense. You've never seen it? Fancy that! You've spent too\nmany of your evenings philandering up in Newcastle there. I tell you, for\nreal florid quality----But you shall see. Boiling water ...\"\n\nAs they came out of the labyrinth of clinker-heaps and mounds of coal and\nore, the noises of the rolling-mill sprang upon them suddenly, loud, near,\nand distinct. Three shadowy workmen went by and touched their caps to\nHorrocks. Their faces were vague in the darkness. Raut felt a futile\nimpulse to address them, and before he could frame his words they passed\ninto the shadows. Horrocks pointed to the canal close before them now: a\nweird-looking place it seemed, in the blood-red reflections of the\nfurnaces. The hot water that cooled the tuyères came into it, some fifty\nyards up--a tumultuous, almost boiling affluent, and the steam rose up\nfrom the water in silent white wisps and streaks, wrapping damply about\nthem, an incessant succession of ghosts coming up from the black and red\neddies, a white uprising that made the head swim. The shining black tower\nof the larger blast-furnace rose overhead out of the mist, and its\ntumultuous riot filled their ears. Raut kept away from the edge of the\nwater, and watched Horrocks.\n\n\"Here it is red,\" said Horrocks, \"blood-red vapour as red and hot as sin;\nbut yonder there, where the moonlight falls on it, and it drives across\nthe clinker-heaps, it is as white as death.\"\n\nRaut turned his head for a moment, and then came back hastily to his watch\non Horrocks. \"Come along to the rolling-mills,\" said Horrocks. The\nthreatening hold was not so evident that time, and Raut felt a little\nreassured. But all the same, what on earth did Horrocks mean about \"white\nas death\" and \"red as sin\"? Coincidence, perhaps?\n\nThey went and stood behind the puddlers for a little while, and then\nthrough the rolling-mills, where amidst an incessant din the deliberate\nsteam-hammer beat the juice out of the succulent iron, and black,\nhalf-naked Titans rushed the plastic bars, like hot sealing-wax, between\nthe wheels, \"Come on,\" said Horrocks in Raut's ear; and they went and\npeeped through the little glass hole behind the tuyères, and saw the\ntumbled fire writhing in the pit of the blast-furnace. It left one eye\nblinded for a while. Then, with green and blue patches dancing across the\ndark, they went to the lift by which the trucks of ore and fuel and lime\nwere raised to the top of the big cylinder.\n\nAnd out upon the narrow rail that overhung the furnace Raut's doubts came\nupon him again. Was it wise to be here? If Horrocks did know--everything!\nDo what he would, he could not resist a violent trembling. Right under\nfoot was a sheer depth of seventy feet. It was a dangerous place. They\npushed by a truck of fuel to get to the railing that crowned the thing.\nThe reek of the furnace, a sulphurous vapour streaked with pungent\nbitterness, seemed to make the distant hillside of Hanley quiver. The moon\nwas riding out now from among a drift of clouds, half-way up the sky above\nthe undulating wooded outlines of Newcastle. The steaming canal ran away\nfrom below them under an indistinct bridge, and vanished into the dim haze\nof the flat fields towards Burslem.\n\n\"That's the cone I've been telling you of,\" shouted Horrocks; \"and, below\nthat, sixty feet of fire and molten metal, with the air of the blast\nfrothing through it like gas in soda-water.\"\n\nRaut gripped the hand-rail tightly, and stared down at the cone. The heat\nwas intense. The boiling of the iron and the tumult of the blast made a\nthunderous accompaniment to Horrocks's voice. But the thing had to be gone\nthrough now. Perhaps, after all...\n\n\"In the middle,\" bawled Horrocks, \"temperature near a thousand degrees. If\n_you_ were dropped into it ... flash into flame like a pinch of\ngunpowder in a candle. Put your hand out and feel the heat of his breath.\nWhy, even up here I've seen the rain-water boiling off the trucks. And\nthat cone there. It's a damned sight too hot for roasting cakes. The top\nside of it's three hundred degrees.\"\n\n\"Three hundred degrees!\" said Raut.\n\n\"Three hundred centigrade, mind!\" said Horrocks. \"It will boil the blood\nout of you in no time.\"\n\n\"Eigh?\" said Raut, and turned.\n\n\"Boil the blood out of you in ... No, you don't!\"\n\n\"Let me go!\" screamed Raut. \"Let go my arm!\"\n\nWith one hand he clutched at the hand-rail, then with both. For a moment\nthe two men stood swaying. Then suddenly, with a violent jerk, Horrocks\nhad twisted him from his hold. He clutched at Horrocks and missed, his\nfoot went back into empty air; in mid-air he twisted himself, and then\ncheek and shoulder and knee struck the hot cone together.\n\nHe clutched the chain by which the cone hung, and the thing sank an\ninfinitesimal amount as he struck it. A circle of glowing red appeared\nabout him, and a tongue of flame, released from the chaos within,\nflickered up towards him. An intense pain assailed him at the knees, and\nhe could smell the singeing of his hands. He raised himself to his feet,\nand tried to climb up the chain, and then something struck his head. Black\nand shining with the moonlight, the throat of the furnace rose about\nhim.\n\nHorrocks, he saw, stood above him by one of the trucks of fuel on the\nrail. The gesticulating figure was bright and white in the moonlight, and\nshouting, \"Fizzle, you fool! Fizzle, you hunter of women! You hot-blooded\nhound! Boil! boil! boil!\"\n\nSuddenly he caught up a handful of coal out of the truck, and flung it\ndeliberately, lump after lump, at Raut.\n\n\"Horrocks!\" cried Raut. \"Horrocks!\"\n\nHe clung, crying, to the chain, pulling himself up from the burning of the\ncone. Each missile Horrocks flung hit him. His clothes charred and glowed,\nand as he struggled the cone dropped, and a rush of hot, suffocating gas\nwhooped out and burned round him in a swift breath of flame.\n\nHis human likeness departed from him. When the momentary red had passed,\nHorrocks saw a charred, blackened figure, its head streaked with blood,\nstill clutching and fumbling with the chain, and writhing in agony--a\ncindery animal, an inhuman, monstrous creature that began a sobbing,\nintermittent shriek.\n\nAbruptly at the sight the ironmaster's anger passed. A deadly sickness\ncame upon him. The heavy odour of burning flesh came drifting up to his\nnostrils. His sanity returned to him.\n\n\"God have mercy upon me!\" he cried. \"O God! what have I done?\"\n\nHe knew the thing below him, save that it still moved and felt, was\nalready a dead man--that the blood of the poor wretch must be boiling in\nhis veins. An intense realisation of that agony came to his mind, and\novercame every other feeling. For a moment he stood irresolute, and then,\nturning to the truck, he hastily tilted its contents upon the struggling\nthing that had once been a man. The mass fell with a thud, and went\nradiating over the cone. With the thud the shriek ended, and a boiling\nconfusion of smoke, dust, and flame came rushing up towards him. As it\npassed, he saw the cone clear again.\n\nThen he staggered back, and stood trembling, clinging to the rail with\nboth hands. His lips moved, but no words came to them.\n\nDown below was the sound of voices and running steps. The clangour of\nrolling in the shed ceased abruptly.\n\n\n\n\n III.\n\n THE STOLEN BACILLUS.\n\n\n\"This again,\" said the Bacteriologist, slipping a glass slide under the\nmicroscope, \"is well,--a preparation of the Bacillus of cholera--the\ncholera germ.\"\n\nThe pale-faced man peered down the microscope. He was evidently not\naccustomed to that kind of thing, and held a limp white hand over his\ndisengaged eye. \"I see very little,\" he said.\n\n\"Touch this screw,\" said the Bacteriologist; \"perhaps the microscope is\nout of focus for you. Eyes vary so much. Just the fraction of a turn this\nway or that.\"\n\n\"Ah! now I see,\" said the visitor. \"Not so very much to see after all.\nLittle streaks and shreds of pink. And yet those little particles, those\nmere atomies, might multiply and devastate a city! Wonderful!\"\n\nHe stood up, and releasing the glass slip from the microscope, held it in\nhis hand towards the window. \"Scarcely visible,\" he said, scrutinising the\npreparation. He hesitated. \"Are these--alive? Are they dangerous now?\"\n\n\"Those have been stained and killed,\" said the Bacteriologist. \"I wish,\nfor my own part, we could kill and stain every one of them in the\nuniverse.\"\n\n\"I suppose,\" the pale man said, with a slight smile, 'that you scarcely\ncare to have such things about you in the living--in the active state?\"\n\n\"On the contrary, we are obliged to,\" said the Bacteriologist.\n\"Here, for instance--\" He walked across the room and took up one of\nseveral sealed tubes. \"Here is the living thing. This is a cultivation of\nthe actual living disease bacteria.\" He hesitated. \"Bottled cholera, so to\nspeak.\"\n\nA slight gleam of satisfaction appeared momentarily in the face of the\npale man. \"It's a deadly thing to have in your possession,\" he said,\ndevouring the little tube with his eyes. The Bacteriologist watched the\nmorbid pleasure in his visitor's expression. This man, who had visited him\nthat afternoon with a note of introduction from an old friend, interested\nhim from the very contrast of their dispositions. The lank black hair and\ndeep grey eyes, the haggard expression and nervous manner, the fitful yet\nkeen interest of his visitor were a novel change from the phlegmatic\ndeliberations of the ordinary scientific worker with whom the\nBacteriologist chiefly associated. It was perhaps natural, with a hearer\nevidently so impressionable to the lethal nature of; his topic, to take\nthe most effective aspect of the matter.\n\nHe held the tube in his hand thoughtfully. \"Yes, here is the pestilence\nimprisoned. Only break such a little tube as this into a supply of\ndrinking-water, say to these minute particles of life that one must needs\nstain and examine with the highest powers of the microscope even to see,\nand that one can neither smell nor taste--say to them, 'Go forth, increase\nand multiply, and replenish the cisterns,' and death--mysterious,\nuntraceable death, death swift and terrible, death full of pain and\nindignity--would be released upon this city, and go hither and thither\nseeking his victims. Here he would take the husband from the wife, here\nthe child from its mother, here the statesman from his duty, and here the\ntoiler from his trouble. He would follow the water-mains, creeping along\nstreets, picking out and punishing a house here and a house there where\nthey did not boil their drinking-water, creeping into the wells of the\nmineral water makers, getting washed into salad, and lying dormant in\nices. He would wait ready to be drunk in the horse-troughs, and by unwary\nchildren in the public fountains. He would soak into the soil, to reappear\nin springs and wells at a thousand unexpected places. Once start him at\nthe water supply, and before we could ring him in, and catch him again,\nhe would have decimated the metropolis.\"\n\nHe stopped abruptly. He had been told rhetoric was his weakness.\n\n\"But he is quite safe here, you know--quite safe.\"\n\nThe pale-faced man nodded. His eyes shone. He cleared his throat. \"These\nAnarchist--rascals,\" said he, \"are fools, blind fools--to use bombs when\nthis kind of thing is attainable. I think----\"\n\nA gentle rap, a mere light touch of the finger-nails, was heard at the\ndoor. The Bacteriologist opened if. \"Just a minute, dear,\" whispered his\nwife.\n\nWhen he re-entered the laboratory his visitor was looking at his watch. \"I\nhad no idea I had wasted an hour of your time,\" he said. \"Twelve minutes\nto four. I ought to have left here by half-past three. But your things\nwere really too interesting. No, positively I cannot stop a moment longer.\nI have an engagement at four.\"\n\nHe passed out of the room reiterating his thanks, and the Bacteriologist\naccompanied him to the door, and then returned thoughtfully along the\npassage to his laboratory. He was musing on the ethnology of his visitor.\nCertainly the man was not a Teutonic type nor a common Latin one. \"A\nmorbid product, anyhow, I am afraid,\" said the Bacteriologist to himself.\n\"How he gloated over those cultivations of disease germs!\" A disturbing\nthought struck him. He turned to the bench by the vapour bath, and then\nvery quickly to his writing-table. Then he felt hastily in his pockets and\nthen rushed to the door. \"I may have put it down on the hall table,\" he\nsaid.\n\n\"Minnie!\" he shouted hoarsely in the hall.\n\n\"Yes, dear,\" came a remote voice.\n\n\"Had I anything in my hand when I spoke to you, dear, just now?\"\n\nPause.\n\n\"Nothing, dear, because I remember----\"\n\n\"Blue ruin!\" cried the Bacteriologist, and incontinently ran to the front\ndoor and down the steps of his house to the street.\n\nMinnie, hearing the door slam violently, ran in alarm to the window. Down\nthe street a slender man was getting into a cab. The Bacteriologist,\nhatless, and in his carpet slippers, was running and gesticulating wildly\ntowards this group. One slipper came off, but he did not wait for it. \"He\nhas gone _mad_!\" said Minnie; \"it's that horrid science of his\"; and,\nopening the window, would have called after him. The slender man, suddenly\nglancing round, seemed struck with the same idea of mental disorder. He\npointed hastily to the Bacteriologist, said something to the cabman, the\napron of the cab slammed, the whip swished, the horse's feet clattered,\nand in a moment cab and Bacteriologist hotly in pursuit, had receded up\nthe vista of the roadway and disappeared round the corner.\n\nMinnie remained straining out of the window for a minute. Then she drew\nher head back into the room again. She was dumbfounded. \"Of course he is\neccentric,\" she meditated. \"But running about London--in the height of the\nseason, too--in his socks!\" A happy thought struck her. She hastily put\nher bonnet on, seized his shoes, went into the hall, took down his hat and\nlight overcoat from the pegs, emerged upon the doorstep, and hailed a cab\nthat opportunely crawled by. \"Drive me up the road and round Havelock\nCrescent, and see if we can find a gentleman running about in a velveteen\ncoat and no hat.\"\n\n\"Velveteen coat, ma'am, and no 'at. Very good, ma'am.\" And the cabman\nwhipped up at once in the most matter-of-fact way, as if he drove to this\naddress every day in his life.\n\nSome few minutes later the little group of cabmen and loafers that\ncollects round the cabman's shelter at Haverstock Hill were startled by\nthe passing of a cab with a ginger-coloured screw of a horse, driven\nfuriously.\n\nThey were silent as it went by, and then as it receded--\"That's 'Arry\n'Icks. Wot's _he_ got?\" said the stout gentleman known as Old\nTootles.\n\n\"He's a-using his whip, he is, _to_ rights,\" said the ostler boy.\n\n\"Hullo!\" said poor old Tommy Byles; \"here's another bloomin' loonatic.\nBlowed if there ain't.\"\n\n\"It's old George,\" said Old Tootles, \"and he's drivin' a loonatic,\n_as_ you say. Ain't he a-clawin' out of the keb? Wonder if he's after\n'Arry 'Icks?\"\n\nThe group round the cabman's shelter became animated. Chorus: \"Go it,\nGeorge!\" \"It's a race.\" \"You'll ketch 'em!\" \"Whip up!\"\n\n\"She's a goer, she is!\" said the ostler boy.\n\n\"Strike me giddy!\" cried Old Tootles. \"Here! _I'm_ a-goin' to begin\nin a minute. Here's another comin'. If all the cabs in Hampstead ain't\ngone mad this morning!\"\n\n\"It's a fieldmale this time,\" said the ostler boy.\n\n\"She's a-followin' _him_,\" said Old Tootles. \"Usually the other way\nabout.\"\n\n\"What's she got in her 'and?\"\n\n\"Looks like a 'igh 'at.\"\n\n\"What a bloomin' lark it is! Three to one on old George,\" said the ostler\nboy. \"Nexst!\"\n\nMinnie went by in a perfect roar of applause. She did not like it, but she\nfelt that she was doing her duty, and whirled on down Haverstock Hill and\nCamden Town High Street with her eyes ever intent on the animated back\nview of old George, who was driving her vagrant husband so\nincomprehensibly away from her.\n\nThe man in the foremost cab sat crouched in the corner, his arms tightly\nfolded, and the little tube that contained such vast possibilities of\ndestruction gripped in his hand. His mood was a singular mixture of fear\nand exultation. Chiefly he was afraid of being caught before he could\naccomplish his purpose, but behind this was a vaguer but larger fear of\nthe awfulness of his crime. But his exultation far exceeded his fear. No\nAnarchist before him had ever approached this conception of his. Ravachol,\nVaillant, all those distinguished persons whose fame he had envied\ndwindled into insignificance beside him. He had only to make sure of the\nwater supply, and break the little tube into a reservoir. How brilliantly\nhe had planned it, forged the letter of introduction and got into the\nlaboratory, and how brilliantly he had seized his opportunity! The world\nshould hear of him at last. All those people who had sneered at him,\nneglected him, preferred other people to him, found his company\nundesirable, should consider him at last. Death, death, death! They had\nalways treated him as a man of no importance. All the world had been in a\nconspiracy to keep him under. He would teach them yet what it is to\nisolate a man. What was this familiar street? Great Saint Andrew's Street,\nof course! How fared the chase? He craned out of the cab. The\nBacteriologist was scarcely fifty yards behind. That was bad. He would be\ncaught and stopped yet. He felt in his pocket for money, and found half a\nsovereign. This he thrust up through the trap in the top of the cab into\nthe man's face. \"More,\" he shouted, \"if only we get away.\"\n\nThe money was snatched out of his hand. \"Right you are,\" said the cabman,\nand the trap slammed, and the lash lay along the glistening side of the\nhorse. The cab swayed, and the Anarchist, half-standing under the trap,\nput the hand containing the little glass tube upon the apron to preserve\nhis balance. He felt the brittle thing crack, and the broken half of it\nrang upon the floor of the cab. He fell back into the seat with a curse,\nand stared dismally at the two or three drops of moisture on the apron.\n\nHe shuddered.\n\n\"Well, I suppose I shall be the first. _Phew!_ Anyhow, I shall be a\nMartyr. That's something. But it is a filthy death, nevertheless. I wonder\nif it hurts as much as they say.\"\n\nPresently a thought occurred to him--he groped between his feet. A little\ndrop was still in the broken end of the tube, and he drank that to make\nsure. It was better to make sure. At any rate, he would not fail.\n\nThen it dawned upon him that there was no further need to escape the\nBacteriologist. In Wellington Street he told the cabman to stop, and got\nout. He slipped on the step, and his head felt queer. It was rapid stuff,\nthis cholera poison. He waved his cabman out of existence, so to speak,\nand stood on the pavement with his arms folded upon his breast awaiting\nthe arrival of the Bacteriologist. There was something tragic in his pose.\nThe sense of imminent death gave him a certain dignity. He greeted his\npursuer with a defiant laugh.\n\n\"Vive l'Anarchie! You are too late, my friend, I have drunk it. The\ncholera is abroad!\"\n\nThe Bacteriologist from his cab beamed curiously at him through his\nspectacles. \"You have drunk it! An Anarchist! I see now.\" He was about to\nsay something more, and then checked himself. A smile hung in the corner\nof his mouth. He opened the apron of his cab as if to descend, at which\nthe Anarchist waved him a dramatic farewell and strode off towards\nWaterloo Bridge, carefully jostling his infected body against as many\npeople as possible. The Bacteriologist was so preoccupied with the vision\nof him that he scarcely manifested the slightest surprise at the\nappearance of Minnie upon the pavement with his hat and shoes and\novercoat. \"Very good of you to bring my things,\" he said, and remained\nlost in contemplation of the receding figure of the Anarchist.\n\n\"You had better get in,\" he said, still staring. Minnie felt absolutely\nconvinced now that he was mad, and directed the cabman home on her own\nresponsibility. \"Put on my shoes? Certainly, dear,\" said he, as the cab\nbegan to turn, and hid the strutting black figure, now small in the\ndistance, from his eyes. Then suddenly something grotesque struck him, and\nhe laughed. Then he remarked, \"It is really very serious, though.\n\n\"You see, that man came to my house to see me, and he is an Anarchist.\nNo--don't faint, or I cannot possibly tell you the rest. And I wanted to\nastonish him, not knowing he was an Anarchist, and took up a cultivation\nof that new species of Bacterium I was telling you of that infest, and I\nthink cause, the blue patches upon various monkeys; and, like a fool, I\nsaid it was Asiatic cholera. And he ran away with it to poison the water\nof London, and he certainly might have made things look blue for this\ncivilised city. And now he has swallowed it. Of course, I cannot say what\nwill happen, but you know it turned that kitten blue, and the three\npuppies--in patches, and the sparrow--bright blue. But the bother is, I\nshall have all the trouble and expense of preparing some more.\n\n\"Put on my coat on this hot day! Why? Because we might meet Mrs. Jabber.\nMy dear, Mrs. Jabber is not a draught. But why should I wear a coat on a\nhot day because of Mrs.-----. Oh! _very_ well.\"\n\n\n\n\n IV.\n\n THE FLOWERING OF THE STRANGE ORCHID.\n\n\nThe buying of orchids always has in it a certain speculative flavour. You\nhave before you the brown shrivelled lump of tissue, and for the rest you\nmust trust your judgment, or the auctioneer, or your good luck, as your\ntaste may incline. The plant may be moribund or dead, or it may be just a\nrespectable purchase, fair value for your money, or perhaps--for the thing\nhas happened again and again--there slowly unfolds before the delighted\neyes of the happy purchaser, day after day, some new variety, some novel\nrichness, a strange twist of the labellum, or some subtler colouration or\nunexpected mimicry. Pride, beauty, and profit blossom together on one\ndelicate green spike, and, it may be, even immortality. For the new\nmiracle of nature may stand in need of a new specific name, and what so\nconvenient as that of its discoverer? \"John-smithia\"! There have been\nworse names.\n\nIt was perhaps the hope of some such happy discovery that made Winter\nWedderburn such a frequent attendant at these sales--that hope, and also,\nmaybe, the fact that he had nothing else of the slightest interest to do\nin the world. He was a shy, lonely, rather ineffectual man, provided with\njust enough income to keep off the spur of necessity, and not enough\nnervous energy to make him seek any exacting employments. He might have\ncollected stamps or coins, or translated Horace, or bound books, or\ninvented new species of diatoms. But, as it happened, he grew orchids, and\nhad one ambitious little hothouse.\n\n\"I have a fancy,\" he said over his coffee, \"that something is going to\nhappen to me to-day.\" He spoke--as he moved and thought--slowly.\n\n\"Oh, don't say _that_!\" said his housekeeper--who was also his remote\ncousin. For \"something happening\" was a euphemism that meant only one\nthing to her.\n\n\"You misunderstand me. I mean nothing unpleasant...though what I do mean I\nscarcely know.\n\n\"To-day,\" he continued, after a pause, \"Peters' are going to sell a batch\nof plants from the Andamans and the Indies. I shall go up and see what\nthey have. It may be I shall buy something good unawares. That may be it.\"\n\nHe passed his cup for his second cupful of coffee.\n\n\"Are these the things collected by that poor young fellow you told me of\nthe other day?\" asked his cousin, as she filled his cup.\n\n\"Yes,\" he said, and became meditative over a piece of toast.\n\n\"Nothing ever does happen to me,\" he remarked presently, beginning to\nthink aloud. \"I wonder why? Things enough happen to other people. There is\nHarvey. Only the other week; on Monday he picked up sixpence, on Wednesday\nhis chicks all had the staggers, on Friday his cousin came home from\nAustralia, and on Saturday he broke his ankle. What a whirl of\nexcitement!--compared to me.\"\n\n\"I think I would rather be without so much excitement,\" said his\nhousekeeper. \"It can't be good for you.\"\n\n\"I suppose it's troublesome. Still ... you see, nothing ever happens to\nme. When I was a little boy I never had accidents. I never fell in love as\nI grew up. Never married... I wonder how it feels to have something\nhappen to you, something really remarkable.\n\n\"That orchid-collector was only thirty-six--twenty years younger than\nmyself--when he died. And he had been married twice and divorced once; he\nhad had malarial fever four times, and once he broke his thigh. He killed\na Malay once, and once he was wounded by a poisoned dart. And in the end\nhe was killed by jungle-leeches. It must have all been very troublesome,\nbut then it must have been very interesting, you know--except, perhaps,\nthe leeches.\"\n\n\"I am sure it was not good for him,\" said the lady with conviction.\n\n\"Perhaps not.\" And then Wedderburn looked at his watch. \"Twenty-three\nminutes past eight. I am going up by the quarter to twelve train, so that\nthere is plenty of time. I think I shall wear my alpaca jacket--it is\nquite warm enough--and my grey felt hat and brown shoes. I suppose--\"\n\nHe glanced out of the window at the serene sky and sunlit garden, and then\nnervously at his cousin's face.\n\n\"I think you had better take an umbrella if you are going to London,\" she\nsaid in a voice that admitted of no denial. \"There's all between here and\nthe station coming back.\"\n\nWhen he returned he was in a state of mild excitement. He had made a\npurchase. It was rare that he could make up his mind quickly enough to\nbuy, but this time he had done so.\n\n\"There are Vandas,\" he said, \"and a Dendrobe and some Palaeonophis.\" He\nsurveyed his purchases lovingly as he consumed his soup. They were laid\nout on the spotless tablecloth before him, and he was telling his cousin\nall about them as he slowly meandered through his dinner. It was his\ncustom to live all his visits to London over again in the evening for her\nand his own entertainment.\n\n\"I knew something would happen to-day. And I have bought all these. Some\nof them--some of them--I feel sure, do you know, that some of them will be\nremarkable. I don't know how it is, but I feel just as sure as if some one\nhad told me that some of these will turn out remarkable.\n\n\"That one \"--he pointed to a shrivelled rhizome--\"was not identified. It\nmay be a Palaeonophis--or it may not. It may be a new species, or even a\nnew genus. And it was the last that poor Batten ever collected.\"\n\n\"I don't like the look of it,\" said his housekeeper. \"It's such an ugly\nshape.\"\n\n\"To me it scarcely seems to have a shape.\"\n\n\"I don't like those things that stick out,\" said his housekeeper.\n\n\"It shall be put away in a pot to-morrow.\"\n\n\"It looks,\" said the housekeeper, \"like a spider shamming dead.\"\n\nWedderburn smiled and surveyed the root with his head on one side. \"It is\ncertainly not a pretty lump of stuff. But you can never judge of these\nthings from their dry appearance. It may turn out to be a very beautiful\norchid indeed. How busy I shall be to-morrow! I must see to-night just\nexactly what to do with these things, and to-morrow I shall set to work.\"\n\n\"They found poor Batten lying dead, or dying, in a mangrove swamp--I\nforget which,\" he began again presently, \"with one of these very orchids\ncrushed up under his body. He had been unwell for some days with some kind\nof native fever, and I suppose he fainted. These mangrove swamps are very\nunwholesome. Every drop of blood, they say, was taken out of him by the\njungle-leeches. It may be that very plant that cost him his life to\nobtain.\"\n\n\"I think none the better of it for that.\"\n\n\"Men must work though women may weep,\" said Wedderburn with profound\ngravity.\n\n\"Fancy dying away from every comfort in a nasty swamp! Fancy being ill of\nfever with nothing to take but chlorodyne and quinine--if men were left to\nthemselves they would live on chlorodyne and quinine--and no one round you\nbut horrible natives! They say the Andaman islanders are most disgusting\nwretches--and, anyhow, they can scarcely make good nurses, not having the\nnecessary training. And just for people in England to have orchids!\"\n\n\"I don't suppose it was comfortable, but some men seem to enjoy that kind\nof thing,\" said Wedderburn. \"Anyhow, the natives of his party were\nsufficiently civilised to take care of all his collection until his\ncolleague, who was an ornithologist, came back again from the interior;\nthough they could not tell the species of the orchid, and had let it\nwither. And it makes these things more interesting.\"\n\n\"It makes them disgusting. I should be afraid of some of the malaria\nclinging to them. And just think, there has been a dead body lying across\nthat ugly thing! I never thought of that before. There! I declare I cannot\neat another mouthful of dinner.\"\n\n\"I will take them off the table if you like, and put them in the\nwindow-seat. I can see them just as well there.\"\n\nThe next few days he was indeed singularly busy in his steamy little\nhothouse, fussing about with charcoal, lumps of teak, moss, and all the\nother mysteries of the orchid cultivator. He considered he was having a\nwonderfully eventful time. In the evening he would talk about these new\norchids to his friends, and over and over again he reverted to his\nexpectation of something strange.\n\nSeveral of the Vandas and the Dendrobium died under his care, but\npresently the strange orchid began to show signs of life. He was\ndelighted, and took his housekeeper right away from jam-making to see it\nat once, directly he made the discovery.\n\n\"That is a bud,\" he said, \"and presently there will be a lot of leaves\nthere, and those little things coming out here are aerial rootlets.\"\n\n\"They look to me like little white fingers poking out of the brown,\" said\nhis housekeeper. \"I don't like them.\"\n\n\"Why not?\"\n\n\"I don't know. They look like fingers trying to get at you. I can't help\nmy likes and dislikes.\"\n\n\"I don't know for certain, but I don't _think_ there are any orchids\nI know that have aerial rootlets quite like that. It may be my fancy, of\ncourse. You see they are a little flattened at the ends.\"\n\n\"I don't like 'em,\" said his housekeeper, suddenly shivering and turning\naway. \"I know it's very silly of me--and I'm very sorry, particularly as\nyou like the thing so much. But I can't help thinking of that corpse.\"\n\n\"But it may not be that particular plant. That was merely a guess of\nmine.\"\n\nHis housekeeper shrugged her shoulders. \"Anyhow I don't like it,\" she\nsaid.\n\nWedderburn felt a little hurt at her dislike to the plant. But that did\nnot prevent his talking to her about orchids generally, and this orchid in\nparticular, whenever he felt inclined.\n\n\"There are such queer things about orchids,\" he said one day; \"such\npossibilities of surprises. You know, Darwin studied their fertilisation,\nand showed that the whole structure of an ordinary orchid flower was\ncontrived in order that moths might carry the pollen from plant to plant.\nWell, it seems that there are lots of orchids known the flower of which\ncannot possibly be used for fertilisation in that way. Some of the\nCypripediums, for instance; there are no insects known that can possibly\nfertilise them, and some of them have never been found with seed.\"\n\n\"But how do they form new plants?\"\n\n\"By runners and tubers, and that kind of outgrowth. That is easily\nexplained. The puzzle is, what are the flowers for?\n\n\"Very likely,\" he added, \"_my_ orchid may be something extraordinary\nin that way. If so I shall study it. I have often thought of making\nresearches as Darwin did. But hitherto I have not found the time, or\nsomething else has happened to prevent it. The leaves are beginning to\nunfold now. I do wish you would come and see them!\"\n\nBut she said that the orchid-house was so hot it gave her the headache.\nShe had seen the plant once again, and the aerial rootlets, which were now\nsome of them more than a foot long, had unfortunately reminded her of\ntentacles reaching out after something; and they got into her dreams,\ngrowing after her with incredible rapidity. So that she had settled to her\nentire satisfaction that she would not see that plant again, and\nWedderburn had to admire its leaves alone. They were of the ordinary broad\nform, and a deep glossy green, with splashes and dots of deep red towards\nthe base He knew of no other leaves quite like them. The plant was placed\non a low bench near the thermometer, and close by was a simple arrangement\nby which a tap dripped on the hot-water pipes and kept the air steamy. And\nhe spent his afternoons now with some regularity meditating on the\napproaching flowering of this strange plant.\n\nAnd at last the great thing happened. Directly he entered the little glass\nhouse he knew that the spike had burst out, although his great\n_Paloeonophis Lowii_ hid the corner where his new darling stood.\nThere was a new odour in the air, a rich, intensely sweet scent, that\noverpowered every other in that crowded, steaming little greenhouse.\n\nDirectly he noticed this he hurried down to the strange orchid. And,\nbehold! the trailing green spikes bore now three great splashes of\nblossom, from which this overpowering sweetness proceeded. He stopped\nbefore them in an ecstasy of admiration.\n\nThe flowers were white, with streaks of golden orange upon the petals; the\nheavy labellum was coiled into an intricate projection, and a wonderful\nbluish purple mingled there with the gold. He could see at once that the\ngenus was altogether a new one. And the insufferable scent! How hot the\nplace was! The blossoms swam before his eyes.\n\nHe would see if the temperature was right. He made a step towards the\nthermometer. Suddenly everything appeared unsteady. The bricks on the\nfloor were dancing up and down. Then the white blossoms, the green leaves\nbehind them, the whole greenhouse, seemed to sweep sideways, and then in a\ncurve upward.\n\n * * * * *\n\nAt half-past four his cousin made the tea, according to their invariable\ncustom. But Wedderburn did not come in for his tea.\n\n\"He is worshipping that horrid orchid,\" she told herself, and waited ten\nminutes. \"His watch must have stopped. I will go and call him.\"\n\nShe went straight to the hothouse, and, opening the door, called his name.\nThere was no reply. She noticed that the air was very close, and loaded\nwith an intense perfume. Then she saw something lying on the bricks\nbetween the hot-water pipes.\n\nFor a minute, perhaps, she stood motionless.\n\nHe was lying, face upward, at the foot of the strange orchid. The\ntentacle-like aerial rootlets no longer swayed freely in the air, but were\ncrowded together, a tangle of grey ropes, and stretched tight, with their\nends closely applied to his chin and neck and hands.\n\nShe did not understand. Then she saw from under one of the exultant\ntentacles upon his cheek there trickled a little thread of blood.\n\nWith an inarticulate cry she ran towards him, and tried to pull him away\nfrom the leech-like suckers. She snapped two of these tentacles, and their\nsap dripped red.\n\nThen the overpowering scent of the blossom began to make her head reel.\nHow they clung to him! She tore at the tough ropes, and he and the white\ninflorescence swam about her. She felt she was fainting, knew she must\nnot. She left him and hastily opened the nearest door, and, after she had\npanted for a moment in the fresh air, she had a brilliant inspiration. She\ncaught up a flower-pot and smashed in the windows at the end of the\ngreenhouse. Then she re-entered. She tugged now with renewed strength at\nWedderburn's motionless body, and brought the strange orchid crashing to\nthe floor. It still clung with the grimmest tenacity to its victim. In a\nfrenzy, she lugged it and him into the open air.\n\nThen she thought of tearing through the sucker rootlets one by one, and in\nanother minute she had released him and was dragging him away from the\nhorror.\n\nHe was white and bleeding from a dozen circular patches.\n\nThe odd-job man was coming up the garden, amazed at the smashing of glass,\nand saw her emerge, hauling the inanimate body with red-stained hands. For\na moment he thought impossible things.\n\n\"Bring some water!\" she cried, and her voice dispelled his fancies. When,\nwith unnatural alacrity, he returned with the water, he found her weeping\nwith excitement, and with Wedderburn's head upon her knee, wiping the\nblood from his face.\n\n\"What's the matter?\" said Wedderburn, opening his eyes feebly, and closing\nthem again at once.\n\n\"Go and tell Annie to come out here to me, and then go for Dr. Haddon at\nonce,\" she said to the odd-job man so soon as he brought the water; and\nadded, seeing he hesitated, \"I will tell you all about it when you come\nback.\"\n\nPresently Wedderburn opened his eyes again, and, seeing that he was\ntroubled by the puzzle of his position, she explained to him, \"You fainted\nin the hothouse.\"\n\n\"And the orchid?\"\n\n\"I will see to that,\" she said.\n\nWedderburn had lost a good deal of blood, but beyond that he had suffered\nno very great injury. They gave him brandy mixed with some pink extract of\nmeat, and carried him upstairs to bed. His housekeeper told her incredible\nstory in fragments to Dr. Haddon. \"Come to the orchid-house and see,\" she\nsaid.\n\nThe cold outer air was blowing in through the open door, and the sickly\nperfume was almost dispelled. Most of the torn aerial rootlets lay already\nwithered amidst a number of dark stains upon the bricks. The stem of the\ninflorescence was broken by the fall of the plant, and the flowers were\ngrowing limp and brown at the edges of the petals. The doctor stooped\ntowards it, then saw that one of the aerial rootlets still stirred feebly,\nand hesitated.\n\nThe next morning the strange orchid still lay there, black now and\nputrescent. The door banged intermittently in the morning breeze, and all\nthe array of Wedderburn's orchids was shrivelled and prostrate. But\nWedderburn himself was bright and garrulous upstairs in the glory of his\nstrange adventure.\n\n\n\n\n V.\n\n IN THE AVU OBSERVATORY.\n\n\nThe observatory at Avu, in Borneo, stands on the spur of the mountain. To\nthe north rises the old crater, black at night against the unfathomable\nblue of the sky. From the little circular building, with its mushroom\ndome, the slopes plunge steeply downward into the black mysteries of the\ntropical forest beneath. The little house in which the observer and his\nassistant live is about fifty yards from the observatory, and beyond this\nare the huts of their native attendants.\n\nThaddy, the chief observer, was down with a slight fever. His assistant,\nWoodhouse, paused for a moment in silent contemplation of the tropical\nnight before commencing his solitary vigil. The night was very still. Now\nand then voices and laughter came from the native huts, or the cry of some\nstrange animal was heard from the midst of the mystery of the forest.\nNocturnal insects appeared in ghostly fashion out of the darkness, and\nfluttered round his light. He thought, perhaps, of all the possibilities\nof discovery that still lay in the black tangle beneath him; for to the\nnaturalist the virgin forests of Borneo are still a wonderland full of\nstrange questions and half-suspected discoveries. Woodhouse carried a\nsmall lantern in his hand, and its yellow glow contrasted vividly with the\ninfinite series of tints between lavender-blue and black in which the\nlandscape was painted. His hands and face were smeared with ointment\nagainst the attacks of the mosquitoes.\n\nEven in these days of celestial photography, work done in a purely\ntemporary erection, and with only the most primitive appliances in\naddition to the telescope, still involves a very large amount of cramped\nand motionless watching. He sighed as he thought of the physical fatigues\nbefore him, stretched himself, and entered the observatory.\n\nThe reader is probably familiar with the structure of an ordinary\nastronomical observatory. The building is usually cylindrical in shape,\nwith a very light hemispherical roof capable of being turned round from\nthe interior. The telescope is supported upon a stone pillar in the\ncentre, and a clockwork arrangement compensates for the earth's rotation,\nand allows a star once found to be continuously observed. Besides this,\nthere is a compact tracery of wheels and screws about its point of\nsupport, by which the astronomer adjusts it. There is, of course, a slit\nin the movable roof which follows the eye of the telescope in its survey\nof the heavens. The observer sits or lies on a sloping wooden arrangement,\nwhich he can wheel to any part of the observatory as the position of the\ntelescope may require. Within it is advisable to have things as dark as\npossible, in order to enhance the brilliance of the stars observed.\n\nThe lantern flared as Woodhouse entered his circular den, and the general\ndarkness fled into black shadows behind the big machine, from which it\npresently seemed to creep back over the whole place again as the light\nwaned. The slit was a profound transparent blue, in which six stars shone\nwith tropical brilliance, and their light lay, a pallid gleam, along the\nblack tube of the instrument. Woodhouse shifted the roof, and then\nproceeding to the telescope, turned first one wheel and then another, the\ngreat cylinder slowly swinging into a new position. Then he glanced\nthrough the finder, the little companion telescope, moved the roof a\nlittle more, made some further adjustments, and set the clockwork in\nmotion. He took off his jacket, for the night was very hot, and pushed\ninto position the uncomfortable seat to which he was condemned for the\nnext four hours. Then with a sigh he resigned himself to his watch upon\nthe mysteries of space.\n\nThere was no sound now in the observatory, and the lantern waned steadily.\nOutside there was the occasional cry of some animal in alarm or pain, or\ncalling to its mate, and the intermittent sounds of the Malay and Dyak\nservants. Presently one of the men began a queer chanting song, in which\nthe others joined at intervals. After this it would seem that they turned\nin for the night, for no further sound came from their direction, and the\nwhispering stillness became more and more profound.\n\nThe clockwork ticked steadily. The shrill hum of a mosquito explored the\nplace and grew shriller in indignation at Woodhouse's ointment. Then the\nlantern went out and all the observatory was black.\n\nWoodhouse shifted his position presently, when the slow movement of the\ntelescope had carried it beyond the limits of his comfort.\n\nHe was watching a little group of stars in the Milky Way, in one of which\nhis chief had seen or fancied a remarkable colour variability. It was not\na part of the regular work for which the establishment existed, and for\nthat reason perhaps Woodhouse was deeply interested. He must have\nforgotten things terrestrial. All his attention was concentrated upon the\ngreat blue circle of the telescope field--a circle powdered, so it seemed,\nwith an innumerable multitude of stars, and all luminous against the\nblackness of its setting. As he watched he seemed to himself to become\nincorporeal, as if he too were floating in the ether of space. Infinitely\nremote was the faint red spot he was observing.\n\nSuddenly the stars were blotted out. A flash of blackness passed, and they\nwere visible again.\n\n\"Queer,\" said Woodhouse. \"Must have been a bird.\"\n\nThe thing happened again, and immediately after the great tube shivered as\nthough it had been struck. Then the dome of the observatory resounded with\na series of thundering blows. The stars seemed to sweep aside as the\ntelescope--which had been unclamped--swung round and away from the slit in\nthe roof.\n\n\"Great Scott!\" cried Woodhouse. \"What's this?\"\n\nSome huge vague black shape, with a flapping something like a wing, seemed\nto be struggling in the aperture of the roof. In another moment the slit\nwas clear again, and the luminous haze of the Milky Way shone warm and\nbright.\n\nThe interior of the roof was perfectly black, and only a scraping sound\nmarked the whereabouts of the unknown creature.\n\nWoodhouse had scrambled from the seat to his feet. He was trembling\nviolently and in a perspiration with the suddenness of the occurrence. Was\nthe thing, whatever it was, inside or out? It was big, whatever else it\nmight be. Something shot across the skylight, and the telescope swayed. He\nstarted violently and put his arm up. It was in the observatory, then,\nwith him. It was clinging to the roof apparently. What the devil was it?\nCould it see him?\n\nHe stood for perhaps a minute in a state of stupefaction. The beast,\nwhatever it was, clawed at the interior of the dome, and then something\nflapped almost into his face, and he saw the momentary gleam of starlight\non a skin like oiled leather. His water-bottle was knocked off his little\ntable with a smash.\n\nThe sense of some strange bird-creature hovering a few yards from his face\nin the darkness was indescribably unpleasant to Woodhouse. As his thought\nreturned he concluded that it must be some night-bird or large bat. At any\nrisk he would see what it was, and pulling a match from his pocket, he\ntried to strike it on the telescope seat. There was a smoking streak of\nphosphorescent light, the match flared for a moment, and he saw a vast\nwing sweeping towards him, a gleam of grey-brown fur, and then he was\nstruck in the face and the match knocked out of his hand. The blow was\naimed at his temple, and a claw tore sideways down to his cheek. He reeled\nand fell, and he heard the extinguished lantern smash. Another blow\nfollowed as he fell. He was partly stunned, he felt his own warm blood\nstream out upon his face. Instinctively he felt his eyes had been struck\nat, and, turning over on his face to save them, tried to crawl under the\nprotection of the telescope.\n\nHe was struck again upon the back, and he heard his jacket rip, and then\nthe thing hit the roof of the observatory. He edged as far as he could\nbetween the wooden seat and the eyepiece of the instrument, and turned his\nbody round so that it was chiefly his feet that were exposed. With these\nhe could at least kick. He was still in a mystified state. The strange\nbeast banged about in the darkness, and presently clung to the telescope,\nmaking it sway and the gear rattle. Once it flapped near him, and he\nkicked out madly and felt a soft body with his feet. He was horribly\nscared now. It must be a big thing to swing the telescope like that. He\nsaw for a moment the outline of a head black against the starlight, with\nsharply-pointed upstanding ears and a crest between them. It seemed to him\nto be as big as a mastiff's. Then he began to bawl out as loudly as he\ncould for help.\n\nAt that the thing came down upon him again. As it did so his hand touched\nsomething beside him on the floor. He kicked out, and the next moment his\nankle was gripped and held by a row of keen teeth. He yelled again, and\ntried to free his leg by kicking with the other. Then he realised he had\nthe broken water-bottle at his hand, and, snatching it, he struggled into\na sitting posture, and feeling in the darkness towards his foot, gripped a\nvelvety ear, like the ear of a big cat. He had seized the water-bottle by\nits neck and brought it down with a shivering crash upon the head of the\nstrange beast. He repeated the blow, and then stabbed and jabbed with the\njagged end of it, in the darkness, where he judged the face might be.\n\nThe small teeth relaxed their hold, and at once Woodhouse pulled his leg\nfree and kicked hard. He felt the sickening feel of fur and bone giving\nunder his boot. There was a tearing bite at his arm, and he struck over it\nat the face, as he judged, and hit damp fur.\n\nThere was a pause; then he heard the sound of claws; and the dragging of a\nheavy body away from him over the observatory floor. Then there was\nsilence, broken only by his own sobbing breathing, and a sound like\nlicking. Everything was black except the parallelogram of the blue\nskylight with the luminous dust of stars, against which the end of the\ntelescope now appeared in silhouette. He waited, as it seemed, an\ninterminable time.\n\nWas the thing coming on again? He felt in his trouser-pocket for some\nmatches, and found one remaining. He tried to strike this, but the floor\nwas wet, and it spat and went out. He cursed. He could not see where the\ndoor was situated. In his struggle he had quite lost his bearings. The\nstrange beast, disturbed by the splutter of the match, began to move\nagain. \"Time!\" called Woodhouse, with a sudden gleam of mirth, but the\nthing was not coming at him again. He must have hurt it, he thought, with\nthe broken bottle. He felt a dull pain in his ankle. Probably he was\nbleeding there. He wondered if it would support him if he tried to stand\nup. The night outside was very still. There was no sound of any one\nmoving. The sleepy fools had not heard those wings battering upon the\ndome, nor his shouts. It was no good wasting strength in shouting. The\nmonster flapped its wings and startled him into a defensive attitude. He\nhit his elbow against the seat, and it fell over with a crash. He cursed\nthis, and then he cursed the darkness.\n\nSuddenly the oblong patch of starlight seemed to sway to and fro. Was he\ngoing to faint? It would never do to faint. He clenched his fists and set\nhis teeth to hold himself together. Where had the door got to? It occurred\nto him he could get his bearings by the stars visible through the\nskylight. The patch of stars he saw was in Sagittarius and south-eastward;\nthe door was north--or was it north by west? He tried to think. If he\ncould get the door open he might retreat. It might be the thing was\nwounded. The suspense was beastly. \"Look here!\" he said, \"if you don't\ncome on, I shall come at you.\"\n\nThen the thing began clambering up the side of the observatory, and he saw\nits black outline gradually blot out the skylight. Was it in retreat? He\nforgot about the door, and watched as the dome shifted and creaked.\nSomehow he did not feel very frightened or excited now. He felt a curious\nsinking sensation inside him. The sharply-defined patch of light, with the\nblack form moving across it, seemed to be growing smaller and smaller.\nThat was curious. He began to feel very thirsty, and yet he did not feel\ninclined to get anything to drink. He seemed to be sliding down a long\nfunnel.\n\nHe felt a burning sensation in his throat, and then he perceived it was\nbroad daylight, and that one of the Dyak servants was looking at him with\na curious expression. Then there was the top of Thaddy's face upside down.\nFunny fellow, Thaddy, to go about like that! Then he grasped the situation\nbetter, and perceived that his head was on Thaddy's knee, and Thaddy was\ngiving him brandy. And then he saw the eyepiece of the telescope with a\nlot of red smears on it. He began to remember.\n\n\"You've made this observatory in a pretty mess,\" said Thaddy.\n\nThe Dyak boy was beating up an egg in brandy. Woodhouse took this and sat\nup. He felt a sharp twinge of pain. His ankle was tied up, so were his\narm and the side of his face. The smashed glass, red-stained, lay about\nthe floor, the telescope seat was overturned, and by the opposite wall was\na dark pool. The door was open, and he saw the grey summit of the mountain\nagainst a brilliant background of blue sky.\n\n\"Pah!\" said Woodhouse. \"Who's been killing calves here? Take me out of\nit.\"\n\nThen he remembered the Thing, and the fight he had had with it.\n\n\"What _was_ it?\" he said to Thaddy--\"the Thing I fought with?\".\n\n\"_You_ know that best,\" said Thaddy. \"But, anyhow, don't worry\nyourself now about it. Have some more to drink.\"\n\nThaddy, however, was curious enough, and it was a hard struggle between\nduty and inclination to keep Woodhouse quiet until he was decently put\naway in bed, and had slept upon the copious dose of meat extract Thaddy\nconsidered advisable. They then talked it over together.\n\n\"It was,\" said Woodhouse, \"more like a big bat than anything else in the\nworld. It had sharp, short ears, and soft fur, and its wings were\nleathery. Its teeth were little but devilish sharp, and its jaw could not\nhave been very strong or else it would have bitten through my ankle.\"\n\n\"It has pretty nearly,\" said Thaddy.\n\n\"It seemed to me to hit out with its claws pretty freely. That is about as\nmuch as I know about the beast. Our conversation was intimate, so to\nspeak, and yet not confidential.\"\n\n\"The Dyak chaps talk about a Big Colugo, a Klang-utang--whatever that may\nbe. It does not often attack man, but I suppose you made it nervous. They\nsay there is a Big Colugo and a Little Colugo, and a something else that\nsounds like gobble. They all fly about at night. For my own part, I know\nthere are flying foxes and flying lemurs about here, but they are none of\nthem very big beasts.\"\n\n\"There are more things in heaven and earth,\" said Woodhouse--and Thaddy\ngroaned at the quotation--\"and more particularly in the forests of Borneo,\nthan are dreamt of in our philosophies. On the whole, if the Borneo fauna\nis going to disgorge any more of its novelties upon me, I should prefer\nthat it did so when I was not occupied in the observatory at night and\nalone.\"\n\n\n\n\n VI.\n\n AEPYORNIS ISLAND.\n\n\nThe man with the scarred face leant over the table and looked at my\nbundle.\n\n\"Orchids?\" he asked.\n\n\"A few,\" I said.\n\n\"Cypripediums,\" he said.\n\n\"Chiefly,\" said I.\n\n\"Anything new? I thought not. _I_ did these islands twenty-five--\ntwenty-seven years ago. If you find anything new here--well, it's brand\nnew. I didn't leave much.\"\n\n\"I'm not a collector,\" said I.\n\n\"I was young then,\" he went on. \"Lord! how I used to fly round.\" He seemed\nto take my measure. \"I was in the East Indies two years, and in Brazil\nseven. Then I went to Madagascar.\"\n\n\"I know a few explorers by name,\" I said, anticipating a yarn. \"Whom did\nyou collect for?\"\n\n\"Dawson's. I wonder if you've heard the name of Butcher ever?\"\n\n\"Butcher--Butcher?\" The name seemed vaguely present in my memory;\nthen I recalled _Butcher_ v. _Dawson_. \"Why!\" said I, \"you are the\nman who sued them for four years' salary--got cast away on a desert\nisland...\"\n\n\"Your servant,\" said the man with the scar, bowing. \"Funny case, wasn't\nit? Here was me, making a little fortune on that island, doing nothing\nfor it neither, and them quite unable to give me notice. It often used\nto amuse me thinking over it while I was there. I did calculations of\nit--big--all over the blessed atoll in ornamental figuring.\"\n\n\"How did it happen?\" said I. \"I don't rightly remember the case.\"\n\n\"Well... You've heard of the AEpyornis?\"\n\n\"Rather. Andrews was telling me of a new species he was working on only a\nmonth or so ago. Just before I sailed. They've got a thigh bone, it seems,\nnearly a yard long. Monster the thing must have been!\"\n\n\"I believe you,\" said the man with the scar. \"It _was_ a monster.\nSindbad's roc was just a legend of 'em. But when did they find these\nbones?\"\n\n\"Three or four years ago--'91, I fancy. Why?\"\n\n\"Why? Because _I_ found them--Lord!--it's nearly twenty years ago. If\nDawson's hadn't been silly about that salary they might have made a\nperfect ring in 'em... _I_ couldn't help the infernal boat going\nadrift.\"\n\nHe paused. \"I suppose it's the same place. A kind of swamp about ninety\nmiles north of Antananarivo. Do you happen to know? You have to go to it\nalong the coast by boats. You don't happen to remember, perhaps?\"\n\n\"I don't. I fancy Andrews said something about a swamp.\"\n\n\"It must be the same. It's on the east coast. And somehow there's\nsomething in the water that keeps things from decaying. Like creosote it\nsmells. It reminded me of Trinidad. Did they get any more eggs? Some of\nthe eggs I found were a foot-and-a-half long. The swamp goes circling\nround, you know, and cuts off this bit. It's mostly salt, too. Well...\nWhat a time I had of it! I found the things quite by accident. We went for\neggs, me and two native chaps, in one of those rum canoes all tied\ntogether, and found the bones at the same time. We had a tent and\nprovisions for four days, and we pitched on one of the firmer places. To\nthink of it brings that odd tarry smell back even now. It's funny work.\nYou go probing into the mud with iron rods, you know. Usually the egg gets\nsmashed. I wonder how long it is since these AEpyornises really lived. The\nmissionaries say the natives have legends about when they were alive, but\nI never heard any such stories myself.[*] But certainly those eggs we got\nwere as fresh as if they had been new laid. Fresh! Carrying them down to\nthe boat one of my nigger chaps dropped one on a rock and it smashed. How\nI lammed into the beggar! But sweet it was, as if it was new laid, not\neven smelly, and its mother dead these four hundred years, perhaps. Said a\ncentipede had bit him. However, I'm getting off the straight with the\nstory. It had taken us all day to dig into the slush and get these eggs\nout unbroken, and we were all covered with beastly black mud, and\nnaturally I was cross. So far as I knew they were the only eggs that have\never been got out not even cracked. I went afterwards to see the ones they\nhave at the Natural History Museum in London; all of them were cracked and\njust stuck together like a mosaic, and bits missing. Mine were perfect,\nand I meant to blow them when I got back. Naturally I was annoyed at the\nsilly duffer dropping three hours' work just on account of a centipede. I\nhit him about rather.\"\n\n[Footnote *: No European is known to have seen a live AEpyornis, with the\ndoubtful exception of MacAndrew, who visited Madagascar in 1745.--H.G.W.]\n\nThe man with the scar took out a clay pipe. I placed my pouch before him.\nHe filled up absent-mindedly.\n\n\"How about the others? Did you get those home? I don't remember--\"\n\n\"That's the queer part of the story. I had three others. Perfectly fresh\neggs. Well, we put 'em in the boat, and then I went up to the tent to make\nsome coffee, leaving my two heathens down by the beach--the one fooling\nabout with his sting and the other helping him. It never occurred to me\nthat the beggars would take advantage of the peculiar position I was in to\npick a quarrel. But I suppose the centipede poison and the kicking I had\ngiven him had upset the one--he was always a cantankerous sort--and he\npersuaded the other.\n\n\"I remember I was sitting and smoking and boiling up the water over a\nspirit-lamp business I used to take on these expeditions. Incidentally I\nwas admiring the swamp under the sunset. All black and blood-red it was,\nin streaks--a beautiful sight. And up beyond the land rose grey and hazy\nto the hills, and the sky behind them red, like a furnace mouth. And fifty\nyards behind the back of me was these blessed heathen--quite regardless of\nthe tranquil air of things--plotting to cut off with the boat and leave me\nall alone with three days' provisions and a canvas tent, and nothing to\ndrink whatsoever beyond a little keg of water. I heard a kind of yelp\nbehind me, and there they were in this canoe affair--it wasn't properly a\nboat--and, perhaps, twenty yards from land. I realised what was up in a\nmoment. My gun was in the tent, and, besides, I had no bullets--only duck\nshot. They knew that. But I had a little revolver in my pocket, and I\npulled that out as I ran down to the beach.\n\n\"'Come back!' says I, flourishing it.\n\n\"They jabbered something at me, and the man that broke the egg jeered. I\naimed at the other--because he was unwounded and had the paddle, and I\nmissed. They laughed. However, I wasn't beat. I knew I had to keep cool,\nand I tried him again and made him jump with the whang of it. He didn't\nlaugh that time. The third time I got his head, and over he went, and the\npaddle with him. It was a precious lucky shot for a revolver. I reckon it\nwas fifty yards. He went right under. I don't know if he was shot, or\nsimply stunned and drowned. Then I began to shout to the other chap to\ncome back, but he huddled up in the canoe and refused to answer. So I\nfired out my revolver at him and never got near him.\n\n\"I felt a precious fool, I can tell you. There I was on this rotten, black\nbeach, flat swamp all behind me, and the flat sea, cold after the sun set,\nand just this black canoe drifting steadily out to sea. I tell you I\ndamned Dawson's and Jamrach's and Museums and all the rest of it just to\nrights. I bawled to this nigger to come back, until my voice went up into\na scream.\n\n\"There was nothing for it but to swim after him and take my luck with the\nsharks. So I opened my clasp-knife and put it in my mouth, and took off\nmy clothes and waded in. As soon as I was in the water I lost sight of\nthe canoe, but I aimed, as I judged, to head it off. I hoped the man in it\nwas too bad to navigate it, and that it would keep on drifting in the\nsame direction. Presently it came up over the horizon again to the\nsouth-westward about. The afterglow of sunset was well over now and the\ndim of night creeping up. The stars were coming through the blue. I swum\nlike a champion, though my legs and arms were soon aching.\n\n\"However, I came up to him by the time the stars were fairly out. As it\ngot darker I began to see all manner of glowing things in the water--\nphosphorescence, you know. At times it made me giddy. I hardly knew which\nwas stars and which was phosphorescence, and whether I was swimming on my\nhead or my heels. The canoe was as black as sin, and the ripple under the\nbows like liquid fire. I was naturally chary of clambering up into it. I\nwas anxious to see what he was up to first. He seemed to be lying cuddled\nup in a lump in the bows, and the stern was all out of water. The thing\nkept turning round slowly as it drifted---kind of waltzing, don't you\nknow. I went to the stern and pulled it down, expecting him to wake up.\nThen I began to clamber in with my knife in my hand, and ready for a rush.\nBut he never stirred. So there I sat in the stern of the little canoe,\ndrifting away over the calm phosphorescent sea, and with all the host of\nthe stars above me, waiting for something to happen.\n\n\"After a long time I called him by name, but he never answered. I was too\ntired to take any risks by going along to him. So we sat there. I fancy I\ndozed once or twice. When the dawn came I saw he was as dead as a doornail\nand all puffed up and purple. My three eggs and the bones were lying in\nthe middle of the canoe, and the keg of water and some coffee and biscuits\nwrapped in a Cape _Argus_ by his feet, and a tin of methylated spirit\nunderneath him. There was no paddle, nor, in fact, anything except the\nspirit-tin that I could use as one, so I settled to drift until I was\npicked up. I held an inquest on him, brought in a verdict against some\nsnake, scorpion, or centipede unknown, and sent him overboard.\n\n\"After that I had a drink of water and a few biscuits, and took a look\nround. I suppose a man low down as I was don't see very far; leastways,\nMadagascar was clean out of sight, and any trace of land at all. I saw a\nsail going south-westward--looked like a schooner but her hull never came\nup. Presently the sun got high in the sky and began to beat down upon me.\nLord! it pretty near made my brains boil. I tried dipping my head in the\nsea, but after a while my eye fell on the Cape _Argus_, and I lay\ndown flat in the canoe and spread this over me. Wonderful things these\nnewspapers! I never read one through thoroughly before, but it's odd what\nyou get up to when you're alone, as I was. I suppose I read that blessed\nold Cape _Argus_ twenty times. The pitch in the canoe simply reeked\nwith the heat and rose up into big blisters.\n\n\"I drifted ten days,\" said the man with the scar. \"It's a little thing in\nthe telling, isn't it? Every day was like the last. Except in the morning\nand the evening I never kept a look-out even--the blaze was so infernal. I\ndidn't see a sail after the first three days, and those I saw took no\nnotice of me. About the sixth night a ship went by scarcely half a mile\naway from me, with all its lights ablaze and its ports open, looking like\na big firefly. There was music aboard. I stood up and shouted and screamed\nat it. The second day I broached one of the AEpyornis eggs, scraped the\nshell away at the end bit by bit, and tried it, and I was glad to find it\nwas good enough to eat. A bit flavoury--not bad, I mean--but with\nsomething of the taste of a duck's egg. There was a kind of circular\npatch, about six inches across, on one side of the yoke, and with streaks\nof blood and a white mark like a ladder in it that I thought queer, but I\ndid not understand what this meant at the time, and I wasn't inclined to\nbe particular. The egg lasted me three days, with biscuits and a drink of\nwater. I chewed coffee berries too--invigorating stuff. The second egg I\nopened about the eighth day, and it scared me.\"\n\nThe man with the scar paused. \"Yes,\" he said, \"developing.\"\n\n\"I daresay you find it hard to believe. _I_ did, with the thing\nbefore me. There the egg had been, sunk in that cold black mud, perhaps\nthree hundred years. But there was no mistaking it. There was the--what is\nit?--embryo, with its big head and curved back, and its heart beating\nunder its throat, and the yolk shrivelled up and great membranes spreading\ninside of the shell and all over the yolk. Here was I hatching out the\neggs of the biggest of all extinct birds, in a little canoe in the midst\nof the Indian Ocean. If old Dawson had known that! It was worth four\nyears' salary. What do _you_ think?\n\n\"However, I had to eat that precious thing up, every bit of it, before I\nsighted the reef, and some of the mouthfuls were beastly unpleasant. I\nleft the third one alone. I held it up to the light, but the shell was too\nthick for me to get any notion of what might be happening inside; and\nthough I fancied I heard blood pulsing, it might have been the rustle in\nmy own ears, like what you listen to in a seashell.\n\n\"Then came the atoll. Came out of the sunrise, as it were, suddenly, close\nup to me. I drifted straight towards it until I was about half a mile from\nshore, not more, and then the current took a turn, and I had to paddle as\nhard as I could with my hands and bits of the AEpyornis shell to make the\nplace. However, I got there. It was just a common atoll about four miles\nround, with a few trees growing and a spring in one place, and the lagoon\nfull of parrot-fish. I took the egg ashore and put it in a good place,\nwell above the tide lines and in the sun, to give it all the chance I\ncould, and pulled the canoe up safe, and loafed about prospecting. It's\nrum how dull an atoll is. As soon as I had found a spring all the interest\nseemed to vanish. When I was a kid I thought nothing could be finer or\nmore adventurous than the Robinson Crusoe business, but that place was as\nmonotonous as a book of sermons. I went round finding eatable things and\ngenerally thinking; but I tell you I was bored to death before the first\nday was out. It shows my luck--the very day I landed the weather changed.\nA thunderstorm went by to the north and flicked its wing over the island,\nand in the night there came a drencher and a howling wind slap over us. It\nwouldn't have taken much, you know, to upset that canoe.\n\n\"I was sleeping under the canoe, and the egg was luckily among the sand\nhigher up the beach, and the first thing I remember was a sound like a\nhundred pebbles hitting the boat at once, and a rush of water over my\nbody. I'd been dreaming of Antananarivo, and I sat up and holloaed to\nIntoshi to ask her what the devil was up, and clawed out at the chair\nwhere the matches used to be. Then I remembered where I was. There were\nphosphorescent waves rolling up as if they meant to eat me, and all the\nrest of the night as black as pitch. The air was simply yelling. The\nclouds seemed down on your head almost, and the rain fell as if heaven was\nsinking and they were baling out the waters above the firmament. One great\nroller came writhing at me, like a fiery serpent, and I bolted. Then I\nthought of the canoe, and ran down to it as the water went hissing back\nagain; but the thing had gone. I wondered about the egg then, and felt my\nway to it. It was all right and well out of reach of the maddest waves, so\nI sat down beside it and cuddled it for company. Lord! what a night that\nwas!\n\n\"The storm was over before the morning. There wasn't a rag of cloud left\nin the sky when the dawn came, and all along the beach there were bits of\nplank scattered--which was the disarticulated skeleton, so to speak, of my\ncanoe. However, that gave me something to do, for, taking advantage of two\nof the trees being together, I rigged up a kind of storm-shelter with\nthese vestiges. And that day the egg hatched.\n\n\"Hatched, sir, when my head was pillowed on it and I was asleep. I heard a\nwhack and felt a jar and sat up, and there was the end of the egg pecked\nout and a rum little brown head looking out at me. 'Lord!' I said, 'you're\nwelcome'; and with a little difficulty he came out.\n\n\"He was a nice friendly little chap at first, about the size of a small\nhen--very much like most other young birds, only bigger. His plumage was a\ndirty brown to begin with, with a sort of grey scab that fell off it very\nsoon, and scarcely feathers--a kind of downy hair. I can hardly express\nhow pleased I was to see him. I tell you, Robinson Crusoe don't make near\nenough of his loneliness. But here was interesting company. He looked at\nme and winked his eye from the front backwards, like a hen, and gave a\nchirp and began to peck about at once, as though being hatched three\nhundred years too late was just nothing. 'Glad to see you, Man Friday!'\nsays I, for I had naturally settled he was to be called Man Friday if ever\nhe was hatched, as soon as ever I found the egg in the canoe had\ndeveloped. I was a bit anxious about his feed, so I gave him a lump of raw\nparrot-fish at once. He took it, and opened his beak for more. I was glad\nof that for, under the circumstances, if he'd been at all fanciful, I\nshould have had to eat him after all.\n\n\"You'd be surprised what an interesting bird that AEpyornis chick was. He\nfollowed me about from the very beginning. He used to stand by me and\nwatch while I fished in the lagoon, and go shares in anything I caught.\nAnd he was sensible, too. There were nasty green warty things, like\npickled gherkins, used to lie about on the beach, and he tried one of\nthese and it upset him. He never even looked at any of them again.\n\n\"And he grew. You could almost see him grow. And as I was never much of a\nsociety man, his quiet, friendly ways suited me to a T. For nearly two\nyears we were as happy as we could be on that island. I had no business\nworries, for I knew my salary was mounting up at Dawsons'. We would see a\nsail now and then, but nothing ever came near us. I amused myself, too, by\ndecorating the island with designs worked in sea-urchins and fancy shells\nof various kinds. I put AEPYORNIS ISLAND all round the place very nearly,\nin big letters, like what you see done with coloured stones at railway\nstations in the old country, and mathematical calculations and drawings of\nvarious sorts. And I used to lie watching the blessed bird stalking round\nand growing, growing; and think how I could make a living out of him by\nshowing him about if I ever got taken off. After his first moult he began\nto get handsome, with a crest and a blue wattle, and a lot of green\nfeathers at the behind of him. And then I used to puzzle whether Dawsons'\nhad any right to claim him or not. Stormy weather and in the rainy season\nwe lay snug under the shelter I had made out of the old canoe, and I used\nto tell him lies about my friends at home. And after a storm we would go\nround the island together to see if there was any drift. It was a kind of\nidyll, you might say. If only I had had some tobacco it would have been\nsimply just like heaven.\n\n\"It was about the end of the second year our little paradise went wrong.\nFriday was then about fourteen feet high to the bill of him, with a big,\nbroad head like the end of a pickaxe, and two huge brown eyes with yellow\nrims, set together like a man's--not out of sight of each other like a\nhen's. His plumage was fine--none of the half-mourning style of your\nostrich--more like a cassowary as far as colour and texture go. And then\nit was he began to cock his comb at me and give himself airs, and show\nsigns of a nasty temper ...\n\n\"At last came a time when my fishing had been rather unlucky, and he began\nto hang about me in a queer, meditative way. I thought he might have been\neating sea-cucumbers or something, but it was really just discontent on\nhis part. I was hungry too, and when at last I landed a fish I wanted it\nfor myself. Tempers were short that morning on both sides. He pecked at it\nand grabbed it, and I gave him a whack on the head to make him leave go.\nAnd at that he went for me. Lord! ...\n\n\"He gave me this in the face.\" The man indicated his scar. \"Then he kicked\nme. It was like a carthorse. I got up, and seeing he hadn't finished, I\nstarted off full tilt with my arms doubled up over my face. But he ran on\nthose gawky legs of his faster than a racehorse, and kept landing out at\nme with sledgehammer kicks, and bringing his pickaxe down on the back of\nmy head. I made for the lagoon, and went in up to my neck. He stopped at\nthe water, for he hated getting his feet wet, and began to make a shindy,\nsomething like a peacock's, only hoarser. He started strutting up and down\nthe beach. I'll admit I felt small to see this blessed fossil lording it\nthere. And my head and face were all bleeding, and--well, my body just one\njelly of bruises.\n\n\"I decided to swim across the lagoon and leave him alone for a bit, until\nthe affair blew over. I shinned up the tallest palm-tree, and sat there\nthinking of it all. I don't suppose I ever felt so hurt by anything before\nor since. It was the brutal ingratitude of the creature. I'd been more\nthan a brother to him. I'd hatched him, educated him. A great gawky,\nout-of-date bird! And me a human being--heir of the ages and all that.\n\n\"I thought after a time he'd begin to see things in that light himself,\nand feel a little sorry for his behaviour. I thought if I was to catch\nsome nice little bits of fish, perhaps, and go to him presently in a\ncasual kind of way, and offer them to him, he might do the sensible thing.\nIt took me some time to learn how unforgiving and cantankerous an extinct\nbird can be. Malice!\n\n\"I won't tell you all the little devices I tried to get that bird round\nagain, I simply can't. It makes my cheek burn with shame even now to think\nof the snubs and buffets I had from this infernal curiosity. I tried\nviolence. I chucked lumps of coral at him from a safe distance, but he\nonly swallowed them. I shied my open knife at him and almost lost it,\nthough it was too big for him to swallow. I tried starving him out and\nstruck fishing, but he took to picking along the beach at low water after\nworms, and rubbed along on that. Half my time I spent up to my neck in the\nlagoon, and the rest up the palm-trees. One of them was scarcely high\nenough, and when he caught me up it he had a regular Bank Holiday with the\ncalves of my legs. It got unbearable. I don't know if you have ever tried\nsleeping up a palm-tree. It gave me the most horrible nightmares. Think of\nthe shame of it, too! Here was this extinct animal mooning about my island\nlike a sulky duke, and me not allowed to rest the sole of my foot on the\nplace. I used to cry with weariness and vexation. I told him straight that\nI didn't mean to be chased about a desert island by any damned\nanachronisms. I told him to go and peck a navigator of his own age. But he\nonly snapped his beak at me. Great ugly bird, all legs and neck!\n\n\"I shouldn't like to say how long that went on altogether. I'd have killed\nhim sooner if I'd known how. However, I hit on a way of settling him at\nlast. It is a South American dodge. I joined all my fishing-lines together\nwith stems of seaweed and things, and made a stoutish string, perhaps\ntwelve yards in length or more, and I fastened two lumps of coral rock to\nthe ends of this. It took me some time to do, because every now and then\nI had to go into the lagoon or up a tree as the fancy took me. This I\nwhirled rapidly round my head, and then let it go at him. The first time I\nmissed, but the next time the string caught his legs beautifully, and\nwrapped round them again and again. Over he went. I threw it standing\nwaist-deep in the lagoon, and as soon as he went down I was out of the\nwater and sawing at his neck with my knife ...\n\n\"I don't like to think of that even now. I felt like a murderer while I\ndid it, though my anger was hot against him. When I stood over him and saw\nhim bleeding on the white sand, and his beautiful great legs and neck\nwrithing in his last agony ... Pah!\n\n\"With that tragedy loneliness came upon me like a curse. Good Lord! you\ncan't imagine how I missed that bird. I sat by his corpse and sorrowed\nover him, and shivered as I looked round the desolate, silent reef.\nI thought of what a jolly little bird he had been when he was hatched, and\nof a thousand pleasant tricks he had played before he went wrong.\nI thought if I'd only wounded him I might have nursed him round into a\nbetter understanding. If I'd had any means of digging into the coral rock\nI'd have buried him. I felt exactly as if he was human. As it was,\nI couldn't think of eating him, so I put him in the lagoon, and the little\nfishes picked him clean. I didn't even save the feathers. Then one day a\nchap cruising about in a yacht had a fancy to see if my atoll still\nexisted.\n\n\"He didn't come a moment too soon, for I was about sick enough of the\ndesolation of it, and only hesitating whether I should walk out into the\nsea and finish up the business that way, or fall back on the green\nthings...\n\n\"I sold the bones to a man named Winslow--a dealer near the British\nMuseum, and he says he sold them to old Havers. It seems Havers didn't\nunderstand they were extra large, and it was only after his death they\nattracted attention. They called 'em AEpyornis--what was it?\"\n\n\"_AEpyornis vastus_,\" said I. \"It's funny, the very thing was\nmentioned to me by a friend of mine. When they found an AEpyornis, with a\nthigh a yard long, they thought they had reached the top of the scale, and\ncalled him _AEpyornis maximus_. Then some one turned up another\nthigh-bone four feet six or more, and that they called _AEpyornis\nTitan_. Then your _vastus_ was found after old Havers died, in his\ncollection, and then a _vastissimus_ turned up.\"\n\n\"Winslow was telling me as much,\" said the man with the scar. \"If they get\nany more AEpyornises, he reckons some scientific swell will go and burst a\nblood-vessel. But it was a queer thing to happen to a man; wasn't it--\naltogether?\"\n\n\n\n\n VII.\n\n THE REMARKABLE CASE OF DAVIDSON'S EYES.\n\nI.\n\nThe transitory mental aberration of Sidney Davidson, remarkable enough in\nitself, is still more remarkable if Wade's explanation is to be credited.\nIt sets one dreaming of the oddest possibilities of intercommunication in\nthe future, of spending an intercalary five minutes on the other side of\nthe world, or being watched in our most secret operations by unsuspected\neyes. It happened that I was the immediate witness of Davidson's seizure,\nand so it falls naturally to me to put the story upon paper.\n\nWhen I say that I was the immediate witness of his seizure, I mean that I\nwas the first on the scene. The thing happened at the Harlow Technical\nCollege, just beyond the Highgate Archway. He was alone in the larger\nlaboratory when the thing happened. I was in a smaller room, where the\nbalances are, writing up some notes. The thunderstorm had completely upset\nmy work, of course. It was just after one of the louder peals that I\nthought I heard some glass smash in the other room. I stopped writing, and\nturned round to listen. For a moment I heard nothing; the hail was playing\nthe devil's tattoo on the corrugated zinc of the roof. Then came another\nsound, a smash--no doubt of it this time. Something heavy had been knocked\noff the bench. I jumped up at once and went and opened the door leading\ninto the big laboratory.\n\nI was surprised to hear a queer sort of laugh, and saw Davidson standing\nunsteadily in the middle of the room, with a dazzled look on his face. My\nfirst impression was that he was drunk. He did not notice me. He was\nclawing out at something invisible a yard in front of his face. He put out\nhis hand, slowly, rather hesitatingly, and then clutched nothing. \"What's\ncome to it?\" he said. He held up his hands to his face, fingers spread\nout. \"Great Scott!\" he said. The thing happened three or four years ago,\nwhen every one swore by that personage. Then he began raising his feet\nclumsily, as though he had expected to find them glued to the floor.\n\n\"Davidson!\" cried I. \"What's the matter with you?\" He turned round in my\ndirection and looked about for me. He looked over me and at me and on\neither side of me, without the slightest sign of seeing me. \"Waves,\" he\nsaid; \"and a remarkably neat schooner. I'd swear that was Bellow's voice.\n_Hullo_!\" He shouted suddenly at the top of his voice.\n\nI thought he was up to some foolery. Then I saw littered about his feet\nthe shattered remains of the best of our electrometers. \"What's up, man?\"\nsaid I. \"You've smashed the electrometer!\"\n\n\"Bellows again!\" said he. \"Friends left, if my hands are gone. Something\nabout electrometers. Which way _are_ you, Bellows?\" He suddenly came\nstaggering towards me. \"The damned stuff cuts like butter,\" he said. He\nwalked straight into the bench and recoiled. \"None so buttery that!\" he\nsaid, and stood swaying.\n\nI felt scared. \"Davidson,\" said I, \"what on earth's come over you?\"\n\nHe looked round him in every direction. \"I could swear that was Bellows.\nWhy don't you show yourself like a man, Bellows?\"\n\nIt occurred to me that he must be suddenly struck blind. I walked round\nthe table and laid my hand upon his arm. I never saw a man more startled\nin my life. He jumped away from me, and came round into an attitude of\nself-defence, his face fairly distorted with terror. \"Good God!\" he cried.\n\"What was that?\"\n\n\"It's I--Bellows. Confound it, Davidson!\"\n\nHe jumped when I answered him and stared--how can I express it?--right\nthrough me. He began talking, not to me, but to himself. \"Here in broad\ndaylight on a clear beach. Not a place to hide in.\" He looked about him\nwildly. \"Here! I'm _off_.\" He suddenly turned and ran headlong into\nthe big electro-magnet--so violently that, as we found afterwards, he\nbruised his shoulder and jawbone cruelly. At that he stepped back a pace,\nand cried out with almost a whimper, \"What, in Heaven's name, has come\nover me?\" He stood, blanched with terror and trembling violently, with his\nright arm clutching his left, where that had collided with the magnet.\n\nBy that time I was excited and fairly scared. \"Davidson,\" said I, \"don't\nbe afraid.\"\n\nHe was startled at my voice, but not so excessively as before. I repeated\nmy words in as clear and as firm a tone as I could assume. \"Bellows,\" he\nsaid, \"is that you?\"\n\n\"Can't you see it's me?\"\n\nHe laughed. \"I can't even see it's myself. Where the devil are we?\"\n\n\"Here,\" said I, \"in the laboratory.\"\n\n\"The laboratory!\" he answered in a puzzled tone, and put his hand to his\nforehead. \"I _was_ in the laboratory--till that flash came, but I'm\nhanged if I'm there now. What ship is that?\"\n\n\"There's no ship,\" said I. \"Do be sensible, old chap.\"\n\n\"No ship!\" he repeated, and seemed to forget my denial forthwith. \"I\nsuppose,\" said he slowly, \"we're both dead. But the rummy part is I feel\njust as though I still had a body. Don't get used to it all at once, I\nsuppose. The old shop was struck by lightning, I suppose. Jolly quick\nthing, Bellows--eigh?\"\n\n\"Don't talk nonsense. You're very much alive. You are in the laboratory,\nblundering about. You've just smashed a new electrometer. I don't envy you\nwhen Boyce arrives.\"\n\nHe stared away from me towards the diagrams of cryohydrates. \"I must be\ndeaf,\" said he. \"They've fired a gun, for there goes the puff of smoke,\nand I never heard a sound.\"\n\nI put my hand on his arm again, and this time he was less alarmed. \"We\nseem to have a sort of invisible bodies,\" said he. \"By Jove! there's a\nboat coming round the headland. It's very much like the old life after\nall--in a different climate.\"\n\nI shook his arm. \"Davidson,\" I cried, \"wake up!\"\n\n\n\nII.\n\nIt was just then that Boyce came in. So soon as he spoke Davidson\nexclaimed: \"Old Boyce! Dead too! What a lark!\" I hastened to explain that\nDavidson was in a kind of somnambulistic trance. Boyce was interested at\nonce. We both did all we could to rouse the fellow out of his\nextraordinary state. He answered our questions, and asked us some of his\nown, but his attention seemed distracted by his hallucination about a\nbeach and a ship. He kept interpolating observations concerning some boat\nand the davits, and sails filling with the wind. It made one feel queer,\nin the dusky laboratory, to hear him saying such things.\n\nHe was blind and helpless. We had to walk him down the passage, one at\neach elbow, to Boyce's private room, and while Boyce talked to him there,\nand humoured him about this ship idea, I went along the corridor and asked\nold Wade to come and look at him. The voice of our Dean sobered him a\nlittle, but not very much. He asked where his hands were, and why he had\nto walk about up to his waist in the ground. Wade thought over him a long\ntime--you know how he knits his brows--and then made him feel the couch,\nguiding his hands to it. \"That's a couch,\" said Wade. \"The couch in the\nprivate room of Professor Boyce. Horse-hair stuffing.\"\n\nDavidson felt about, and puzzled over it, and answered presently that he\ncould feel it all right, but he couldn't see it.\n\n\"What _do_ you see?\" asked Wade. Davidson said he could see nothing\nbut a lot of sand and broken-up shells. Wade gave him some other things to\nfeel, telling him what they were, and watching him keenly.\n\n\"The ship is almost hull down,\" said Davidson presently, _apropos_ of\nnothing.\n\n\"Never mind the ship,\" said Wade. \"Listen to me, Davidson. Do you know\nwhat hallucination means?\"\n\n\"Rather,\" said Davidson.\n\n\"Well, everything you see is hallucinatory.\"\n\n\"Bishop Berkeley,\" said Davidson.\n\n\"Don't mistake me,\" said Wade. \"You are alive and in this room of Boyce's.\nBut something has happened to your eyes. You cannot see; you can feel and\nhear, but not see. Do you follow me?\"\n\n\"It seems to me that I see too much.\" Davidson rubbed his knuckles into\nhis eyes. \"Well?\" he said.\n\n\"That's all. Don't let it perplex you. Bellows here and I will take you\nhome in a cab.\"\n\n\"Wait a bit.\" Davidson thought. \"Help me to sit down,\" said he presently;\n\"and now--I'm sorry to trouble you--but will you tell me all that over\nagain?\"\n\nWade repeated it very patiently. Davidson shut his eyes, and pressed his\nhands upon his forehead. \"Yes,\" said he. \"It's quite right. Now my eyes\nare shut I know you're right. That's you, Bellows, sitting by me on the\ncouch. I'm in England again. And we're in the dark.\"\n\nThen he opened his eyes. \"And there,\" said he, \"is the sun just rising,\nand the yards of the ship, and a tumbled sea, and a couple of birds\nflying. I never saw anything so real. And I'm sitting up to my neck in a\nbank of sand.\"\n\nHe bent forward and covered his face with his hands. Then he opened his\neyes again. \"Dark sea and sunrise! And yet I'm sitting on a sofa in old\nBoyce's room!... God help me!\"\n\n\n\nIII.\n\nThat was the beginning. For three weeks this strange affection of\nDavidson's eyes continued unabated. It was far worse than being blind. He\nwas absolutely helpless, and had to be fed like a newly-hatched bird, and\nled about and undressed. If he attempted to move, he fell over things or\nstruck himself against walls or doors. After a day or so he got used to\nhearing our voices without seeing us, and willingly admitted he was at\nhome, and that Wade was right in what he told him. My sister, to whom he\nwas engaged, insisted on coming to see him, and would sit for hours every\nday while he talked about this beach of his. Holding her hand seemed to\ncomfort him immensely. He explained that when we left the College and\ndrove home--he lived in Hampstead village--it appeared to him as if we\ndrove right through a sandhill--it was perfectly black until he emerged\nagain--and through rocks and trees and solid obstacles, and when he was\ntaken to his own room it made him giddy and almost frantic with the fear\nof falling, because going upstairs seemed to lift him thirty or forty feet\nabove the rocks of his imaginary island. He kept saying he should smash\nall the eggs. The end was that he had to be taken down into his father's\nconsulting room and laid upon a couch that stood there.\n\nHe described the island as being a bleak kind of place on the whole, with\nvery little vegetation, except some peaty stuff, and a lot of bare rock.\nThere were multitudes of penguins, and they made the rocks white and\ndisagreeable to see. The sea was often rough, and once there was a\nthunderstorm, and he lay and shouted at the silent flashes. Once or twice\nseals pulled up on the beach, but only on the first two or three days. He\nsaid it was very funny the way in which the penguins used to waddle right\nthrough him, and how he seemed to lie among them without disturbing them.\n\nI remember one odd thing, and that was when he wanted very badly to smoke.\nWe put a pipe in his hands--he almost poked his eye out with it--and lit\nit. But he couldn't taste anything. I've since found it's the same with\nme--I don't know if it's the usual case--that I cannot enjoy tobacco at\nall unless I can see the smoke.\n\nBut the queerest part of his vision came when Wade sent him out in a\nBath-chair to get fresh air. The Davidsons hired a chair, and got that\ndeaf and obstinate dependant of theirs, Widgery, to attend to it.\nWidgery's ideas of healthy expeditions were peculiar. My sister, who had\nbeen to the Dogs' Home, met them in Camden Town, towards King's Cross,\nWidgery trotting along complacently, and Davidson, evidently most\ndistressed, trying in his feeble, blind way to attract Widgery's\nattention.\n\nHe positively wept when my sister spoke to him. \"Oh, get me out of this\nhorrible darkness!\" he said, feeling for her hand. \"I must get out of it,\nor I shall die.\" He was quite incapable of explaining what was the matter,\nbut my sister decided he must go home, and presently, as they went uphill\ntowards Hampstead, the horror seemed to drop from him. He said it was good\nto see the stars again, though it was then about noon and a blazing day.\n\n\"It seemed,\" he told me afterwards, \"as if I was being carried\nirresistibly towards the water. I was not very much alarmed at first. Of\ncourse it was night there--a lovely night.\"\n\n\"Of course?\" I asked, for that struck me as odd.\n\n\"Of course,\" said he. \"It's always night there when it is day here...\nWell, we went right into the water, which was calm and shining under the\nmoonlight--just a broad swell that seemed to grow broader and flatter as I\ncame down into it. The surface glistened just like a skin--it might have\nbeen empty space underneath for all I could tell to the contrary. Very\nslowly, for I rode slanting into it, the water crept up to my eyes. Then I\nwent under and the skin seemed to break and heal again about my eyes. The\nmoon gave a jump up in the sky and grew green and dim, and fish, faintly\nglowing, came darting round me--and things that seemed made of luminous\nglass; and I passed through a tangle of seaweeds that shone with an oily\nlustre. And so I drove down into the sea, and the stars went out one by\none, and the moon grew greener and darker, and the seaweed became a\nluminous purple-red. It was all very faint and mysterious, and everything\nseemed to quiver. And all the while I could hear the wheels of the\nBath-chair creaking, and the footsteps of people going by, and a man in\nthe distance selling the special _Pall Mall_.\n\n\"I kept sinking down deeper and deeper into the water. It became inky\nblack about me, not a ray from above came down into that darkness, and the\nphosphorescent things grew brighter and brighter. The snaky branches of\nthe deeper weeds flickered like the flames of spirit-lamps; but, after a\ntime, there were no more weeds. The fishes came staring and gaping towards\nme, and into me and through me. I never imagined such fishes before. They\nhad lines of fire along the sides of them as though they had been outlined\nwith a luminous pencil. And there was a ghastly thing swimming backwards\nwith a lot of twining arms. And then I saw, coming very slowly towards me\nthrough the gloom, a hazy mass of light that resolved itself as it drew\nnearer into multitudes of fishes, struggling and darting round something\nthat drifted. I drove on straight towards it, and presently I saw in the\nmidst of the tumult, and by the light of the fish, a bit of splintered\nspar looming over me, and a dark hull tilting over, and some glowing\nphosphorescent forms that were shaken and writhed as the fish bit at them.\nThen it was I began to try to attract Widgery's attention. A horror came\nupon me. Ugh! I should have driven right into those half-eaten--things. If\nyour sister had not come! They had great holes in them, Bellows, and ...\nNever mind. But it was ghastly!\"\n\n\nIV.\n\nFor three weeks Davidson remained in this singular state, seeing what at\nthe time we imagined was an altogether phantasmal world, and stone blind\nto the world around him. Then, one Tuesday, when I called I met old\nDavidson in the passage. \"He can see his thumb!\" the old gentleman said,\nin a perfect transport. He was struggling into his overcoat. \"He can see\nhis thumb, Bellows!\" he said, with the tears in his eyes. \"The lad will be\nall right yet.\"\n\nI rushed in to Davidson. He was holding up a little book before his face,\nand looking at it and laughing in a weak kind of way.\n\n\"It's amazing,\" said he. \"There's a kind of patch come there.\" He pointed\nwith his finger. \"I'm on the rocks as usual, and the penguins are\nstaggering and flapping about as usual, and there's been a whale showing\nevery now and then, but it's got too dark now to make him out. But put\nsomething _there_, and I see it--I do see it. It's very dim and\nbroken in places, but I see it all the same, like a faint spectre of\nitself. I found it out this morning while they were dressing me. It's like\na hole in this infernal phantom world. Just put your hand by mine. No--not\nthere. Ah! Yes! I see it. The base of your thumb and a bit of cuff! It\nlooks like the ghost of a bit of your hand sticking out of the darkling\nsky. Just by it there's a group of stars like a cross coming out.\"\n\nFrom that time Davidson began to mend. His account of the change, like his\naccount of the vision, was oddly convincing. Over patches of his field of\nvision, the phantom world grew fainter, grew transparent, as it were, and\nthrough these translucent gaps he began to see dimly the real world about\nhim. The patches grew in size and number, ran together and spread until\nonly here and there were blind spots left upon his eyes. He was able to\nget up and steer himself about, feed himself once more, read, smoke, and\nbehave like an ordinary citizen again. At first it was very confusing to\nhim to have these two pictures overlapping each other like the changing\nviews of a lantern, but in a little while he began to distinguish the real\nfrom the illusory.\n\nAt first he was unfeignedly glad, and seemed only too anxious to complete\nhis cure by taking exercise and tonics. But as that odd island of his\nbegan to fade away from him, he became queerly interested in it. He wanted\nparticularly to go down into the deep sea again, and would spend half his\ntime wandering about the low-lying parts of London, trying to find the\nwater-logged wreck he had seen drifting. The glare of real daylight very\nsoon impressed him so vividly as to blot out everything of his shadowy\nworld, but of a night-time, in a darkened room, he could still see the\nwhite-splashed rocks of the island, and the clumsy penguins staggering to\nand fro. But even these grew fainter and fainter, and, at last, soon after\nhe married my sister, he saw them for the last time.\n\n\nV.\n\nAnd now to tell of the queerest thing of all. About two years after his\ncure I dined with the Davidsons, and after dinner a man named Atkins\ncalled in. He is a lieutenant in the Royal Navy, and a pleasant, talkative\nman. He was on friendly terms with my brother-in-law, and was soon on\nfriendly terms with me. It came out that he was engaged to Davidson's\ncousin, and incidentally he took out a kind of pocket photograph case to\nshow us a new rendering of his _fiancée_. \"And, by-the-by,\" said he,\n\"here's the old _Fulmar_.\"\n\nDavidson looked at it casually. Then suddenly his face lit up. \"Good\nheavens!\" said he. \"I could almost swear----\"\n\n\"What?\" said Atkins.\n\n\"That I had seen that ship before.\"\n\n\"Don't see how you can have. She hasn't been out of the South Seas for six\nyears, and before then----\"\n\n\"But,\" began Davidson, and then, \"Yes--that's the ship I dreamt of; I'm\nsure that's the ship I dreamt of. She was standing off an island that\nswarmed with penguins, and she fired a gun.\"\n\n\"Good Lord!\" said Atkins, who had now heard the particulars of the\nseizure. \"How the deuce could you dream that?\"\n\nAnd then, bit by bit, it came out that on the very day Davidson was\nseized, H.M.S. _Fulmar_ had actually been off a little rock to the\nsouth of Antipodes Island. A boat had landed overnight to get penguins'\neggs, had been delayed, and a thunderstorm drifting up, the boat's crew\nhad waited until the morning before rejoining the ship. Atkins had been\none of them, and he corroborated, word for word, the descriptions Davidson\nhad given of the island and the boat. There is not the slightest doubt in\nany of our minds that Davidson has really seen the place. In some\nunaccountable way, while he moved hither and thither in London, his sight\nmoved hither and thither in a manner that corresponded, about this distant\nisland. _How_ is absolutely a mystery.\n\nThat completes the remarkable story of Davidson's eyes. It's perhaps the\nbest authenticated case in existence of real vision at a distance.\nExplanation there is none forthcoming, except what Professor Wade has\nthrown out. But his explanation invokes the Fourth Dimension, and a\ndissertation on theoretical kinds of space. To talk of there being \"a kink\nin space\" seems mere nonsense to me; it may be because I am no\nmathematician. When I said that nothing would alter the fact that the\nplace is eight thousand miles away, he answered that two points might be a\nyard away on a sheet of paper, and yet be brought together by bending the\npaper round. The reader may grasp his argument, but I certainly do not.\nHis idea seems to be that Davidson, stooping between the poles of the big\nelectro-magnet, had some extraordinary twist given to his retinal elements\nthrough the sudden change in the field of force due to the lightning.\n\nHe thinks, as a consequence of this, that it may be possible to live\nvisually in one part of the world, while one lives bodily in another. He\nhas even made some experiments in support of his views; but, so far, he\nhas simply succeeded in blinding a few dogs. I believe that is the net\nresult of his work, though I have not seen him for some weeks. Latterly I\nhave been so busy with my work in connection with the Saint Pancras\ninstallation that I have had little opportunity of calling to see him. But\nthe whole of his theory seems fantastic to me. The facts concerning\nDavidson stand on an altogether different footing, and I can testify\npersonally to the accuracy of every detail I have given.\n\n\n\n\n VIII.\n\n THE LORD OF THE DYNAMOS.\n\n\nThe chief attendant of the three dynamos that buzzed and rattled at\nCamberwell, and kept the electric railway going, came out of Yorkshire,\nand his name was James Holroyd. He was a practical electrician, but fond\nof whisky, a heavy, red-haired brute with irregular teeth. He doubted the\nexistence of the Deity, but accepted Carnot's cycle, and he had read\nShakespeare and found him weak in chemistry. His helper came out of the\nmysterious East, and his name was Azuma-zi. But Holroyd called him\nPooh-bah. Holroyd liked a nigger help because he would stand kicking--a\nhabit with Holroyd--and did not pry into the machinery and try to learn\nthe ways of it. Certain odd possibilities of the negro mind brought into\nabrupt contact with the crown of our civilisation Holroyd never fully\nrealised, though just at the end he got some inkling of them.\n\nTo define Azuma-zi was beyond ethnology. He was, perhaps, more negroid\nthan anything else, though his hair was curly rather than frizzy, and his\nnose had a bridge. Moreover, his skin was brown rather than black, and the\nwhites of his eyes were yellow. His broad cheekbones and narrow chin gave\nhis face something of the viperine V. His head, too, was broad behind, and\nlow and narrow at the forehead, as if his brain had been twisted round in\nthe reverse way to a European's. He was short of stature and still shorter\nof English. In conversation he made numerous odd noises of no known\nmarketable value, and his infrequent words were carved and wrought into\nheraldic grotesqueness. Holroyd tried to elucidate his religious beliefs,\nand--especially after whisky--lectured to him against superstition and\nmissionaries. Azuma-zi, however, shirked the discussion of his gods, even\nthough he was kicked for it.\n\nAzuma-zi had come, clad in white but insufficient raiment, out of the\nstoke-hole of the _Lord Clive_, from the Straits Settlements and\nbeyond, into London. He had heard even in his youth of the greatness and\nriches of London, where all the women are white and fair, and even the\nbeggars in the streets are white, and he had arrived, with newly-earned\ngold coins in his pocket, to worship at the shrine of civilisation. The\nday of his landing was a dismal one; the sky was dun, and a wind-worried\ndrizzle filtered down to the greasy streets, but he plunged boldly into\nthe delights of Shadwell, and was presently cast up, shattered in health,\ncivilised in costume, penniless, and, except in matters of the direst\nnecessity, practically a dumb animal, to toil for James Holroyd, and to be\nbullied by him in the dynamo shed at Camberwell. And to James Holroyd\nbullying was a labour of love.\n\nThere were three dynamos with their engines at Camberwell. The two that\nhave been there since the beginning are small machines; the larger one was\nnew. The smaller machines made a reasonable noise; their straps hummed\nover the drums, every now and then the brushes buzzed and fizzled, and the\nair churned steadily, whoo! whoo! whoo! between their poles. One was loose\nin its foundations and kept the shed vibrating. But the big dynamo drowned\nthese little noises altogether with the sustained drone of its iron core,\nwhich somehow set part of the ironwork humming. The place made the\nvisitor's head reel with the throb, throb, throb of the engines, the\nrotation of the big wheels, the spinning ball-valves, the occasional\nspittings of the steam, and over all the deep, unceasing, surging note of\nthe big dynamo. This last noise was from an engineering point of view a\ndefect, but Azuma-zi accounted it unto the monster for mightiness and\npride.\n\nIf it were possible we would have the noises of that shed always about the\nreader as he reads, we would tell all our story to such an accompaniment.\nIt was a steady stream of din, from which the ear picked out first one\nthread and then another; there was the intermittent snorting, panting, and\nseething of the steam engines, the suck and thud of their pistons, the\ndull beat on the air as the spokes of the great driving wheels came round,\na note the leather straps made as they ran tighter and looser, and a\nfretful tumult from the dynamos; and, over all, sometimes inaudible, as\nthe ear tired of it, and then creeping back upon the senses again, was\nthis trombone note of the big machine. The floor never felt steady and\nquiet beneath one's feet, but quivered and jarred. It was a confusing,\nunsteady place, and enough to send anyone's thoughts jerking into odd\nzigzags. And for three months, while the big strike of the engineers was\nin progress, Holroyd, who was a blackleg, and Azuma-zi, who was a mere\nblack, were never out of the stir and eddy of it, but slept and fed in the\nlittle wooden shanty between the shed and the gates.\n\nHolroyd delivered a theological lecture on the text of his big machine\nsoon after Azuma-zi came. He had to shout to be heard in the din. \"Look at\nthat,\" said Holroyd; \"where's your 'eathen idol to match 'im?\" And\nAzuma-zi looked. For a moment Holroyd was inaudible, and then Azuma-zi\nheard: \"Kill a hundred men. Twelve per cent, on the ordinary shares,\" said\nHolroyd, \"and that's something like a Gord.\"\n\nHolroyd was proud of his big dynamo, and expatiated upon its size and\npower to Azuma-zi until heaven knows what odd currents of thought that and\nthe incessant whirling and shindy set up within the curly black cranium.\nHe would explain in the most graphic manner the dozen or so ways in which\na man might be killed by it, and once he gave Azuma-zi a shock as a sample\nof its quality. After that, in the breathing-times of his labour--it was\nheavy labour, being not only his own, but most of Holroyd's--Azuma-zi\nwould sit and watch the big machine. Now and then the brushes would\nsparkle and spit blue flashes, at which Holroyd would swear, but all the\nrest was as smooth and rhythmic as breathing. The band ran shouting over\nthe shaft, and ever behind one as one watched was the complacent thud of\nthe piston. So it lived all day in this big airy shed, with him and\nHolroyd to wait upon it; not prisoned up and slaving to drive a ship as\nthe other engines he knew--mere captive devils of the British Solomon--had\nbeen, but a machine enthroned. Those two smaller dynamos Azuma-zi by force\nof contrast despised; the large one he privately christened the Lord of\nthe Dynamos. They were fretful and irregular, but the big dynamo was\nsteady. How great it was! How serene and easy in its working! Greater and\ncalmer even than the Buddhas he had seen at Rangoon, and yet not\nmotionless, but living! The great black coils spun, spun, spun, the rings\nran round under the brushes, and the deep note of its coil steadied the\nwhole. It affected Azuma-zi queerly.\n\nAzuma-zi was not fond of labour. He would sit about and watch the Lord of\nthe Dynamos while Holroyd went away to persuade the yard porter to get\nwhisky, although his proper place was not in the dynamo shed but behind\nthe engines, and, moreover, if Holroyd caught him skulking he got hit for\nit with a rod of stout copper wire. He would go and stand close to the\ncolossus, and look up at the great leather band running overhead. There\nwas a black patch on the band that came round, and it pleased him somehow\namong all the clatter to watch this return again and again. Odd thoughts\nspun with the whirl of it. Scientific people tell us that savages give\nsouls to rocks and trees,--and a machine is a thousand times more alive\nthan a rock or a tree. And Azuma-zi was practically a savage still; the\nveneer of civilisation lay no deeper than his slop suit, his bruises, and\nthe coal grime on his face and hands. His father before him had worshipped\na meteoric stone, kindred blood, it may be, had splashed the broad wheels\nof Juggernaut.\n\nHe took every opportunity Holroyd gave him of touching and handling the\ngreat dynamo that was fascinating him. He polished and cleaned it until\nthe metal parts were blinding in the sun. He felt a mysterious sense of\nservice in doing this. He would go up to it and touch its spinning coils\ngently. The gods he had worshipped were all far away. The people in London\nhid their gods.\n\nAt last his dim feelings grew more distinct, and took shape in thoughts,\nand at last in acts. When he came into the roaring shed one morning he\nsalaamed to the Lord of the Dynamos, and then, when Holroyd was away, he\nwent and whispered to the thundering machine that he was its servant, and\nprayed it to have pity on him and save him from Holroyd. As he did so a\nrare gleam of light came in through the open archway of the throbbing\nmachine-shed, and the Lord of the Dynamos, as he whirled and roared, was\nradiant with pale gold. Then Azuma-zi knew that his service was acceptable\nto his Lord. After that he did not feel so lonely as he had done, and he\nhad indeed been very much alone in London. And even when his work-time was\nover, which was rare, he loitered about the shed.\n\nThen, the next time Holroyd maltreated him, Azuma-zi went presently to the\nLord of the Dynamos and whispered, \"Thou seest, O my Lord!\" and the angry\nwhirr of the machinery seemed to answer him. Thereafter it appeared to him\nthat whenever Holroyd came into the shed a different note came into the\nsounds of the dynamo. \"My Lord bides his time,\" said Azuma-zi to himself.\n\"The iniquity of the fool is not yet ripe.\" And he waited and watched for\nthe day of reckoning. One day there was evidence of short circuiting, and\nHolroyd, making an unwary examination--it was in the afternoon--got a\nrather severe shock. Azuma-zi from behind the engine saw him jump off and\ncurse at the peccant coil.\n\n\"He is warned,\" said Azuma-zi to himself. \"Surely my Lord is very\npatient.\"\n\nHolroyd had at first initiated his \"nigger\" into such elementary\nconceptions of the dynamo's working as would enable him to take temporary\ncharge of the shed in his absence. But when he noticed the manner in which\nAzuma-zi hung about the monster he became suspicious. He dimly perceived\nhis assistant was \"up to something,\" and connecting him with the anointing\nof the coils with oil that had rotted the varnish in one place, he issued\nan edict, shouted above the confusion of the machinery, \"Don't 'ee go nigh\nthat big dynamo any more, Pooh-bah, or a'll take thy skin off!\" Besides,\nif it pleased Azuma-zi to be near the big machine, it was plain sense and\ndecency to keep him away from it.\n\nAzuma-zi obeyed at the time, but later he was caught bowing before the\nLord of the Dynamos. At which Holroyd twisted his arm and kicked him as he\nturned to go away. As Azuma-zi presently stood behind the engine and\nglared at the back of the hated Holroyd, the noises of the machinery took\na new rhythm, and sounded like four words in his native tongue.\n\nIt is hard to say exactly what madness is. I fancy Azuma-zi was mad. The\nincessant din and whirl of the dynamo shed may have churned up his little\nstore of knowledge and big store of superstitious fancy, at last, into\nsomething akin to frenzy. At any rate, when the idea of making Holroyd a\nsacrifice to the Dynamo Fetich was thus suggested to him, it filled him\nwith a strange tumult of exultant emotion.\n\nThat night the two men and their black shadows were alone in the shed\ntogether. The shed was lit with one big arc light that winked and\nflickered purple. The shadows lay black behind the dynamos, the ball\ngovernors of the engines whirled from light to darkness, and their pistons\nbeat loud and steady. The world outside seen through the open end of the\nshed seemed incredibly dim and remote. It seemed absolutely silent, too,\nsince the riot of the machinery drowned every external sound. Far away was\nthe black fence of the yard with grey shadowy houses behind, and above was\nthe deep blue sky and the pale little stars. Azuma-zi suddenly walked\nacross the centre of the shed above which the leather bands were running,\nand went into the shadow by the big dynamo. Holroyd heard a click, and the\nspin of the armature changed.\n\n\"What are you dewin' with that switch?\" he bawled in surprise. \"Han't I\ntold you----\"\n\nThen he saw the set expression of Azuma-zi's eyes as the Asiatic came out\nof the shadow towards him.\n\nIn another moment the two men were grappling fiercely in front of the\ngreat dynamo.\n\n\"You coffee-headed fool!\" gasped Holroyd, with a brown hand at his throat.\n\"Keep off those contact rings.\" In another moment he was tripped and\nreeling back upon the Lord of the Dynamos. He instinctively loosened his\ngrip upon his antagonist to save himself from the machine.\n\nThe messenger, sent in furious haste from the station to find out what had\nhappened in the dynamo shed, met Azuma-zi at the porter's lodge by the\ngate. Azuma-zi tried to explain something, but the messenger could make\nnothing of the black's incoherent English, and hurried on to the shed.\nThe machines were all noisily at work, and nothing seemed to be\ndisarranged. There was, however, a queer smell of singed hair. Then he saw\nan odd-looking crumpled mass clinging to the front of the big dynamo, and,\napproaching, recognised the distorted remains of Holroyd.\n\nThe man stared and hesitated a moment. Then he saw the face, and shut his\neyes convulsively. He turned on his heel before he opened them, so that he\nshould not see Holroyd again, and went out of the shed to get advice and\nhelp.\n\nWhen Azuma-zi saw Holroyd die in the grip of the Great Dynamo he had been\na little scared about the consequences of his act. Yet he felt strangely\nelated, and knew that the favour of the Lord Dynamo was upon him. His plan\nwas already settled when he met the man coming from the station, and the\nscientific manager who speedily arrived on the scene jumped at the obvious\nconclusion of suicide. This expert scarcely noticed Azuma-zi, except to\nask a few questions. Did he see Holroyd kill himself? Azuma-zi explained\nhe had been out of sight at the engine furnace until he heard a difference\nin the noise from the dynamo. It was not a difficult examination, being\nuntinctured by suspicion.\n\nThe distorted remains of Holroyd, which the electrician removed from\nthe machine, were hastily covered by the porter with a coffee-stained\ntable-cloth. Somebody, by a happy inspiration, fetched a medical man. The\nexpert was chiefly anxious to get the machine at work again, for seven or\neight trains had stopped midway in the stuffy tunnels of the electric\nrailway. Azuma-zi, answering or misunderstanding the questions of the\npeople who had by authority or impudence come into the shed, was presently\nsent back to the stoke-hole by the scientific manager. Of course a crowd\ncollected outside the gates of the yard--a crowd, for no known reason,\nalways hovers for a day or two near the scene of a sudden death in\nLondon--two or three reporters percolated somehow into the engine-shed,\nand one even got to Azuma-zi; but the scientific expert cleared them out\nagain, being himself an amateur journalist.\n\nPresently the body was carried away, and public interest departed with it.\nAzuma-zi remained very quietly at his furnace, seeing over and over again\nin the coals a figure that wriggled violently and became still. An hour\nafter the murder, to any one coming into the shed it would have looked\nexactly as if nothing remarkable had ever happened there. Peeping\npresently from his engine-room the black saw the Lord Dynamo spin and\nwhirl beside his little brothers, and the driving wheels were beating\nround, and the steam in the pistons went thud, thud, exactly as it had\nbeen earlier in the evening. After all, from the mechanical point of view,\nit had been a most insignificant incident--the mere temporary deflection\nof a current. But now the slender form and slender shadow of the\nscientific manager replaced the sturdy outline of Holroyd travelling up\nand down the lane of light upon the vibrating floor under the straps\nbetween the engines and the dynamos.\n\n\"Have I not served my Lord?\" said Azuma-zi inaudibly, from his shadow, and\nthe note of the great dynamo rang out full and clear. As he looked at the\nbig whirling mechanism the strange fascination of it that had been a\nlittle in abeyance since Holroyd's death resumed its sway.\n\nNever had Azuma-zi seen a man killed so swiftly and pitilessly. The big\nhumming machine had slain its victim without wavering for a second from\nits steady beating. It was indeed a mighty god.\n\nThe unconscious scientific manager stood with his back to him, scribbling\non a piece of paper. His shadow lay at the foot of the monster.\n\nWas the Lord Dynamo still hungry? His servant was ready.\n\nAzuma-zi made a stealthy step forward; then stopped. The scientific\nmanager suddenly ceased his writing, walked down the shed to the endmost\nof the dynamos, and began to examine the brushes.\n\nAzuma-zi hesitated, and then slipped across noiselessly into the shadow by\nthe switch. There he waited. Presently the manager's footsteps could be\nheard returning. He stopped in his old position, unconscious of the stoker\ncrouching ten feet away from him. Then the big dynamo suddenly fizzled,\nand in another moment Azuma-zi had sprung out of the darkness upon him.\n\nFirst, the scientific manager was gripped round the body and swung towards\nthe big dynamo, then, kicking with his knee and forcing his antagonist's\nhead down with his hands, he loosened the grip on his waist and swung\nround away from the machine. Then the black grasped him again, putting a\ncurly head against his chest, and they swayed and panted as it seemed for\nan age or so. Then the scientific manager was impelled to catch a black\near in his teeth and bite furiously. The black yelled hideously.\n\nThey rolled over on the floor, and the black, who had apparently slipped\nfrom the vice of the teeth or parted with some ear--the scientific manager\nwondered which at the time--tried to throttle him. The scientific manager\nwas making some ineffectual efforts to claw something with his hands and\nto kick, when the welcome sound of quick footsteps sounded on the floor.\nThe next moment Azuma-zi had left him and darted towards the big dynamo.\nThere was a splutter amid the roar.\n\nThe officer of the company who had entered stood staring as Azuma-zi\ncaught the naked terminals in his hands, gave one horrible convulsion, and\nthen hung motionless from the machine, his face violently distorted.\n\n\"I'm jolly glad you came in when you did,\" said the scientific manager,\nstill sitting on the floor.\n\nHe looked at the still quivering figure. \"It is not a nice death to die,\napparently--but it is quick.\"\n\nThe official was still staring at the body. He was a man of slow\napprehension.\n\nThere was a pause.\n\nThe scientific manager got up on his feet rather awkwardly. He ran his\nfingers along his collar thoughtfully, and moved his head to and fro\nseveral times.\n\n\"Poor Holroyd! I see now.\" Then almost mechanically he went towards the\nswitch in the shadow and turned the current into the railway circuit\nagain. As he did so the singed body loosened its grip upon the machine and\nfell forward on its face. The core of the dynamo roared out loud and\nclear, and the armature beat the air.\n\nSo ended prematurely the worship of the Dynamo Deity, perhaps the most\nshort-lived of all religions. Yet withal it could at least boast a\nMartyrdom and a Human Sacrifice.\n\n\n\n IX.\n\n THE MOTH.\n\n\nProbably you have heard of Hapley--not W. T. Hapley, the son, but the\ncelebrated Hapley, the Hapley of _Periplaneta Hapliia_, Hapley the\nentomologist.\n\nIf so you know at least of the great feud between Hapley and Professor\nPawkins, though certain of its consequences may be new to you. For those\nwho have not, a word or two of explanation is necessary, which the idle\nreader may go over with a glancing eye, if his indolence so incline him.\n\nIt is amazing how very widely diffused is the ignorance of such really\nimportant matters as this Hapley-Pawkins feud. Those epoch-making\ncontroversies, again, that have convulsed the Geological Society are, I\nverily believe, almost entirely unknown outside the fellowship of that\nbody. I have heard men of fair general education even refer to the great\nscenes at these meetings as vestry-meeting squabbles. Yet the great hate\nof the English and Scotch geologists has lasted now half a century, and\nhas \"left deep and abundant marks upon the body of the science.\" And this\nHapley-Pawkins business, though perhaps a more personal affair, stirred\npassions as profound, if not profounder. Your common man has no conception\nof the zeal that animates a scientific investigator, the fury of\ncontradiction you can arouse in him. It is the _odium theologicum_ in\na new form. There are men, for instance, who would gladly burn Professor\nRay Lankester at Smithfield for his treatment of the Mollusca in the\nEncyclopaedia. That fantastic extension of the Cephalopods to cover the\nPteropods ... But I wander from Hapley and Pawkins.\n\nIt began years and years ago, with a revision of the Microlepidoptera\n(whatever these may be) by Pawkins, in which he extinguished a new species\ncreated by Hapley. Hapley, who was always quarrelsome, replied by a\nstinging impeachment of the entire classification of Pawkins.[A] Pawkins\nin his \"Rejoinder\"[B] suggested that Hapley's microscope was as defective\nas his power of observation, and called him an \"irresponsible meddler\"--\nHapley was not a professor at that time. Hapley in his retort,[C] spoke of\n\"blundering collectors,\" and described, as if inadvertently, Pawkins'\nrevision as a \"miracle of ineptitude.\" It was war to the knife. However,\nit would scarcely interest the reader to detail how these two great men\nquarrelled, and how the split between them widened until from the\nMicrolepidoptera they were at war upon every open question in entomology.\nThere were memorable occasions. At times the Royal Entomological Society\nmeetings resembled nothing so much as the Chamber of Deputies. On the\nwhole, I fancy Pawkins was nearer the truth than Hapley. But Hapley was\nskilful with his rhetoric, had a turn for ridicule rare in a scientific\nman, was endowed with vast energy, and had a fine sense of injury in the\nmatter of the extinguished species; while Pawkins was a man of dull\npresence, prosy of speech, in shape not unlike a water-barrel, over\nconscientious with testimonials, and suspected of jobbing museum\nappointments. So the young men gathered round Hapley and applauded him. It\nwas a long struggle, vicious from the beginning and growing at last to\npitiless antagonism. The successive turns of fortune, now an advantage to\none side and now to another--now Hapley tormented by some success of\nPawkins, and now Pawkins outshone by Hapley, belong rather to the history\nof entomology than to this story.\n\n[Footnote A: \"Remarks on a Recent Revision of Microlepidoptera.\"\n_Quart. Journ. Entomological Soc._, 1863.]\n\n[Footnote B: \"Rejoinder to certain Remarks,\" etc. _Ibid._ 1864.]\n\n[Footnote C: \"Further Remarks,\" etc. _Ibid._]\n\nBut in 1891 Pawkins, whose health had been bad for some time, published\nsome work upon the \"mesoblast\" of the Death's Head Moth. What the\nmesoblast of the Death's Head Moth may be does not matter a rap in this\nstory. But the work was far below his usual standard, and gave Hapley an\nopening he had coveted for years. He must have worked night and day to\nmake the most of his advantage.\n\nIn an elaborate critique he rent Pawkins to tatters--one can fancy the\nman's disordered black hair, and his queer dark eyes flashing as he went\nfor his antagonist--and Pawkins made a reply, halting, ineffectual, with\npainful gaps of silence, and yet malignant. There was no mistaking his\nwill to wound Hapley, nor his incapacity to do it. But few of those who\nheard him--I was absent from that meeting--realised how ill the man was.\n\nHapley got his opponent down, and meant to finish him. He followed with a\nsimply brutal attack upon Pawkins, in the form of a paper upon the\ndevelopment of moths in general, a paper showing evidence of a most\nextraordinary amount of mental labour, and yet couched in a violently\ncontroversial tone. Violent as it was, an editorial note witnesses that it\nwas modified. It must have covered Pawkins with shame and confusion of\nface. It left no loophole; it was murderous in argument, and utterly\ncontemptuous in tone; an awful thing for the declining years of a man's\ncareer.\n\nThe world of entomologists waited breathlessly for the rejoinder from\nPawkins. He would try one, for Pawkins had always been game. But when it\ncame it surprised them. For the rejoinder of Pawkins was to catch\ninfluenza, proceed to pneumonia, and die.\n\nIt was perhaps as effectual a reply as he could make under the\ncircumstances, and largely turned the current of feeling against Hapley.\nThe very people who had most gleefully cheered on those gladiators became\nserious at the consequence. There could be no reasonable doubt the fret of\nthe defeat had contributed to the death of Pawkins. There was a limit even\nto scientific controversy, said serious people. Another crushing attack\nwas already in the press and appeared on the day before the funeral. I\ndon't think Hapley exerted himself to stop it. People remembered how\nHapley had hounded down his rival, and forgot that rival's defects.\nScathing satire reads ill over fresh mould. The thing provoked comment in\nthe daily papers. This it was that made me think that you had probably\nheard of Hapley and this controversy. But, as I have already remarked,\nscientific workers live very much in a world of their own; half the\npeople, I dare say, who go along Piccadilly to the Academy every year,\ncould not tell you where the learned societies abide. Many even think that\nresearch is a kind of happy-family cage in which all kinds of men lie down\ntogether in peace.\n\nIn his private thoughts Hapley could not forgive Pawkins for dying. In\nthe first place, it was a mean dodge to escape the absolute pulverisation\nHapley had in hand for him, and in the second, it left Hapley's mind with\na queer gap in it. For twenty years he had worked hard, sometimes far\ninto the night, and seven days a week, with microscope, scalpel,\ncollecting-net, and pen, and almost entirely with reference to Pawkins.\nThe European reputation he had won had come as an incident in that great\nantipathy. He had gradually worked up to a climax in this last\ncontroversy. It had killed Pawkins, but it had also thrown Hapley out of\ngear, so to speak, and his doctor advised him to give up work for a time,\nand rest. So Hapley went down into a quiet village in Kent, and thought\nday and night of Pawkins, and good things it was now impossible to say\nabout him.\n\nAt last Hapley began to realise in what direction the pre-occupation\ntended. He determined to make a fight for it, and started by trying to\nread novels. But he could not get his mind off Pawkins, white in the face\nand making his last speech--every sentence a beautiful opening for Hapley.\nHe turned to fiction--and found it had no grip on him. He read the \"Island\nNights' Entertainments\" until his \"sense of causation\" was shocked beyond\nendurance by the Bottle Imp. Then he went to Kipling, and found he \"proved\nnothing,\" besides being irreverent and vulgar. These scientific people\nhave their limitations. Then unhappily, he tried Besant's \"Inner House,\"\nand the opening chapter set his mind upon learned societies and Pawkins at\nonce.\n\nSo Hapley turned to chess, and found it a little more soothing. He soon\nmastered the moves and the chief gambits and commoner closing positions,\nand began to beat the Vicar. But then the cylindrical contours of the\nopposite king began to resemble Pawkins standing up and gasping\nineffectually against check-mate, and Hapley decided to give up chess.\n\nPerhaps the study of some new branch of science would after all be better\ndiversion. The best rest is change of occupation. Hapley determined to\nplunge at diatoms, and had one of his smaller microscopes and Halibut's\nmonograph sent down from London. He thought that perhaps if he could get\nup a vigorous quarrel with Halibut, he might be able to begin life afresh\nand forget Pawkins. And very soon he was hard at work in his habitual\nstrenuous fashion, at these microscopic denizens of the way-side pool.\n\nIt was on the third day of the diatoms that Hapley became aware of a novel\naddition to the local fauna. He was working late at the microscope, and\nthe only light in the room was the brilliant little lamp with the special\nform of green shade. Like all experienced microscopists, he kept both eyes\nopen. It is the only way to avoid excessive fatigue. One eye was over the\ninstrument, and bright and distinct before that was the circular field of\nthe microscope, across which a brown diatom was slowly moving. With the\nother eye Hapley saw, as it were, without seeing. He was only dimly\nconscious of the brass side of the instrument, the illuminated part of the\ntable-cloth, a sheet of notepaper, the foot of the lamp, and the darkened\nroom beyond.\n\nSuddenly his attention drifted from one eye to the other. The table-cloth\nwas of the material called tapestry by shopmen, and rather brightly\ncoloured. The pattern was in gold, with a small amount of crimson and pale\nblue upon a greyish ground. At one point the pattern seemed displaced, and\nthere was a vibrating movement of the colours at this point.\n\nHapley suddenly moved his head back and looked with both eyes. His mouth\nfell open with astonishment.\n\nIt was a large moth or butterfly; its wings spread in butterfly fashion!\n\nIt was strange it should be in the room at all, for the windows were\nclosed. Strange that it should not have attracted his attention when\nfluttering to its present position. Strange that it should match the\ntable-cloth. Stranger far that to him, Hapley, the great entomologist, it\nwas altogether unknown. There was no delusion. It was crawling slowly\ntowards the foot of the lamp.\n\n\"New Genus, by heavens! And in England!\" said Hapley, staring.\n\nThen he suddenly thought of Pawkins. Nothing would have maddened Pawkins\nmore...And Pawkins was dead!\n\nSomething about the head and body of the insect became singularly\nsuggestive of Pawkins, just as the chess king had been.\n\n\"Confound Pawkins!\" said Hapley. \"But I must catch this.\" And looking\nround him for some means of capturing the moth, he rose slowly out of his\nchair. Suddenly the insect rose, struck the edge of the lampshade--Hapley\nheard the \"ping\"--and vanished into the shadow.\n\nIn a moment Hapley had whipped off the shade, so that the whole room was\nilluminated. The thing had disappeared, but soon his practised eye\ndetected it upon the wall-paper near the door. He went towards it poising\nthe lamp-shade for capture. Before he was within striking distance,\nhowever, it had risen and was fluttering round the room. After the fashion\nof its kind, it flew with sudden starts and turns, seeming to vanish here\nand reappear there. Once Hapley struck, and missed; then again.\n\nThe third time he hit his microscope. The instrument swayed, struck and\noverturned the lamp, and fell noisily upon the floor. The lamp turned over\non the table and, very luckily, went out. Hapley was left in the dark.\nWith a start he felt the strange moth blunder into his face.\n\nIt was maddening. He had no lights. If he opened the door of the room the\nthing would get away. In the darkness he saw Pawkins quite distinctly\nlaughing at him. Pawkins had ever an oily laugh. He swore furiously and\nstamped his foot on the floor.\n\nThere was a timid rapping at the door.\n\nThen it opened, perhaps a foot, and very slowly. The alarmed face of the\nlandlady appeared behind a pink candle flame; she wore a night-cap over\nher grey hair and had some purple garment over her shoulders. \"What\n_was_ that fearful smash?\" she said. \"Has anything----\" The strange\nmoth appeared fluttering about the chink of the door. \"Shut that door!\"\nsaid Hapley, and suddenly rushed at her.\n\nThe door slammed hastily. Hapley was left alone in the dark. Then in the\npause he heard his landlady scuttle upstairs, lock her door, and drag\nsomething heavy across the room and put against it.\n\nIt became evident to Hapley that his conduct and appearance had been\nstrange and alarming. Confound the moth! and Pawkins! However, it was a\npity to lose the moth now. He felt his way into the hall and found the\nmatches, after sending his hat down upon the floor with a noise like a\ndrum. With the lighted candle he returned to the sitting-room. No moth was\nto be seen. Yet once for a moment it seemed that the thing was fluttering\nround his head. Hapley very suddenly decided to give up the moth and go to\nbed. But he was excited. All night long his sleep was broken by dreams of\nthe moth, Pawkins, and his landlady. Twice in the night he turned out and\nsoused his head in cold water.\n\nOne thing was very clear to him. His landlady could not possibly\nunderstand about the strange moth, especially as he had failed to catch\nit. No one but an entomologist would understand quite how he felt. She was\nprobably frightened at his behaviour, and yet he failed to see how he\ncould explain it. He decided to say nothing further about the events of\nlast night. After breakfast he saw her in her garden, and decided to go\nout and talk to reassure her. He talked to her about beans and potatoes,\nbees, caterpillars, and the price of fruit. She replied in her usual\nmanner, but she looked at him a little suspiciously, and kept walking as\nhe walked, so that there was always a bed of flowers, or a row of beans,\nor something of the sort, between them. After a while he began to feel\nsingularly irritated at this, and to conceal his vexation went indoors and\npresently went out for a walk.\n\nThe moth, or butterfly, trailing an odd flavour of Pawkins with it, kept\ncoming into that walk, though he did his best to keep his mind off it.\nOnce he saw it quite distinctly, with its wings flattened out, upon the\nold stone wall that runs along the west edge of the park, but going up to\nit he found it was only two lumps of grey and yellow lichen. \"This,\" said\nHapley, \"is the reverse of mimicry. Instead of a butterfly looking like a\nstone, here is a stone looking like a butterfly!\" Once something hovered\nand fluttered round his head, but by an effort of will he drove that\nimpression out of his mind again.\n\nIn the afternoon Hapley called upon the Vicar, and argued with him upon\ntheological questions. They sat in the little arbour covered with briar,\nand smoked as they wrangled. \"Look at that moth!\" said Hapley, suddenly,\npointing to the edge of the wooden table.\n\n\"Where?\" said the Vicar.\n\n\"You don't see a moth on the edge of the table there?\" said Hapley.\n\n\"Certainly not,\" said the Vicar.\n\nHapley was thunderstruck. He gasped. The Vicar was staring at him. Clearly\nthe man saw nothing. \"The eye of faith is no better than the eye of\nscience,\" said Hapley awkwardly.\n\n\"I don't see your point,\" said the Vicar, thinking it was part of the\nargument.\n\nThat night Hapley found the moth crawling over his counterpane. He sat on\nthe edge of the bed in his shirt sleeves and reasoned with himself. Was it\npure hallucination? He knew he was slipping, and he battled for his sanity\nwith the same silent energy he had formerly displayed against Pawkins. So\npersistent is mental habit, that he felt as if it were still a struggle\nwith Pawkins. He was well versed in psychology. He knew that such visual\nillusions do come as a result of mental strain. But the point was, he did\nnot only _see_ the moth, he had heard it when it touched the edge of\nthe lampshade, and afterwards when it hit against the wall, and he had\nfelt it strike his face in the dark.\n\nHe looked at it. It was not at all dreamlike, but perfectly clear and\nsolid-looking in the candle-light. He saw the hairy body, and the short\nfeathery antennae, the jointed legs, even a place where the down was\nrubbed from the wing. He suddenly felt angry with himself for being afraid\nof a little insect.\n\nHis landlady had got the servant to sleep with her that night, because she\nwas afraid to be alone. In addition she had locked the door, and put the\nchest of drawers against it. They listened and talked in whispers after\nthey had gone to bed, but nothing occurred to alarm them. About eleven\nthey had ventured to put the candle out, and had both dozed off to sleep.\nThey woke up with a start, and sat up in bed, listening in the darkness.\n\nThen they heard slippered feet going to and fro in Hapley's room. A chair\nwas overturned, and there was a violent dab at the wall. Then a china\nmantel ornament smashed upon the fender. Suddenly the door of the room\nopened, and they heard him upon the landing. They clung to one another,\nlistening. He seemed to be dancing upon the staircase. Now he would go\ndown three or four steps quickly, then up again, then hurry down into the\nhall. They heard the umbrella stand go over, and the fanlight break. Then\nthe bolt shot and the chain rattled. He was opening the door.\n\nThey hurried to the window. It was a dim grey night; an almost unbroken\nsheet of watery cloud was sweeping across the moon, and the hedge and\ntrees in front of the house were black against the pale roadway. They saw\nHapley, looking like a ghost in his shirt and white trousers, running to\nand fro in the road, and beating the air. Now he would stop, now he would\ndart very rapidly at something invisible, now he would move upon it with\nstealthy strides. At last he went out of sight up the road towards the\ndown. Then, while they argued who should go down and lock the door, he\nreturned. He was walking very fast, and he came straight into the house,\nclosed the door carefully, and went quietly up to his bedroom. Then\neverything was silent.\n\n\"Mrs. Colville,\" said Hapley, calling down the staircase next morning, \"I\nhope I did not alarm you last night.\"\n\n\"You may well ask that!\" said Mrs. Colville.\n\n\"The fact is, I am a sleep-walker, and the last two nights I have been\nwithout my sleeping mixture. There is nothing to be alarmed about, really.\nI am sorry I made such an ass of myself. I will go over the down to\nShoreham, and get some stuff to make me sleep soundly. I ought to have\ndone that yesterday.\"\n\nBut half-way over the down, by the chalk pits, the moth came upon Hapley\nagain. He went on, trying to keep his mind upon chess problems, but it was\nno good. The thing fluttered into his face, and he struck at it with his\nhat in self-defence. Then rage, the old rage--the rage he had so often\nfelt against Pawkins--came upon him again. He went on, leaping and\nstriking at the eddying insect. Suddenly he trod on nothing, and fell\nheadlong.\n\nThere was a gap in his sensations, and Hapley found himself sitting on the\nheap of flints in front of the opening of the chalk-pits, with a leg\ntwisted back under him. The strange moth was still fluttering round his\nhead. He struck at it with his hand, and turning his head saw two men\napproaching him. One was the village doctor. It occurred to Hapley that\nthis was lucky. Then it came into his mind with extraordinary vividness,\nthat no one would ever be able to see the strange moth except himself, and\nthat it behoved him to keep silent about it.\n\nLate that night, however, after his broken leg was set, he was feverish\nand forgot his self-restraint. He was lying flat on his bed, and he began\nto run his eyes round the room to see if the moth was still about. He\ntried not to do this, but it was no good. He soon caught sight of the\nthing resting close to his hand, by the night-light, on the green\ntable-cloth. The wings quivered. With a sudden wave of anger he smote at\nit with his fist, and the nurse woke up with a shriek. He had missed it.\n\n\"That moth!\" he said; and then, \"It was fancy. Nothing!\"\n\nAll the time he could see quite clearly the insect going round the cornice\nand darting across the room, and he could also see that the nurse saw\nnothing of it and looked at him strangely. He must keep himself in hand.\nHe knew he was a lost man if he did not keep himself in hand. But as the\nnight waned the fever grew upon him, and the very dread he had of seeing\nthe moth made him see it. About five, just as the dawn was grey, he tried\nto get out of bed and catch it, though his leg was afire with pain. The\nnurse had to struggle with him.\n\nOn account of this, they tied him down to the bed. At this the moth grew\nbolder, and once he felt it settle in his hair. Then, because he struck\nout violently with his arms, they tied these also. At this the moth came\nand crawled over his face, and Hapley wept, swore, screamed, prayed for\nthem to take it off him, unavailingly.\n\nThe doctor was a blockhead, a just-qualified general practitioner, and\nquite ignorant of mental science. He simply said there was no moth. Had he\npossessed the wit, he might still, perhaps, have saved Hapley from his\nfate by entering into his delusion, and covering his face with gauze, as\nhe prayed might be done. But, as I say, the doctor was a blockhead, and\nuntil the leg was healed Hapley was kept tied to his bed, and with the\nimaginary moth crawling over him. It never left him while he was awake and\nit grew to a monster in his dreams. While he was awake he longed for\nsleep, and from sleep he awoke screaming.\n\nSo now Hapley is spending the remainder of his days in a padded room,\nworried by a moth that no one else can see. The asylum doctor calls it\nhallucination; but Hapley, when he is in his easier mood, and can talk,\nsays it is the ghost of Pawkins, and consequently a unique specimen and\nwell worth the trouble of catching.\n\n\n\n\n X.\n\n THE TREASURE IN THE FOREST.\n\n\nThe canoe was now approaching the land. The bay opened out, and a gap in\nthe white surf of the reef marked where the little river ran out to the\nsea; the thicker and deeper green of the virgin forest showed its course\ndown the distant hill slope. The forest here came close to the beach. Far\nbeyond, dim and almost cloudlike in texture, rose the mountains, like\nsuddenly frozen waves. The sea was still save for an almost imperceptible\nswell. The sky blazed.\n\nThe man with the carved paddle stopped. \"It should be somewhere here,\" he\nsaid. He shipped the paddle and held his arms out straight before him.\n\nThe other man had been in the fore part of the canoe, closely scrutinising\nthe land. He had a sheet of yellow paper on his knee.\n\n\"Come and look at this, Evans,\" he said.\n\nBoth men spoke in low tones, and their lips were hard and dry.\n\nThe man called Evans came swaying along the canoe until he could look over\nhis companion's shoulder.\n\nThe paper had the appearance of a rough map. By much folding it was\ncreased and worn to the pitch of separation, and the second man held the\ndiscoloured fragments together where they had parted. On it one could\ndimly make out, in almost obliterated pencil, the outline of the bay.\n\n\"Here,\" said Evans, \"is the reef, and here is the gap.\" He ran his\nthumb-nail over the chart.\n\n\"This curved and twisting line is the river--I could do with a drink\nnow!--and this star is the place.\"\n\n\"You see this dotted line,\" said the man with the map; \"it is a straight\nline, and runs from the opening of the reef to a clump of palm-trees. The\nstar comes just where it cuts the river. We must mark the place as we go\ninto the lagoon.\"\n\n\"It's queer,\" said Evans, after a pause, \"what these little marks down\nhere are for. It looks like the plan of a house or something; but what all\nthese little dashes, pointing this way and that, may mean I can't get a\nnotion. And what's the writing?\"\n\n\"Chinese,\" said the man with the map.\n\n\"Of course! _He_ was a Chinee,\" said Evans.\n\n\"They all were,\" said the man with the map.\n\nThey both sat for some minutes staring at the land, while the canoe\ndrifted slowly. Then Evans looked towards the paddle.\n\n\"Your turn with the paddle now, Hooker,\" said he.\n\nAnd his companion quietly folded up his map, put it in his pocket, passed\nEvans carefully, and began to paddle. His movements were languid, like\nthose of a man whose strength was nearly exhausted.\n\nEvans sat with his eyes half closed, watching the frothy breakwater of the\ncoral creep nearer and nearer. The sky was like a furnace, for the sun was\nnear the zenith. Though they were so near the Treasure he did not feel the\nexaltation he had anticipated. The intense excitement of the struggle for\nthe plan, and the long night voyage from the mainland in the unprovisioned\ncanoe had, to use his own expression, \"taken it out of him.\" He tried to\narouse himself by directing his mind to the ingots the Chinamen had spoken\nof, but it would not rest there; it came back headlong to the thought of\nsweet water rippling in the river, and to the almost unendurable dryness\nof his lips and throat. The rhythmic wash of the sea upon the reef was\nbecoming audible now, and it had a pleasant sound in his ears; the water\nwashed along the side of the canoe, and the paddle dripped between each\nstroke. Presently he began to doze.\n\nHe was still dimly conscious of the island, but a queer dream texture\ninterwove with his sensations. Once again it was the night when he and\nHooker had hit upon the Chinamen's secret; he saw the moonlit trees, the\nlittle fire burning, and the black figures of the three Chinamen--silvered\non one side by moonlight, and on the other glowing from the firelight--and\nheard them talking together in pigeon-English--for they came from\ndifferent provinces. Hooker had caught the drift of their talk first, and\nhad motioned to him to listen. Fragments of the conversation were\ninaudible, and fragments incomprehensible. A Spanish galleon from the\nPhilippines hopelessly aground, and its treasure buried against the day of\nreturn, lay in the background of the story; a shipwrecked crew thinned by\ndisease, a quarrel or so, and the needs of discipline, and at last taking\nto their boats never to be heard of again. Then Chang-hi, only a year\nsince, wandering ashore, had happened upon the ingots hidden for two\nhundred years, had deserted his junk, and reburied them with infinite\ntoil, single-handed but very safe. He laid great stress on the safety--it\nwas a secret of his. Now he wanted help to return and exhume them.\nPresently the little map fluttered and the voices sank. A fine story for\ntwo, stranded British wastrels to hear! Evans' dream shifted to the moment\nwhen he had Chang-hi's pigtail in his hand. The life of a Chinaman is\nscarcely sacred like a European's. The cunning little face of Chang-hi,\nfirst keen and furious like a startled snake, and then fearful,\ntreacherous, and pitiful, became overwhelmingly prominent in the dream. At\nthe end Chang-hi had grinned, a most incomprehensible and startling grin.\nAbruptly things became very unpleasant, as they will do at times in\ndreams. Chang-hi gibbered and threatened him. He saw in his dream heaps\nand heaps of gold, and Chang-hi intervening and struggling to hold him\nback from it. He took Chang-hi by the pig-tail--how big the yellow brute\nwas, and how he struggled and grinned! He kept growing bigger, too. Then\nthe bright heaps of gold turned to a roaring furnace, and a vast devil,\nsurprisingly like Chang-hi, but with a huge black tail, began to feed him\nwith coals. They burnt his mouth horribly. Another devil was shouting his\nname: \"Evans, Evans, you sleepy fool!\"--or was it Hooker?\n\nHe woke up. They were in the mouth of the lagoon.\n\n\"There are the three palm-trees. It must be in a line with that clump of\nbushes,\" said his companion. \"Mark that. If we, go to those bushes and\nthen strike into the bush in a straight line from here, we shall come to\nit when we come to the stream.\"\n\nThey could see now where the mouth of the stream opened out. At the sight\nof it Evans revived. \"Hurry up, man,\" he said, \"or by heaven I shall have\nto drink sea water!\" He gnawed his hand and stared at the gleam of silver\namong the rocks and green tangle.\n\nPresently he turned almost fiercely upon Hooker. \"Give _me_ the\npaddle,\" he said.\n\nSo they reached the river mouth. A little way up Hooker took some water in\nthe hollow of his hand, tasted it, and spat it out. A little further he\ntried again. \"This will do,\" he said, and they began drinking eagerly.\n\n\"Curse this!\" said Evans suddenly. \"It's too slow.\" And, leaning\ndangerously over the fore part of the canoe, he began to suck up the water\nwith his lips.\n\nPresently they made an end of drinking, and, running the canoe into a\nlittle creek, were about to land among the thick growth that overhung the\nwater.\n\n\"We shall have to scramble through this to the beach to find our bushes\nand get the line to the place,\" said Evans.\n\n\"We had better paddle round,\" said Hooker.\n\nSo they pushed out again into the river and paddled back down it to the\nsea, and along the shore to the place where the clump of bushes grew. Here\nthey landed, pulled the light canoe far up the beach, and then went up\ntowards the edge of the jungle until they could see the opening of the\nreef and the bushes in a straight line. Evans had taken a native implement\nout of the canoe. It was L-shaped, and the transverse piece was armed with\npolished stone. Hooker carried the paddle. \"It is straight now in this\ndirection,\" said he; \"we must push through this till we strike the stream.\nThen we must prospect.\"\n\nThey pushed through a close tangle of reeds, broad fronds, and young\ntrees, and at first it was toilsome going, but very speedily the trees\nbecame larger and the ground beneath them opened out. The blaze of the\nsunlight was replaced by insensible degrees by cool shadow. The trees\nbecame at last vast pillars that rose up to a canopy of greenery far\noverhead. Dim white flowers hung from their stems, and ropy creepers swung\nfrom tree to tree. The shadow deepened. On the ground, blotched fungi and\na red-brown incrustation became frequent.\n\nEvans shivered. \"It seems almost cold here after the blaze outside.\"\n\n\"I hope we are keeping to the straight,\" said Hooker.\n\nPresently they saw, far ahead, a gap in the sombre darkness where white\nshafts of hot sunlight smote into the forest. There also was brilliant\ngreen undergrowth and coloured flowers. Then they heard the rush of water.\n\n\"Here is the river. We should be close to it now,\" said Hooker.\n\nThe vegetation was thick by the river bank. Great plants, as yet unnamed,\ngrew among the roots of the big trees, and spread rosettes of huge green\nfans towards the strip of sky. Many flowers and a creeper with shiny\nfoliage clung to the exposed stems. On the water of the broad, quiet pool\nwhich the treasure-seekers now overlooked there floated big oval leaves\nand a waxen, pinkish-white flower not unlike a water-lily. Further, as the\nriver bent away from them, the water suddenly frothed and became noisy in\na rapid.\n\n\"Well?\" said Evans.\n\n\"We have swerved a little from the straight,\" said Hooker. \"That was to be\nexpected.\"\n\nHe turned and looked into the dim cool shadows of the silent forest behind\nthem. \"If we beat a little way up and down the stream we should come to\nsomething.\"\n\n\"You said--\" began Evans.\n\n\"_He_ said there was a heap of stones,\" said Hooker.\n\nThe two men looked at each other for a moment.\n\n\"Let us try a little down-stream first,\" said Evans.\n\nThey advanced slowly, looking curiously about them. Suddenly Evans\nstopped. \"What the devil's that?\" he said.\n\nHooker followed his finger. \"Something blue,\" he said. It had come into\nview as they topped a gentle swell of the ground. Then he began to\ndistinguish what it was.\n\nHe advanced suddenly with hasty steps, until the body that belonged to the\nlimp hand and arm had become visible. His grip tightened on the implement\nhe carried. The thing was the figure of a Chinaman lying on his face. The\n_abandon_ of the pose was unmistakable.\n\nThe two men drew closer together, and stood staring silently at this\nominous dead body. It lay in a clear space among the trees. Near by was a\nspade after the Chinese pattern, and further off lay a scattered heap of\nstones, close to a freshly dug hole.\n\n\"Somebody has been here before,\" said Hooker, clearing his throat.\n\nThen suddenly Evans began to swear and rave, and stamp upon the ground.\n\nHooker turned white but said nothing. He advanced towards the prostrate\nbody. He saw the neck was puffed and purple, and the hands and ankles\nswollen. \"Pah!\" he said, and suddenly turned away and went towards the\nexcavation. He gave a cry of surprise. He shouted to Evans, who was\nfollowing him slowly.\n\n\"You fool! It's all right. It's here still.\" Then he turned again and\nlooked at the dead Chinaman, and then again at the hole.\n\nEvans hurried to the hole. Already half exposed by the ill-fated wretch\nbeside them lay a number of dull yellow bars. He bent down in the hole,\nand, clearing off the soil with his bare hands, hastily pulled one of the\nheavy masses out. As he did so a little thorn pricked his hand. He pulled\nthe delicate spike out with his fingers and lifted the ingot.\n\n\"Only gold or lead could weigh like this,\" he said exultantly.\n\nHooker was still looking at the dead Chinaman. He was puzzled.\n\n\"He stole a march on his friends,\" he said at last. \"He came here alone,\nand some poisonous snake has killed him... I wonder how he found the\nplace.\"\n\nEvans stood with the ingot in his hands. What did a dead Chinaman signify?\n\"We shall have to take this stuff to the mainland piecemeal, and bury it\nthere for a while. How shall we get it to the canoe?\"\n\nHe took his jacket off and spread it on the ground, and flung two or three\ningots into it. Presently he found that another little thorn had punctured\nhis skin.\n\n\"This is as much as we can carry,\" said he. Then suddenly, with a queer\nrush of irritation, \"What are you staring at?\"\n\nHooker turned to him. \"I can't stand him ...\" He nodded towards the\ncorpse. \"It's so like----\"\n\n\"Rubbish!\" said Evans. \"All Chinamen are alike.\"\n\nHooker looked into his face. \"I'm going to bury _that_, anyhow,\nbefore I lend a hand with this stuff.\"\n\n\"Don't be a fool, Hooker,\" said Evans, \"Let that mass of corruption bide.\"\n\nHooker hesitated, and then his eye went carefully over the brown soil\nabout them. \"It scares me somehow,\" he said.\n\n\"The thing is,\" said Evans, \"what to do with these ingots. Shall we\nre-bury them over here, or take them across the strait in the canoe?\"\n\nHooker thought. His puzzled gaze wandered among the tall tree-trunks, and\nup into the remote sunlit greenery overhead. He shivered again as his eye\nrested upon the blue figure of the Chinaman. He stared searchingly among\nthe grey depths between the trees.\n\n\"What's come to you, Hooker?\" said Evans. \"Have you lost your wits?\"\n\n\"Let's get the gold out of this place, anyhow,\" said Hooker.\n\nHe took the ends of the collar of the coat in his hands, and Evans took\nthe opposite corners, and they lifted the mass. \"Which way?\" said Evans.\n\"To the canoe?\"\n\n\"It's queer,\" said Evans, when they had advanced only a few steps, \"but my\narms ache still with that paddling.\"\n\n\"Curse it!\" he said. \"But they ache! I must rest.\"\n\nThey let the coat down, Evans' face was white, and little drops of sweat\nstood out upon his forehead. \"It's stuffy, somehow, in this forest.\"\n\nThen with an abrupt transition to unreasonable anger: \"What is the good of\nwaiting here all the day? Lend a hand, I say! You have done nothing but\nmoon since we saw the dead Chinaman.\"\n\nHooker was looking steadfastly at his companion's face. He helped raise\nthe coat bearing the ingots, and they went forward perhaps a hundred yards\nin silence. Evans began to breathe heavily. \"Can't you speak?\" he said.\n\n\"What's the matter with you?\" said Hooker.\n\nEvans stumbled, and then with a sudden curse flung the coat from him. He\nstood for a moment staring at Hooker, and then with a groan clutched at\nhis own throat.\n\n\"Don't come near me,\" he said, and went and leant against a tree. Then in\na steadier voice, \"I'll be better in a minute.\"\n\nPresently his grip upon the trunk loosened, and he slipped slowly down the\nstem of the tree until he was a crumpled heap at its foot. His hands were\nclenched convulsively. His face became distorted with pain. Hooker\napproached him.\n\n\"Don't touch me! Don't touch me!\" said Evans in a stifled voice. \"Put the\ngold back on the coat.\"\n\n\"Can't I do anything for you?\" said Hooker.\n\n\"Put the gold back on the coat.\"\n\nAs Hooker handled the ingots he felt a little prick on the ball of his\nthumb. He looked at his hand and saw a slender thorn, perhaps two inches\nin length.\n\nEvans gave an inarticulate cry and rolled over.\n\nHooker's jaw dropped. He stared at the thorn for a moment with dilated\neyes. Then he looked at Evans, who was now crumpled together on the\nground, his back bending and straightening spasmodically. Then he looked\nthrough the pillars of the trees and net-work of creeper stems, to where\nin the dim grey shadow the blue-clad body of the Chinaman was still\nindistinctly visible. He thought of the little dashes in the corner of the\nplan, and in a moment he understood.\n\n\"God help me!\" he said. For the thorns were similar to those the Dyaks\npoison and use in their blowing-tubes. He understood now what Chang-hi's\nassurance of the safety of his treasure meant. He understood that grin\nnow.\n\n\"Evans!\" he cried.\n\nBut Evans was silent and motionless, save for a horrible spasmodic\ntwitching of his limbs. A profound silence brooded over the forest.\n\nThen Hooker began to suck furiously at the little pink spot on the ball of\nhis thumb--sucking for dear life. Presently he felt a strange aching pain\nin his arms and shoulders, and his fingers seemed difficult to bend. Then\nhe knew that sucking was no good.\n\nAbruptly he stopped, and sitting down by the pile of ingots, and resting\nhis chin upon his hands and his elbows upon his knees, stared at the\ndistorted but still quivering body of his companion. Chang-hi's grin came\ninto his mind again. The dull pain spread towards his throat and grew\nslowly in intensity. Far above him a faint breeze stirred the greenery,\nand the white petals of some unknown flower came floating down through the\ngloom.\n\n\n\n\n XI.\n\n THE STORY OF THE LATE MR. ELVESHAM.\n\n\nI set this story down, not expecting it will be believed, but, if\npossible, to prepare a way of escape for the next victim. He, perhaps, may\nprofit by my misfortune. My own case, I know, is hopeless, and I am now in\nsome measure prepared to meet my fate.\n\nMy name is Edward George Eden. I was born at Trentham, in Staffordshire,\nmy father being employed in the gardens there. I lost my mother when I was\nthree years old, and my father when I was five, my uncle, George Eden,\nthen adopting me as his own son. He was a single man, self-educated, and\nwell-known in Birmingham as an enterprising journalist; he educated me\ngenerously, fired my ambition to succeed in the world, and at his death,\nwhich happened four years ago, left me his entire fortune, a matter of\nabout five hundred pounds after all outgoing charges were paid. I was then\neighteen. He advised me in his will to expend the money in completing my\neducation. I had already chosen the profession of medicine, and through\nhis posthumous generosity and my good fortune in a scholarship\ncompetition, I became a medical student at University College, London. At\nthe time of the beginning of my story I lodged at 11A University Street in\na little upper room, very shabbily furnished and draughty, overlooking the\nback of Shoolbred's premises. I used this little room both to live in and\nsleep in, because I was anxious to eke out my means to the very last\nshillings-worth.\n\nI was taking a pair of shoes to be mended at a shop in the Tottenham Court\nRoad when I first encountered the little old man with the yellow face,\nwith whom my life has now become so inextricably entangled. He was\nstanding on the kerb, and staring at the number on the door in a doubtful\nway, as I opened it. His eyes--they were dull grey eyes, and reddish under\nthe rims--fell to my face, and his countenance immediately assumed an\nexpression of corrugated amiability.\n\n\"You come,\" he said, \"apt to the moment. I had forgotten the number of\nyour house. How do you do, Mr. Eden?\"\n\nI was a little astonished at his familiar address, for I had never set\neyes on the man before. I was a little annoyed, too, at his catching me\nwith my boots under my arm. He noticed my lack of cordiality.\n\n\"Wonder who the deuce I am, eh? A friend, let me assure you. I have seen\nyou before, though you haven't seen me. Is there anywhere where I can talk\nto you?\"\n\nI hesitated. The shabbiness of my room upstairs was not a matter for every\nstranger. \"Perhaps,\" said I, \"we might walk down the street. I'm\nunfortunately prevented--\" My gesture explained the sentence before I had\nspoken it.\n\n\"The very thing,\" he said, and faced this way, and then that. \"The street?\nWhich way shall we go?\" I slipped my boots down in the passage. \"Look\nhere!\" he said abruptly; \"this business of mine is a rigmarole. Come and\nlunch with me, Mr. Eden. I'm an old man, a very old man, and not good at\nexplanations, and what with my piping voice and the clatter of the\ntraffic----\"\n\nHe laid a persuasive skinny hand that trembled a little upon my arm.\n\nI was not so old that an old man might not treat me to a lunch. Yet at the\nsame time I was not altogether pleased by this abrupt invitation. \"I had\nrather----\" I began. \"But I had rather,\" he said, catching me up, \"and a\ncertain civility is surely due to my grey hairs.\"\n\nAnd so I consented, and went with him.\n\nHe took me to Blavitiski's; I had to walk slowly to accommodate myself to\nhis paces; and over such a lunch as I had never tasted before, he fended\noff my leading question, and I took a better note of his appearance. His\nclean-shaven face was lean and wrinkled, his shrivelled, lips fell over a\nset of false teeth, and his white hair was thin and rather long; he seemed\nsmall to me,--though indeed, most people seemed small to me,--and his\nshoulders were rounded and bent. And watching him, I could not help but\nobserve that he too was taking note of me, running his eyes, with a\ncurious touch of greed in them, over me, from my broad shoulders to my\nsuntanned hands, and up to my freckled face again. \"And now,\" said he, as\nwe lit our cigarettes, \"I must tell you of the business in hand.\n\n\"I must tell you, then, that I am an old man, a very old man.\" He paused\nmomentarily. \"And it happens that I have money that I must presently be\nleaving, and never a child have I to leave it to.\" I thought of the\nconfidence trick, and resolved I would be on the alert for the vestiges of\nmy five hundred pounds. He proceeded to enlarge on his loneliness, and the\ntrouble he had to find a proper disposition of his money. \"I have weighed\nthis plan and that plan, charities, institutions, and scholarships, and\nlibraries, and I have come to this conclusion at last,\"--he fixed his eyes\non my face,--\"that I will find some young fellow, ambitious, pure-minded,\nand poor, healthy in body and healthy in mind, and, in short, make him my\nheir, give him all that I have.\" He repeated, \"Give him all that I have.\nSo that he will suddenly be lifted out of all the trouble and struggle in\nwhich his sympathies have been educated, to freedom and influence.\"\n\nI tried to seem disinterested. With a transparent hypocrisy I said, \"And\nyou want my help, my professional services maybe, to find that person.\"\n\nHe smiled, and looked at me over his cigarette, and I laughed at his quiet\nexposure of my modest pretence.\n\n\"What a career such a man might have!\" he said. \"It fills me with envy to\nthink how I have accumulated that another man may spend----\n\n\"But there are conditions, of course, burdens to be imposed. He must, for\ninstance, take my name. You cannot expect everything without some return.\nAnd I must go into all the circumstances of his life before I can accept\nhim. He _must_ be sound. I must know his heredity, how his parents\nand grandparents died, have the strictest inquiries made into his private\nmorals.\"\n\nThis modified my secret congratulations a little.\n\n\"And do I understand,\" said I, \"that I----\"\n\n\"Yes,\" he said, almost fiercely. \"You. _You_.\"\n\nI answered never a word. My imagination was dancing wildly, my innate\nscepticism was useless to modify its transports. There was not a particle\nof gratitude in my mind--I did not know what to say nor how to say it.\n\"But why me in particular?\" I said at last.\n\nHe had chanced to hear of me from Professor Haslar; he said, as a\ntypically sound and sane young man, and he wished, as far as possible, to\nleave his money where health and integrity were assured.\n\nThat was my first meeting with the little old man. He was mysterious about\nhimself; he would not give his name yet, he said, and after I had answered\nsome questions of his, he left me at the Blavitiski portal. I noticed that\nhe drew a handful of gold coins from his pocket when it came to paying for\nthe lunch. His insistence upon bodily health was curious. In accordance\nwith an arrangement we had made I applied that day for a life policy in\nthe Loyal Insurance Company for a large sum, and I was exhaustively\noverhauled by the medical advisers of that company in the subsequent week.\nEven that did not satisfy him, and he insisted I must be re-examined by\nthe great Doctor Henderson.\n\nIt was Friday in Whitsun week before he came to a decision. He called me\ndown, quite late in the evening,--nearly nine it was,--from cramming\nchemical equations for my Preliminary Scientific examination. He was\nstanding in the passage under the feeble gas-lamp, and his face was a\ngrotesque interplay of shadows. He seemed more bowed than when I had first\nseen him, and his cheeks had sunk in a little.\n\nHis voice shook with emotion. \"Everything is satisfactory, Mr. Eden,\" he\nsaid. \"Everything is quite, quite satisfactory. And this night of all\nnights, you must dine with me and celebrate your--accession.\" He was\ninterrupted by a cough. \"You won't have long to wait, either,\" he said,\nwiping his handkerchief across his lips, and gripping my hand with his\nlong bony claw that was disengaged. \"Certainly not very long to wait.\"\n\nWe went into the street and called a cab. I remember every incident of\nthat drive vividly, the swift, easy motion, the vivid contrast of gas and\noil and electric light, the crowds of people in the streets, the place in\nRegent Street to which we went, and the sumptuous dinner we were served\nwith there. I was disconcerted at first by the well-dressed waiter's\nglances at my rough clothes, bothered by the stones of the olives, but as\nthe champagne warmed my blood, my confidence revived. At first the old man\ntalked of himself. He had already told me his name in the cab; he was\nEgbert Elvesham, the great philosopher, whose name I had known since I was\na lad at school. It seemed incredible to me that this man, whose\nintelligence had so early dominated mine, this great abstraction, should\nsuddenly realise itself as this decrepit, familiar figure. I daresay every\nyoung fellow who has suddenly fallen among celebrities has felt something\nof my disappointment. He told me now of the future that the feeble streams\nof his life would presently leave dry for me, houses, copyrights,\ninvestments; I had never suspected that philosophers were so rich. He\nwatched me drink and eat with a touch of envy. \"What a capacity for living\nyou have!\" he said; and then with a sigh, a sigh of relief I could have\nthought it, \"it will not be long.\"\n\n\"Ay,\" said I, my head swimming now with champagne; \"I have a future\nperhaps--of a passing agreeable sort, thanks to you. I shall now have the\nhonour of your name. But you have a past. Such a past as is worth all my\nfuture.\"\n\nHe shook his head and smiled, as I thought, with half sad appreciation of\nmy flattering admiration. \"That future,\" he said, \"would you in truth\nchange it?\" The waiter came with liqueurs. \"You will not perhaps mind\ntaking my name, taking my position, but would you indeed--willingly--take\nmy years?\"\n\n\"With your achievements,\" said I gallantly.\n\nHe smiled again. \"Kummel--both,\" he said to the waiter, and turned his\nattention to a little paper packet he had taken from his pocket. \"This\nhour,\" said he, \"this after-dinner hour is the hour of small things. Here\nis a scrap of my unpublished wisdom.\" He opened the packet with his\nshaking yellow fingers, and showed a little pinkish powder on the paper.\n\"This,\" said he--\"well, you must guess what it is. But Kummel--put but a\ndash of this powder in it--is Himmel.\"\n\nHis large greyish eyes watched mine with an inscrutable expression.\n\nIt was a bit of a shock to me to find this great teacher gave his mind to\nthe flavour of liqueurs. However, I feigned an interest in his weakness,\nfor I was drunk enough for such small sycophancy.\n\nHe parted the powder between the little glasses, and, rising suddenly,\nwith a strange unexpected dignity, held out his hand towards me. I\nimitated his action, and the glasses rang. \"To a quick succession,\" said\nhe, and raised his glass towards his lips.\n\n\"Not that,\" I said hastily. \"Not that.\"\n\nHe paused with the liqueur at the level of his chin, and his eyes blazing\ninto mine.\n\n\"To a long life,\" said I.\n\nHe hesitated. \"To a long life,\" said he, with a sudden bark of laughter,\nand with eyes fixed on one another we tilted the little glasses. His eyes\nlooked straight into mine, and as I drained the stuff off, I felt a\ncuriously intense sensation. The first touch of it set my brain in a\nfurious tumult; I seemed to feel an actual physical stirring in my skull,\nand a seething humming filled my ears. I did not notice the flavour in my\nmouth, the aroma that filled my throat; I saw only the grey intensity of\nhis gaze that burnt into mine. The draught, the mental confusion, the\nnoise and stirring in my head, seemed to last an interminable time.\nCurious vague impressions of half-forgotten things danced and vanished on\nthe edge of my consciousness. At last he broke the spell. With a sudden\nexplosive sigh he put down his glass.\n\n\"Well?\" he said.\n\n\"It's glorious,\" said I, though I had not tasted the stuff.\n\nMy head was spinning. I sat down. My brain was chaos. Then my perception\ngrew clear and minute as though I saw things in a concave mirror. His\nmanner seemed to have changed into something nervous and hasty. He pulled\nout his watch and grimaced at it. \"Eleven-seven! And to-night I must--\nSeven-twenty-five. Waterloo! I must go at once.\" He called for the bill,\nand struggled with his coat. Officious waiters came to our assistance. In\nanother moment I was wishing him good-bye, over the apron of a cab, and\nstill with an absurd feeling of minute distinctness, as though--how can I\nexpress it?--I not only saw but _felt_ through an inverted\nopera-glass.\n\n\"That stuff,\" he said. He put his hand to his forehead. \"I ought not to\nhave given it to you. It will make your head split to-morrow. Wait a\nminute. Here.\" He handed me out a little flat thing like a seidlitz-powder.\n\"Take that in water as you are going to bed. The other thing was a\ndrug. Not till you're ready to go to bed, mind. It will clear your head.\nThat's all. One more shake--Futurus!\"\n\nI gripped his shrivelled claw. \"Good-bye,\" he said, and by the droop of\nhis eyelids I judged he too was a little under the influence of that\nbrain-twisting cordial.\n\nHe recollected something else with a start, felt in his breast-pocket, and\nproduced another packet, this time a cylinder the size and shape of a\nshaving-stick. \"Here,\" said he. \"I'd almost forgotten. Don't open this\nuntil I come to-morrow--but take it now.\"\n\nIt was so heavy that I wellnigh dropped it. \"All ri'!\" said I, and he\ngrinned at me through the cab window as the cabman flicked his horse into\nwakefulness. It was a white packet he had given me, with red seals at\neither end and along its edge. \"If this isn't money,\" said I, \"it's\nplatinum or lead.\"\n\nI stuck it with elaborate care into my pocket, and with a whirling brain\nwalked home through the Regent Street loiterers and the dark back streets\nbeyond Portland Road. I remember the sensations of that walk very vividly,\nstrange as they were. I was still so far myself that I could notice my\nstrange mental state, and wonder whether this stuff I had had was opium--a\ndrug beyond my experience. It is hard now to describe the peculiarity of\nmy mental strangeness--mental doubling vaguely expresses it. As I was\nwalking up Regent Street I found in my mind a queer persuasion that it\nwas Waterloo Station, and had an odd impulse to get into the Polytechnic\nas a man might get into a train. I put a knuckle in my eye, and it was\nRegent Street. How can I express it? You see a skilful actor looking\nquietly at you, he pulls a grimace, and lo!--another person. Is it too\nextravagant if I tell you that it seemed to me as if Regent Street had,\nfor the moment, done that? Then, being persuaded it was Regent Street\nagain, I was oddly muddled about some fantastic reminiscences that cropped\nup. \"Thirty years ago,\" thought I, \"it was here that I quarrelled with my\nbrother.\" Then I burst out laughing, to the astonishment and encouragement\nof a group of night prowlers. Thirty years ago I did not exist, and never\nin my life had I boasted a brother. The stuff was surely liquid folly, for\nthe poignant regret for that lost brother still clung to me. Along\nPortland Road the madness took another turn. I began to recall vanished\nshops, and to compare the street with what it used to be. Confused,\ntroubled thinking is comprehensible enough after the drink I had taken,\nbut what puzzled me were these curiously vivid phantasm memories that had\ncrept into my mind, and not only the memories that had crept in, but also\nthe memories that had slipped out. I stopped opposite Stevens', the\nnatural history dealer's, and cudgelled my brains to think what he had to\ndo with me. A 'bus went by, and sounded exactly like the rumbling of a\ntrain. I seemed to be dipping into some dark, remote pit for the\nrecollection. \"Of course,\" said I, at last, \"he has promised me three\nfrogs to-morrow. Odd I should have forgotten.\"\n\nDo they still show children dissolving views? In those I remember one view\nwould begin like a faint ghost, and grow and oust another. In just that\nway it seemed to me that a ghostly set of new sensations was struggling\nwith those of my ordinary self.\n\nI went on through Euston Road to Tottenham Court Road, puzzled, and a\nlittle frightened, and scarcely noticed the unusual way I was taking, for\ncommonly I used to cut through the intervening network of back streets. I\nturned into University Street, to discover that I had forgotten my number.\nOnly by a strong effort did I recall 11A, and even then it seemed to me\nthat it was a thing some forgotten person had told me. I tried to steady\nmy mind by recalling the incidents of the dinner, and for the life of me I\ncould conjure up no picture of my host's face; I saw him only as a shadowy\noutline, as one might see oneself reflected in a window through which one\nwas looking. In his place, however, I had a curious exterior vision of\nmyself, sitting at a table, flushed, bright-eyed, and talkative.\n\n\"I must take this other powder,\" said I. \"This is getting impossible.\"\n\nI tried the wrong side of the hall for my candle and the matches, and had\na doubt of which landing my room might be on. \"I'm drunk,\" I said, \"that's\ncertain,\" and blundered needlessly on the staircase to sustain the\nproposition.\n\nAt the first glance my room seemed unfamiliar. \"What rot!\" I said, and\nstared about me. I seemed to bring myself back by the effort, and the odd\nphantasmal quality passed into the concrete familiar. There was the old\nglass still, with my notes on the albumens stuck in the corner of the\nframe, my old everyday suit of clothes pitched about the floor. And yet it\nwas not so real after all. I felt an idiotic persuasion trying to creep\ninto my mind, as it were, that I was in a railway carriage in a train just\nstopping, that I was peering out of the window at some unknown station. I\ngripped the bed-rail firmly to reassure myself. \"It's clairvoyance,\nperhaps,\" I said. \"I must write to the Psychical Research Society.\"\n\nI put the rouleau on my dressing-table, sat on my bed, and began to take\noff my boots. It was as if the picture of my present sensations was\npainted over some other picture that was trying to show through. \"Curse\nit!\" said I; \"my wits are going, or am I in two places at once?\"\nHalf-undressed, I tossed the powder into a glass and drank it off. It\neffervesced, and became a fluorescent amber colour. Before I was in bed\nmy mind was already tranquillised. I felt the pillow at my cheek, and\nthereupon I must have fallen asleep.\n\n * * * * *\n\nI awoke abruptly out of a dream of strange beasts, and found myself lying\non my back. Probably every one knows that dismal, emotional dream from\nwhich one escapes, awake indeed, but strangely cowed. There was a curious\ntaste in my mouth, a tired feeling in my limbs, a sense of cutaneous\ndiscomfort. I lay with my head motionless on my pillow, expecting that my\nfeeling of strangeness and terror would pass away, and that I should then\ndoze off again to sleep. But instead of that, my uncanny sensations\nincreased. At first I could perceive nothing wrong about me. There was a\nfaint light in the room, so faint that it was the very next thing to\ndarkness, and the furniture stood out in it as vague blots of absolute\ndarkness. I stared with my eyes just over the bedclothes.\n\nIt came into my mind that some one had entered the room to rob me of my\nrouleau of money, but after lying for some moments, breathing regularly to\nsimulate sleep, I realised this was mere fancy. Nevertheless, the uneasy\nassurance of something wrong kept fast hold of me. With an effort I raised\nmy head from the pillow, and peered about me at the dark. What it was I\ncould not conceive. I looked at the dim shapes around me, the greater and\nlesser darknesses that indicated curtains, table, fireplace, bookshelves,\nand so forth. Then I began to perceive something unfamiliar in the forms\nof the darkness. Had the bed turned round? Yonder should be the\nbookshelves, and something shrouded and pallid rose there, something that\nwould not answer to the bookshelves, however I looked at it. It was far\ntoo big to be my shirt thrown on a chair.\n\nOvercoming a childish terror, I threw back the bedclothes and thrust my\nleg out of bed. Instead of coming out of my truckle-bed upon the floor, I\nfound my foot scarcely reached the edge of the mattress. I made another\nstep, as it were, and sat up on the edge of the bed. By the side of my bed\nshould be the candle, and the matches upon the broken chair. I put out my\nhand and touched--nothing. I waved my hand in the darkness, and it came\nagainst some heavy hanging, soft and thick in texture, which gave a\nrustling noise at my touch. I grasped this and pulled it; it appeared to\nbe a curtain suspended over the head of my bed.\n\nI was now thoroughly awake, and beginning to realise that I was in a\nstrange room. I was puzzled. I tried to recall the overnight\ncircumstances, and I found them now, curiously enough, vivid in my memory:\nthe supper, my reception of the little packages, my wonder whether I was\nintoxicated, my slow undressing, the coolness to my flushed face of my\npillow. I felt a sudden distrust. Was that last night, or the night\nbefore? At any rate, this room was strange to me, and I could not imagine\nhow I had got into it. The dim, pallid outline was growing paler, and I\nperceived it was a window, with the dark shape of an oval toilet-glass\nagainst the weak intimation of the dawn that filtered through the blind. I\nstood up, and was surprised by a curious feeling of weakness and\nunsteadiness. With trembling hands outstretched, I walked slowly towards\nthe window, getting, nevertheless, a bruise on the knee from a chair by\nthe way. I fumbled round the glass, which was large, with handsome brass\nsconces, to find the blind cord. I could not find any. By chance I took\nhold of the tassel, and with the click of a spring the blind ran up.\n\nI found myself looking out upon a scene that was altogether strange to me.\nThe night was overcast, and through the flocculent grey of the heaped\nclouds there filtered a faint half-light of dawn. Just at the edge of the\nsky the cloud-canopy had a blood-red rim. Below, everything was dark and\nindistinct, dim hills in the distance, a vague mass of buildings running\nup into pinnacles, trees like spilt ink, and below the window a tracery of\nblack bushes and pale grey paths. It was so unfamiliar that for the moment\nI thought myself still dreaming. I felt the toilet-table; it appeared to\nbe made of some polished wood, and was rather elaborately furnished--there\nwere little cut-glass bottles and a brush upon it. There was also a queer\nlittle object, horse-shoe shape it felt, with smooth, hard projections,\nlying in a saucer. I could find no matches nor candlestick.\n\nI turned my eyes to the room again. Now the blind was up, faint spectres\nof its furnishing came out of the darkness. There was a huge curtained\nbed, and the fireplace at its foot had a large white mantel with something\nof the shimmer of marble.\n\nI leant against the toilet-table, shut my eyes and opened them again, and\ntried to think. The whole thing was far too real for dreaming. I was\ninclined to imagine there was still some hiatus in my memory, as a\nconsequence of my draught of that strange liqueur; that I had come into my\ninheritance perhaps, and suddenly lost my recollection of everything since\nmy good fortune had been announced. Perhaps if I waited a little, things\nwould be clearer to me again. Yet my dinner with old Elvesham was now\nsingularly vivid and recent. The champagne, the observant waiters, the\npowder, and the liqueurs--I could have staked my soul it all happened a\nfew hours ago.\n\nAnd then occurred a thing so trivial and yet so terrible to me that I\nshiver now to think of that moment. I spoke aloud. I said, \"How the devil\ndid I get here?\" ... _And the voice was not my own_.\n\nIt was not my own, it was thin, the articulation was slurred, the\nresonance of my facial bones was different. Then, to reassure myself I ran\none hand over the other, and felt loose folds of skin, the bony laxity of\nage. \"Surely,\" I said, in that horrible voice that had somehow established\nitself in my throat, \"surely this thing is a dream!\" Almost as quickly as\nif I did it involuntarily, I thrust my fingers into my mouth. My teeth\nhad gone. My finger-tips ran on the flaccid surface of an even row of\nshrivelled gums. I was sick with dismay and disgust.\n\nI felt then a passionate desire to see myself, to realise at once in its\nfull horror the ghastly change that had come upon me. I tottered to the\nmantel, and felt along it for matches. As I did so, a barking cough sprang\nup in my throat, and I clutched the thick flannel nightdress I found about\nme. There were no matches there, and I suddenly realised that my\nextremities were cold. Sniffing and coughing, whimpering a little,\nperhaps, I fumbled back to bed. \"It is surely a dream,\" I whispered to\nmyself as I clambered back, \"surely a dream.\" It was a senile repetition.\nI pulled the bedclothes over my shoulders, over my ears, I thrust my\nwithered hand under the pillow, and determined to compose myself to sleep.\nOf course it was a dream. In the morning the dream would be over, and I\nshould wake up strong and vigorous again to my youth and studies. I shut\nmy eyes, breathed regularly, and, finding myself wakeful, began to count\nslowly through the powers of three.\n\nBut the thing I desired would not come. I could not get to sleep. And the\npersuasion of the inexorable reality of the change that had happened to me\ngrew steadily. Presently I found myself with my eyes wide open, the powers\nof three forgotten, and my skinny fingers upon my shrivelled gums, I was,\nindeed, suddenly and abruptly, an old man. I had in some unaccountable\nmanner fallen through my life and come to old age, in some way I had been\ncheated of all the best of my life, of love, of struggle, of strength, and\nhope. I grovelled into the pillow and tried to persuade myself that such\nhallucination was possible. Imperceptibly, steadily, the dawn grew\nclearer.\n\nAt last, despairing of further sleep, I sat up in bed and looked about me.\nA chill twilight rendered the whole chamber visible. It was spacious and\nwell-furnished, better furnished than any room I had ever slept in before.\nA candle and matches became dimly visible upon a little pedestal in a\nrecess. I threw back the bedclothes, and, shivering with the rawness of\nthe early morning, albeit it was summer-time, I got out and lit the\ncandle. Then, trembling horribly, so that the extinguisher rattled on its\nspike, I tottered to the glass and saw--_Elvesham's face_! It was\nnone the less horrible because I had already dimly feared as much. He had\nalready seemed physically weak and pitiful to me, but seen now, dressed\nonly in a coarse flannel nightdress, that fell apart and showed the\nstringy neck, seen now as my own body, I cannot describe its desolate\ndecrepitude. The hollow cheeks, the straggling tail of dirty grey hair,\nthe rheumy bleared eyes, the quivering, shrivelled lips, the lower\ndisplaying a gleam of the pink interior lining, and those horrible dark\ngums showing. You who are mind and body together, at your natural years,\ncannot imagine what this fiendish imprisonment meant to me. To be young\nand full of the desire and energy of youth, and to be caught, and\npresently to be crushed in this tottering ruin of a body...\n\nBut I wander from the course of my story. For some time I must have been\nstunned at this change that had come upon me. It was daylight when I did\nso far gather myself together as to think. In some inexplicable way I had\nbeen changed, though how, short of magic, the thing had been done, I could\nnot say. And as I thought, the diabolical ingenuity of Elvesham came home\nto me. It seemed plain to me that as I found myself in his, so he must be\nin possession of _my_ body, of my strength, that is, and my future.\nBut how to prove it? Then, as I thought, the thing became so incredible,\neven to me, that my mind reeled, and I had to pinch myself, to feel my\ntoothless gums, to see myself in the glass, and touch the things about me,\nbefore I could steady myself to face the facts again. Was all life\nhallucination? Was I indeed Elvesham, and he me? Had I been dreaming of\nEden overnight? Was there any Eden? But if I was Elvesham, I should\nremember where I was on the previous morning, the name of the town in\nwhich I lived, what happened before the dream began. I struggled with my\nthoughts. I recalled the queer doubleness of my memories overnight. But\nnow my mind was clear. Not the ghost of any memories but those proper to\nEden could I raise.\n\n\"This way lies insanity!\" I cried in my piping voice. I staggered to my\nfeet, dragged my feeble, heavy limbs to the washhand-stand, and plunged my\ngrey head into a basin of cold water. Then, towelling myself, I tried\nagain. It was no good. I felt beyond all question that I was indeed Eden,\nnot Elvesham. But Eden in Elvesham's body!\n\nHad I been a man of any other age, I might have given myself up to my fate\nas one enchanted. But in these sceptical days miracles do not pass\ncurrent. Here was some trick of psychology. What a drug and a steady stare\ncould do, a drug and a steady stare, or some similar treatment, could\nsurely undo. Men have lost their memories before. But to exchange memories\nas one does umbrellas! I laughed. Alas! not a healthy laugh, but a\nwheezing, senile titter. I could have fancied old Elvesham laughing at my\nplight, and a gust of petulant anger, unusual to me, swept across my\nfeelings. I began dressing eagerly in the clothes I found lying about on\nthe floor, and only realised when I was dressed that it was an evening\nsuit I had assumed. I opened the wardrobe and found some more ordinary\nclothes, a pair of plaid trousers, and an old-fashioned dressing-gown. I\nput a venerable smoking-cap on my venerable head, and, coughing a little\nfrom my exertions, tottered out upon the landing.\n\nIt was then, perhaps, a quarter to six, and the blinds were closely drawn\nand the house quite silent. The landing was a spacious one, a broad,\nrichly-carpeted staircase went down into the darkness of the hall below,\nand before me a door ajar showed me a writing-desk, a revolving bookcase,\nthe back of a study chair, and a fine array of bound books, shelf upon\nshelf.\n\n\"My study,\" I mumbled, and walked across the landing. Then at the sound of\nmy voice a thought struck me, and I went back to the bedroom and put in\nthe set of false teeth. They slipped in with the ease of old, habit.\n\"That's better,\" said I, gnashing them, and so returned to the study.\n\nThe drawers of the writing-desk were locked. Its revolving top was also\nlocked. I could see no indications of the keys, and there were none in the\npockets of my trousers. I shuffled back at once to the bedroom, and went\nthrough the dress suit, and afterwards the pockets of all the garments I\ncould find. I was very eager, and one might have imagined that burglars\nhad been at work, to see my room when I had done. Not only were there no\nkeys to be found, but not a coin, nor a scrap of paper--save only the\nreceipted bill of the overnight dinner.\n\nA curious weariness asserted itself. I sat down and stared at the garments\nflung here and there, their pockets turned inside out. My first frenzy had\nalready flickered out. Every moment I was beginning to realise the immense\nintelligence of the plans of my enemy, to see more and more clearly the\nhopelessness of my position. With an effort I rose and hurried hobbling\ninto the study again. On the staircase was a housemaid pulling up the\nblinds. She stared, I think, at the expression of my face. I shut the door\nof the study behind me, and, seizing a poker, began an attack upon the\ndesk. That is how they found me. The cover of the desk was split, the lock\nsmashed, the letters torn out of the pigeon-holes, and tossed about the\nroom. In my senile rage I had flung about the pens and other such light\nstationery, and overturned the ink. Moreover, a large vase upon the mantel\nhad got broken--I do not know how. I could find no cheque-book, no money,\nno indications of the slightest use for the recovery of my body. I was\nbattering madly at the drawers, when the butler, backed by two\nwomen-servants, intruded upon me.\n\n * * * * *\n\nThat simply is the story of my change. No one will believe my frantic\nassertions. I am treated as one demented, and even at this moment I am\nunder restraint. But I am sane, absolutely sane, and to prove it I have\nsat down to write this story minutely as the things happened to me. I\nappeal to the reader, whether there is any trace of insanity in the style\nor method, of the story he has been reading. I am a young man locked away\nin an old man's body. But the clear fact is incredible to everyone.\nNaturally I appear demented to those who will not believe this, naturally\nI do not know the names of my secretaries, of the doctors who come to see\nme, of my servants and neighbours, of this town (wherever it is) where I\nfind myself. Naturally I lose myself in my own house, and suffer\ninconveniences of every sort. Naturally I ask the oddest questions.\nNaturally I weep and cry out, and have paroxysms of despair. I have no\nmoney and no cheque-book. The bank will not recognise my signature, for I\nsuppose that, allowing for the feeble muscles I now have, my handwriting\nis still Eden's. These people about me will not let me go to the bank\npersonally. It seems, indeed, that there is no bank in this town, and that\nI have an account in some part of London. It seems that Elvesham kept the\nname of his solicitor secret from all his household. I can ascertain\nnothing. Elvesham was, of course, a profound student of mental science,\nand all my declarations of the facts of the case merely confirm the theory\nthat my insanity is the outcome of overmuch brooding upon psychology.\nDreams of the personal identity indeed! Two days ago I was a healthy\nyoungster, with all life before me; now I am a furious old man, unkempt,\nand desperate, and miserable, prowling about a great, luxurious, strange\nhouse, watched, feared, and avoided as a lunatic by everyone about me. And\nin London is Elvesham beginning life again in a vigorous body, and with\nall the accumulated knowledge and wisdom of threescore and ten. He has\nstolen my life.\n\nWhat has happened I do not clearly know. In the study are volumes of\nmanuscript notes referring chiefly to the psychology of memory, and parts\nof what may be either calculations or ciphers in symbols absolutely\nstrange to me. In some passages there are indications that he was also\noccupied with the philosophy of mathematics. I take it he has transferred\nthe whole of his memories, the accumulation that makes up his personality,\nfrom this old withered brain of his to mine, and, similarly, that he has\ntransferred mine to his discarded tenement. Practically, that is, he has\nchanged bodies. But how such a change may be possible is without the range\nof my philosophy. I have been a materialist for all my thinking life, but\nhere, suddenly, is a clear case of man's detachability from matter.\n\nOne desperate experiment I am about to try. I sit writing here before\nputting the matter to issue. This morning, with the help of a table-knife\nthat I had secreted at breakfast, I succeeded in breaking open a fairly\nobvious secret drawer in this wrecked writing-desk. I discovered nothing\nsave a little green glass phial containing a white powder. Round the neck\nof the phial was a label, and thereon was written this one word,\n\"_Release_.\" This may be--is most probably--poison. I can understand\nElvesham placing poison in my way, and I should be sure that it was his\nintention so to get rid of the only living witness against him, were it\nnot for this careful concealment. The man has practically solved the\nproblem of immortality. Save for the spite of chance, he will live in my\nbody until it has aged, and then, again, throwing that aside, he will\nassume some other victim's youth and strength. When one remembers his\nheartlessness, it is terrible to think of the ever-growing experience\nthat... How long has he been leaping from body to body?... But I tire of\nwriting. The powder appears to be soluble in water. The taste is not\nunpleasant.\n\n * * * * *\n\nThere the narrative found upon Mr. Elvesham's desk ends. His dead body lay\nbetween the desk and the chair. The latter had been pushed back, probably\nby his last convulsions. The story was written in pencil and in a crazy\nhand, quite unlike his usual minute characters. There remain only two\ncurious facts to record. Indisputably there was some connection between\nEden and Elvesham, since the whole of Elvesham's property was bequeathed\nto the young man. But he never inherited. When Elvesham committed suicide,\nEden was, strangely enough, already dead. Twenty-four hours before, he had\nbeen knocked down by a cab and killed instantly, at the crowded crossing\nat the intersection of Gower Street and Euston Road. So that the only\nhuman being who could have thrown light upon this fantastic narrative is\nbeyond the reach of questions. Without further comment I leave this\nextraordinary matter to the reader's individual judgment.\n\n\n\n\n XII.\n\n UNDER THE KNIFE.\n\n\n\"What if I die under it?\" The thought recurred again and again, as I\nwalked home from Haddon's. It was a purely personal question. I was spared\nthe deep anxieties of a married man, and I knew there were few of my\nintimate friends but would find my death troublesome chiefly on account of\ntheir duty of regret. I was surprised indeed, and perhaps a little\nhumiliated, as I turned the matter over, to think how few could possibly\nexceed the conventional requirement. Things came before me stripped of\nglamour, in a clear dry light, during that walk from Haddon's house over\nPrimrose Hill. There were the friends of my youth: I perceived now that\nour affection was a tradition, which we foregathered rather laboriously to\nmaintain. There were the rivals and helpers of my later career: I suppose\nI had been cold-blooded or undemonstrative--one perhaps implies the other.\nIt may be that even the capacity for friendship is a question of physique.\nThere had been a time in my own life when I had grieved bitterly enough at\nthe loss of a friend; but as I walked home that afternoon the emotional\nside of my imagination was dormant. I could not pity myself, nor feel\nsorry for my friends, nor conceive of them as grieving for me.\n\nI was interested in this deadness of my emotional nature--no doubt a\nconcomitant of my stagnating physiology; and my thoughts wandered off\nalong the line it suggested. Once before, in my hot youth, I had suffered\na sudden loss of blood, and had been within an ace of death. I remembered\nnow that my affections as well as my passions had drained out of me,\nleaving scarce anything but a tranquil resignation, a dreg of self-pity.\nIt had been weeks before the old ambitions and tendernesses and all the\ncomplex moral interplay of a man had reasserted themselves. It occurred to\nme that the real meaning of this numbness might be a gradual slipping away\nfrom the pleasure-pain guidance of the animal man. It has been proven, I\ntake it, as thoroughly as anything can be proven in this world, that the\nhigher emotions, the moral feelings, even the subtle unselfishness of\nlove, are evolved from the elemental desires and fears of the simple\nanimal: they are the harness in which man's mental freedom goes. And it\nmay be that as death overshadows us, as our possibility of acting\ndiminishes, this complex growth of balanced impulse, propensity and\naversion, whose interplay inspires our acts, goes with it. Leaving what?\n\nI was suddenly brought back to reality by an imminent collision with the\nbutcher-boy's tray. I found that I was crossing the bridge over the\nRegent's Park Canal, which runs parallel with that in the Zoological\nGardens. The boy in blue had been looking over his shoulder at a black\nbarge advancing slowly, towed by a gaunt white horse. In the Gardens a\nnurse was leading three happy little children over the bridge. The trees\nwere bright green; the spring hopefulness was still unstained by the dusts\nof summer; the sky in the water was bright and clear, but broken by long\nwaves, by quivering bands of black, as the barge drove through. The breeze\nwas stirring; but it did not stir me as the spring breeze used to do.\n\nWas this dulness of feeling in itself an anticipation? It was curious that\nI could reason and follow out a network of suggestion as clearly as ever:\nso, at least, it seemed to me. It was calmness rather than dulness that\nwas coming upon me. Was there any ground for the relief in the\npresentiment of death? Did a man near to death begin instinctively to\nwithdraw himself from the meshes of matter and sense, even before the\ncold hand was laid upon his? I felt strangely isolated--isolated without\nregret--from the life and existence about me. The children playing in the\nsun and gathering strength and experience for the business of life,\nthe park-keeper gossiping with a nursemaid, the nursing mother, the young\ncouple intent upon each other as they passed me, the trees by the wayside\nspreading new pleading leaves to the sunlight, the stir in their\nbranches--I had been part of it all, but I had nearly done with it now.\n\nSome way down the Broad Walk I perceived that I was tired, and that my\nfeet were heavy. It was hot that afternoon, and I turned aside and sat\ndown on one of the green chairs that line the way. In a minute I had dozed\ninto a dream, and the tide of my thoughts washed up a vision of the\nresurrection. I was still sitting in the chair, but I thought myself\nactually dead, withered, tattered, dried, one eye (I saw) pecked out by\nbirds. \"Awake!\" cried a voice; and incontinently the dust of the path and\nthe mould under the grass became insurgent. I had never before thought of\nRegent's Park as a cemetery, but now, through the trees, stretching as far\nas eye could see, I beheld a flat plain of writhing graves and heeling\ntombstones. There seemed to be some trouble: the rising dead appeared to\nstifle as they struggled upward, they bled in their struggles, the red\nflesh was torn away from the white bones. \"Awake!\" cried a voice; but I\ndetermined I would not rise to such horrors. \"Awake!\" They would not let\nme alone. \"Wake up!\" said an angry voice. A cockney angel! The man who\nsells the tickets was shaking me, demanding my penny.\n\nI paid my penny, pocketed my ticket, yawned, stretched my legs, and,\nfeeling now rather less torpid, got up and walked on towards Langham\nPlace. I speedily lost myself again in a shifting maze of thoughts about\ndeath. Going across Marylebone Road into that crescent at the end of\nLangham Place, I had the narrowest escape from the shaft of a cab, and\nwent on my way with a palpitating heart and a bruised shoulder. It struck\nme that it would have been curious if my meditations on my death on the\nmorrow had led to my death that day.\n\nBut I will not weary you with more of my experiences that day and the\nnext. I knew more and more certainly that I should die under the\noperation; at times I think I was inclined to pose to myself. The doctors\nwere coming at eleven, and I did not get up. It seemed scarce worth while\nto trouble about washing and dressing, and though I read my newspapers and\nthe letters that came by the first post, I did not find them very\ninteresting. There was a friendly note from Addison, my old school-friend,\ncalling my attention to two discrepancies and a printer's error in my new\nbook, with one from Langridge venting some vexation over Minton. The rest\nwere business communications. I breakfasted in bed. The glow of pain at my\nside seemed more massive. I knew it was pain, and yet, if you can\nunderstand, I did not find it very painful. I had been awake and hot and\nthirsty in the night, but in the morning bed felt comfortable. In the\nnight-time I had lain thinking of things that were past; in the morning I\ndozed over the question of immortality. Haddon came, punctual to the\nminute, with a neat black bag; and Mowbray soon followed. Their arrival\nstirred me up a little. I began to take a more personal interest in the\nproceedings. Haddon moved the little octagonal table close to the bedside,\nand, with his broad back to me, began taking things out of his bag. I\nheard the light click of steel upon steel. My imagination, I found, was\nnot altogether stagnant. \"Will you hurt me much?\" I said in an off-hand\ntone.\n\n\"Not a bit,\" Haddon answered over his shoulder. \"We shall chloroform you.\nYour heart's as sound as a bell.\" And as he spoke, I had a whiff of the\npungent sweetness of the anaesthetic.\n\nThey stretched me out, with a convenient exposure of my side, and, almost\nbefore I realised what was happening, the chloroform was being\nadministered. It stings the nostrils, and there is a suffocating sensation\nat first. I knew I should die--that this was the end of consciousness for\nme. And suddenly I felt that I was not prepared for death: I had a vague\nsense of a duty overlooked--I knew not what. What was it I had not done? I\ncould think of nothing more to do, nothing desirable left in life; and yet\nI had the strangest disinclination to death. And the physical sensation\nwas painfully oppressive. Of course the doctors did not know they were\ngoing to kill me. Possibly I struggled. Then I fell motionless, and\na great silence, a monstrous silence, and an impenetrable blackness came\nupon me.\n\nThere must have been an interval of absolute unconsciousness, seconds or\nminutes. Then with a chilly, unemotional clearness, I perceived that I was\nnot yet dead. I was still in my body; but all the multitudinous sensations\nthat come sweeping from it to make up the background of consciousness had\ngone, leaving me free of it all. No, not free of it all; for as yet\nsomething still held me to the poor stark flesh upon the bed--held me, yet\nnot so closely that I did not feel myself external to it, independent of\nit, straining away from it. I do not think I saw, I do not think I heard;\nbut I perceived all that was going on, and it was as if I both heard and\nsaw. Haddon was bending over me, Mowbray behind me; the scalpel--it was a\nlarge scalpel--was cutting my flesh at the side under the flying ribs. It\nwas interesting to see myself cut like cheese, without a pang, without\neven a qualm. The interest was much of a quality with that one might feel\nin a game of chess between strangers. Haddon's face was firm and his hand\nsteady; but I was surprised to perceive (_how_ I know not) that he\nwas feeling the gravest doubt as to his own wisdom in the conduct of the\noperation.\n\nMowbray's thoughts, too, I could see. He was thinking that Haddon's manner\nshowed too much of the specialist. New suggestions came up like bubbles\nthrough a stream of frothing meditation, and burst one after another in\nthe little bright spot of his consciousness. He could not help noticing\nand admiring Haddon's swift dexterity, in spite of his envious quality and\nhis disposition to detract. I saw my liver exposed. I was puzzled at my\nown condition. I did not feel that I was dead, but I was different in some\nway from my living self. The grey depression, that had weighed on me for a\nyear or more and coloured all my thoughts, was gone. I perceived and\nthought without any emotional tint at all. I wondered if everyone\nperceived things in this way under chloroform, and forgot it again when he\ncame out of it. It would be inconvenient to look into some heads, and not\nforget.\n\nAlthough I did not think that I was dead, I still perceived quite clearly\nthat I was soon to die. This brought me back to the consideration of\nHaddon's proceedings. I looked into his mind, and saw that he was afraid\nof cutting a branch of the portal vein. My attention was distracted from\ndetails by the curious changes going on in his mind. His consciousness was\nlike the quivering little spot of light which is thrown by the mirror of a\ngalvanometer. His thoughts ran under it like a stream, some through the\nfocus bright and distinct, some shadowy in the half-light of the edge.\nJust now the little glow was steady; but the least movement on Mowbray's\npart, the slightest sound from outside, even a faint difference in the\nslow movement of the living flesh he was cutting, set the light-spot\nshivering and spinning. A new sense-impression came rushing up through the\nflow of thoughts; and lo! the light-spot jerked away towards it, swifter\nthan a frightened fish. It was wonderful to think that upon that unstable,\nfitful thing depended all the complex motions of the man; that for the\nnext five minutes, therefore, my life hung upon its movements. And he was\ngrowing more and more nervous in his work. It was as if a little picture\nof a cut vein grew brighter, and struggled to oust from his brain another\npicture of a cut falling short of the mark. He was afraid: his dread of\ncutting too little was battling with his dread of cutting too far.\n\nThen, suddenly, like an escape of water from under a lock-gate, a great\nuprush of horrible realisation set all his thoughts swirling, and\nsimultaneously I perceived that the vein was cut. He started back with a\nhoarse exclamation, and I saw the brown-purple blood gather in a swift\nbead, and run trickling. He was horrified. He pitched the red-stained\nscalpel on to the octagonal table; and instantly both doctors flung\nthemselves upon me, making hasty and ill-conceived efforts to remedy the\ndisaster. \"Ice!\" said Mowbray, gasping. But I knew that I was killed,\nthough my body still clung to me.\n\nI will not describe their belated endeavours to save me, though I\nperceived every detail. My perceptions were sharper and swifter than they\nhad ever been in life; my thoughts rushed through my mind with incredible\nswiftness, but with perfect definition. I can only compare their crowded\nclarity to the effects of a reasonable dose of opium. In a moment it would\nall be over, and I should be free. I knew I was immortal, but what would\nhappen I did not know. Should I drift off presently, like a puff of smoke\nfrom a gun, in some kind of half-material body, an attenuated version of\nmy material self? Should I find myself suddenly among the innumerable\nhosts of the dead, and know the world about me for the phantasmagoria it\nhad always seemed? Should I drift to some spiritualistic _séance_,\nand there make foolish, incomprehensible attempts to affect a purblind\nmedium? It was a state of unemotional curiosity, of colourless\nexpectation. And then I realised a growing stress upon me, a feeling as\nthough some huge human magnet was drawing me upward out of my body. The\nstress grew and grew. I seemed an atom for which monstrous forces were\nfighting. For one brief, terrible moment sensation came back to me. That\nfeeling of falling headlong which comes in nightmares, that feeling a\nthousand times intensified, that and a black horror swept across my\nthoughts in a torrent. Then the two doctors, the naked body with its cut\nside, the little room, swept away from under me and vanished, as a speck\nof foam vanishes down an eddy.\n\nI was in mid-air. Far below was the West End of London, receding\nrapidly,--for I seemed to be flying swiftly upward,--and as it receded,\npassing westward like a panorama. I could see, through the faint haze of\nsmoke, the innumerable roofs chimney-set, the narrow roadways, stippled\nwith people and conveyances, the little specks of squares, and the church\nsteeples like thorns sticking out of the fabric. But it spun away as the\nearth rotated on its axis, and in a few seconds (as it seemed) I was over\nthe scattered clumps of town about Ealing, the little Thames a thread of\nblue to the south, and the Chiltern Hills and the North Downs coming up\nlike the rim of a basin, far away and faint with haze. Up I rushed. And at\nfirst I had not the faintest conception what this headlong rush upward\ncould mean.\n\nEvery moment the circle of scenery beneath me grew wider and wider, and\nthe details of town and field, of hill and valley, got more and more hazy\nand pale and indistinct, a luminous grey was mingled more and more with\nthe blue of the hills and the green of the open meadows; and a little\npatch of cloud, low and far to the west, shone ever more dazzlingly white.\nAbove, as the veil of atmosphere between myself and outer space grew\nthinner, the sky, which had been a fair springtime blue at first, grew\ndeeper and richer in colour, passing steadily through the intervening\nshades, until presently it was as dark as the blue sky of midnight, and\npresently as black as the blackness of a frosty starlight, and at last as\nblack as no blackness I had ever beheld. And first one star, and then\nmany, and at last an innumerable host broke out upon the sky: more stars\nthan anyone has ever seen from the face of the earth. For the blueness of\nthe sky in the light of the sun and stars sifted and spread abroad\nblindingly: there is diffused light even in the darkest skies of winter,\nand we do not see the stars by day only because of the dazzling\nirradiation of the sun. But now I saw things--I know not how; assuredly\nwith no mortal eyes--and that defect of bedazzlement blinded me no longer.\nThe sun was incredibly strange and wonderful. The body of it was a disc of\nblinding white light: not yellowish, as it seems to those who live upon\nthe earth, but livid white, all streaked with scarlet streaks and rimmed\nabout with a fringe of writhing tongues of red fire. And shooting half-way\nacross the heavens from either side of it and brighter than the Milky Way,\nwere two pinions of silver white, making it look more like those winged\nglobes I have seen in Egyptian sculpture than anything else I can remember\nupon earth. These I knew for the solar corona, though I had never seen\nanything of it but a picture during the days of my earthly life.\n\nWhen my attention came back to the earth again, I saw that it had fallen\nvery far away from me. Field and town were long since indistinguishable,\nand all the varied hues of the country were merging into a uniform bright\ngrey, broken only by the brilliant white of the clouds that lay scattered\nin flocculent masses over Ireland and the west of England. For now I could\nsee the outlines of the north of France and Ireland, and all this Island\nof Britain, save where Scotland passed over the horizon to the north, or\nwhere the coast was blurred or obliterated by cloud. The sea was a dull\ngrey, and darker than the land; and the whole panorama was rotating slowly\ntowards the east.\n\nAll this had happened so swiftly that until I was some thousand miles or\nso from the earth I had no thought for myself. But now I perceived I had\nneither hands nor feet, neither parts nor organs, and that I felt neither\nalarm nor pain. All about me I perceived that the vacancy (for I had\nalready left the air behind) was cold beyond the imagination of man; but\nit troubled me not. The sun's rays shot through the void, powerless to\nlight or heat until they should strike on matter in their course. I saw\nthings with a serene self-forgetfulness, even as if I were God. And down\nbelow there, rushing away from me,--countless miles in a second,--where a\nlittle dark spot on the grey marked the position of London, two doctors\nwere struggling to restore life to the poor hacked and outworn shell I had\nabandoned. I felt then such release, such serenity as I can compare to no\nmortal delight I have ever known.\n\nIt was only after I had perceived all these things that the meaning of\nthat headlong rush of the earth grew into comprehension. Yet it was so\nsimple, so obvious, that I was amazed at my never anticipating the thing\nthat was happening to me. I had suddenly been cut adrift from matter: all\nthat was material of me was there upon earth, whirling away through space,\nheld to the earth by gravitation, partaking of the earth-inertia, moving\nin its wreath of epicycles round the sun, and with the sun and the planets\non their vast march through space. But the immaterial has no inertia,\nfeels nothing of the pull of matter for matter: where it parts from its\ngarment of flesh, there it remains (so far as space concerns it any\nlonger) immovable in space. _I_ was not leaving the earth: the earth\nwas leaving _me_, and not only the earth but the whole solar system\nwas streaming past. And about me in space, invisible to me, scattered in\nthe wake of the earth upon its journey, there must be an innumerable\nmultitude of souls, stripped like myself of the material, stripped like\nmyself of the passions of the individual and the generous emotions of the\ngregarious brute, naked intelligences, things of new-born wonder and\nthought, marvelling at the strange release that had suddenly come on them!\n\nAs I receded faster and faster from the strange white sun in the black\nheavens, and from the broad and shining earth upon which my being had\nbegun, I seemed to grow in some incredible manner vast: vast as regards\nthis world I had left, vast as regards the moments and periods of a human\nlife. Very soon I saw the full circle of the earth, slightly gibbous, like\nthe moon when she nears her full, but very large; and the silvery shape of\nAmerica was now in the noonday blaze wherein (as it seemed) little England\nhad been basking but a few minutes ago. At first the earth was large, and\nshone in the heavens, filling a great part of them; but every moment she\ngrew smaller and more distant. As she shrank, the broad moon in its third\nquarter crept into view over the rim of her disc. I looked for the\nconstellations. Only that part of Aries directly behind the sun and the\nLion, which the earth covered, were hidden. I recognised the tortuous,\ntattered band of the Milky Way with Vega very bright between sun and\nearth; and Sirius and Orion shone splendid against the unfathomable\nblackness in the opposite quarter of the heavens. The Pole Star was\noverhead, and the Great Bear hung over the circle of the earth. And away\nbeneath and beyond the shining corona of the sun were strange groupings of\nstars I had never seen in my life--notably a dagger-shaped group that I\nknew for the Southern Cross. All these were no larger than when they had\nshone on earth, but the little stars that one scarce sees shone now\nagainst the setting of black vacancy as brightly as the first-magnitudes\nhad done, while the larger worlds were points of indescribable glory and\ncolour. Aldebaran was a spot of blood-red fire, and Sirius condensed to\none point the light of innumerable sapphires. And they shone steadily:\nthey did not scintillate, they were calmly glorious. My impressions had an\nadamantine hardness and brightness: there was no blurring softness, no\natmosphere, nothing but infinite darkness set with the myriads of these\nacute and brilliant points and specks of light. Presently, when I looked\nagain, the little earth seemed no bigger than the sun, and it dwindled and\nturned as I looked, until in a second's space (as it seemed to me), it was\nhalved; and so it went on swiftly dwindling. Far away in the opposite\ndirection, a little pinkish pin's head of light, shining steadily, was the\nplanet Mars. I swam motionless in vacancy, and, without a trace of terror\nor astonishment, watched the speck of cosmic dust we call the world fall\naway from me.\n\nPresently it dawned upon me that my sense of duration had changed; that my\nmind was moving not faster but infinitely slower, that between each\nseparate impression there was a period of many days. The moon spun once\nround the earth as I noted this; and I perceived clearly the motion of\nMars in his orbit. Moreover, it appeared as if the time between thought\nand thought grew steadily greater, until at last a thousand years was but\na moment in my perception.\n\nAt first the constellations had shone motionless against the black\nbackground of infinite space; but presently it seemed as though the group\nof stars about Hercules and the Scorpion was contracting, while Orion and\nAldebaran and their neighbours were scattering apart. Flashing suddenly\nout of the darkness there came a flying multitude of particles of rock,\nglittering like dust-specks in a sunbeam, and encompassed in a faintly\nluminous cloud. They swirled all about me, and vanished again in a\ntwinkling far behind. And then I saw that a bright spot of light, that\nshone a little to one side of my path, was growing very rapidly larger,\nand perceived that it was the planet Saturn rushing towards me. Larger and\nlarger it grew, swallowing up the heavens behind it, and hiding every\nmoment a fresh multitude, of stars. I perceived its flattened, whirling\nbody, its disc-like belt, and seven of its little satellites. It grew and\ngrew, till it towered enormous; and then I plunged amid a streaming\nmultitude of clashing stones and dancing dust-particles and gas-eddies,\nand saw for a moment the mighty triple belt like three concentric arches\nof moonlight above me, its shadow black on the boiling tumult below. These\nthings happened in one-tenth of the time it takes to tell them. The planet\nwent by like a flash of lightning; for a few seconds it blotted out the\nsun, and there and then became a mere black, dwindling, winged patch\nagainst the light. The earth, the mother mote of my being, I could no\nlonger see.\n\nSo with a stately swiftness, in the profoundest silence, the solar system\nfell from me as it had been a garment, until the sun was a mere star amid\nthe multitude of stars, with its eddy of planet-specks lost in the\nconfused glittering of the remoter light. I was no longer a denizen of the\nsolar system: I had come to the outer Universe, I seemed to grasp and\ncomprehend the whole world of matter. Ever more swiftly the stars closed\nin about the spot where Antares and Vega had vanished in a phosphorescent\nhaze, until that part of the sky had the semblance of a whirling mass of\nnebulae, and ever before me yawned vaster gaps of vacant blackness, and\nthe stars shone fewer and fewer. It seemed as if I moved towards a point\nbetween Orion's belt and sword; and the void about that region opened\nvaster and vaster every second, an incredible gulf of nothingness into\nwhich I was falling. Faster and ever faster the universe rushed by, a\nhurry of whirling motes at last, speeding silently into the void. Stars\nglowing brighter and brighter, with their circling planets catching the\nlight in a ghostly fashion as I neared them, shone out and vanished again\ninto inexistence; faint comets, clusters of meteorites, winking specks of\nmatter, eddying light-points, whizzed past, some perhaps a hundred\nmillions of miles or so from me at most, few nearer, travelling with\nunimaginable rapidity, shooting constellations, momentary darts of fire,\nthrough that black, enormous night. More than anything else it was like a\ndusty draught, sunbeam-lit. Broader and wider and deeper grew the starless\nspace, the vacant Beyond, into which I was being drawn. At last a quarter\nof the heavens was black and blank, and the whole headlong rush of stellar\nuniverse closed in behind me like a veil of light that is gathered\ntogether. It drove away from me like a monstrous jack-o'-lantern driven by\nthe wind. I had come out into the wilderness of space. Ever the vacant\nblackness grew broader, until the hosts of the stars seemed only like a\nswarm of fiery specks hurrying away from me, inconceivably remote, and the\ndarkness, the nothingness and emptiness, was about me on every side. Soon\nthe little universe of matter, the cage of points in which I had begun to\nbe, was dwindling, now to a whirling disc of luminous glittering, and now\nto one minute disc of hazy light. In a little while it would shrink to a\npoint, and at last would vanish altogether.\n\nSuddenly feeling came back to me--feeling in the shape of overwhelming\nterror; such a dread of those dark vastitudes as no words can describe, a\npassionate resurgence of sympathy and social desire. Were there other\nsouls, invisible to me as I to them, about me in the blackness? or was I\nindeed, even as I felt, alone? Had I passed out of being into something\nthat was neither being nor not-being? The covering of the body, the\ncovering of matter, had been torn from me, and the hallucinations of\ncompanionship and security. Everything was black and silent. I had ceased\nto be. I was nothing. There was nothing, save only that infinitesimal dot\nof light that dwindled in the gulf. I strained myself to hear and see, and\nfor a while there was naught but infinite silence, intolerable darkness,\nhorror, and despair.\n\nThen I saw that about the spot of light into which the whole world of\nmatter had shrunk there was a faint glow. And in a band on either side of\nthat the darkness was not absolute. I watched it for ages, as it seemed to\nme, and through the long waiting the haze grew imperceptibly more\ndistinct. And then about the band appeared an irregular cloud of the\nfaintest, palest brown. I felt a passionate impatience; but the things\ngrew brighter so slowly that they scarce seemed to change. What was\nunfolding itself? What was this strange reddish dawn in the interminable\nnight of space?\n\nThe cloud's shape was grotesque. It seemed to be looped along its lower\nside into four projecting masses, and, above, it ended in a straight line.\nWhat phantom was it? I felt assured I had seen that figure before; but I\ncould not think what, nor where, nor when it was. Then the realisation\nrushed upon me. _It was a clenched Hand._ I was alone in space, alone\nwith this huge, shadowy Hand, upon which the whole Universe of Matter lay\nlike an unconsidered speck of dust. It seemed as though I watched it\nthrough vast periods of time. On the forefinger glittered a ring; and the\nuniverse from which I had come was but a spot of light upon the ring's\ncurvature. And the thing that the hand gripped had the likeness of a black\nrod. Through a long eternity I watched this Hand, with the ring and the\nrod, marvelling and fearing and waiting helplessly on what might follow.\nIt seemed as though nothing could follow: that I should watch for ever,\nseeing only the Hand and the thing it held, and understanding nothing of\nits import. Was the whole universe but a refracting speck upon some\ngreater Being? Were our worlds but the atoms of another universe, and\nthose again of another, and so on through an endless progression? And what\nwas I? Was I indeed immaterial? A vague persuasion of a body gathering\nabout me came into my suspense. The abysmal darkness about the Hand filled\nwith impalpable suggestions, with uncertain, fluctuating shapes.\n\nThen, suddenly, came a sound, like the sound of a tolling bell: faint, as\nif infinitely far; muffled, as though heard through thick swathings of\ndarkness: a deep, vibrating resonance, with vast gulfs of silence between\neach stroke. And the Hand appeared to tighten on the rod. And I saw far\nabove the Hand, towards the apex of the darkness, a circle of dim\nphosphorescence, a ghostly sphere whence these sounds came throbbing; and\nat the last stroke the Hand vanished, for the hour had come, and I heard a\nnoise of many waters. But the black rod remained as a great band across\nthe sky. And then a voice, which seemed to run to the uttermost parts of\nspace, spoke, saying, \"There will be no more pain.\"\n\nAt that an almost intolerable gladness and radiance rushed in upon me, and\nI saw the circle shining white and bright, and the rod black and shining,\nand many things else distinct and clear. And the circle was the face of\nthe clock, and the rod the rail of my bed. Haddon was standing at the\nfoot, against the rail, with a small pair of scissors on his fingers; and\nthe hands of my clock on the mantel over his shoulder were clasped\ntogether over the hour of twelve. Mowbray was washing something in a basin\nat the octagonal table, and at my side I felt a subdued feeling that could\nscarce be spoken of as pain.\n\nThe operation had not killed me. And I perceived, suddenly, that the dull\nmelancholy of half a year was lifted from my mind.\n\n\n\n\n XIII.\n\n THE SEA RAIDERS.\n\n\nI.\n\nUntil the extraordinary affair at Sidmouth, the peculiar species\n_Haploteuthis ferox_ was known to science only generically, on the\nstrength of a half-digested tentacle obtained near the Azores, and a\ndecaying body pecked by birds and nibbled by fish, found early in 1896 by\nMr. Jennings, near Land's End.\n\nIn no department of zoological science, indeed, are we quite so much in\nthe dark as with regard to the deep-sea cephalopods. A mere accident, for\ninstance, it was that led to the Prince of Monaco's discovery of nearly a\ndozen new forms in the summer of 1895, a discovery in which the\nbefore-mentioned tentacle was included. It chanced that a cachalot was\nkilled off Terceira by some sperm whalers, and in its last struggles\ncharged almost to the Prince's yacht, missed it, rolled under, and died\nwithin twenty yards of his rudder. And in its agony it threw up a number\nof large objects, which the Prince, dimly perceiving they were strange and\nimportant, was, by a happy expedient, able to secure before they sank. He\nset his screws in motion, and kept them circling in the vortices thus\ncreated until a boat could be lowered. And these specimens were whole\ncephalopods and fragments of cephalopods, some of gigantic proportions,\nand almost all of them unknown to science!\n\nIt would seem, indeed, that these large and agile creatures, living in the\nmiddle depths of the sea, must, to a large extent, for ever remain unknown\nto us, since under water they are too nimble for nets, and it is only by\nsuch rare, unlooked-for accidents that specimens can be obtained. In the\ncase of _Haploteuthis ferox_, for instance, we are still altogether\nignorant of its habitat, as ignorant as we are of the breeding-ground of\nthe herring or the sea-ways of the salmon. And zoologists are altogether\nat a loss to account for its sudden appearance on our coast. Possibly it\nwas the stress of a hunger migration that drove it hither out of the deep.\nBut it will be, perhaps, better to avoid necessarily inconclusive\ndiscussion, and to proceed at once with our narrative.\n\nThe first human being to set eyes upon a living _Haploteuthis_--the\nfirst human being to survive, that is, for there can be little doubt now\nthat the wave of bathing fatalities and boating accidents that travelled\nalong the coast of Cornwall and Devon in early May was due to this\ncause--was a retired tea-dealer of the name of Fison, who was stopping at\na Sidmouth boarding-house. It was in the afternoon, and he was walking\nalong the cliff path between Sidmouth and Ladram Bay. The cliffs in this\ndirection are very high, but down the red face of them in one place a kind\nof ladder staircase has been made. He was near this when his attention was\nattracted by what at first he thought to be a cluster of birds struggling\nover a fragment of food that caught the sunlight, and glistened\npinkish-white. The tide was right out, and this object was not only far\nbelow him, but remote across a broad waste of rock reefs covered with\ndark seaweed and interspersed with silvery shining tidal pools. And he\nwas, moreover, dazzled by the brightness of the further water.\n\nIn a minute, regarding this again, he perceived that his judgment was in\nfault, for over this struggle circled a number of birds, jackdaws and\ngulls for the most part, the latter gleaming blindingly when the sunlight\nsmote their wings, and they seemed minute in comparison with it. And his\ncuriosity was, perhaps, aroused all the more strongly because of his first\ninsufficient explanations.\n\nAs he had nothing better to do than amuse himself, he decided to make this\nobject, whatever it was, the goal of his afternoon walk, instead of Ladram\nBay, conceiving it might perhaps be a great fish of some sort, stranded by\nsome chance, and flapping about in its distress. And so he hurried down\nthe long steep ladder, stopping at intervals of thirty feet or so to take\nbreath and scan the mysterious movement.\n\nAt the foot of the cliff he was, of course, nearer his object than he had\nbeen; but, on the other hand, it now came up against the incandescent sky,\nbeneath the sun, so as to seem dark and indistinct. Whatever was pinkish\nof it was now hidden by a skerry of weedy boulders. But he perceived that\nit was made up of seven rounded bodies distinct or connected, and that the\nbirds kept up a constant croaking and screaming, but seemed afraid to\napproach it too closely.\n\nMr. Fison, torn by curiosity, began picking his way across the wave-worn\nrocks, and finding the wet seaweed that covered them thickly rendered them\nextremely slippery, he stopped, removed his shoes and socks, and rolled\nhis trousers above his knees. His object was, of course, merely to avoid\nstumbling into the rocky pools about him, and perhaps he was rather glad,\nas all men are, of an excuse to resume, even for a moment, the sensations\nof his boyhood. At any rate, it is to this, no doubt, that he owes his\nlife.\n\nHe approached his mark with all the assurance which the absolute security\nof this country against all forms of animal life gives its inhabitants.\nThe round bodies moved to and fro, but it was only when he surmounted the\nskerry of boulders I have mentioned that he realised the horrible nature\nof the discovery. It came upon him with some suddenness.\n\nThe rounded bodies fell apart as he came into sight over the ridge, and\ndisplayed the pinkish object to be the partially devoured body of a human\nbeing, but whether of a man or woman he was unable to say. And the rounded\nbodies were new and ghastly-looking creatures, in shape somewhat\nresembling an octopus, with huge and very long and flexible tentacles,\ncoiled copiously on the ground. The skin had a glistening texture,\nunpleasant to see, like shiny leather. The downward bend of the\ntentacle-surrounded mouth, the curious excrescence at the bend, the\ntentacles, and the large intelligent eyes, gave the creatures a grotesque\nsuggestion of a face. They were the size of a fair-sized swine about the\nbody, and the tentacles seemed to him to be many feet in length. There\nwere, he thinks, seven or eight at least of the creatures. Twenty yards\nbeyond them, amid the surf of the now returning tide, two others were\nemerging from the sea.\n\nTheir bodies lay flatly on the rocks, and their eyes regarded him with\nevil interest; but it does not appear that Mr. Fison was afraid, or that\nhe realised that he was in any danger. Possibly his confidence is to be\nascribed to the limpness of their attitudes. But he was horrified, of\ncourse, and intensely excited and indignant, at such revolting creatures\npreying upon human flesh. He thought they had chanced upon a drowned body.\nHe shouted to them, with the idea of driving them off, and finding they\ndid not budge, cast about him, picked up a big rounded lump of rock, and\nflung it at one.\n\nAnd then, slowly uncoiling their tentacles, they all began moving towards\nhim--creeping at first deliberately, and making a soft purring sound to\neach other.\n\nIn a moment Mr. Fison realised that he was in danger. He shouted again,\nthrew both his boots, and started off, with a leap, forthwith. Twenty\nyards off he stopped and faced about, judging them slow, and behold! the\ntentacles of their leader were already pouring over the rocky ridge on\nwhich he had just been standing!\n\nAt that he shouted again, but this time not threatening, but a cry of\ndismay, and began jumping, striding, slipping, wading across the uneven\nexpanse between him and the beach. The tall red cliffs seemed suddenly at\na vast distance, and he saw, as though they were creatures in another\nworld, two minute workmen engaged in the repair of the ladder-way, and\nlittle suspecting the race for life that was beginning below them. At one\ntime he could hear the creatures splashing in the pools not a dozen feet\nbehind him, and once he slipped and almost fell.\n\nThey chased him to the very foot of the cliffs, and desisted only when he\nhad been joined by the workmen at the foot of the ladder-way up the cliff.\nAll three of the men pelted them with stones for a time, and then hurried\nto the cliff top and along the path towards Sidmouth, to secure assistance\nand a boat, and to rescue the desecrated body from the clutches of these\nabominable creatures.\n\n\nII.\n\nAnd, as if he had not already been in sufficient peril that day, Mr. Fison\nwent with the boat to point out the exact spot of his adventure.\n\nAs the tide was down, it required a considerable detour to reach the spot,\nand when at last they came off the ladder-way, the mangled body had\ndisappeared. The water was now running in, submerging first one slab of\nslimy rock and then another, and the four men in the boat--the workmen,\nthat is, the boatman, and Mr. Fison--now turned their attention from the\nbearings off shore to the water beneath the keel.\n\nAt first they could see little below them, save a dark jungle of\nlaminaria, with an occasional darting fish. Their minds were set on\nadventure, and they expressed their disappointment freely. But presently\nthey saw one of the monsters swimming through the water seaward, with a\ncurious rolling motion that suggested to Mr. Fison the spinning roll of a\ncaptive balloon. Almost immediately after, the waving streamers of\nlaminaria were extraordinarily perturbed, parted for a moment, and three\nof these beasts became darkly visible, struggling for what was probably\nsome fragment of the drowned man. In a moment the copious olive-green\nribbons had poured again over this writhing group.\n\nAt that all four men, greatly excited, began beating the water with oars\nand shouting, and immediately they saw a tumultuous movement among the\nweeds. They desisted to see more clearly, and as soon as the water was\nsmooth, they saw, as it seemed to them, the whole sea bottom among the\nweeds set with eyes.\n\n\"Ugly swine!\" cried one of the men. \"Why, there's dozens!\"\n\nAnd forthwith the things began to rise through the water about them. Mr.\nFison has since described to the writer this startling eruption out of the\nwaving laminaria meadows. To him it seemed to occupy a considerable time,\nbut it is probable that really it was an affair of a few seconds only. For\na time nothing but eyes, and then he speaks of tentacles streaming out and\nparting the weed fronds this way and that. Then these things, growing\nlarger, until at last the bottom was hidden by their intercoiling forms,\nand the tips of tentacles rose darkly here and there into the air above\nthe swell of the waters.\n\nOne came up boldly to the side of the boat, and clinging to this with\nthree of its sucker-set tentacles, threw four others over the gunwale, as\nif with an intention either of oversetting the boat or of clambering into\nit. Mr. Fison at once caught up the boat-hook, and, jabbing furiously at\nthe soft tentacles, forced it to desist. He was struck in the back and\nalmost pitched overboard by the boatman, who was using his oar to resist a\nsimilar attack on the other side of the boat. But the tentacles on either\nside at once relaxed their hold, slid out of sight, and splashed into the\nwater.\n\n\"We'd better get out of this,\" said Mr. Fison, who was trembling\nviolently. He went to the tiller, while the boatman and one of the workmen\nseated themselves and began rowing. The other workman stood up in the fore\npart of the boat, with the boat-hook, ready to strike any more tentacles\nthat might appear. Nothing else seems to have been said. Mr. Fison had\nexpressed the common feeling beyond amendment. In a hushed, scared mood,\nwith faces white and drawn, they set about escaping from the position into\nwhich they had so recklessly blundered.\n\nBut the oars had scarcely dropped into the water before dark, tapering,\nserpentine ropes had bound them, and were about the rudder; and creeping\nup the sides of the boat with a looping motion came the suckers again. The\nmen gripped their oars and pulled, but it was like trying to move a boat\nin a floating raft of weeds. \"Help here!\" cried the boatman, and Mr. Fison\nand the second workman rushed to help lug at the oar.\n\nThen the man with the boat-hook--his name was Ewan, or Ewen--sprang up\nwith a curse and began striking downward over the side, as far as he could\nreach, at the bank of tentacles that now clustered along the boat's\nbottom. And, at the same time, the two rowers stood up to get a better\npurchase for the recovery of their oars. The boatman handed his to Mr.\nFison, who lugged desperately, and, meanwhile, the boatman opened a big\nclasp-knife, and leaning over the side of the boat, began hacking at the\nspiring arms upon the oar shaft.\n\nMr. Fison, staggering with the quivering rocking of the boat, his teeth\nset, his breath coming short, and the veins starting on his hands as he\npulled at his oar, suddenly cast his eyes seaward. And there, not fifty\nyards off, across the long rollers of the incoming tide, was a large boat\nstanding in towards them, with three women and a little child in it. A\nboatman was rowing, and a little man in a pink-ribboned straw hat and\nwhites stood in the stern hailing them. For a moment, of course, Mr. Fison\nthought of help, and then he thought of the child. He abandoned his oar\nforthwith, threw up his arms in a frantic gesture, and screamed to the\nparty in the boat to keep away \"for God's sake!\" It says much for the\nmodesty and courage of Mr. Fison that he does not seem to be aware that\nthere was any quality of heroism in his action at this juncture. The oar\nhe had abandoned was at once drawn under, and presently reappeared\nfloating about twenty yards away.\n\nAt the same moment Mr. Fison felt the boat under him lurch violently, and\na hoarse scream, a prolonged cry of terror from Hill, the boatman, caused\nhim to forget the party of excursionists altogether. He turned, and saw\nHill crouching by the forward row-lock, his face convulsed with terror,\nand his right arm over the side and drawn tightly down. He gave now a\nsuccession of short, sharp cries, \"Oh! oh! oh!--oh!\" Mr. Fison believes\nthat he must have been hacking at the tentacles below the water-line, and\nhave been grasped by them, but, of course, it is quite impossible to say\nnow certainly what had happened. The boat was heeling over, so that the\ngunwale was within ten inches of the water, and both Ewan and the other\nlabourer were striking down into the water, with oar and boat-hook, on\neither side of Hill's arm. Mr. Fison instinctively placed himself to\ncounterpoise them.\n\nThen Hill, who was a burly, powerful man, made a strenuous effort, and\nrose almost to a standing position. He lifted his arm, indeed, clean out\nof the water. Hanging to it was a complicated tangle of brown ropes, and\nthe eyes of one of the brutes that had hold of him, glaring straight and\nresolute, showed momentarily above the surface. The boat heeled more and\nmore, and the green-brown water came pouring in a cascade over the side.\nThen Hill slipped and fell with his ribs across the side, and his arm and\nthe mass of tentacles about it splashed back into the water. He rolled\nover; his boot kicked Mr. Fison's knee as that gentleman rushed forward to\nseize him, and in another moment fresh tentacles had whipped about his\nwaist and neck, and after a brief, convulsive struggle, in which the boat\nwas nearly capsized, Hill was lugged overboard. The boat righted with a\nviolent jerk that all but sent Mr. Fison over the other side, and hid the\nstruggle in the water from his eyes.\n\nHe stood staggering to recover his balance for a moment, and as he did so\nhe became aware that the struggle and the inflowing tide had carried them\nclose upon the weedy rocks again. Not four yards off a table of rock still\nrose in rhythmic movements above the in-wash of the tide. In a moment Mr.\nFison seized the oar from Ewan, gave one vigorous stroke, then dropping\nit, ran to the bows and leapt. He felt his feet slide over the rock, and,\nby a frantic effort, leapt again towards a further mass. He stumbled over\nthis, came to his knees, and rose again.\n\n\"Look out!\" cried someone, and a large drab body struck him. He was\nknocked flat into a tidal pool by one of the workmen, and as he went down\nhe heard smothered, choking cries, that he believed at the time came from\nHill. Then he found himself marvelling at the shrillness and variety of\nHill's voice. Someone jumped over him, and a curving rush of foamy water\npoured over him, and passed. He scrambled to his feet dripping, and\nwithout looking seaward, ran as fast as his terror would let him\nshoreward. Before him, over the flat space of scattered rocks, stumbled\nthe two work-men--one a dozen yards in front of the other.\n\nHe looked over his shoulder at last, and seeing that he was not pursued,\nfaced about. He was astonished. From the moment of the rising of the\ncephalopods out of the water he had been acting too swiftly to fully\ncomprehend his actions. Now it seemed to him as if he had suddenly jumped\nout of an evil dream.\n\nFor there were the sky, cloudless and blazing with the afternoon sun, the\nsea weltering under its pitiless brightness, the soft creamy foam of the\nbreaking water, and the low, long, dark ridges of rock. The righted boat\nfloated, rising and falling gently on the swell about a dozen yards from\nshore. Hill and the monsters, all the stress and tumult of that fierce\nfight for life, had vanished as though they had never been.\n\nMr. Fison's heart was beating violently; he was throbbing to the\nfinger-tips, and his breath came deep.\n\nThere was something missing. For some seconds he could not think clearly\nenough what this might be. Sun, sky, sea, rocks--what was it? Then he\nremembered the boat-load of excursionists. It had vanished. He wondered\nwhether he had imagined it. He turned, and saw the two workmen standing\nside by side under the projecting masses of the tall pink cliffs. He\nhesitated whether he should make one last attempt to save the man Hill.\nHis physical excitement seemed to desert him suddenly, and leave him\naimless and helpless. He turned shoreward, stumbling and wading towards\nhis two companions.\n\nHe looked back again, and there were now two boats floating, and the one\nfarthest out at sea pitched clumsily, bottom upward.\n\n\n\nIII.\n\nSo it was _Haploteuthis ferox_ made its appearance upon the\nDevonshire coast. So far, this has been its most serious aggression. Mr.\nFison's account, taken together with the wave of boating and bathing\ncasualties to which I have already alluded, and the absence of fish from\nthe Cornish coasts that year, points clearly to a shoal of these voracious\ndeep-sea monsters prowling slowly along the sub-tidal coast-line. Hunger\nmigration has, I know, been suggested as the force that drove them hither;\nbut, for my own part, I prefer to believe the alternative theory of\nHemsley. Hemsley holds that a pack or shoal of these creatures may have\nbecome enamoured of human flesh by the accident of a foundered ship\nsinking among them, and have wandered in search of it out of their\naccustomed zone; first waylaying and following ships, and so coming to our\nshores in the wake of the Atlantic traffic. But to discuss Hemsley's\ncogent and admirably-stated arguments would be out of place here.\n\nIt would seem that the appetites of the shoal were satisfied by the catch\nof eleven people--for, so far as can be ascertained, there were ten people\nin the second boat, and certainly these creatures gave no further signs of\ntheir presence off Sidmouth that day. The coast between Seaton and\nBudleigh Salterton was patrolled all that evening and night by four\nPreventive Service boats, the men in which were armed with harpoons and\ncutlasses, and as the evening advanced, a number of more or less similarly\nequipped expeditions, organised by private individuals, joined them. Mr.\nFison took no part in any of these expeditions.\n\nAbout midnight excited hails were heard from a boat about a couple of\nmiles out at sea to the south-east of Sidmouth, and a lantern was seen\nwaving in a strange manner to and fro and up and down. The nearer boats at\nonce hurried towards the alarm. The venturesome occupants of the boat--a\nseaman, a curate, and two schoolboys--had actually seen the monsters\npassing under their boat. The creatures, it seems, like most deep-sea\norganisms, were phosphorescent, and they had been floating, five fathoms\ndeep or so, like creatures of moonshine through the blackness of the\nwater, their tentacles retracted and as if asleep, rolling over and over,\nand moving slowly in a wedge-like formation towards the south-east.\n\nThese people told their story in gesticulated fragments, as first one boat\ndrew alongside and then another. At last there was a little fleet of eight\nor nine boats collected together, and from them a tumult, like the chatter\nof a market-place, rose into the stillness of the night. There was little\nor no disposition to pursue the shoal, the people had neither weapons nor\nexperience for such a dubious chase, and presently--even with a certain\nrelief, it may be--the boats turned shoreward.\n\nAnd now to tell what is perhaps the most astonishing fact in this whole\nastonishing raid. We have not the slightest knowledge of the subsequent\nmovements of the shoal, although the whole south-west coast was now alert\nfor it. But it may, perhaps, be significant that a cachalot was stranded\noff Sark on June 3. Two weeks and three days after this Sidmouth affair, a\nliving _Haploteuthis_ came ashore on Calais sands. It was alive,\nbecause several witnesses saw its tentacles moving in a convulsive way.\nBut it is probable that it was dying. A gentleman named Pouchet obtained a\nrifle and shot it.\n\nThat was the last appearance of a living _Haploteuthis_. No others\nwere seen on the French coast. On the 15th of June a dead carcass, almost\ncomplete, was washed ashore near Torquay, and a few days later a boat from\nthe Marine Biological station, engaged in dredging off Plymouth, picked up\na rotting specimen, slashed deeply with a cutlass wound. How the former\nhad come by its death it is impossible to say. And on the last day of\nJune, Mr. Egbert Caine, an artist, bathing near Newlyn, threw up his arms,\nshrieked, and was drawn under. A friend bathing with him made no attempt\nto save him, but swam at once for the shore. This is the last fact to tell\nof this extraordinary raid from the deeper sea. Whether it is really the\nlast of these horrible creatures it is, as yet, premature to say. But it\nis believed, and certainly it is to be hoped, that they have returned now,\nand returned for good, to the sunless depths of the middle seas, out of\nwhich they have so strangely and so mysteriously arisen.\n\n\n\n\n XIV.\n\n THE OBLITERATED MAN.\n\n\nI was--you shall hear immediately why I am not now--Egbert Craddock\nCummins. The name remains. I am still (Heaven help me!) Dramatic Critic to\nthe _Fiery Cross_. What I shall be in a little while I do not know. I\nwrite in great trouble and confusion of mind. I will do what I can to make\nmyself clear in the face of terrible difficulties. You must bear with me a\nlittle. When a man is rapidly losing his own identity, he naturally finds\na difficulty in expressing himself. I will make it perfectly plain in a\nminute, when once I get my grip upon the story. Let me see--where\n_am_ I? I wish I knew. Ah, I have it! Dead self! Egbert Craddock\nCummins!\n\nIn the past I should have disliked writing anything quite so full of \"I\"\nas this story must be. It is full of \"I's\" before and behind, like the\nbeast in Revelation--the one with a head like a calf, I am afraid. But my\ntastes have changed since I became a Dramatic Critic and studied the\nmasters--G.A.S., G.B.S., G.R.S., and the others. Everything has changed\nsince then. At least the story is about myself--so that there is some\nexcuse for me. And it is really not egotism, because, as I say, since\nthose days my identity has undergone an entire alteration.\n\nThat past!... I was--in those days--rather a nice fellow, rather shy--\ntaste for grey in my clothes, weedy little moustache, face \"interesting,\"\nslight stutter which I had caught in my early life from a schoolfellow.\nEngaged to a very nice girl, named Delia. Fairly new, she was--\ncigarettes--liked me because I was human and original. Considered I was\nlike Lamb--on the strength of the stutter, I believe. Father, an eminent\nauthority on postage stamps. She read a great deal in the British Museum.\n(A perfect pairing ground for literary people, that British Museum--you\nshould read George Egerton and Justin Huntly M'Carthy and Gissing and the\nrest of them.) We loved in our intellectual way, and shared the brightest\nhopes. (All gone now.) And her father liked me because I seemed honestly\neager to hear about stamps. She had no mother. Indeed, I had the happiest\nprospects a young man could have. I never went to theatres in those days.\nMy Aunt Charlotte before she died had told me not to.\n\nThen Barnaby, the editor of the _Fiery Cross_, made me--in spite of\nmy spasmodic efforts to escape--Dramatic Critic. He is a fine, healthy\nman, Barnaby, with an enormous head of frizzy black hair and a convincing\nmanner, and he caught me on the staircase going to see Wembly. He had been\ndining, and was more than usually buoyant. \"Hullo, Cummins!\" he said. \"The\nvery man I want!\" He caught me by the shoulder or the collar or something,\nran me up the little passage, and flung me over the waste-paper basket\ninto the arm-chair in his office. \"Pray be seated,\" he said, as he did so.\nThen he ran across the room and came back with some pink and yellow\ntickets and pushed them into my hand. \"Opera Comique,\" he said, \"Thursday;\nFriday, the Surrey; Saturday, the Frivolity. That's all, I think.\"\n\n\"But--\" I began.\n\n\"Glad you're free,\" he said, snatching some proofs off the desk and\nbeginning to read.\n\n\"I don't quite understand,\" I said.\n\n\"_Eigh_?\" he said, at the top of his voice, as though he thought I\nhad gone and was startled at my remark.\n\n\"Do you want me to criticise these plays?\"\n\n\"Do something with 'em... Did you think it was a treat?\"\n\n\"But I can't.\"\n\n\"Did you call me a fool?\"\n\n\"Well, I've never been to a theatre in my life.\"\n\n\"Virgin soil.\"\n\n\"But I don't know anything about it, you know.\"\n\n\"That's just it. New view. No habits. No _clichés_ in stock. Ours is\na live paper, not a bag of tricks. None of your clockwork professional\njournalism in this office. And I can rely on your integrity----\"\n\n\"But I've conscientious scruples----\"\n\nHe caught me up suddenly and put me outside his door. \"Go and talk to\nWembly about that,\" he said. \"He'll explain.\"\n\nAs I stood perplexed, he opened the door again, said, \"I forgot this,\"\nthrust a fourth ticket into my hand (it was for that night--in twenty\nminutes' time) and slammed the door upon me. His expression was quite\ncalm, but I caught his eye.\n\nI hate arguments. I decided that I would take his hint and become (to my\nown destruction) a Dramatic Critic. I walked slowly down the passage to\nWembly. That Barnaby has a remarkable persuasive way. He has made few\nsuggestions during our very pleasant intercourse of four years that he has\nnot ultimately won me round to adopting. It may be, of course, that I am\nof a yielding disposition; certainly I am too apt to take my colour from\nmy circumstances. It is, indeed, to my unfortunate susceptibility to vivid\nimpressions that all my misfortunes are due. I have already alluded to the\nslight stammer I had acquired from a schoolfellow in my youth. However,\nthis is a digression... I went home in a cab to dress.\n\nI will not trouble the reader with my thoughts about the first-night\naudience, strange assembly as it is,--those I reserve for my Memoirs,--nor\nthe humiliating story of how I got lost during the _entr'acte_ in a\nlot of red plush passages, and saw the third act from the gallery. The\nonly point upon which I wish to lay stress was the remarkable effect of\nthe acting upon me. You must remember I had lived a quiet and retired\nlife, and had never been to the theatre before, and that I am extremely\nsensitive to vivid impressions. At the risk of repetition I must insist\nupon these points.\n\nThe first effect was a profound amazement, not untinctured by alarm. The\nphenomenal unnaturalness of acting is a thing discounted in the minds of\nmost people by early visits to the theatre. They get used to the fantastic\ngestures, the flamboyant emotions, the weird mouthings, melodious\nsnortings, agonising yelps, lip-gnawings, glaring horrors, and other\nemotional symbolism of the stage. It becomes at last a mere deaf-and-dumb\nlanguage to them, which they read intelligently _pari passu_ with the\nhearing of the dialogue. But all this was new to me. The thing was called\na modern comedy, the people were supposed to be English and were dressed\nlike fashionable Americans of the current epoch, and I fell into the\nnatural error of supposing that the actors were trying to represent human\nbeings. I looked round on my first-night audience with a kind of wonder,\ndiscovered--as all new Dramatic Critics do--that it rested with me to\nreform the Drama, and, after a supper choked with emotion, went off to the\noffice to write a column, piebald with \"new paragraphs\" (as all my stuff\nis--it fills out so) and purple with indignation. Barnaby was delighted.\n\nBut I could not sleep that night. I dreamt of actors--actors glaring,\nactors smiting their chests, actors flinging out a handful of extended\nfingers, actors smiling bitterly, laughing despairingly, falling\nhopelessly, dying idiotically. I got up at eleven with a slight headache,\nread my notice in the _Fiery Cross_, breakfasted, and went back to my\nroom to shave, (It's my habit to do so.) Then an odd thing happened. I\ncould not find my razor. Suddenly it occurred to me that I had not\nunpacked it the day before.\n\n\"Ah!\" said I, in front of the looking-glass. Then \"Hullo!\"\n\nQuite involuntarily, when I had thought of my portmanteau, I had flung up\nthe left arm (fingers fully extended) and clutched at my diaphragm with my\nright hand. I am an acutely self-conscious man at all times. The gesture\nstruck me as absolutely novel for me. I repeated it, for my own\nsatisfaction. \"Odd!\" Then (rather puzzled) I turned to my portmanteau.\n\nAfter shaving, my mind reverted to the acting I had seen, and I\nentertained myself before the cheval glass with some imitations of\nJafferay's more exaggerated gestures. \"Really, one might think it a\ndisease,\" I said--\"Stage-Walkitis!\" (There's many a truth spoken in jest.)\nThen, if I remember rightly, I went off to see Wembly, and afterwards\nlunched at the British Museum with Delia. We actually spoke about our\nprospects, in the light of my new appointment.\n\nBut that appointment was the beginning of my downfall. From that day I\nnecessarily became a persistent theatre-goer, and almost insensibly I\nbegan to change. The next thing I noticed after the gesture about the\nrazor was to catch myself bowing ineffably when I met Delia, and stooping\nin an old-fashioned, courtly way over her hand. Directly I caught myself,\nI straightened myself up and became very uncomfortable. I remember she\nlooked at me curiously. Then, in the office, I found myself doing \"nervous\nbusiness,\" fingers on teeth, when Barnaby asked me a question I could not\nvery well answer. Then, in some trifling difference with Delia, I clasped\nmy hand to my brow. And I pranced through my social transactions at times\nsingularly like an actor! I tried not to--no one could be more keenly\nalive to the arrant absurdity of the histrionic bearing. And I did!\n\nIt began to dawn on me what it all meant. The acting, I saw, was too much\nfor my delicately-strung nervous system. I have always, I know, been too\namenable to the suggestions of my circumstances. Night after night of\nconcentrated attention to the conventional attitudes and intonation of the\nEnglish stage was gradually affecting my speech and carriage. I was giving\nway to the infection of sympathetic imitation. Night after night my\nplastic nervous system took the print of some new amazing gesture, some\nnew emotional exaggeration--and retained it. A kind of theatrical veneer\nthreatened to plate over and obliterate my private individuality\naltogether. I saw myself in a kind of vision. Sitting by myself one night,\nmy new self seemed to me to glide, posing and gesticulating, across the\nroom. He clutched his throat, he opened his fingers, he opened his legs in\nwalking like a high-class marionette. He went from attitude to attitude.\nHe might have been clockwork. Directly after this I made an ineffectual\nattempt to resign my theatrical work. But Barnaby persisted in talking\nabout the Polywhiddle Divorce all the time I was with him, and I could get\nno opportunity of saying what I wished.\n\nAnd then Delia's manner began to change towards me. The ease of our\nintercourse vanished. I felt she was learning to dislike me. I grinned,\nand capered, and scowled, and posed at her in a thousand ways, and\nknew--with what a voiceless agony!--that I did it all the time. I tried to\nresign again, and Barnaby talked about \"X\" and \"Z\" and \"Y\" in the _New\nReview,_ and gave me a strong cigar to smoke, and so routed me. And\nthen I walked up the Assyrian Gallery in the manner of Irving to meet\nDelia, and so precipitated the crisis.\n\n\"Ah!--_Dear_!\" I said, with more sprightliness and emotion in my\nvoice than had ever been in all my life before I became (to my own\nundoing) a Dramatic Critic.\n\nShe held out her hand rather coldly, scrutinising my face as she did so. I\nprepared, with a new-won grace, to walk by her side. \"Egbert,\" she said,\nstanding still, and thought. Then she looked at me.\n\nI said nothing. I felt what was coming. I tried to be the old Egbert\nCraddock Cummins of shambling gait and stammering sincerity, whom she\nloved, but I felt even as I did so that I was a new thing, a thing of\nsurging emotions and mysterious fixity--like no human being that ever\nlived, except upon the stage. \"Egbert,\" she said, \"you are not yourself.\"\n\n\"Ah!\" Involuntarily I clutched my diaphragm and averted my head (as is the\nway with them).\n\n\"There!\" she said.\n\n\"_What do you mean_?\" I said, whispering in vocal italics--you know\nhow they do it--turning on her, perplexity on face, right hand down, left\non brow. I knew quite well what she meant. I knew quite well the dramatic\nunreality of my behaviour. But I struggled against it in vain. \"What do\nyou mean?\" I said, and, in a kind of hoarse whisper, \"I don't understand!\"\n\nShe really looked as though she disliked me. \"What do you keep on posing\nfor?\" she said. \"I don't like it. You didn't use to.\"\n\n\"Didn't use to!\" I said slowly, repeating this twice. I glared up and down\nthe gallery with short, sharp glances. \"We are alone,\" I said swiftly.\n\"_Listen!_\" I poked my forefinger towards her, and glared at her.\n\"I am under a curse.\"\n\nI saw her hand tighten upon her sunshade. \"You are under some bad\ninfluence or other,\" said Delia. \"You should give it up. I never knew\nanyone change as you have done.\"\n\n\"Delia!\" I said, lapsing into the pathetic. \"Pity me, Augh! Delia!\n_Pit_--y me!\"\n\nShe eyed me critically. \"_Why_ you keep playing the fool like this I\ndon't know,\" she said. \"Anyhow, I really cannot go about with a man who\nbehaves as you do. You made us both ridiculous on Wednesday. Frankly, I\ndislike you, as you are now. I met you here to tell you so--as it's about\nthe only place where we can be sure of being alone together----\"\n\n\"Delia!\" said I, with intensity, knuckles of clenched hands white. \"You\ndon't mean----\"\n\n\"I do,\" said Delia. \"A woman's lot is sad enough at the best of times. But\nwith you----\"\n\nI clapped my hand on my brow.\n\n\"So, good-bye,\" said Delia, without emotion.\n\n\"Oh, Delia!\" I said. \"Not _this_?\"\n\n\"Good-bye, Mr. Cummins,\" she said.\n\nBy a violent effort I controlled myself and touched her hand. I tried to\nsay some word of explanation to her. She looked into my working face and\nwinced. \"I _must_ do it,\" she said hopelessly. Then she turned from\nme and began walking rapidly down the gallery.\n\nHeavens! How the human agony cried within me! I loved Delia. But nothing\nfound expression--I was already too deeply crusted with my acquired self.\n\n\"Good-baye!\" I said at last, watching her retreating figure. How I hated\nmyself for doing it! After she had vanished, I repeated in a dreamy way,\n\"Good-baye!\" looking hopelessly round me. Then, with a kind of\nheart-broken cry, I shook my clenched fists in the air, staggered to the\npedestal of a winged figure, buried my face in my arms, and made my\nshoulders heave. Something within me said \"Ass!\" as I did so. (I had the\ngreatest difficulty in persuading the Museum policeman, who was attracted\nby my cry of agony, that I was not intoxicated, but merely suffering from\na transient indisposition.)\n\nBut even this great sorrow has not availed to save me from my fate. I see\nit; everyone sees it: I grow more \"theatrical\" every day. And no one could\nbe more painfully aware of the pungent silliness of theatrical ways. The\nquiet, nervous, but pleasing E.C. Cummins vanishes. I cannot save him. I\nam driven like a dead leaf before the winds of March. My tailor even\nenters into the spirit of my disorder. He has a peculiar sense of what is\nfitting. I tried to get a dull grey suit from him this spring, and he\nfoisted a brilliant blue upon me, and I see he has put braid down the\nsides of my new dress trousers. My hairdresser insists upon giving me a\n\"wave.\"\n\nI am beginning to associate with actors. I detest them, but it is only in\ntheir company that I can feel I am not glaringly conspicuous. Their talk\ninfects me. I notice a growing tendency to dramatic brevity, to dashes and\npauses in my style, to a punctuation of bows and attitudes. Barnaby has\nremarked it too. I offended Wembly by calling him \"Dear Boy\" yesterday. I\ndread the end, but I cannot escape from it.\n\nThe fact is, I am being obliterated. Living a grey, retired life all my\nyouth, I came to the theatre a delicate sketch of a man, a thing of tints\nand faint lines. Their gorgeous colouring has effaced me altogether.\nPeople forget how much mode of expression, method of movement, are a\nmatter of contagion. I have heard of stage-struck people before, and\nthought it a figure of speech. I spoke of it jestingly, as a disease. It\nis no jest. It is a disease. And I have got it badly! Deep down within me\nI protest against the wrong done to my personality--unavailingly. For\nthree hours or more a week I have to go and concentrate my attention on\nsome fresh play, and the suggestions of the drama strengthen their awful\nhold upon me. My manners grow so flamboyant, my passions so professional,\nthat I doubt, as I said at the outset, whether it is really myself that\nbehaves in such a manner. I feel merely the core to this dramatic casing,\nthat grows thicker and presses upon me--me and mine. I feel like King\nJohn's abbot in his cope of lead.\n\nI doubt, indeed, whether I should not abandon the struggle altogether--\nleave this sad world of ordinary life for which I am so ill fitted,\nabandon the name of Cummins for some professional pseudonym, complete my\nself-effacement, and--a thing of tricks and tatters, of posing and\npretence--go upon the stage. It seems my only resort--\"to hold the mirror\nup to Nature.\" For in the ordinary life, I will confess, no one now seems\nto regard me as both sane and sober. Only upon the stage, I feel\nconvinced, will people take me seriously. That will be the end of it. I\n_know_ that will be the end of it. And yet ... I will frankly confess\n... all that marks off your actor from your common man ... I\n_detest_. I am still largely of my Aunt Charlotte's opinion, that\nplay-acting is unworthy of a pure-minded man's attention, much more\nparticipation. Even now I would resign my dramatic criticism and try a\nrest. Only I can't get hold of Barnaby. Letters of resignation he never\nnotices. He says it is against the etiquette of journalism to write to\nyour Editor. And when I go to see him, he gives me another big cigar and\nsome strong whisky and soda, and then something always turns up to prevent\nmy explanation.\n\n\n\n\n XV.\n\n THE PLATTNER STORY.\n\n\nWhether the story of Gottfried Plattner is to be credited or not is a\npretty question in the value of evidence. On the one hand, we have seven\nwitnesses--to be perfectly exact, we have six and a half pairs of eyes,\nand one undeniable fact; and on the other we have--what is it?--prejudice,\ncommon-sense, the inertia of opinion. Never were there seven more\nhonest-seeming witnesses; never was there a more undeniable fact than the\ninversion of Gottfried Plattner's anatomical structure, and--never was\nthere a more preposterous story than the one they have to tell! The most\npreposterous part of the story is the worthy Gottfried's contribution (for\nI count him as one of the seven). Heaven forbid that I should be led into\ngiving countenance to superstition by a passion for impartiality, and so\ncome to share the fate of Eusapia's patrons! Frankly, I believe there is\nsomething crooked about this business of Gottfried Plattner; but what that\ncrooked factor is, I will admit as frankly, I do not know. I have been\nsurprised at the credit accorded to the story in the most unexpected and\nauthoritative quarters. The fairest way to the reader, however, will be\nfor me to tell it without further comment.\n\nGottfried Plattner is, in spite of his name, a freeborn Englishman. His\nfather was an Alsatian who came to England in the 'sixties, married a\nrespectable English girl of unexceptionable antecedents, and died, after a\nwholesome and uneventful life (devoted, I understand, chiefly to the\nlaying of parquet flooring), in 1887. Gottfried's age is seven-and-twenty.\nHe is, by virtue of his heritage of three languages, Modern Languages\nMaster in a small private school in the south of England. To the casual\nobserver he is singularly like any other Modern Languages Master in any\nother small private school. His costume is neither very costly nor very\nfashionable, but, on the other hand, it is not markedly cheap or shabby;\nhis complexion, like his height and his bearing, is inconspicuous. You\nwould notice, perhaps, that, like the majority of people, his face was not\nabsolutely symmetrical, his right eye a little larger than the left, and\nhis jaw a trifle heavier on the right side. If you, as an ordinary\ncareless person, were to bare his chest and feel his heart beating, you\nwould probably find it quite like the heart of anyone else. But here you\nand the trained observer would part company. If you found his heart quite\nordinary, the trained observer would find it quite otherwise. And once the\nthing was pointed out to you, you too would perceive the peculiarity\neasily enough. It is that Gottfried's heart beats on the right side of his\nbody.\n\nNow, that is not the only singularity of Gottfried's structure, although\nit is the only one that would appeal to the untrained mind. Careful\nsounding of Gottfried's internal arrangements by a well-known surgeon\nseems to point to the fact that all the other unsymmetrical parts of his\nbody are similarly misplaced. The right lobe of his liver is on the left\nside, the left on his right; while his lungs, too, are similarly\ncontraposed. What is still more singular, unless Gottfried is a consummate\nactor, we must believe that his right hand has recently become his left.\nSince the occurrences we are about to consider (as impartially as\npossible), he has found the utmost difficulty in writing, except from\nright to left across the paper with his left hand. He cannot throw with\nhis right hand, he is perplexed at meal-times between knife and fork, and\nhis ideas of the rule of the road--he is a cyclist--are still a dangerous\nconfusion. And there is not a scrap of evidence to show that before these\noccurrences Gottfried was at all left-handed.\n\nThere is yet another wonderful fact in this preposterous business.\nGottfried produces three photographs of himself. You have him at the age\nof five or six, thrusting fat legs at you from under a plaid frock, and\nscowling. In that photograph his left eye is a little larger than his\nright, and his jaw is a trifle heavier on the left side. This is the\nreverse of his present living condition. The photograph of Gottfried at\nfourteen seems to contradict these facts, but that is because it is one of\nthose cheap \"Gem\" photographs that were then in vogue, taken direct upon\nmetal, and therefore reversing things just as a looking-glass would. The\nthird photograph represents him at one-and-twenty, and confirms the record\nof the others. There seems here evidence of the strongest confirmatory\ncharacter that Gottfried has exchanged his left side for his right. Yet\nhow a human being can be so changed, short of a fantastic and pointless\nmiracle, it is exceedingly hard to suggest.\n\nIn one way, of course, these facts might be explicable on the supposition\nthat Plattner has undertaken an elaborate mystification, on the strength\nof his heart's displacement. Photographs may be faked, and left-handedness\nimitated. But the character of the man does not lend itself to any such\ntheory. He is quiet, practical, unobtrusive, and thoroughly sane, from the\nNordau standpoint. He likes beer, and smokes moderately, takes walking\nexercise daily, and has a healthily high estimate of the value of his\nteaching. He has a good but untrained tenor voice, and takes a pleasure in\nsinging airs of a popular and cheerful character. He is fond, but not\nmorbidly fond, of reading,--chiefly fiction pervaded with a vaguely pious\noptimism,--sleeps well, and rarely dreams. He is, in fact, the very last\nperson to evolve a fantastic fable. Indeed, so far from forcing this story\nupon the world, he has been singularly reticent on the matter. He meets\nenquirers with a certain engaging--bashfulness is almost the word, that\ndisarms the most suspicious. He seems genuinely ashamed that anything so\nunusual has occurred to him.\n\nIt is to be regretted that Plattner's aversion to the idea of post-mortem\ndissection may postpone, perhaps for ever, the positive proof that his\nentire body has had its left and right sides transposed. Upon that fact\nmainly the credibility of his story hangs. There is no way of taking a man\nand moving him about in space as ordinary people understand space, that\nwill result in our changing his sides. Whatever you do, his right is still\nhis right, his left his left. You can do that with a perfectly thin and\nflat thing, of course. If you were to cut a figure out of paper, any\nfigure with a right and left side, you could change its sides simply by\nlifting it up and turning it over. But with a solid it is different.\nMathematical theorists tell us that the only way in which the right and\nleft sides of a solid body can be changed is by taking that body clean out\nof space as we know it,--taking it out of ordinary existence, that is, and\nturning it somewhere outside space. This is a little abstruse, no doubt,\nbut anyone with any knowledge of mathematical theory will assure the\nreader of its truth. To put the thing in technical language, the curious\ninversion of Plattner's right and left sides is proof that he has moved\nout of our space into what is called the Fourth Dimension, and that he has\nreturned again to our world. Unless we choose to consider ourselves the\nvictims of an elaborate and motiveless fabrication, we are almost bound to\nbelieve that this has occurred.\n\nSo much for the tangible facts. We come now to the account of the\nphenomena that attended his temporary disappearance from the world. It\nappears that in the Sussexville Proprietary School, Plattner not only\ndischarged the duties of Modern Languages Master, but also taught\nchemistry, commercial geography, bookkeeping, shorthand, drawing, and any\nother additional subject to which the changing fancies of the boys'\nparents might direct attention. He knew little or nothing of these various\nsubjects, but in secondary as distinguished from Board or elementary\nschools, knowledge in the teacher is, very properly, by no means so\nnecessary as high moral character and gentlemanly tone. In chemistry he\nwas particularly deficient, knowing, he says, nothing beyond the Three\nGases (whatever the three gases may be). As, however, his pupils began by\nknowing nothing, and derived all their information from him, this caused\nhim (or anyone) but little inconvenience for several terms. Then a little\nboy named Whibble joined the school, who had been educated (it seems) by\nsome mischievous relative into an inquiring habit of mind. This little boy\nfollowed Plattner's lessons with marked and sustained interest, and in\norder to exhibit his zeal on the subject, brought, at various times,\nsubstances for Plattner to analyse. Plattner, flattered by this evidence\nof his power of awakening interest, and trusting to the boy's ignorance,\nanalysed these, and even, made general statements as to their composition.\nIndeed, he was so far stimulated by his pupil as to obtain a work upon\nanalytical chemistry, and study it during his supervision of the evening's\npreparation. He was surprised to find chemistry quite an interesting\nsubject.\n\nSo far the story is absolutely commonplace. But now the greenish powder\ncomes upon the scene. The source of that greenish powder seems,\nunfortunately, lost. Master Whibble tells a tortuous story of finding it\ndone up in a packet in a disused limekiln near the Downs. It would have\nbeen an excellent thing for Plattner, and possibly for Master Whibble's\nfamily, if a match could have been applied to that powder there and then.\nThe young gentleman certainly did not bring it to school in a packet, but\nin a common eight-ounce graduated medicine bottle, plugged with masticated\nnewspaper. He gave it to Plattner at the end of the afternoon school. Four\nboys had been detained after school prayers in order to complete some\nneglected tasks, and Plattner was supervising these in the small class-room\nin which the chemical teaching was conducted. The appliances for the\npractical teaching of chemistry in the Sussexville Proprietary School, as\nin most small schools in this country, are characterised by a severe\nsimplicity. They are kept in a small cupboard standing in a recess, and\nhaving about the same capacity as a common travelling trunk. Plattner,\nbeing bored with his passive superintendence, seems to have welcomed the\nintervention of Whibble with his green powder as an agreeable diversion,\nand, unlocking this cupboard, proceeded at once with his analytical\nexperiments. Whibble sat, luckily for himself, at a safe distance,\nregarding him. The four malefactors, feigning a profound absorption in\ntheir work, watched him furtively with the keenest interest. For even\nwithin the limits of the Three Gases, Plattner's practical chemistry was,\nI understand, temerarious.\n\nThey are practically unanimous in their account of Plattner's proceedings.\nHe poured a little of the green powder into a test-tube, and tried the\nsubstance with water, hydrochloric acid, nitric acid, and sulphuric acid\nin succession. Getting no result, he emptied out a little heap--nearly\nhalf the bottleful, in fact--upon a slate and tried a match. He held the\nmedicine bottle in his left hand. The stuff began to smoke and melt, and\nthen exploded with deafening violence and a blinding flash.\n\nThe five boys, seeing the flash and being prepared for catastrophes,\nducked below their desks, and were none of them seriously hurt. The window\nwas blown out into the playground, and the blackboard on its easel was\nupset. The slate was smashed to atoms. Some plaster fell from the ceiling.\nNo other damage was done to the school edifice or appliances, and the boys\nat first, seeing nothing of Plattner, fancied he was knocked down and\nlying out of their sight below the desks. They jumped out of their places\nto go to his assistance, and were amazed to find the space empty. Being\nstill confused by the sudden violence of the report, they hurried to the\nopen door, under the impression that he must have been hurt, and have\nrushed out of the room. But Carson, the foremost, nearly collided in the\ndoorway with the principal, Mr. Lidgett.\n\nMr. Lidgett is a corpulent, excitable man with one eye. The boys describe\nhim as stumbling into the room mouthing some of those tempered expletives\nirritable schoolmasters accustom themselves to use--lest worse befall.\n\"Wretched mumchancer!\" he said. \"Where's Mr. Plattner?\" The boys are\nagreed on the very words. (\"Wobbler,\" \"snivelling puppy,\" and \"mumchancer\"\nare, it seems, among the ordinary small change of Mr. Lidgett's scholastic\ncommerce.)\n\nWhere's Mr. Plattner? That was a question that was to be repeated many\ntimes in the next few days. It really seemed as though that frantic\nhyperbole, \"blown to atoms,\" had for once realised itself. There was not a\nvisible particle of Plattner to be seen; not a drop of blood nor a stitch\nof clothing to be found. Apparently he had been blown clean out of\nexistence and left not a wrack behind. Not so much as would cover a\nsixpenny piece, to quote a proverbial expression! The evidence of his\nabsolute disappearance as a consequence of that explosion is indubitable.\n\nIt is not necessary to enlarge here upon the commotion excited in the\nSussexville Proprietary School, and in Sussexville and elsewhere, by this\nevent. It is quite possible, indeed, that some of the readers of these\npages may recall the hearing of some remote and dying version of that\nexcitement during the last summer holidays. Lidgett, it would seem, did\neverything in his power to suppress and minimise the story. He instituted\na penalty of twenty-five lines for any mention of Plattner's name among\nthe boys, and stated in the schoolroom that he was clearly aware of his\nassistant's whereabouts. He was afraid, he explains, that the possibility\nof an explosion happening, in spite of the elaborate precautions taken to\nminimise the practical teaching of chemistry, might injure the reputation\nof the school; and so might any mysterious quality in Plattner's\ndeparture. Indeed, he did everything in his power to make the occurrence\nseem as ordinary as possible. In particular, he cross-examined the five\neye-witnesses of the occurrence so searchingly that they began to doubt\nthe plain evidence of their senses. But, in spite of these efforts, the\ntale, in a magnified and distorted state, made a nine days' wonder in the\ndistrict, and several parents withdrew their sons on colourable pretexts.\nNot the least remarkable point in the matter is the fact that a large\nnumber of people in the neighbourhood dreamed singularly vivid dreams of\nPlattner during the period of excitement before his return, and that these\ndreams had a curious uniformity. In almost all of them Plattner was seen,\nsometimes singly, sometimes in company, wandering about through a\ncoruscating iridescence. In all cases his face was pale and distressed,\nand in some he gesticulated towards the dreamer. One or two of the boys,\nevidently under the influence of nightmare, fancied that Plattner\napproached them with remarkable swiftness, and seemed to look closely into\ntheir very eyes. Others fled with Plattner from the pursuit of vague and\nextraordinary creatures of a globular shape. But all these fancies were\nforgotten in inquiries and speculations when on the Wednesday next but one\nafter the Monday of the explosion, Plattner returned.\n\nThe circumstances of his return were as singular as those of his\ndeparture. So far as Mr. Lidgett's somewhat choleric outline can be filled\nin from Plattner's hesitating statements, it would appear that on\nWednesday evening, towards the hour of sunset, the former gentleman,\nhaving dismissed evening preparation, was engaged in his garden, picking\nand eating strawberries, a fruit of which he is inordinately fond. It is a\nlarge old-fashioned garden, secured from observation, fortunately, by a\nhigh and ivy-covered red-brick wall. Just as he was stooping over a\nparticularly prolific plant, there was a flash in the air and a heavy\nthud, and before he could look round, some heavy body struck him violently\nfrom behind. He was pitched forward, crushing the strawberries he held in\nhis hand, and that so roughly, that his silk hat--Mr. Lidgett adheres to\nthe older ideas of scholastic costume--was driven violently down upon his\nforehead, and almost over one eye. This heavy missile, which slid over him\nsideways and collapsed into a sitting posture among the strawberry plants,\nproved to be our long-lost Mr. Gottfried Plattner, in an extremely\ndishevelled condition. He was collarless and hatless, his linen was dirty,\nand there was blood upon his hands. Mr. Lidgett was so indignant and\nsurprised that he remained on all-fours, and with his hat jammed down on\nhis eye, while he expostulated vehemently with Plattner for his\ndisrespectful and unaccountable conduct.\n\nThis scarcely idyllic scene completes what I may call the exterior version\nof the Plattner story--its exoteric aspect. It is quite unnecessary to\nenter here into all the details of his dismissal by Mr. Lidgett. Such\ndetails, with the full names and dates and references, will be found in\nthe larger report of these occurrences that was laid before the Society\nfor the Investigation of Abnormal Phenomena. The singular transposition of\nPlattner's right and left sides was scarcely observed for the first day or\nso, and then first in connection with his disposition to write from right\nto left across the blackboard. He concealed rather than ostended this\ncurious confirmatory circumstance, as he considered it would unfavourably\naffect his prospects in a new situation. The displacement of his heart was\ndiscovered some months after, when he was having a tooth extracted under\nanaesthetics. He then, very unwillingly, allowed a cursory surgical\nexamination to be made of himself, with a view to a brief account in the\n_Journal of Anatomy_. That exhausts the statement of the material\nfacts; and we may now go on to consider Plattner's account of the matter.\n\nBut first let us clearly differentiate between the preceding portion of\nthis story and what is to follow. All I have told thus far is established\nby such evidence as even a criminal lawyer would approve. Every one of the\nwitnesses is still alive; the reader, if he have the leisure, may hunt the\nlads out to-morrow, or even brave the terrors of the redoubtable Lidgett,\nand cross-examine and trap and test to his heart's content; Gottfried\nPlattner himself, and his twisted heart and his three photographs, are\nproducible. It may be taken as proved that he did disappear for nine days\nas the consequence of an explosion; that he returned almost as violently,\nunder circumstances in their nature annoying to Mr. Lidgett, whatever the\ndetails of those circumstances may be; and that he returned inverted, just\nas a reflection returns from a mirror. From the last fact, as I have\nalready stated, it follows almost inevitably that Plattner, during those\nnine days, must have been in some state of existence altogether out of\nspace. The evidence to these statements is, indeed, far stronger than that\nupon which most murderers are hanged. But for his own particular account\nof where he had been, with its confused explanations and wellnigh\nself-contradictory details, we have only Mr. Gottfried Plattner's word. I\ndo not wish to discredit that, but I must point out--what so many writers\nupon obscure psychic phenomena fail to do--that we are passing here from\nthe practically undeniable to that kind of matter which any reasonable man\nis entitled to believe or reject as he thinks proper. The previous\nstatements render it plausible; its discordance with common experience\ntilts it towards the incredible. I would prefer not to sway the beam of\nthe reader's judgment either way, but simply to tell the story as Plattner\ntold it me.\n\nHe gave me his narrative, I may state, at my house at Chislehurst, and so\nsoon as he had left me that evening, I went into my study and wrote down\neverything as I remembered it. Subsequently he was good enough to read\nover a type-written copy, so that its substantial correctness is\nundeniable.\n\nHe states that at the moment of the explosion he distinctly thought he was\nkilled. He felt lifted off his feet and driven forcibly backward. It is a\ncurious fact for psychologists that he thought clearly during his backward\nflight, and wondered whether he should hit the chemistry cupboard or the\nblackboard easel. His heels struck ground, and he staggered and fell\nheavily into a sitting position on something soft and firm. For a moment\nthe concussion stunned him. He became aware at once of a vivid scent of\nsinged hair, and he seemed to hear the voice of Lidgett asking for him.\nYou will understand that for a time his mind was greatly confused.\n\nAt first he was under the impression that he was still standing in the\nclass-room. He perceived quite distinctly the surprise of the boys and the\nentry of Mr. Lidgett. He is quite positive upon that score. He did not\nhear their remarks; but that he ascribed to the deafening effect of the\nexperiment. Things about him seemed curiously dark and faint, but his mind\nexplained that on the obvious but mistaken idea that the explosion had\nengendered a huge volume of dark smoke. Through the dimness the figures of\nLidgett and the boys moved, as faint and silent as ghosts. Plattner's face\nstill tingled with the stinging heat of the flash. He, was, he says, \"all\nmuddled.\" His first definite thoughts seem to have been of his personal\nsafety. He thought he was perhaps blinded and deafened. He felt his limbs\nand face in a gingerly manner. Then his perceptions grew clearer, and he\nwas astonished to miss the old familiar desks and other schoolroom\nfurniture about him. Only dim, uncertain, grey shapes stood in the place\nof these. Then came a thing that made him shout aloud, and awoke his\nstunned faculties to instant activity. _Two of the boys, gesticulating,\nwalked one after the other clean through him_! Neither manifested the\nslightest consciousness of his presence. It is difficult to imagine the\nsensation he felt. They came against him, he says, with no more force than\na wisp of mist.\n\nPlattner's first thought after that was that he was dead. Having been\nbrought up with thoroughly sound views in these matters, however, he was a\nlittle surprised to find his body still about him. His second conclusion\nwas that he was not dead, but that the others were: that the explosion had\ndestroyed the Sussexville Proprietary School and every soul in it except\nhimself. But that, too, was scarcely satisfactory. He was thrown back upon\nastonished observation.\n\nEverything about him was profoundly dark: at first it seemed to have an\naltogether ebony blackness. Overhead was a black firmament. The only touch\nof light in the scene was a faint greenish glow at the edge of the sky in\none direction, which threw into prominence a horizon of undulating black\nhills. This, I say, was his impression at first. As his eye grew\naccustomed to the darkness, he began to distinguish a faint quality of\ndifferentiating greenish colour in the circumambient night. Against this\nbackground the furniture and occupants of the class-room, it seems, stood\nout like phosphorescent spectres, faint and impalpable. He extended his\nhand, and thrust it without an effort through the wall of the room by the\nfireplace.\n\nHe describes himself as making a strenuous effort to attract attention. He\nshouted to Lidgett, and tried to seize the boys as they went to and fro.\nHe only desisted from these attempts when Mrs. Lidgett, whom he (as an\nAssistant Master) naturally disliked, entered the room. He says the\nsensation of being in the world, and yet not a part of it, was an\nextraordinarily disagreeable one. He compared his feelings, not inaptly,\nto those of a cat watching a mouse through a window. Whenever he made a\nmotion to communicate with the dim, familiar world about him, he found an\ninvisible, incomprehensible barrier preventing intercourse.\n\nHe then turned his attention to his solid environment. He found the\nmedicine bottle still unbroken in his hand, with the remainder of the\ngreen powder therein. He put this in his pocket, and began to feel about\nhim. Apparently he was sitting on a boulder of rock covered with a velvety\nmoss. The dark country about him he was unable to see, the faint, misty\npicture of the schoolroom blotting it out, but he had a feeling (due\nperhaps to a cold wind) that he was near the crest of a hill, and that a\nsteep valley fell away beneath his feet. The green glow along the edge of\nthe sky seemed to be growing in extent and intensity. He stood up, rubbing\nhis eyes.\n\nIt would seem that he made a few steps, going steeply downhill, and then\nstumbled, nearly fell, and sat down again upon a jagged mass of rock to\nwatch the dawn. He became aware that the world about him was absolutely\nsilent. It was as still as it was dark, and though there was a cold wind\nblowing up the hill-face, the rustle of grass, the soughing of the boughs\nthat should have accompanied it, were absent. He could hear, therefore, if\nhe could not see, that the hillside upon which he stood was rocky and\ndesolate. The green grew brighter every moment, and as it did so a faint,\ntransparent blood-red mingled with, but did not mitigate, the blackness of\nthe sky overhead and the rocky desolations about him. Having regard to\nwhat follows, I am inclined to think that that redness may have been an\noptical effect due to contrast. Something black fluttered momentarily\nagainst the livid yellow-green of the lower sky, and then the thin and\npenetrating voice of a bell rose out of the black gulf below him. An\noppressive expectation grew with the growing light.\n\nIt is probable that an hour or more elapsed while he sat there, the\nstrange green light growing brighter every moment, and spreading slowly,\nin flamboyant fingers, upward towards the zenith. As it grew, the spectral\nvision of _our_ world became relatively or absolutely fainter.\nProbably both, for the time must have been about that of our earthly\nsunset. So far as his vision of our world went, Plattner, by his few steps\ndownhill, had passed through the floor of the class-room, and was now, it\nseemed, sitting in mid-air in the larger schoolroom downstairs. He saw the\nboarders distinctly, but much more faintly than he had seen Lidgett. They\nwere preparing their evening tasks, and he noticed with interest that\nseveral were cheating with their Euclid riders by means of a crib, a\ncompilation whose existence he had hitherto never suspected. As the time\npassed, they faded steadily, as steadily as the light of the green dawn\nincreased.\n\nLooking down into the valley, he saw that the light had crept far down its\nrocky sides, and that the profound blackness of the abyss was now broken\nby a minute green glow, like the light of a glow-worm. And almost\nimmediately the limb of a huge heavenly body of blazing green rose over\nthe basaltic undulations of the distant hills, and the monstrous\nhill-masses about him came out gaunt and desolate, in green light and\ndeep, ruddy black shadows. He became aware of a vast number of ball-shaped\nobjects drifting as thistledown drifts over the high ground. There were\nnone of these nearer to him than the opposite side of the gorge. The bell\nbelow twanged quicker and quicker, with something like impatient\ninsistence, and several lights moved hither and thither. The boys at work\nat their desks were now almost imperceptibly faint.\n\nThis extinction of our world, when the green sun of this other universe\nrose, is a curious point upon which Plattner insists. During the\nOther-World night it is difficult to move about, on account of the\nvividness with which the things of this world are visible. It becomes a\nriddle to explain why, if this is the case, we in this world catch no\nglimpse of the Other-World. It is due, perhaps, to the comparatively\nvivid illumination of this world of ours. Plattner describes the midday\nof the Other-World, at its brightest, as not being nearly so bright as\nthis world at full moon, while its night is profoundly black.\nConsequently, the amount of light, even in an ordinary dark room, is\nsufficient to render the things of the Other-World invisible, on the\nsame principle that faint phosphorescence is only visible in the\nprofoundest darkness. I have tried, since he told me his story, to see\nsomething of the Other-World by sitting for a long space in a\nphotographer's dark room at night. I have certainly seen indistinctly\nthe form of greenish slopes and rocks, but only, I must admit, very\nindistinctly indeed. The reader may possibly be more successful. Plattner\ntells me that since his return he has dreamt and seen and recognised\nplaces in the Other-World, but this is probably due to his memory\nof these scenes. It seems quite possible that people with unusually\nkeen eyesight may occasionally catch a glimpse of this strange Other-World\nabout us.\n\nHowever, this is a digression. As the green sun rose, a long street of\nblack buildings became perceptible, though only darkly and indistinctly,\nin the gorge, and after some hesitation, Plattner began to clamber down\nthe precipitous descent towards them. The descent was long and exceedingly\ntedious, being so not only by the extraordinary steepness, but also by\nreason of the looseness of the boulders with which the whole face of the\nhill was strewn. The noise of his descent--now and then his heels struck\nfire from the rocks--seemed now the only sound in the universe, for the\nbeating of the bell had ceased. As he drew nearer, he perceived that the\nvarious edifices had a singular resemblance to tombs and mausoleums and\nmonuments, saving only that they were all uniformly black instead of being\nwhite, as most sepulchres are. And then he saw, crowding out of the\nlargest building, very much as people disperse from church, a number of\npallid, rounded, pale-green figures. These dispersed in several directions\nabout the broad street of the place, some going through side alleys and\nreappearing upon the steepness of the hill, others entering some of the\nsmall black buildings which lined the way.\n\nAt the sight of these things drifting up towards him, Plattner stopped,\nstaring. They were not walking, they were indeed limbless, and they had\nthe appearance of human heads, beneath which a tadpole-like body swung. He\nwas too astonished at their strangeness, too full, indeed, of strangeness,\nto be seriously alarmed by them. They drove towards him, in front of the\nchill wind that was blowing uphill, much as soap-bubbles drive before a\ndraught. And as he looked at the nearest of those approaching, he saw it\nwas indeed a human head, albeit with singularly large eyes, and wearing\nsuch an expression of distress and anguish as he had never seen before\nupon mortal countenance. He was surprised to find that it did not turn to\nregard him, but seemed to be watching and following some unseen moving\nthing. For a moment he was puzzled, and then it occurred to him that this\ncreature was watching with its enormous eyes something that was happening\nin the world he had just left. Nearer it came, and nearer, and he was too\nastonished to cry out. It made a very faint fretting sound as it came\nclose to him. Then it struck his face with a gentle pat--its touch was\nvery cold--and drove past him, and upward towards the crest of the hill.\n\nAn extraordinary conviction flashed across Plattner's mind that this head\nhad a strong likeness to Lidgett. Then he turned his attention to the\nother heads that were now swarming thickly up the hill-side. None made the\nslightest sign of recognition. One or two, indeed, came close to his head\nand almost followed the example of the first, but he dodged convulsively\nout of the way. Upon most of them he saw the same expression of unavailing\nregret he had seen upon the first, and heard the same faint sounds of\nwretchedness from them. One or two wept, and one rolling swiftly uphill\nwore an expression of diabolical rage. But others were cold, and several\nhad a look of gratified interest in their eyes. One, at least, was almost\nin an ecstasy of happiness. Plattner does not remember that he recognised\nany more likenesses in those he saw at this time.\n\nFor several hours, perhaps, Plattner watched these strange things\ndispersing themselves over the hills, and not till long after they had\nceased to issue from the clustering black buildings in the gorge, did he\nresume his downward climb. The darkness about him increased so much that\nhe had a difficulty in stepping true. Overhead the sky was now a bright,\npale green. He felt neither hunger nor thirst. Later, when he did, he\nfound a chilly stream running down the centre of the gorge, and the rare\nmoss upon the boulders, when he tried it at last in desperation, was good\nto eat.\n\nHe groped about among the tombs that ran down the gorge, seeking vaguely\nfor some clue to these inexplicable things. After a long time he came to\nthe entrance of the big mausoleum-like building from which the heads had\nissued. In this he found a group of green lights burning upon a kind of\nbasaltic altar, and a bell-rope from a belfry overhead hanging down into\nthe centre of the place. Round the wall ran a lettering of fire in a\ncharacter unknown to him. While he was still wondering at the purport of\nthese things, he heard the receding tramp of heavy feet echoing far down\nthe street. He ran out into the darkness again, but he could see nothing.\nHe had a mind to pull the bell-rope, and finally decided to follow the\nfootsteps. But, although he ran far, he never overtook them; and his\nshouting was of no avail. The gorge seemed to extend an interminable\ndistance. It was as dark as earthly starlight throughout its length, while\nthe ghastly green day lay along the upper edge of its precipices. There\nwere none of the heads, now, below. They were all, it seemed, busily\noccupied along the upper slopes. Looking up, he saw them drifting hither\nand thither, some hovering stationary, some flying swiftly through the\nair. It reminded him, he said, of \"big snowflakes\"; only these were black\nand pale green.\n\nIn pursuing the firm, undeviating footsteps that he never overtook, in\ngroping into new regions of this endless devil's dyke, in clambering up\nand down the pitiless heights, in wandering about the summits, and in\nwatching the drifting faces, Plattner states that he spent the better part\nof seven or eight days. He did not keep count, he says. Though once or\ntwice he found eyes watching him, he had word with no living soul. He\nslept among the rocks on the hillside. In the gorge things earthly were\ninvisible, because, from the earthly standpoint, it was far underground.\nOn the altitudes, so soon as the earthly day began, the world became\nvisible to him. He found himself sometimes stumbling over the dark green\nrocks, or arresting himself on a precipitous brink, while all about him\nthe green branches of the Sussexville lanes were swaying; or, again, he\nseemed to be walking through the Sussexville streets, or watching unseen\nthe private business of some household. And then it was he discovered,\nthat to almost every human being in our world there pertained some of\nthese drifting heads; that everyone in the world is watched intermittently\nby these helpless disembodiments.\n\nWhat are they--these Watchers of the Living? Plattner never learned. But\ntwo, that presently found and followed him, were like his childhood's\nmemory of his father and mother. Now and then other faces turned their\neyes upon him: eyes like those of dead people who had swayed him, or\ninjured him, or helped him in his youth and manhood. Whenever they looked\nat him, Plattner was overcome with a strange sense of responsibility. To\nhis mother he ventured to speak; but she made no answer. She looked sadly,\nsteadfastly, and tenderly--a little reproachfully, too, it seemed--into\nhis eyes.\n\nHe simply tells this story: he does not endeavour to explain. We are left\nto surmise who these Watchers of the Living may be, or, if they are indeed\nthe Dead, why they should so closely and passionately watch a world they\nhave left for ever. It may be--indeed to my mind it seems just--that, when\nour life has closed, when evil or good is no longer a choice for us, we\nmay still have to witness the working out of the train of consequences we\nhave laid. If human souls continue after death, then surely human\ninterests continue after death. But that is merely my own guess at the\nmeaning of the things seen. Plattner offers no interpretation, for none\nwas given him. It is well the reader should understand this clearly. Day\nafter day, with his head reeling, he wandered about this strange lit world\noutside the world, weary and, towards the end, weak and hungry. By day--by\nour earthly day, that is--the ghostly vision of the old familiar scenery\nof Sussexville, all about him, irked and worried him. He could not see\nwhere to put his feet, and ever and again with a chilly touch one of these\nWatching Souls would come against his face. And after dark the multitude\nof these Watchers about him, and their intent distress, confused his mind\nbeyond describing. A great longing to return to the earthly life that was\nso near and yet so remote consumed him. The unearthliness of things about\nhim produced a positively painful mental distress. He was worried beyond\ndescribing by his own particular followers. He would shout at them to\ndesist from staring at him, scold at them, hurry away from them. They were\nalways mute and intent. Run as he might over the uneven ground, they\nfollowed his destinies.\n\nOn the ninth day, towards evening, Plattner heard the invisible footsteps\napproaching, far away down the gorge. He was then wandering over the broad\ncrest of the same hill upon which he had fallen in his entry into this\nstrange Other-World of his. He turned to hurry down into the gorge,\nfeeling his way hastily, and was arrested by the sight of the thing that\nwas happening in a room in a back street near the school. Both of the\npeople in the room he knew by sight. The windows were open, the blinds up,\nand the setting sun shone clearly into it, so that it came out quite\nbrightly at first, a vivid oblong of room, lying like a magic-lantern\npicture upon the black landscape and the livid green dawn. In addition to\nthe sunlight, a candle had just been lit in the room.\n\nOn the bed lay a lank man, his ghastly white face terrible upon the\ntumbled pillow. His clenched hands were raised above his head. A little\ntable beside the bed carried a few medicine bottles, some toast and water,\nand an empty glass. Every now and then the lank man's lips fell apart,\nto indicate a word he could not articulate. But the woman did not notice\nthat he wanted anything, because she was busy turning out papers from an\nold-fashioned bureau in the opposite corner of the room. At first the\npicture was very vivid indeed, but as the green dawn behind it grew\nbrighter and brighter, so it became fainter and more and more transparent.\n\nAs the echoing footsteps paced nearer and nearer, those footsteps that\nsound so loud in that Other-World and come so silently in this, Plattner\nperceived about him a great multitude of dim faces gathering together out\nof the darkness and watching the two people in the room. Never before had\nhe seen so many of the Watchers of the Living. A multitude had eyes only\nfor the sufferer in the room, another multitude, in infinite anguish,\nwatched the woman as she hunted with greedy eyes for something she could\nnot find. They crowded about Plattner, they came across his sight and\nbuffeted his face, the noise of their unavailing regrets was all about\nhim. He saw clearly only now and then. At other times the picture quivered\ndimly, through the veil of green reflections upon their movements. In the\nroom it must have been very still, and Plattner says the candle flame\nstreamed up into a perfectly vertical line of smoke, but in his ears each\nfootfall and its echoes beat like a clap of thunder. And the faces!\nTwo, more particularly near the woman's: one a woman's also, white and\nclear-featured, a face which might have once been cold and hard, but which\nwas now softened by the touch of a wisdom strange to earth. The other\nmight have been the woman's father. Both were evidently absorbed in the\ncontemplation of some act of hateful meanness, so it seemed, which they\ncould no longer guard against and prevent. Behind were others, teachers,\nit may be, who had taught ill, friends whose influence had failed. And\nover the man, too--a multitude, but none that seemed to be parents or\nteachers! Faces that might once have been coarse, now purged to strength\nby sorrow! And in the forefront one face, a girlish one, neither angry nor\nremorseful, but merely patient and weary, and, as it seemed to Plattner,\nwaiting for relief. His powers of description fail him at the memory of\nthis multitude of ghastly countenances. They gathered on the stroke of the\nbell. He saw them all in the space of a second. It would seem that he was\nso worked on by his excitement that, quite involuntarily, his restless\nfingers took the bottle of green powder out of his pocket and held it\nbefore him. But he does not remember that.\n\nAbruptly the footsteps ceased. He waited for the next, and there was\nsilence, and then suddenly, cutting through the unexpected stillness like\na keen, thin blade, came the first stroke of the bell. At that the\nmultitudinous faces swayed to and fro, and a louder crying began all about\nhim. The woman did not hear; she was burning something now in the candle\nflame. At the second stroke everything grew dim, and a breath of wind, icy\ncold, blew through the host of watchers. They swirled about him like an\neddy of dead leaves in the spring, and at the third stroke something was\nextended through them to the bed. You have heard of a beam of light. This\nwas like a beam of darkness, and looking again at it, Plattner saw that it\nwas a shadowy arm and hand.\n\nThe green sun was now topping the black desolations of the horizon, and\nthe vision of the room was very faint. Plattner could see that the white\nof the bed struggled, and was convulsed; and that the woman looked round\nover her shoulder at it, startled.\n\nThe cloud of watchers lifted high like a puff of green dust before the\nwind, and swept swiftly downward towards the temple in the gorge. Then\nsuddenly Plattner understood the meaning of the shadowy black arm that\nstretched across his shoulder and clutched its prey. He did not dare turn\nhis head to see the Shadow behind the arm. With a violent effort, and\ncovering his eyes, he set himself to run, made, perhaps, twenty strides,\nthen slipped on a boulder, and fell. He fell forward on his hands; and the\nbottle smashed and exploded as he touched the ground.\n\nIn another moment he found himself, stunned and bleeding, sitting face to\nface with Lidgett in the old walled garden behind the school.\n\n * * * * *\n\nThere the story of Plattner's experiences ends. I have resisted, I believe\nsuccessfully, the natural disposition of a writer of fiction to dress up\nincidents of this sort. I have told the thing as far as possible in the\norder in which Plattner told it to me. I have carefully avoided any\nattempt at style, effect, or construction. It would have been easy, for\ninstance, to have worked the scene of the death-bed into a kind of plot in\nwhich Plattner might have been involved. But, quite apart from the\nobjectionableness of falsifying a most extraordinary true story, any such\ntrite devices would spoil, to my mind, the peculiar effect of this dark\nworld, with its livid green illumination and its drifting Watchers of the\nLiving, which, unseen and unapproachable to us, is yet lying all about us.\n\nIt remains to add that a death did actually occur in Vincent Terrace, just\nbeyond the school garden, and, so far as can be proved, at the moment of\nPlattner's return. Deceased was a rate-collector and insurance agent. His\nwidow, who was much younger than himself, married last month a Mr.\nWhymper, a veterinary surgeon of Allbeeding. As the portion of this story\ngiven here has in various forms circulated orally in Sussexville, she has\nconsented to my use of her name, on condition that I make it distinctly\nknown that she emphatically contradicts every detail of Plattner's account\nof her husband's last moments. She burnt no will, she says, although\nPlattner never accused her of doing so; her husband made but one will, and\nthat just after their marriage. Certainly, from a man who had never seen\nit, Plattner's account of the furniture of the room was curiously\naccurate.\n\nOne other thing, even at the risk of an irksome repetition, I must insist\nupon, lest I seem to favour the credulous, superstitious view. Plattner's\nabsence from the world for nine days is, I think, proved. But that does\nnot prove his story. It is quite conceivable that even outside space\nhallucinations may be possible. That, at least, the reader must bear\ndistinctly in mind.\n\n\n\n XVI.\n\n THE RED ROOM.\n\n\n\"I can assure you,\" said I, \"that it will take a very tangible ghost to\nfrighten me.\" And I stood up before the fire with my glass in my hand.\n\n\"It is your own choosing,\" said the man with the withered arm, and glanced\nat me askance.\n\n\"Eight-and-twenty years,\" said I, \"I have lived, and never a ghost have I\nseen as yet.\"\n\nThe old woman sat staring hard into the fire, her pale eyes wide open.\n\"Ay,\" she broke in; \"and eight-and-twenty years you have lived and never\nseen the likes of this house, I reckon. There's a many things to see, when\none's still but eight-and-twenty.\" She swayed her head slowly from side to\nside. \"A many things to see and sorrow for.\"\n\nI half suspected the old people were trying to enhance the spiritual\nterrors of their house by their droning insistence. I put down my empty\nglass on the table and looked about the room, and caught a glimpse of\nmyself, abbreviated and broadened to an impossible sturdiness, in the\nqueer old mirror at the end of the room. \"Well,\" I said, \"if I see\nanything to-night, I shall be so much the wiser. For I come to the\nbusiness with an open mind.\"\n\n\"It's your own choosing,\" said the man with the withered arm once more.\n\nI heard the sound of a stick and a shambling step on the flags in the\npassage outside, and the door creaked on its hinges as a second old man\nentered, more bent, more wrinkled, more aged even than the first. He\nsupported himself by a single crutch, his eyes were covered by a shade,\nand his lower lip, half averted, hung pale and pink from his decaying\nyellow teeth. He made straight for an arm-chair on the opposite side of\nthe table, sat down clumsily, and began to cough. The man with the\nwithered arm gave this new-comer a short glance of positive dislike; the\nold woman took no notice of his arrival, but remained with her eyes fixed\nsteadily on the fire.\n\n\"I said--it's your own choosing,\" said the man with the withered arm, when\nthe coughing had ceased for a while.\n\n\"It's my own choosing,\" I answered.\n\nThe man with the shade became aware of my presence for the first time, and\nthrew his head back for a moment and sideways, to see me. I caught a\nmomentary glimpse of his eyes, small and bright and inflamed. Then he\nbegan to cough and splutter again.\n\n\"Why don't you drink?\" said the man with the withered arm, pushing the\nbeer towards him. The man with the shade poured out a glassful with a\nshaky hand that splashed half as much again on the deal table. A monstrous\nshadow of him crouched upon the wall and mocked his action as he poured\nand drank. I must confess I had scarce expected these grotesque\ncustodians. There is to my mind something inhuman in senility, something\ncrouching and atavistic; the human qualities seem to drop from old people\ninsensibly day by day. The three of them made me feel uncomfortable, with\ntheir gaunt silences, their bent carriage, their evident unfriendliness to\nme and to one another.\n\n\"If,\" said I, \"you will show me to this haunted room of yours, I will make\nmyself comfortable there.\"\n\nThe old man with the cough jerked his head back so suddenly that it\nstartled me, and shot another glance of his red eyes at me from under the\nshade; but no one answered me. I waited a minute, glancing from one to the\nother.\n\n\"If,\" I said a little louder, \"if you will show me to this haunted room of\nyours, I will relieve you from the task of entertaining me.\"\n\n\"There's a candle on the slab outside the door,\" said the man with the\nwithered arm, looking at my feet as he addressed me. \"But if you go to the\nred room to-night----\"\n\n(\"This night of all nights!\" said the old woman.)\n\n\"You go alone.\"\n\n\"Very well,\" I answered. \"And which way do I go?\"\n\n\"You go along the passage for a bit,\" said he, \"until you come to a door,\nand through that is a spiral staircase, and half-way up that is a landing\nand another door covered with baize. Go through that and down the long\ncorridor to the end, and the red room is on your left up the steps.\"\n\n\"Have I got that right?\" I said, and repeated his directions. He corrected\nme in one particular.\n\n\"And are you really going?\" said the man with the shade, looking at me\nagain for the third time, with that queer, unnatural tilting of the face.\n\n(\"This night of all nights!\" said the old woman.)\n\n\"It is what I came for,\" I said, and moved towards the door. As I did so,\nthe old man with the shade rose and staggered round the table, so as to be\ncloser to the others and to the fire. At the door I turned and looked at\nthem, and saw they were all close together, dark against the firelight,\nstaring at me over their shoulders, with an intent expression on their\nancient faces.\n\n\"Good-night,\" I said, setting the door open.\n\n\"It's your own choosing,\" said the man with the withered arm.\n\nI left the door wide open until the candle was well alight, and then I\nshut them in and walked down the chilly, echoing passage.\n\nI must confess that the oddness of these three old pensioners in whose\ncharge her ladyship had left the castle, and the deep-toned, old-fashioned\nfurniture of the housekeeper's room in which they foregathered, affected\nme in spite of my efforts to keep myself at a matter-of-fact phase. They\nseemed to belong to another age, an older age, an age when things\nspiritual were different from this of ours, less certain; an age when\nomens and witches were credible, and ghosts beyond denying. Their very\nexistence was spectral; the cut of their clothing, fashions born in dead\nbrains. The ornaments and conveniences of the room about them were\nghostly--the thoughts of vanished men, which still haunted rather than\nparticipated in the world of to-day. But with an effort I sent such\nthoughts to the right-about. The long, draughty subterranean passage was\nchilly and dusty, and my candle flared and made the shadows cower and\nquiver. The echoes rang up and down the spiral staircase, and a shadow\ncame sweeping up after me, and one fled before me into the darkness\noverhead. I came to the landing and stopped there for a moment, listening\nto a rustling that I fancied I heard; then, satisfied of the absolute\nsilence, I pushed open the baize-covered door and stood in the corridor.\n\nThe effect was scarcely what I expected, for the moonlight, coming in by\nthe great window on the grand staircase, picked out everything in vivid\nblack shadow or silvery illumination. Everything was in its place: the\nhouse might have been deserted on the yesterday instead of eighteen months\nago. There were candles in the sockets of the sconces, and whatever dust\nhad gathered on the carpets or upon the polished flooring was distributed\nso evenly as to be invisible in the moonlight. I was about to advance, and\nstopped abruptly. A bronze group stood upon the landing, hidden from me by\nthe corner of the wall, but its shadow fell with marvellous distinctness\nupon the white panelling, and gave me the impression of someone crouching\nto waylay me. I stood rigid for half a minute perhaps. Then, with my hand\nin the pocket that held my revolver, I advanced, only to discover a\nGanymede and Eagle glistening in the moonlight. That incident for a time\nrestored my nerve, and a porcelain Chinaman on a buhl table, whose head\nrocked silently as I passed him, scarcely startled me.\n\nThe door to the red room and the steps up to it were in a shadowy corner.\nI moved my candle from side to side, in order to see clearly the nature of\nthe recess in which I stood before opening the door. Here it was, thought\nI, that my predecessor was found, and the memory of that story gave me a\nsudden twinge of apprehension. I glanced over my shoulder at the Ganymede\nin the moonlight, and opened the door of the red room rather hastily, with\nmy face half turned to the pallid silence of the landing.\n\nI entered, closed the door behind me at once, turned the key I found in\nthe lock within, and stood with the candle held aloft, surveying the scene\nof my vigil, the great red room of Lorraine Castle, in which the young\nduke had died. Or, rather, in which he had begun his dying, for he had\nopened the door and fallen headlong down the steps I had just ascended.\nThat had been the end of his vigil, of his gallant attempt to conquer the\nghostly tradition of the place, and never, I thought, had apoplexy better\nserved the ends of superstition. And there were other and older stories\nthat clung to the room, back to the half-credible beginning of it all, the\ntale of a timid wife and the tragic end that came to her husband's jest of\nfrightening her. And looking around that large sombre room, with its\nshadowy window bays, its recesses and alcoves, one could well understand\nthe legends that had sprouted in its black corners, its germinating\ndarkness. My candle was a little tongue of light in its vastness, that\nfailed to pierce the opposite end of the room, and left an ocean of\nmystery and suggestion beyond its island of light.\n\nI resolved to make a systematic examination of the place at once, and\ndispel the fanciful suggestions of its obscurity before they obtained a\nhold upon me. After satisfying myself of the fastening of the door, I\nbegan to walk about the room, peering round each article of furniture,\ntucking up the valances of the bed, and opening its curtains wide. I\npulled up the blinds and examined the fastenings of the several windows\nbefore closing the shutters, leant forward and looked up the blackness\nof the wide chimney, and tapped the dark oak panelling for any secret\nopening. There were two big mirrors in the room, each with a pair of\nsconces bearing candles, and on the mantelshelf, too, were more candles in\nchina candlesticks. All these I lit one after the other. The fire was\nlaid, an unexpected consideration from the old housekeeper,--and I lit it,\nto keep down any disposition to shiver, and when it was burning well, I\nstood round with my back to it and regarded the room again. I had pulled\nup a chintz-covered arm-chair and a table, to form a kind of barricade\nbefore me, and on this lay my revolver ready to hand. My precise\nexamination had done me good, but I still found the remoter darkness of\nthe place, and its perfect stillness, too stimulating for the imagination.\nThe echoing of the stir and crackling of the fire was no sort of comfort\nto me. The shadow in the alcove at the end in particular, had that\nundefinable quality of a presence, that odd suggestion of a lurking,\nliving thing, that comes so easily in silence and solitude. At last, to\nreassure myself, I walked with a candle into it, and satisfied myself that\nthere was nothing tangible there. I stood that candle upon the floor of\nthe alcove, and left it in that position.\n\nBy this time I was in a state of considerable nervous tension, although to\nmy reason there was no adequate cause for the condition. My mind, however,\nwas perfectly clear. I postulated quite unreservedly that nothing\nsupernatural could happen, and to pass the time I began to string some\nrhymes together, Ingoldsby fashion, of the original legend of the place. A\nfew I spoke aloud, but the echoes were not pleasant. For the same reason I\nalso abandoned, after a time, a conversation with myself upon the\nimpossibility of ghosts and haunting. My mind reverted to the three old\nand distorted people downstairs, and I tried to keep it upon that topic.\nThe sombre reds and blacks of the room troubled, me; even with seven\ncandles the place was merely dim. The one in the alcove flared in a\ndraught, and the fire-flickering kept the shadows and penumbra perpetually\nshifting and stirring. Casting about for a remedy, I recalled the candles\nI had seen in the passage, and, with a slight effort, walked out into the\nmoonlight, carrying a candle and leaving the door open, and presently\nreturned with as many as ten. These I put in various knick-knacks of china\nwith which the room was sparsely adorned, lit and placed where the shadows\nhad lain deepest, some on the floor, some in the window recesses, until at\nlast my seventeen candles were so arranged that not an inch of the room\nbut had the direct light of at least one of them. It occurred to me that\nwhen the ghost came, I could warn him not to trip over them. The room was\nnow quite brightly illuminated. There was something very cheery and\nreassuring in these little streaming flames, and snuffing them gave me an\noccupation, and afforded a helpful sense of the passage of time. Even with\nthat, however, the brooding expectation of the vigil weighed heavily upon\nme. It was after midnight that the candle in the alcove suddenly went out,\nand the black shadow sprang back to its place there. I did not see the\ncandle go out; I simply turned and saw that the darkness was there, as one\nmight start and see the unexpected presence of a stranger. \"By Jove!\" said\nI aloud; \"that draught's a strong one!\" and, taking the matches from the\ntable, I walked across the room in a leisurely manner, to relight the\ncorner again. My first match would not strike, and as I succeeded with the\nsecond, something seemed to blink on the wall before me. I turned my head\ninvoluntarily, and saw that the two candles on the little table by the\nfireplace were extinguished. I rose at once to my feet.\n\n\"Odd!\" I said. \"Did I do that myself in a flash of absent-mindedness?\"\n\nI walked back, relit one, and as I did so, I saw the candle in the right\nsconce of one of the mirrors wink and go right out, and almost immediately\nits companion followed it. There was no mistake about it. The flame\nvanished, as if the wicks had been suddenly nipped between a finger and a\nthumb, leaving the wick neither glowing nor smoking, but black. While I\nstood gaping, the candle at the foot of the bed went out, and the shadows\nseemed to take another step towards me.\n\n\"This won't do!\" said I, and first one and then another candle on the\nmantelshelf followed.\n\n\"What's up?\" I cried, with a queer high note getting into my voice\nsomehow. At that the candle on the wardrobe went out, and the one I had\nrelit in the alcove followed.\n\n\"Steady on!\" I said. \"These candles are wanted,\" speaking with a\nhalf-hysterical facetiousness, and scratching away at a match the while\nfor the mantel candlesticks. My hands trembled so much that twice I missed\nthe rough paper of the matchbox. As the mantel emerged from darkness again,\ntwo candles in the remoter end of the window were eclipsed. But with the\nsame match I also relit the larger mirror candles, and those on the floor\nnear the doorway, so that for the moment I seemed to gain on the\nextinctions. But then in a volley there vanished four lights at once in\ndifferent corners of the room, and I struck another match in quivering\nhaste, and stood hesitating whither to take it.\n\nAs I stood undecided, an invisible hand seemed to sweep out the two\ncandles on the table. With a cry of terror, I dashed at the alcove, then\ninto the corner, and then into the window, relighting three, as two more\nvanished by the fireplace; then, perceiving a better way, I dropped the\nmatches on the iron-bound deed-box in the corner, and caught up the\nbedroom candlestick. With this I avoided the delay of striking matches;\nbut for all that the steady process of extinction went on, and the shadows\nI feared and fought against returned, and crept in upon me, first a\nstep gained on this side of me and then on that. It was like a ragged\nstorm-cloud sweeping out the stars. Now and then one returned for a\nminute, and was lost again. I was now almost frantic with the horror of\nthe coming darkness, and my self-possession deserted me. I leaped panting\nand dishevelled from candle to candle, in a vain struggle against that\nremorseless advance.\n\nI bruised myself on the thigh against the table, I sent a chair headlong,\nI stumbled and fell and whisked the cloth from the table in my fall. My\ncandle rolled away from me, and I snatched another as I rose. Abruptly\nthis was blown out, as I swung it off the table by the wind of my sudden\nmovement, and immediately the two remaining candles followed. But there\nwas light still in the room, a red light that staved off the shadows from\nme. The fire! Of course I could still thrust my candle between the bars\nand relight it!\n\nI turned to where the flames were still dancing between the glowing coals,\nand splashing red reflections upon the furniture, made two steps towards\nthe grate, and incontinently the flames dwindled and vanished, the glow\nvanished, the reflections rushed together and vanished, and as I thrust\nthe candle between the bars darkness closed upon me like the shutting of\nan eye, wrapped about me in a stifling embrace, sealed my vision, and\ncrushed the last vestiges of reason from my brain. The candle fell from my\nhand. I flung out my arms in a vain effort to thrust that ponderous\nblackness away from me, and, lifting up my voice, screamed with all my\nmight--once, twice, thrice. Then I think I must have staggered to my feet.\nI know I thought suddenly of the moonlit corridor, and, with my head bowed\nand my arms over my face, made a run for the door.\n\nBut I had forgotten the exact position of the door, and struck myself\nheavily against the corner of the bed. I staggered back, turned, and was\neither struck or struck myself against some other bulky furniture. I have\na vague memory of battering myself thus, to and fro in the darkness, of a\ncramped struggle, and of my own wild crying as I darted to and fro, of a\nheavy blow at last upon my forehead, a horrible sensation of falling that\nlasted an age, of my last frantic effort to keep my footing, and then I\nremember no more.\n\nI opened my eyes in daylight. My head was roughly bandaged, and the man\nwith the withered arm was watching my face. I looked about me, trying to\nremember what had happened, and for a space I could not recollect. I\nrolled my eyes into the corner, and saw the old woman, no longer\nabstracted, pouring out some drops of medicine from a little blue phial\ninto a glass. \"Where am I?\" I asked; \"I seem to remember you, and yet I\ncannot remember who you are.\"\n\nThey told me then, and I heard of the haunted Red Room as one who hears a\ntale. \"We found you at dawn,\" said he, \"and there was blood on your\nforehead and lips.\"\n\nIt was very slowly I recovered my memory of my experience. \"You believe\nnow,\" said the old man, \"that the room is haunted?\" He spoke no longer as\none who greets an intruder, but as one who grieves for a broken friend.\n\n\"Yes,\" said I; \"the room is haunted.\"\n\n\"And you have seen it. And we, who have lived here all our lives, have\nnever set eyes upon it. Because we have never dared... Tell us, is it\ntruly the old earl who----\"\n\n\"No,\" said I; \"it is not.\"\n\n\"I told you so,\" said the old lady, with the glass in her hand. \"It is his\npoor young countess who was frightened----\"\n\n\"It is not,\" I said. \"There is neither ghost of earl nor ghost of countess\nin that room, there is no ghost there at all; but worse, far worse----\"\n\n\"Well?\" they said.\n\n\"The worst of all the things that haunt poor mortal man,\" said I; \"and\nthat is, in all its nakedness--Fear that will not have light nor sound,\nthat will not bear with reason, that deafens and darkens and overwhelms.\nIt followed me through the corridor, it fought against me in the room----\"\n\nI stopped abruptly. There was an interval of silence. My hand went up to\nmy bandages.\n\nThen the man with the shade sighed and spoke. \"That is it,\" said he. \"I\nknew that was it. A power of darkness. To put such a curse upon a woman!\nIt lurks there always. You can feel it even in the daytime, even of a\nbright summer's day, in the hangings, in the curtains, keeping behind you\nhowever you face about. In the dusk it creeps along the corridor and\nfollows you, so that you dare not turn. There is Fear in that room of\nhers--black Fear, and there will be--so long as this house of sin\nendures.\"\n\n\n\n\n XVII.\n\n THE PURPLE PILEUS\n\n\nMr. Coombes was sick of life. He walked away from his unhappy home, and,\nsick not only of his own existence but of everybody else's, turned aside\ndown Gaswork Lane to avoid the town, and, crossing the wooden bridge that\ngoes over the canal to Starling's Cottages, was presently alone in the\ndamp pine woods and out of sight and sound of human habitation. He would\nstand it no longer. He repeated aloud with blasphemies unusual to him that\nhe would stand it no longer.\n\nHe was a pale-faced little man, with dark eyes and a fine and very black\nmoustache. He had a very stiff, upright collar slightly frayed, that gave\nhim an illusory double chin, and his overcoat (albeit shabby) was trimmed\nwith astrachan. His gloves were a bright brown with black stripes over the\nknuckles, and split at the finger ends. His appearance, his wife had said\nonce in the dear, dead days beyond recall--before he married her, that\nis--was military. But now she called him--it seems a dreadful thing to\ntell of between husband and wife, but she called him \"a little grub.\" It\nwasn't the only thing she had called him, either.\n\nThe row had arisen about that beastly Jennie again. Jennie was his wife's\nfriend, and, by no invitation of Mr. Coombes, she came in every blessed\nSunday to dinner, and made a shindy all the afternoon. She was a big,\nnoisy girl, with a taste for loud colours and a strident laugh; and this\nSunday she had outdone all her previous intrusions by bringing in a fellow\nwith her, a chap as showy as herself. And Mr. Coombes, in a starchy, clean\ncollar and his Sunday frock-coat, had sat dumb and wrathful at his own\ntable, while his wife and her guests talked foolishly and undesirably, and\nlaughed aloud. Well, he stood that, and after dinner (which, \"as usual,\"\nwas late), what must Miss Jennie do but go to the piano and play banjo\ntunes, for all the world as if it were a week-day! Flesh and blood could\nnot endure such goings on. They would hear next door, they would hear in\nthe road, it was a public announcement of their disrepute. He had to\nspeak.\n\nHe had felt himself go pale, and a kind of rigour had affected his\nrespiration as he delivered himself. He had been sitting on one of the\nchairs by the window--the new guest had taken possession of the arm-chair.\nHe turned his head. \"Sun Day!\" he said over the collar, in the voice of\none who warns. \"Sun Day!\" What people call a \"nasty\" tone, it was.\n\nJennie had kept on playing, but his wife, who was looking through some\nmusic that was piled on the top of the piano, had stared at him. \"What's\nwrong now?\" she said; \"can't people enjoy themselves?\"\n\n\"I don't mind rational 'njoyment, at all,\" said little Coombes, \"but I\nain't a-going to have week-day tunes playing on a Sunday in this house.\"\n\n\"What's wrong with my playing now?\" said Jennie, stopping and twirling\nround on the music-stool with a monstrous rustle of flounces.\n\nCoombes saw it was going to be a row, and opened too vigorously, as is\ncommon with your timid, nervous men all the world over. \"Steady on with\nthat music-stool!\" said he; \"it ain't made for 'eavy-weights.\"\n\n\"Never you mind about weights,\" said Jennie, incensed. \"What was you\nsaying behind my back about my playing?\"\n\n\"Surely you don't 'old with not having a bit of music on a Sunday, Mr.\nCoombes?\" said the new guest, leaning back in the arm-chair, blowing a\ncloud of cigarette smoke and smiling in a kind of pitying way. And\nsimultaneously his wife said something to Jennie about \"Never mind 'im.\nYou go on, Jinny.\"\n\n\"I do,\" said Mr. Coombes, addressing the new guest.\n\n\"May I arst why?\" said the new guest, evidently enjoying both his\ncigarette and the prospect of an argument. He was, by-the-by, a lank young\nman, very stylishly dressed in bright drab, with a white cravat and a\npearl and silver pin. It had been better taste to come in a black coat,\nMr. Coombes thought.\n\n\"Because,\" began Mr. Coombes, \"it don't suit me. I'm a business man. I\n'ave to study my connection. Rational 'njoyment--\"\n\n\"His connection!\" said Mrs. Coombes scornfully. \"That's what he's always\na-saying. We got to do this, and we got to do that--\"\n\n\"If you don't mean to study my connection,\" said Mr. Coombes, \"what did\nyou marry me for?\"\n\n\"I wonder,\" said Jennie, and turned back to the piano.\n\n\"I never saw such a man as you,\" said Mrs. Coombes.\n\n\"You've altered all round since we were married. Before--\"\n\nThen Jennie began at the turn, turn, turn again.\n\n\"Look here!\" said Mr. Coombes, driven at last to revolt, standing up and\nraising his voice. \"I tell you I won't have that.\" The frock-coat heaved\nwith his indignation.\n\n\"No vi'lence, now,\" said the long young man in drab, sitting up.\n\n\"Who the juice are you?\" said Mr. Coombes fiercely.\n\nWhereupon they all began talking at once. The new guest said he was\nJennie's \"intended,\" and meant to protect her, and Mr. Coombes said he was\nwelcome to do so anywhere but in his (Mr. Coombes') house; and Mrs.\nCoombes said he ought to be ashamed of insulting his guests, and (as I\nhave already mentioned) that he was getting a regular little grub; and the\nend was, that Mr. Coombes ordered his visitors out of the house, and they\nwouldn't go, and so he said he would go himself. With his face burning and\ntears of excitement in his eyes, he went into the passage, and as he\nstruggled with his overcoat--his frock-coat sleeves got concertinaed up\nhis arm--and gave a brush at his silk hat, Jennie began again at the\npiano, and strummed him insultingly out of the house. Turn, turn, turn. He\nslammed the shop door so that the house quivered. That, briefly, was the\nimmediate making of his mood. You will perhaps begin to understand his\ndisgust with existence.\n\nAs he walked along the muddy path under the firs,--it was late October,\nand the ditches and heaps of fir needles were gorgeous with clumps of\nfungi,--he recapitulated the melancholy history of his marriage. It was\nbrief and commonplace enough. He now perceived with sufficient clearness\nthat his wife had married him out of a natural curiosity and in order to\nescape from her worrying, laborious, and uncertain life in the workroom;\nand, like the majority of her class, she was far too stupid to realise\nthat it was her duty to co-operate with him in his business. She was\ngreedy of enjoyment, loquacious, and socially-minded, and evidently\ndisappointed to find the restraints of poverty still hanging about her.\nHis worries exasperated her, and the slightest attempt to control her\nproceedings resulted in a charge of \"grumbling.\" Why couldn't he be nice--\nas he used to be? And Coombes was such a harmless little man, too,\nnourished mentally on _Self-Help_, and with a meagre ambition of\nself-denial and competition, that was to end in a \"sufficiency.\" Then\nJennie came in as a female Mephistopheles, a gabbling chronicle of\n\"fellers,\" and was always wanting his wife to go to theatres, and \"all\nthat.\" And in addition were aunts of his wife, and cousins (male and\nfemale) to eat up capital, insult him personally, upset business\narrangements, annoy good customers, and generally blight his life. It was\nnot the first occasion by many that Mr. Coombes had fled his home in wrath\nand indignation, and something like fear, vowing furiously and even aloud\nthat he wouldn't stand it, and so frothing away his energy along the line\nof least resistance. But never before had he been quite so sick of life as\non this particular Sunday afternoon. The Sunday dinner may have had its\nshare in his despair--and the greyness of the sky. Perhaps, too, he was\nbeginning to realise his unendurable frustration as a business man as the\nconsequence of his marriage. Presently bankruptcy, and after that----\nPerhaps she might have reason to repent when it was too late. And destiny,\nas I have already intimated, had planted the path through the wood with\nevil-smelling fungi, thickly and variously planted it, not only on the\nright side, but on the left.\n\nA small shopman is in such a melancholy position, if his wife turns out a\ndisloyal partner. His capital is all tied up in his business, and to leave\nher means to join the unemployed in some strange part of the earth. The\nluxuries of divorce are beyond him altogether. So that the good old\ntradition of marriage for better or worse holds inexorably for him, and\nthings work up to tragic culminations. Bricklayers kick their wives to\ndeath, and dukes betray theirs; but it is among the small clerks and\nshopkeepers nowadays that it comes most often to a cutting of throats.\nUnder the circumstances it is not so very remarkable--and you must take it\nas charitably as you can--that the mind of Mr. Coombes ran for a while on\nsome such glorious close to his disappointed hopes, and that he thought of\nrazors, pistols, bread-knives, and touching letters to the coroner\ndenouncing his enemies by name, and praying piously for forgiveness. After\na time his fierceness gave way to melancholia. He had been married in this\nvery overcoat, in his first and only frock-coat that was buttoned up\nbeneath it. He began to recall their courting along this very walk, his\nyears of penurious saving to get capital, and the bright hopefulness of\nhis marrying days. For it all to work out like this! Was there no\nsympathetic ruler anywhere in the world? He reverted to death as a topic.\n\nHe thought of the canal he had just crossed, and doubted whether he\nshouldn't stand with his head out, even in the middle, and it was while\ndrowning was in his mind that the purple pileus caught his eye. He looked\nat it mechanically for a moment, and stopped and stooped towards it to\npick it up, under the impression that it was some such small leather\nobject as a purse. Then he saw that it was the purple top of a fungus, a\npeculiarly poisonous-looking purple: slimy, shiny, and emitting a sour\nodour. He hesitated with his hand an inch or so from it, and the thought\nof poison crossed his mind. With that he picked the thing, and stood up\nagain with it in his hand.\n\nThe odour was certainly strong--acrid, but by no means disgusting. He\nbroke off a piece, and the fresh surface was a creamy white, that changed\nlike magic in the space of ten seconds to a yellowish-green colour. It was\neven an inviting-looking change. He broke off two other pieces to see it\nrepeated. They were wonderful things these fungi, thought Mr. Coombes, and\nall of them the deadliest poisons, as his father had often told him.\nDeadly poisons!\n\nThere is no time like the present for a rash resolve. Why not here and\nnow? thought Mr. Coombes. He tasted a little piece, a very little piece\nindeed--a mere crumb. It was so pungent that he almost spat it out again,\nthen merely hot and full-flavoured: a kind of German mustard with a touch\nof horse-radish and--well, mushroom. He swallowed it in the excitement of\nthe moment. Did he like it or did he not? His mind was curiously careless.\nHe would try another bit. It really wasn't bad--it was good. He forgot his\ntroubles in the interest of the immediate moment. Playing with death it\nwas. He took another bite, and then deliberately finished a mouthful. A\ncurious, tingling sensation began in his finger-tips and toes. His pulse\nbegan to move faster. The blood in his ears sounded like a mill-race. \"Try\nbi' more,\" said Mr. Coombes. He turned and looked about him, and found his\nfeet unsteady. He saw, and struggled towards, a little patch of purple a\ndozen yards away. \"Jol' goo' stuff,\" said Mr. Coombes. \"E--lomore ye'.\" He\npitched forward and fell on his face, his hands outstretched towards the\ncluster of pilei. But he did not eat any more of them. He forgot\nforthwith.\n\nHe rolled over and sat up with a look of astonishment on his face. His\ncarefully brushed silk hat had rolled away towards the ditch. He pressed\nhis hand to his brow. Something had happened, but he could not rightly\ndetermine what it was. Anyhow, he was no longer dull--he felt bright,\ncheerful. And his throat was afire. He laughed in the sudden gaiety of his\nheart. Had he been dull? He did not know; but at any rate he would be dull\nno longer. He got up and stood unsteadily, regarding the universe with an\nagreeable smile. He began to remember. He could not remember very well,\nbecause of a steam roundabout that was beginning in his head. And he knew\nhe had been disagreeable at home, just because they wanted to be happy.\nThey were quite right; life should be as gay as possible. He would go home\nand make it up, and reassure them. And why not take some of this\ndelightful toadstool with him, for them to eat? A hatful, no less. Some of\nthose red ones with white spots as well, and a few yellow. He had been a\ndull dog, an enemy to merriment; he would make up for it. It would be gay\nto turn his coat-sleeves inside out, and stick some yellow gorse into his\nwaistcoat pockets. Then home--singing---for a jolly evening.\n\nAfter the departure of Mr. Coombes, Jennie discontinued playing, and\nturned round on the music-stool again. \"What a fuss about nothing!\" said\nJennie.\n\n\"You see, Mr. Clarence, what I've got to put up with,\" said Mrs. Coombes.\n\n\"He is a bit hasty,\" said Mr. Clarence judicially.\n\n\"He ain't got the slightest sense of our position,\" said Mrs. Coombes;\n\"that's what I complain of. He cares for nothing but his old shop; and if\nI have a bit of company, or buy anything to keep myself decent, or get any\nlittle thing I want out of the housekeeping money, there's disagreeables.\n'Economy' he says; 'struggle for life,' and all that. He lies awake of\nnights about it, worrying how he can screw me out of a shilling. He wanted\nus to eat Dorset butter once. If once I was to give in to him--there!\"\n\n\"Of course,\" said Jennie.\n\n\"If a man values a woman,\" said Mr. Clarence, lounging back in the\narm-chair, \"he must be prepared to make sacrifices for her. For my own\npart,\" said Mr. Clarence, with his eye on Jennie, \"I shouldn't think of\nmarrying till I was in a position to do the thing in style. It's downright\nselfishness. A man ought to go through the rough-and-tumble by himself,\nand not drag her--\"\n\n\"I don't agree altogether with that,\" said Jennie. \"I don't see why a man\nshouldn't have a woman's help, provided he doesn't treat her meanly, you\nknow. It's meanness--\"\n\n\"You wouldn't believe,\" said Mrs. Coombes. \"But I was a fool to 'ave 'im.\nI might 'ave known. If it 'adn't been for my father, we shouldn't 'ave 'ad\nnot a carriage to our wedding.\"\n\n\"Lord! he didn't stick out at that?\" said Mr. Clarence, quite shocked.\n\n\"Said he wanted the money for his stock, or some such rubbish. Why, he\nwouldn't have a woman in to help me once a week if it wasn't for my\nstanding out plucky. And the fusses he makes about money--comes to me,\nwell, pretty near crying, with sheets of paper and figgers. 'If only we\ncan tide over this year,' he says, 'the business is bound to go.' 'If only\nwe can tide over this year,' I says; 'then it'll be, if only we can tide\nover next year. I know you,' I says. 'And you don't catch me screwing\nmyself lean and ugly. Why didn't you marry a slavey?' I says, 'if you\nwanted one--instead of a respectable girl,' I says.\"\n\nSo Mrs. Coombes. But we will not follow this unedifying conversation\nfurther. Suffice it that Mr. Coombes was very satisfactorily disposed of,\nand they had a snug little time round the fire. Then Mrs. Coombes went to\nget the tea, and Jennie sat coquettishly on the arm of Mr. Clarence's\nchair until the tea-things clattered outside. \"What was that I heard?\"\nasked Mrs. Coombes playfully, as she entered, and there was badinage about\nkissing. They were just sitting down to the little circular table when the\nfirst intimation of Mr. Coombes' return was heard.\n\nThis was a fumbling at the latch of the front door.\n\n\"'Ere's my lord,\" said Mrs. Coombes. \"Went out like a lion and comes back\nlike a lamb, I'll lay.\"\n\nSomething fell over in the shop: a chair, it sounded like. Then there was\na sound as of some complicated step exercise in the passage. Then the door\nopened and Coombes appeared. But it was Coombes transfigured. The\nimmaculate collar had been torn carelessly from his throat. His\ncarefully-brushed silk hat, half-full of a crush of fungi, was under one\narm; his coat was inside out, and his waistcoat adorned with bunches of\nyellow-blossomed furze. These little eccentricities of Sunday costume,\nhowever, were quite overshadowed by the change in his face; it was livid\nwhite, his eyes were unnaturally large and bright, and his pale blue lips\nwere drawn back in a cheerless grin. \"Merry!\" he said. He had stopped\ndancing to open the door. \"Rational 'njoyment. Dance.\" He made three\nfantastic steps into the room, and stood bowing.\n\n\"Jim!\" shrieked Mrs. Coombes, and Mr. Clarence sat petrified, with a\ndropping lower jaw.\n\n\"Tea,\" said Mr. Coombes. \"Jol' thing, tea. Tose-stools, too. Brosher.\"\n\n\"He's drunk,\" said Jennie in a weak voice. Never before had she seen this\nintense pallor in a drunken man, or such shining, dilated eyes.\n\nMr. Coombes held out a handful of scarlet agaric to Mr. Clarence. \"Jo'\nstuff,\" said he; \"ta' some.\"\n\nAt that moment he was genial. Then at the sight of their startled faces he\nchanged, with the swift transition of insanity, into overbearing fury. And\nit seemed as if he had suddenly recalled the quarrel of his departure. In\nsuch a huge voice as Mrs. Coombes had never heard before, he shouted, \"My\nhouse. I'm master 'ere. Eat what I give yer!\" He bawled this, as it\nseemed, without an effort, without a violent gesture, standing there as\nmotionless as one who whispers, holding out a handful of fungus.\n\nClarence approved himself a coward. He could not meet the mad fury in\nCoombes' eyes; he rose to his feet, pushing back his chair, and turned,\nstooping. At that Coombes rushed at him. Jennie saw her opportunity, and,\nwith the ghost of a shriek, made for the door.\n\nMrs. Coombes followed her. Clarence tried to dodge. Over went the\ntea-table with a smash as Coombes clutched him by the collar and tried to\nthrust the fungus into his mouth. Clarence was content to leave his collar\nbehind him, and shot out into the passage with red patches of fly agaric\nstill adherent to his face. \"Shut 'im in!\" cried Mrs. Coombes, and would\nhave closed the door, but her supports deserted her; Jennie saw the shop\ndoor open, and vanished thereby, locking it behind her, while Clarence\nwent on hastily into the kitchen. Mr. Coombes came heavily against the\ndoor, and Mrs. Coombes, finding the key was inside, fled upstairs and\nlocked herself in the spare bedroom.\n\nSo the new convert to _joie de vivre_ emerged upon the passage, his\ndecorations a little scattered, but that respectable hatful of fungi still\nunder his arm. He hesitated at the three ways, and decided on the kitchen.\nWhereupon Clarence, who was fumbling with the key, gave up the attempt to\nimprison his host, and fled into the scullery, only to be captured before\nhe could open the door into the yard. Mr. Clarence is singularly reticent\nof the details of what occurred. It seems that Mr. Coombes' transitory\nirritation had vanished again, and he was once more a genial playfellow.\nAnd as there were knives and meat choppers about, Clarence very generously\nresolved to humour him and so avoid anything tragic. It is beyond dispute\nthat Mr. Coombes played with Mr. Clarence to his heart's content; they\ncould not have been more playful and familiar if they had known each other\nfor years. He insisted gaily on Clarence trying the fungi, and, after a\nfriendly tussle, was smitten with remorse at the mess he was making of his\nguest's face. It also appears that Clarence was dragged under the sink and\nhis face scrubbed with the blacking brush--he being still resolved to\nhumour the lunatic at any cost--and that finally, in a somewhat\ndishevelled, chipped, and discoloured condition, he was assisted to his\ncoat and shown out by the back door, the shopway being barred by Jennie.\nMr. Coombes' wandering thoughts then turned to Jennie. Jennie had been\nunable to unfasten the shop door, but she shot the bolts against Mr.\nCoombes' latch-key, and remained in possession of the shop for the rest of\nthe evening.\n\nIt would appear that Mr. Coombes then returned to the kitchen, still in\npursuit of gaiety, and, albeit a strict Good Templar, drank (or spilt down\nthe front of the first and only frock-coat) no less than five bottles of\nthe stout Mrs. Coombes insisted upon having for her health's sake. He made\ncheerful noises by breaking off the necks of the bottles with several of\nhis wife's wedding-present dinner-plates, and during the earlier part of\nthis great drunk he sang divers merry ballads. He cut his finger rather\nbadly with one of the bottles--the only bloodshed in this story--and what\nwith that, and the systematic convulsion of his inexperienced physiology\nby the liquorish brand of Mrs. Coombes' stout, it may be the evil of the\nfungus poison was somehow allayed. But we prefer to draw a veil over the\nconcluding incidents of this Sunday afternoon. They ended in the coal\ncellar, in a deep and healing sleep.\n\nAn interval of five years elapsed. Again it was a Sunday afternoon in\nOctober, and again Mr. Coombes walked through the pine wood beyond the\ncanal. He was still the same dark-eyed, black-moustached little man that\nhe was at the outset of the story, but his double chin was now scarcely so\nillusory as it had been. His overcoat was new, with a velvet lapel, and a\nstylish collar with turn-down corners, free of any coarse starchiness, had\nreplaced the original all-round article. His hat was glossy, his gloves\nnewish--though one finger had split and been carefully mended. And a\ncasual observer would have noticed about him a certain rectitude of\nbearing, a certain erectness of head that marks the man who thinks well of\nhimself. He was a master now, with three assistants. Beside him walked a\nlarger sunburnt parody of himself, his brother Tom, just back from\nAustralia. They were recapitulating their early struggles, and Mr. Coombes\nhad just been making a financial statement.\n\n\"It's a very nice little business, Jim,\" said brother Tom. \"In these days\nof competition you're jolly lucky to have worked it up so. And you're\njolly lucky, too, to have a wife who's willing to help like yours does.\"\n\n\"Between ourselves,\" said Mr. Coombes, \"it wasn't always so. It wasn't\nalways like this. To begin with, the missus was a bit giddy. Girls are\nfunny creatures.\"\n\n\"Dear me!\"\n\n\"Yes. You'd hardly think it, but she was downright extravagant, and always\nhaving slaps at me. I was a bit too easy and loving, and all that, and she\nthought the whole blessed show was run for her. Turned the 'ouse into a\nregular caravansery, always having her relations and girls from business\nin, and their chaps. Comic songs a' Sunday, it was getting to, and driving\ntrade away. And she was making eyes at the chaps, too! I tell you, Tom,\nthe place wasn't my own.\"\n\n\"Shouldn't 'a' thought it.\"\n\n\"It was so. Well--I reasoned with her. I said, 'I ain't a duke, to keep a\nwife like a pet animal. I married you for 'elp and company.' I said, 'You\ngot to 'elp and pull the business through.' She wouldn't 'ear of it. 'Very\nwell,' I says?? 'I'm a mild man till I'm roused,' I says, 'and it's\ngetting to that.' But she wouldn't 'ear of no warnings.\"\n\n\"Well?\"\n\n\"It's the way with women. She didn't think I 'ad it in me to be roused.\nWomen of her sort (between ourselves, Tom) don't respect a man until\nthey're a bit afraid of him. So I just broke out to show her. In comes a\ngirl named Jennie, that used to work with her, and her chap. We 'ad a bit\nof a row, and I came out 'ere--it was just such another day as this--and I\nthought it all out. Then I went back and pitched into them.\"\n\n\"You did?\"\n\n\"I did. I was mad, I can tell you. I wasn't going to 'it 'er if I could\n'elp it, so I went back and licked into this chap, just to show 'er what I\ncould do. 'E was a big chap, too. Well, I chucked him, and smashed things\nabout, and gave 'er a scaring, and she ran up and locked 'erself into the\nspare room.\"\n\n\"Well?\"\n\n\"That's all. I says to 'er the next morning, 'Now you know,' I says, 'what\nI'm like when I'm roused.' And I didn't have to say anything more.\"\n\n\"And you've been happy ever after, eh?\"\n\n\"So to speak. There's nothing like putting your foot down with them. If it\n'adn't been for that afternoon I should 'a' been tramping the roads now,\nand she'd 'a' been grumbling at me, and all her family grumbling for\nbringing her to poverty--I know their little ways. But we're all right\nnow. And it's a very decent little business, as you say.\"\n\nThey proceeded on their way meditatively. \"Women are funny creatures,\"\nsaid Brother Tom.\n\n\"They want a firm hand,\" says Coombes.\n\n\"What a lot of these funguses there are about here!\" remarked Brother Tom\npresently. \"I can't see what use they are in the world.\"\n\nMr. Coombes looked. \"I dessay they're sent for some wise purpose,\" said\nMr. Coombes.\n\nAnd that was as much thanks as the purple pileus ever got for maddening\nthis absurd little man to the pitch of decisive action, and so altering\nthe whole course of his life.\n\n\n\n\n XVIII.\n\n A SLIP UNDER THE MICROSCOPE.\n\n\nOutside the laboratory windows was a watery-grey fog, and within a close\nwarmth and the yellow light of the green-shaded gas lamps that stood two\nto each table down its narrow length. On each table stood a couple of\nglass jars containing the mangled vestiges of the crayfish, mussels,\nfrogs, and guinea-pigs upon which the students had been working, and down\nthe side of the room, facing the windows, were shelves bearing bleached\ndissections in spirits, surmounted by a row of beautifully executed\nanatomical drawings in white-wood frames and overhanging a row of cubical\nlockers. All the doors of the laboratory were panelled with blackboard,\nand on these were the half-erased diagrams of the previous day's work. The\nlaboratory was empty, save for the demonstrator, who sat near the\npreparation-room door, and silent, save for a low, continuous murmur and\nthe clicking of the rocker microtome at which he was working. But\nscattered about the room were traces of numerous students: hand-bags,\npolished boxes of instruments, in one place a large drawing covered by\nnewspaper, and in another a prettily bound copy of _News from\nNowhere_, a book oddly at variance with its surroundings. These things\nhad been put down hastily as the students had arrived and hurried at once\nto secure their seats in the adjacent lecture theatre. Deadened by the\nclosed door, the measured accents of the professor sounded as a\nfeatureless muttering.\n\nPresently, faint through the closed windows came the sound of the Oratory\nclock striking the hour of eleven. The clicking of the microtome ceased,\nand the demonstrator looked at his watch, rose, thrust his hands into his\npockets, and walked slowly down the laboratory towards the lecture theatre\ndoor. He stood listening for a moment, and then his eye fell on the little\nvolume by William Morris. He picked it up, glanced at the title, smiled,\nopened it, looked at the name on the fly-leaf, ran the leaves through with\nhis hand, and put it down. Almost immediately the even murmur of the\nlecturer ceased, there was a sudden burst of pencils rattling on the desks\nin the lecture theatre, a stirring, a scraping of feet, and a number of\nvoices speaking together. Then a firm footfall approached the door, which\nbegan to open, and stood ajar, as some indistinctly heard question\narrested the new-comer.\n\nThe demonstrator turned, walked slowly back past the microtome, and left\nthe laboratory by the preparation-room door. As he did so, first one, and\nthen several students carrying notebooks entered the laboratory from the\nlecture theatre, and distributed themselves among the little tables, or\nstood in a group about the doorway. They were an exceptionally\nheterogeneous assembly, for while Oxford and Cambridge still recoil from\nthe blushing prospect of mixed classes, the College of Science anticipated\nAmerica in the matter years ago--mixed socially, too, for the prestige of\nthe College is high, and its scholarships, free of any age limit, dredge\ndeeper even than do those of the Scotch universities. The class numbered\none-and-twenty, but some remained in the theatre questioning the\nprofessor, copying the black-board diagrams before they were washed off,\nor examining the special specimens he had produced to illustrate the day's\nteaching. Of the nine who had come into the laboratory three were girls,\none of whom, a little fair woman, wearing spectacles and dressed in\ngreyish-green, was peering out of the window at the fog, while the other\ntwo, both wholesome-looking, plain-faced schoolgirls, unrolled and put on\nthe brown holland aprons they wore while dissecting. Of the men, two went\ndown the laboratory to their places, one a pallid, dark-bearded man, who\nhad once been a tailor; the other a pleasant-featured, ruddy young man of\ntwenty, dressed in a well-fitting brown suit; young Wedderburn, the son of\nWedderburn, the eye specialist. The others formed a little knot near the\ntheatre door. One of these, a dwarfed, spectacled figure, with a\nhunchback, sat on a bent wood stool; two others, one a short, dark\nyoungster, and the other a flaxen-haired, reddish-complexioned young man,\nstood leaning side by side against the slate sink, while the fourth stood\nfacing them, and maintained the larger share of the conversation.\n\nThis last person was named Hill. He was a sturdily built young fellow, of\nthe same age as Wedderburn; he had a white face, dark grey eyes, hair of\nan indeterminate colour, and prominent, irregular features. He talked\nrather louder than was needful, and thrust his hands deeply into his\npockets. His collar was frayed and blue with the starch of a careless\nlaundress, his clothes were evidently ready-made, and there was a patch on\nthe side of his boot near the toe. And as he talked or listened to the\nothers, he glanced now and again towards the lecture theatre door. They\nwere discussing the depressing peroration of the lecture they had just\nheard, the last lecture it was in the introductory course in zoology.\n\"From ovum to ovum is the goal of the higher vertebrata,\" the lecturer had\nsaid in his melancholy tones, and so had neatly rounded off the sketch\nof comparative anatomy he had been developing. The spectacled hunchback\nhad repeated it, with noisy appreciation, had tossed it towards the\nfair-haired student with an evident provocation, and had started one of\nthese vague, rambling discussions on generalities, so unaccountably dear\nto the student mind all the world over.\n\n\"That is our goal, perhaps--I admit it, as far as science goes,\" said the\nfair-haired student, rising to the challenge. \"But there are things above\nscience.\"\n\n\"Science,\" said Hill confidently, \"is systematic knowledge. Ideas that\ndon't come into the system--must anyhow--be loose ideas.\" He was not quite\nsure whether that was a clever saying or a fatuity until his hearers took\nit seriously.\n\n\"The thing I cannot understand,\" said the hunchback, at large, \"is whether\nHill is a materialist or not.\"\n\n\"There is one thing above matter,\" said Hill promptly, feeling he had a\nbetter thing this time; aware, too, of someone in the doorway behind him,\nand raising his voice a trifle for her benefit, \"and that is, the delusion\nthat there is something above matter.\"\n\n\"So we have your gospel at last,\" said the fair student. \"It's all a\ndelusion, is it? All our aspirations to lead something more than dogs'\nlives, all our work for anything beyond ourselves. But see how\ninconsistent you are. Your socialism, for instance. Why do you trouble\nabout the interests of the race? Why do you concern yourself about the\nbeggar in the gutter? Why are you bothering yourself to lend that book \"--\nhe indicated William Morris by a movement of the head--\"to everyone in the\nlab.?\"\n\n\"Girl,\" said the hunchback indistinctly, and glanced guiltily over his\nshoulder.\n\nThe girl in brown, with the brown eyes, had come into the laboratory, and\nstood on the other side of the table behind him, with her rolled-up apron\nin one hand, looking over her shoulder, listening to the discussion. She\ndid not notice the hunchback, because she was glancing from Hill to his\ninterlocutor. Hill's consciousness of her presence betrayed itself to her\nonly in his studious ignorance of the fact; but she understood that, and\nit pleased her. \"I see no reason,\" said he, \"why a man should live like a\nbrute because he knows of nothing beyond matter, and does not expect to\nexist a hundred years hence.\"\n\n\"Why shouldn't he?\" said the fair-haired student.\n\n\"Why _should_ he?\" said Hill.\n\n\"What inducement has he?\"\n\n\"That's the way with all you religious people. It's all a business of\ninducements. Cannot a man seek after righteousness for righteousness'\nsake?\"\n\nThere was a pause. The fair man answered, with a kind of vocal padding,\n\"But--you see--inducement--when I said inducement,\" to gain time. And then\nthe hunchback came to his rescue and inserted a question. He was a\nterrible person in the debating society with his questions, and they\ninvariably took one form--a demand for a definition, \"What's your\ndefinition of righteousness?\" said the hunchback at this stage.\n\nHill experienced a sudden loss of complacency at this question, but even\nas it was asked, relief came in the person of Brooks, the laboratory\nattendant, who entered by the preparation-room door, carrying a number of\nfreshly killed guinea-pigs by their hind legs. \"This is the last batch of\nmaterial this session,\" said the youngster who had not previously spoken.\nBrooks advanced up the laboratory, smacking down a couple of guinea-pigs\nat each table. The rest of the class, scenting the prey from afar, came\ncrowding in by the lecture theatre door, and the discussion perished\nabruptly as the students who were not already in their places hurried to\nthem to secure the choice of a specimen. There was a noise of keys\nrattling on split rings as lockers were opened and dissecting instruments\ntaken out. Hill was already standing by his table, and his box of scalpels\nwas sticking out of his pocket. The girl in brown came a step towards him,\nand, leaning over his table, said softly, \"Did you see that I returned\nyour book, Mr. Hill?\"\n\nDuring the whole scene she and the book had been vividly present in his\nconsciousness; but he made a clumsy pretence of looking at the book and\nseeing it for the first time. \"Oh, yes,\" he said, taking it up. \"I see.\nDid you like it?\"\n\n\"I want to ask you some questions about it--some time.\"\n\n\"Certainly,\" said Hill. \"I shall be glad.\" He stopped awkwardly. \"You\nliked it?\" he said.\n\n\"It's a wonderful book. Only some things I don't understand.\"\n\nThen suddenly the laboratory was hushed by a curious, braying noise. It\nwas the demonstrator. He was at the blackboard ready to begin the day's\ninstruction, and it was his custom to demand silence by a sound midway\nbetween the \"Er\" of common intercourse and the blast of a trumpet. The\ngirl in brown slipped back to her place: it was immediately in front of\nHill's, and Hill, forgetting her forthwith, took a notebook out of the\ndrawer of his table, turned over its leaves hastily, drew a stumpy pencil\nfrom his pocket, and prepared to make a copious note of the coming\ndemonstration. For demonstrations and lectures are the sacred text of the\nCollege students. Books, saving only the Professor's own, you may--it is\neven expedient to--ignore.\n\nHill was the son of a Landport cobbler, and had been hooked by a chance\nblue paper the authorities had thrown out to the Landport Technical\nCollege. He kept himself in London on his allowance of a guinea a week,\nand found that, with proper care, this also covered his clothing\nallowance, an occasional waterproof collar, that is; and ink and needles\nand cotton, and such-like necessaries for a man about town. This was his\nfirst year and his first session, but the brown old man in Landport had\nalready got himself detested in many public-houses by boasting of his son,\n\"the Professor.\" Hill was a vigorous youngster, with a serene contempt for\nthe clergy of all denominations, and a fine ambition to reconstruct the\nworld. He regarded his scholarship as a brilliant opportunity. He had\nbegun to read at seven, and had read steadily whatever came in his way,\ngood or bad, since then. His worldly experience had been limited to the\nisland of Portsea, and acquired chiefly in the wholesale boot factory in\nwhich he had worked by day, after passing the seventh standard of the\nBoard school. He had a considerable gift of speech, as the College\nDebating Society, which met amidst the crushing machines and mine models\nin the metallurgical theatre downstairs, already recognised--recognised by\na violent battering of desks whenever he rose. And he was just at that\nfine emotional age when life opens at the end of a narrow pass like a\nbroad valley at one's feet, full of the promise of wonderful discoveries\nand tremendous achievements. And his own limitations, save that he knew\nthat he knew neither Latin nor French, were all unknown to him.\n\nAt first his interest had been divided pretty equally between his\nbiological work at the College and social and theological theorising, an\nemployment which he took in deadly earnest. Of a night, when the big\nmuseum library was not open, he would sit on the bed of his room in\nChelsea with his coat and a muffler on, and write out the lecture notes\nand revise his dissection memoranda, until Thorpe called him out by a\nwhistle--the landlady objected to open the door to attic visitors--and\nthen the two would go prowling about the shadowy, shiny, gas-lit streets,\ntalking, very much in the fashion of the sample just given, of the God\nidea, and Righteousness, and Carlyle, and the Reorganisation of Society.\nAnd in the midst of it all, Hill, arguing not only for Thorpe, but for the\ncasual passer-by, would lose the thread of his argument glancing at some\npretty painted face that looked meaningly at him as he passed. Science and\nRighteousness! But once or twice lately there had been signs that a third\ninterest was creeping into his life, and he had found his attention\nwandering from the fate of the mesoblastic somites or the probable meaning\nof the blastopore, to the thought of the girl with the brown eyes who sat\nat the table before him.\n\nShe was a paying student; she descended inconceivable social altitudes to\nspeak to him. At the thought of the education she must have had, and the\naccomplishments she must possess, the soul of Hill became abject within\nhim. She had spoken to him first over a difficulty about the alisphenoid\nof a rabbit's skull, and he had found that, in biology at least, he had no\nreason for self-abasement. And from that, after the manner of young people\nstarting from any starting-point, they got to generalities, and while Hill\nattacked her upon the question of socialism--some instinct told him to\nspare her a direct assault upon her religion--she was gathering resolution\nto undertake what she told herself was his aesthetic education. She was a\nyear or two older than he, though the thought never occurred to him. The\nloan of _News from Nowhere_ was the beginning of a series of cross\nloans. Upon some absurd first principle of his, Hill had never \"wasted\ntime\" Upon poetry, and it seemed an appalling deficiency to her. One day\nin the lunch hour, when she chanced upon him alone in the little museum\nwhere the skeletons were arranged, shamefully eating the bun that\nconstituted his midday meal, she retreated, and returned to lend him, with\na slightly furtive air, a volume of Browning. He stood sideways towards\nher and took the book rather clumsily, because he was holding the bun in\nthe other hand. And in the retrospect his voice lacked the cheerful\nclearness he could have wished.\n\nThat occurred after the examination in comparative anatomy, on the day\nbefore the College turned out its students, and was carefully locked up by\nthe officials, for the Christmas holidays. The excitement of cramming for\nthe first trial of strength had for a little while dominated Hill, to the\nexclusion of his other interests. In the forecasts of the result in which\neveryone indulged he was surprised to find that no one regarded him as a\npossible competitor for the Harvey Commemoration Medal, of which this and\nthe two subsequent examinations disposed. It was about this time that\nWedderburn, who so far had lived inconspicuously on the uttermost margin\nof Hill's perceptions, began to take on the appearance of an obstacle. By\na mutual agreement, the nocturnal prowlings with Thorpe ceased for the\nthree weeks before the examination, and his landlady pointed out that she\nreally could not supply so much lamp oil at the price. He walked to and\nfro from the College with little slips of mnemonics in his hand, lists of\ncrayfish appendages, rabbits' skull-bones, and vertebrate nerves, for\nexample, and became a positive nuisance to foot passengers in the opposite\ndirection.\n\nBut, by a natural reaction, Poetry and the girl with the brown eyes ruled\nthe Christmas holiday. The pending results of the examination became such\na secondary consideration that Hill marvelled at his father's excitement.\nEven had he wished it, there was no comparative anatomy to read in\nLandport, and he was too poor to buy books, but the stock of poets in the\nlibrary was extensive, and Hill's attack was magnificently sustained. He\nsaturated himself with the fluent numbers of Longfellow and Tennyson, and\nfortified himself with Shakespeare; found a kindred soul in Pope, and a\nmaster in Shelley, and heard and fled the siren voices of Eliza Cook and\nMrs. Hemans. But he read no more Browning, because he hoped for the loan\nof other volumes from Miss Haysman when he returned to London.\n\nHe walked from his lodgings to the College with that volume of Browning in\nhis shiny black bag, and his mind teeming with the finest general\npropositions about poetry. Indeed, he framed first this little speech and\nthen that with which to grace the return. The morning was an exceptionally\npleasant one for London; there was a clear, hard frost and undeniable blue\nin the sky, a thin haze softened every outline, and warm shafts of\nsunlight struck between the house blocks and turned the sunny side of the\nstreet to amber and gold. In the hall of the College he pulled off his\nglove and signed his name with fingers so stiff with cold that the\ncharacteristic dash under the signature he cultivated became a quivering\nline. He imagined Miss Haysman about him everywhere. He turned at the\nstaircase, and there, below, he saw a crowd struggling at the foot of the\nnotice-board. This, possibly, was the biology list. He forgot Browning and\nMiss Haysman for the moment, and joined the scrimmage. And at last, with\nhis cheek flattened against the sleeve of the man on the step above him,\nhe read the list--\n\nCLASS I\nH. J. Somers Wedderburn\nWilliam Hill\n\nand thereafter followed a second class that is outside our present\nsympathies. It was characteristic that he did not trouble to look for\nThorpe on the physics list, but backed out of the struggle at once, and in\na curious emotional state between pride over common second-class humanity\nand acute disappointment at Wedderburn's success, went on his way\nupstairs. At the top, as he was hanging up his coat in the passage, the\nzoological demonstrator, a young man from Oxford, who secretly regarded\nhim as a blatant \"mugger\" of the very worst type, offered his heartiest\ncongratulations.\n\nAt the laboratory door Hill stopped for a second to get his breath, and\nthen entered. He looked straight up the laboratory and saw all five girl\nstudents grouped in their places, and Wedderburn, the once retiring\nWedderburn, leaning rather gracefully against the window, playing with the\nblind tassel and talking, apparently, to the five of them. Now, Hill could\ntalk bravely enough and even overbearingly to one girl, and he could have\nmade a speech to a roomful of girls, but this business of standing at ease\nand appreciating, fencing, and returning quick remarks round a group was,\nhe knew, altogether beyond him. Coming up the staircase his feelings for\nWedderburn had been generous, a certain admiration perhaps, a willingness\nto shake his hand conspicuously and heartily as one who had fought but the\nfirst round. But before Christmas Wedderburn had never gone up to that end\nof the room to talk. In a flash Hill's mist of vague excitement condensed\nabruptly to a vivid dislike of Wedderburn. Possibly his expression\nchanged. As he came up to his place, Wedderburn nodded carelessly to him,\nand the others glanced round. Miss Haysman looked at him and away again,\nthe faintest touch of her eyes. \"I can't agree with you, Mr. Wedderburn,\"\nshe said.\n\n\"I must congratulate you on your first-class, Mr. Hill,\" said the\nspectacled girl in green, turning round and beaming at him.\n\n\"It's nothing,\" said Hill, staring at Wedderburn and Miss Haysman talking\ntogether, and eager to hear what they talked about.\n\n\"We poor folks in the second class don't think so,\" said the girl in\nspectacles.\n\nWhat was it Wedderburn was saying? Something about William Morris! Hill\ndid not answer the girl in spectacles, and the smile died out of his face.\nHe could not hear, and failed to see how he could \"cut in.\" Confound\nWedderburn! He sat down, opened his bag, hesitated whether to return the\nvolume of Browning forthwith, in the sight of all, and instead drew out\nhis new notebooks for the short course in elementary botany that was now\nbeginning, and which would terminate in February. As he did so, a fat,\nheavy man, with a white face and pale grey eyes--Bindon, the professor of\nbotany, who came up from Kew for January and February--came in by the\nlecture theatre door, and passed, rubbing his hands together and smiling,\nin silent affability down the laboratory.\n\n * * * * *\n\nIn the subsequent six weeks Hill experienced some very rapid and curiously\ncomplex emotional developments. For the most part he had Wedderburn in\nfocus--a fact that Miss Haysman never suspected. She told Hill (for in the\ncomparative privacy of the museum she talked a good deal to him of\nsocialism and Browning and general propositions) that she had met\nWedderburn at the house of some people she knew, and \"he's inherited his\ncleverness; for his father, you know, is the great eye-specialist.\"\n\n\"_My_ father is a cobbler,\" said Hill, quite irrelevantly, and\nperceived the want of dignity even as he said it. But the gleam of\njealousy did not offend her. She conceived herself the fundamental source\nof it. He suffered bitterly from a sense of Wedderburn's unfairness, and a\nrealisation of his own handicap. Here was this Wedderburn had picked up a\nprominent man for a father, and instead of his losing so many marks on the\nscore of that advantage, it was counted to him for righteousness! And\nwhile Hill had to introduce himself and talk to Miss Haysman clumsily over\nmangled guinea-pigs in the laboratory, this Wedderburn, in some backstairs\nway, had access to her social altitudes, and could converse in a polished\nargot that Hill understood perhaps, but felt incapable of speaking. Not,\nof course, that he wanted to. Then it seemed to Hill that for Wedderburn\nto come there day after day with cuffs unfrayed, neatly tailored,\nprecisely barbered, quietly perfect, was in itself an ill-bred, sneering\nsort of proceeding. Moreover, it was a stealthy thing for Wedderburn to\nbehave insignificantly for a space, to mock modesty, to lead Hill to fancy\nthat he himself was beyond dispute the man of the year, and then suddenly\nto dart in front of him, and incontinently to swell up in this fashion. In\naddition to these things, Wedderburn displayed an increasing disposition\nto join in any conversational grouping that included Miss Haysman, and\nwould venture, and indeed seek occasion, to pass opinions derogatory to\nsocialism and atheism. He goaded Hill to incivilities by neat, shallow,\nand exceedingly effective personalities about the socialist leaders,\nuntil Hill hated Bernard Shaw's graceful egotisms, William Morris's\nlimited editions and luxurious wall-papers, and Walter Crane's charmingly\nabsurd ideal working men, about as much as he hated Wedderburn. The\ndissertations in the laboratory, that had been his glory in the previous\nterm, became a danger, degenerated into inglorious tussels with\nWedderburn, and Hill kept to them only out of an obscure perception that\nhis honour was involved. In the debating society Hill knew quite clearly\nthat, to a thunderous accompaniment of banged desks, he could have\npulverised Wedderburn. Only Wedderburn never attended the debating society\nto be pulverised, because--nauseous affectation!--he \"dined late.\"\n\nYou must not imagine that these things presented themselves in quite such\na crude form to Hill's perception. Hill was a born generaliser. Wedderburn\nto him was not so much an individual obstacle as a type, the salient angle\nof a class. The economic theories that, after infinite ferment, had shaped\nthemselves in Hill's mind, became abruptly concrete at the contact. The\nworld became full of easy-mannered, graceful, gracefully-dressed,\nconversationally dexterous, finally shallow Wedderburns, Bishops\nWedderburn, Wedderburn M.P.'s, Professors Wedderburn, Wedderburn\nlandlords, all with finger-bowl shibboleths and epigrammatic cities of\nrefuge from a sturdy debater. And everyone ill-clothed or ill-dressed,\nfrom the cobbler to the cab-runner, was a man and a brother, a\nfellow-sufferer, to Hill's imagination. So that he became, as it were, a\nchampion of the fallen and oppressed, albeit to outward seeming only a\nself-assertive, ill-mannered young man, and an unsuccessful champion at\nthat. Again and again a skirmish over the afternoon tea that the girl\nstudents had inaugurated left Hill with flushed cheeks and a tattered\ntemper, and the debating society noticed a new quality of sarcastic\nbitterness in his speeches.\n\nYou will understand now how it was necessary, if only in the interests of\nhumanity, that Hill should demolish Wedderburn in the forthcoming\nexamination and outshine him in the eyes of Miss Haysman; and you will\nperceive, too, how Miss Haysman fell into some common feminine\nmisconceptions. The Hill-Wedderburn quarrel, for in his unostentatious way\nWedderburn reciprocated Hill's ill-veiled rivalry, became a tribute to her\nindefinable charm; she was the Queen of Beauty in a tournament of scalpels\nand stumpy pencils. To her confidential friend's secret annoyance, it even\ntroubled her conscience, for she was a good girl, and painfully aware,\nfrom Ruskin and contemporary fiction, how entirely men's activities are\ndetermined by women's attitudes. And if Hill never by any chance mentioned\nthe topic of love to her, she only credited him with the finer modesty for\nthat omission. So the time came on for the second examination, and Hill's\nincreasing pallor confirmed the general rumour that he was working hard.\nIn the aerated bread shop near South Kensington Station you would see him,\nbreaking his bun and sipping his milk, with his eyes intent upon a paper\nof closely written notes. In his bedroom there were propositions about\nbuds and stems round his looking-glass, a diagram to catch his eye, if\nsoap should chance to spare it, above his washing basin. He missed several\nmeetings of the debating society, but he found the chance encounters with\nMiss Haysman in the spacious ways of the adjacent art museum, or in the\nlittle museum at the top of the College, or in the College corridors, more\nfrequent and very restful. In particular, they used to meet in a little\ngallery full of wrought-iron chests and gates, near the art library, and\nthere Hill used to talk, under the gentle stimulus of her flattering\nattention, of Browning and his personal ambitions. A characteristic she\nfound remarkable in him was his freedom from avarice. He contemplated\nquite calmly the prospect of living all his life on an income below a\nhundred pounds a year. But he was determined to be famous, to make,\nrecognisably in his own proper person, the world a better place to live\nin. He took Bradlaugh and John Burns for his leaders and models, poor,\neven impecunious, great men. But Miss Haysman thought that such lives were\ndeficient on the aesthetic side, by which, though she did not know it, she\nmeant good wall-paper and upholstery, pretty books, tasteful clothes,\nconcerts, and meals nicely cooked and respectfully served.\n\nAt last came the day of the second examination, and the professor of\nbotany, a fussy, conscientious man, rearranged all the tables in a long\nnarrow laboratory to prevent copying, and put his demonstrator on a chair\non a table (where he felt, he said, like a Hindoo god), to see all the\ncheating, and stuck a notice outside the door, \"Door closed,\" for no\nearthly reason that any human being could discover. And all the morning\nfrom ten till one the quill of Wedderburn shrieked defiance at Hill's, and\nthe quills of the others chased their leaders in a tireless pack, and so\nalso it was in the afternoon. Wedderburn was a little quieter than usual,\nand Hill's face was hot all day, and his overcoat bulged with textbooks\nand notebooks against the last moment's revision. And the next day, in the\nmorning and in the afternoon, was the practical examination, when sections\nhad to be cut and slides identified. In the morning Hill was depressed\nbecause he knew he had cut a thick section, and in the afternoon came the\nmysterious slip.\n\nIt was just the kind of thing that the botanical professor was always\ndoing. Like the income tax, it offered a premium to the cheat. It was a\npreparation under the microscope, a little glass slip, held in its place\non the stage of the instrument by light steel clips, and the inscription\nset forth that the slip was not to be moved. Each student was to go in\nturn to it, sketch it, write in his book of answers what he considered it\nto be, and return to his place. Now, to move such a slip is a thing one\ncan do by a chance movement of the finger, and in a fraction of a second.\nThe professor's reason for decreeing that the slip should not be moved\ndepended on the fact that the object he wanted identified was\ncharacteristic of a certain tree stem. In the position in which it was\nplaced it was a difficult thing to recognise, but once the slip was moved\nso as to bring other parts of the preparation into view, its nature was\nobvious enough.\n\nHill came to this, flushed from a contest with staining re-agents, sat\ndown on the little stool before the microscope, turned the mirror to get\nthe best light, and then, out of sheer habit, shifted the slips. At once\nhe remembered the prohibition, and, with an almost continuous motion of\nhis hands, moved it back, and sat paralysed with astonishment at his\naction.\n\nThen, slowly, he turned his head. The professor was out of the room; the\ndemonstrator sat aloft on his impromptu rostrum, reading the _Q. Jour.\nMi. Sci_.; the rest of the examinees were busy, and with their backs to\nhim. Should he own up to the accident now? He knew quite clearly what the\nthing was. It was a lenticel, a characteristic preparation from the\nelder-tree. His eyes roved over his intent fellow-students, and Wedderburn\nsuddenly glanced over his shoulder at him with a queer expression in his\neyes. The mental excitement that had kept Hill at an abnormal pitch of\nvigour these two days gave way to a curious nervous tension. His book of\nanswers was beside him. He did not write down what the thing was, but with\none eye at the microscope he began making a hasty sketch of it. His mind\nwas full of this grotesque puzzle in ethics that had suddenly been sprung\nupon him. Should he identify it? or should he leave this question\nunanswered? In that case Wedderburn would probably come out first in the\nsecond result. How could he tell now whether he might not have identified\nthe thing without shifting it? It was possible that Wedderburn had failed\nto recognise it, of course. Suppose Wedderburn too had shifted the slide?\nHe looked up at the clock. There were fifteen minutes in which to make up\nhis mind. He gathered up his book of answers and the coloured pencils he\nused in illustrating his replies and walked back to his seat.\n\nHe read through his manuscript, and then sat thinking and gnawing his\nknuckle. It would look queer now if he owned up. He _must_ beat\nWedderburn. He forgot the examples of those starry gentlemen, John Burns\nand Bradlaugh. Besides, he reflected, the glimpse of the rest of the slip\nhe had had was, after all, quite accidental, forced upon him by chance, a\nkind of providential revelation rather than an unfair advantage. It was\nnot nearly so dishonest to avail himself of that as it was of Broome, who\nbelieved in the efficacy of prayer, to pray daily for a first-class. \"Five\nminutes more,\" said the demonstrator, folding up his paper and becoming\nobservant. Hill watched the clock hands until two minutes remained; then\nhe opened the book of answers, and, with hot ears and an affectation of\nease, gave his drawing of the lenticel its name.\n\nWhen the second pass list appeared, the previous positions of Wedderburn\nand Hill were reversed, and the spectacled girl in green, who knew the\ndemonstrator in private life (where he was practically human), said that\nin the result of the two examinations taken together Hill had the\nadvantage of a mark--167 to 166 out of a possible 200. Everyone admired\nHill in a way, though the suspicion of \"mugging\" clung to him. But Hill\nwas to find congratulations and Miss Haysman's enhanced opinion of him,\nand even the decided decline in the crest of Wedderburn, tainted by an\nunhappy memory. He felt a remarkable access of energy at first, and the\nnote of a democracy marching to triumph returned to his debating-society\nspeeches; he worked at his comparative anatomy with tremendous zeal and\neffect, and he went on with his aesthetic education. But through it all, a\nvivid little picture was continually coming before his mind's eye--of a\nsneakish person manipulating a slide.\n\nNo human being had witnessed the act, and he was cocksure that no higher\npower existed to see, it; but for all that it worried him. Memories are\nnot dead things but alive; they dwindle in disuse, but they harden and\ndevelop in all sorts of queer ways if they are being continually fretted.\nCuriously enough, though at the time he perceived clearly that the\nshifting was accidental, as the days wore on, his memory became confused\nabout it, until at last he was not sure--although he assured himself that\nhe _was_ sure--whether the movement had been absolutely involuntary.\nThen it is possible that Hill's dietary was conducive to morbid\nconscientiousness; a breakfast frequently eaten in a hurry, a midday bun,\nand, at such hours after five as chanced to be convenient, such meat as\nhis means determined, usually in a chop-house in a back street off the\nBrompton Road. Occasionally he treated himself to threepenny or ninepenny\nclassics, and they usually represented a suppression of potatoes or chops.\nIt is indisputable that outbreaks of self-abasement and emotional revival\nhave a distinct relation to periods of scarcity. But apart from this\ninfluence on the feelings, there was in Hill a distinct aversion to\nfalsity that the blasphemous Landport cobbler had inculcated by strap and\ntongue from his earliest years. Of one fact about professed atheists I am\nconvinced; they may be--they usually are--fools, void of subtlety,\nrevilers of holy institutions, brutal speakers, and mischievous knaves,\nbut they lie with difficulty. If it were not so, if they had the faintest\ngrasp of the idea of compromise, they would simply be liberal churchmen.\nAnd, moreover, this memory poisoned his regard for Miss Haysman. For she\nnow so evidently preferred him to Wedderburn that he felt sure he cared\nfor her, and began reciprocating her attentions by timid marks of personal\nregard; at one time he even bought a bunch of violets, carried it about in\nhis pocket, and produced it, with a stumbling explanation, withered and\ndead, in the gallery of old iron. It poisoned, too, the denunciation of\ncapitalist dishonesty that had been one of his life's pleasures. And,\nlastly, it poisoned his triumph in Wedderburn. Previously he had been\nWedderburn's superior in his own eyes, and had raged simply at a want of\nrecognition. Now he began to fret at the darker suspicion of positive\ninferiority. He fancied he found justifications for his position in\nBrowning, but they vanished on analysis. At last--moved, curiously enough,\nby exactly the same motive forces that had resulted in his dishonesty--he\nwent to Professor Bindon, and made a clean breast of the whole affair. As\nHill was a paid student, Professor Bindon did not ask him to sit down, and\nhe stood before the professor's desk as he made his confession.\n\n\"It's a curious story,\" said Professor Bindon, slowly realising how the\nthing reflected on himself, and then letting his anger rise,--\"a most\nremarkable story. I can't understand your doing it, and I can't understand\nthis avowal. You're a type of student--Cambridge men would never dream--I\nsuppose I ought to have thought--why _did_ you cheat?\"\n\n\"I didn't cheat,\" said Hill.\n\n\"But you have just been telling me you did.\"\n\n\"I thought I explained--\"\n\n\"Either you cheated or you did not cheat.\"\n\n\"I said my motion was involuntary.\"\n\n\"I am not a metaphysician, I am a servant of science--of fact. You\nwere told not to move the slip. You did move the slip. If that is not\ncheating--\"\n\n\"If I was a cheat,\" said Hill, with the note of hysterics in his voice,\n\"should I come here and tell you?\"\n\n\"Your repentance, of course, does you credit,\" said Professor Bindon, \"but\nit does not alter the original facts.\"\n\n\"No, sir,\" said Hill, giving in in utter self-abasement.\n\n\"Even now you cause an enormous amount of trouble. The examination list\nwill have to be revised.\"\n\n\"I suppose so, sir.\"\n\n\"Suppose so? Of course it must be revised. And I don't see how I can\nconscientiously pass you.\"\n\n\"Not pass me?\" said Hill. \"Fail me?\"\n\n\"It's the rule in all examinations. Or where should we be? What else did\nyou expect? You don't want to shirk the consequences of your own acts?\"\n\n\"I thought, perhaps----\" said Hill. And then, \"Fail me? I thought, as I\ntold you, you would simply deduct the marks given for that slip.\"\n\n\"Impossible!\" said Bindon. \"Besides, it would still leave you above\nWedderburn. Deduct only the marks! Preposterous! The Departmental\nRegulations distinctly say----\"\n\n\"But it's my own admission, sir.\"\n\n\"The Regulations say nothing whatever of the manner in which the matter\ncomes to light. They simply provide----\"\n\n\"It will ruin me. If I fail this examination, they won't renew my\nscholarship.\"\n\n\"You should have thought of that before.\"\n\n\"But, sir, consider all my circumstances----\"\n\n\"I cannot consider anything. Professors in this College are machines. The\nRegulations will not even let us recommend our students for appointments.\nI am a machine, and you have worked me. I have to do----\"\n\n\"It's very hard, sir.\"\n\n\"Possibly it is.\"\n\n\"If I am to be failed this examination, I might as well go home at once.\"\n\n\"That is as you think proper.\" Bindon's voice softened a little; he\nperceived he had been unjust, and, provided he did not contradict himself,\nhe was disposed to amelioration. \"As a private person,\" he said, \"I think\nthis confession of yours goes far to mitigate your offence. But you have\nset the machinery in motion, and now it must take its course. I--I am\nreally sorry you gave way.\"\n\nA wave of emotion prevented Hill from answering. Suddenly, very vividly,\nhe saw the heavily-lined face of the old Landport cobbler, his father.\n\"Good God! What a fool I have been!\" he said hotly and abruptly.\n\n\"I hope,\" said Bindon, \"that it will be a lesson to you.\"\n\nBut, curiously enough, they were not thinking of quite the same\nindiscretion.\n\nThere was a pause.\n\n\"I would like a day to think, sir, and then I will let you know--about\ngoing home, I mean,\" said Hill, moving towards the door.\n\n * * * * *\n\nThe next day Hill's place was vacant. The spectacled girl in green was, as\nusual, first with the news. Wedderburn and Miss Haysman were talking of a\nperformance of _The Meistersingers_ when she came up to them.\n\n\"Have you heard?\" she said.\n\n\"Heard what?\"\n\n\"There was cheating in the examination.\"\n\n\"Cheating!\" said Wedderburn, with his face suddenly hot. \"How?\"\n\n\"That slide--\"\n\n\"Moved? Never!\"\n\n\"It was. That slide that we weren't to move--\"\n\n\"Nonsense!\" said Wedderburn. \"Why! How could they find out? Who do they\nsay--?\"\n\n\"It was Mr. Hill.\"\n\n_Hill_!\"\n\n\"Mr. Hill!\"\n\n\"Not--surely not the immaculate Hill?\" said Wedderburn, recovering.\n\n\"I don't believe it,\" said Miss Haysman. \"How do you know?\"\n\n\"I _didn't_,\" said the girl in spectacles. \"But I know it now for a\nfact. Mr. Hill went and confessed to Professor Bindon himself.\"\n\n\"By Jove!\" said Wedderburn. \"Hill of all people. But I am always inclined\nto distrust these philanthropists-on-principle--\"\n\n\"Are you quite sure?\" said Miss Haysman, with a catch in her breath.\n\n\"Quite. It's dreadful, isn't it? But, you know, what can you expect? His\nfather is a cobbler.\"\n\nThen Miss Haysman astonished the girl in spectacles.\n\n\"I don't care. I will not believe it,\" she said, flushing darkly under her\nwarm-tinted skin. \"I will not believe it until he has told me so himself--\nface to face. I would scarcely believe it then,\" and abruptly she turned\nher back on the girl in spectacles, and walked to her own place.\n\n\"It's true, all the same,\" said the girl in spectacles, peering and\nsmiling at Wedderburn.\n\nBut Wedderburn did not answer her. She was indeed one of those people who\nseemed destined to make unanswered remarks.\n\n\n\n\n XIX.\n\n THE CRYSTAL EGG.\n\n\nThere was, until a year ago, a little and very grimy-looking shop near\nSeven Dials, over which, in weather-worn yellow lettering, the name of \"C.\nCave, Naturalist and Dealer in Antiquities,\" was inscribed. The contents\nof its window were curiously variegated. They comprised some elephant\ntusks and an imperfect set of chessmen, beads and weapons, a box of eyes,\ntwo skulls of tigers and one human, several moth-eaten stuffed monkeys\n(one holding a lamp), an old-fashioned cabinet, a fly-blown ostrich egg\nor so, some fishing-tackle, and an extraordinarily dirty, empty glass\nfish-tank. There was also, at the moment the story begins, a mass of\ncrystal, worked into the shape of an egg and brilliantly polished. And at\nthat two people who stood outside the window were looking, one of them a\ntall, thin clergyman, the other a black-bearded young man of dusky\ncomplexion and unobtrusive costume. The dusky young man spoke with eager\ngesticulation, and seemed anxious for his companion to purchase the\narticle.\n\nWhile they were there, Mr. Cave came into his shop, his beard still\nwagging with the bread and butter of his tea. When he saw these men and\nthe object of their regard, his countenance fell. He glanced guiltily over\nhis shoulder, and softly shut the door. He was a little old man, with pale\nface and peculiar watery blue eyes; his hair was a dirty grey, and he wore\na shabby blue frock-coat, an ancient silk hat, and carpet slippers very\nmuch down at heel. He remained watching the two men as they talked. The\nclergyman went deep into his trouser pocket, examined a handful of money,\nand showed his teeth in an agreeable smile. Mr. Cave seemed still more\ndepressed when they came into the shop.\n\nThe clergyman, without any ceremony, asked the price of the crystal egg.\nMr. Cave glanced nervously towards the door leading into the parlour, and\nsaid five pounds. The clergyman protested that the price was high, to his\ncompanion as well as to Mr. Cave--it was, indeed, very much more than Mr.\nCave had intended to ask when he had stocked the article--and an attempt\nat bargaining ensued. Mr. Cave stepped to the shop door, and held it open.\n\"Five pounds is my price,\" he said, as though he wished to save himself\nthe trouble of unprofitable discussion. As he did so, the upper portion of\na woman's face appeared above the blind in the glass upper panel of the\ndoor leading into the parlour, and stared curiously at the two customers.\n\"Five pounds is my price,\" said Mr. Cave, with a quiver in his voice.\n\nThe swarthy young man had so far remained a spectator, watching Cave\nkeenly. Now he spoke. \"Give him five pounds,\" he said. The clergyman\nglanced at him to see if he were in earnest, and when he looked at Mr.\nCave again, he saw that the latter's face was white. \"It's a lot of\nmoney,\" said the clergyman, and, diving into his pocket, began counting\nhis resources. He had little more than thirty shillings, and he appealed\nto his companion, with whom he seemed to be on terms of considerable\nintimacy. This gave Mr. Cave an opportunity of collecting his thoughts,\nand he began to explain in an agitated manner that the crystal was not, as\na matter of fact, entirely free for sale. His two customers were naturally\nsurprised at this, and inquired why he had not thought of that before he\nbegan to bargain. Mr. Cave became confused, but he stuck to his story,\nthat the crystal was not in the market that afternoon, that a probable\npurchaser of it had already appeared. The two, treating this as an attempt\nto raise the price still further, made as if they would leave the shop.\nBut at this point the parlour door opened, and the owner of the dark\nfringe and the little eyes appeared.\n\nShe was a coarse-featured, corpulent woman, younger and very much larger\nthan Mr. Cave; she walked heavily, and her face was flushed. \"That crystal\n_is_ for sale,\" she said. \"And five pounds is a good enough price for\nit. I can't think what you're about, Cave, not to take the gentleman's\noffer!\"\n\nMr. Cave, greatly perturbed by the irruption, looked angrily at her over\nthe rims of his spectacles, and, without excessive assurance, asserted his\nright to manage his business in his own way. An altercation began. The two\ncustomers watched the scene with interest and some amusement, occasionally\nassisting Mrs. Cave with suggestions. Mr. Cave, hard driven, persisted in\na confused and impossible story of an inquiry for the crystal that\nmorning, and his agitation became painful. But he stuck to his point with\nextraordinary persistence. It was the young Oriental who ended this\ncurious controversy. He proposed that they should call again in the course\nof two days--so as to give the alleged inquirer a fair chance. \"And then\nwe must insist,\" said the clergyman. \"Five pounds.\" Mrs. Cave took it on\nherself to apologise for her husband, explaining that he was sometimes \"a\nlittle odd,\" and as the two customers left, the couple prepared for a free\ndiscussion of the incident in all its bearings.\n\nMrs. Cave talked to her husband with singular directness. The poor little\nman, quivering with emotion, muddled himself between his stories,\nmaintaining on the one hand that he had another customer in view, and on\nthe other asserting that the crystal was honestly worth ten guineas. \"Why\ndid you ask five pounds?\" said his wife. \"_Do_ let me manage my\nbusiness my own way!\" said Mr. Cave.\n\nMr. Cave had living with him a step-daughter and a step-son, and at supper\nthat night the transaction was re-discussed. None of them had a high\nopinion of Mr. Cave's business methods, and this action seemed a\nculminating folly.\n\n\"It's my opinion he's refused that crystal before,\" said the step-son, a\nloose-limbed lout of eighteen.\n\n\"But _Five Pounds_!\" said the step-daughter, an argumentative young\nwoman of six-and-twenty.\n\nMr. Cave's answers were wretched; he could only mumble weak assertions\nthat he knew his own business best. They drove him from his half-eaten\nsupper into the shop, to close it for the night, his ears aflame and tears\nof vexation behind his spectacles. Why had he left the crystal in the\nwindow so long? The folly of it! That was the trouble closest in his mind.\nFor a time he could see no way of evading sale.\n\nAfter supper his step-daughter and step-son smartened themselves up and\nwent out and his wife retired upstairs to reflect upon the business\naspects of the crystal, over a little sugar and lemon and so forth in hot\nwater. Mr. Cave went into the shop, and stayed there until late,\nostensibly to make ornamental rockeries for gold-fish cases, but really\nfor a private purpose that will be better explained later. The next day\nMrs. Cave found that the crystal had been removed from the window, and\nwas lying behind some second-hand books on angling. She replaced it in a\nconspicuous position. But she did not argue further about it, as a nervous\nheadache disinclined her from debate. Mr. Cave was always disinclined. The\nday passed disagreeably. Mr. Cave was, if anything, more absent-minded\nthan usual, and uncommonly irritable withal. In the afternoon, when his\nwife was taking her customary sleep, he removed the crystal from the\nwindow again.\n\nThe next day Mr. Cave had to deliver a consignment of dog-fish at one of\nthe hospital schools, where they were needed for dissection. In his\nabsence Mrs. Cave's mind reverted to the topic of the crystal, and the\nmethods of expenditure suitable to a windfall of five pounds. She had\nalready devised some very agreeable expedients, among others a dress of\ngreen silk for herself and a trip to Richmond, when a jangling of the\nfront door bell summoned her into the shop. The customer was an\nexamination coach who came to complain of the non-delivery of certain\nfrogs asked for the previous day. Mrs. Cave did not approve of this\nparticular branch of Mr. Cave's business, and the gentleman, who had\ncalled in a somewhat aggressive mood, retired after a brief exchange of\nwords--entirely civil, so far as he was concerned. Mrs. Cave's eye then\nnaturally turned to the window; for the sight of the crystal was an\nassurance of the five pounds and of her dreams. What was her surprise to\nfind it gone!\n\nShe went to the place behind the locker on the counter, where she had\ndiscovered it the day before. It was not there; and she immediately began\nan eager search about the shop.\n\nWhen Mr. Cave returned from his business with the dogfish, about a quarter\nto two in the afternoon, he found the shop in some confusion, and his\nwife, extremely exasperated and on her knees behind the counter, routing\namong his taxidermic material. Her face came up hot and angry over the\ncounter, as the jangling bell announced his return, and she forthwith\naccused him of \"hiding it.\"\n\n\"Hid _what_?\" asked Mr. Cave.\n\n\"The crystal!\"\n\nAt that Mr. Cave, apparently much surprised, rushed to the window. \"Isn't\nit here?\" he said. \"Great Heavens! what has become of it?\"\n\nJust then Mr. Cave's step-son re-entered the shop from, the inner room--he\nhad come home a minute or so before Mr. Cave--and he was blaspheming\nfreely. He was apprenticed to a second-hand furniture dealer down the\nroad, but he had his meals at home, and he was naturally annoyed to find\nno dinner ready.\n\nBut when he heard of the loss of the crystal, he forgot his meal, and his\nanger was diverted from his mother to his step-father. Their first idea,\nof course, was that he had hidden it. But Mr. Cave stoutly denied all\nknowledge of its fate, freely offering his bedabbled affidavit in the\nmatter--and at last was worked up to the point of accusing, first, his\nwife and then his stepson of having taken it with a view to a private\nsale. So began an exceedingly acrimonious and emotional discussion, which\nended for Mrs. Cave in a peculiar nervous condition midway between\nhysterics and amuck, and caused the step-son to be half-an-hour late at\nthe furniture establishment in the afternoon. Mr. Cave took refuge from\nhis wife's emotions in the shop.\n\nIn the evening the matter was resumed, with less passion and in a judicial\nspirit, under the presidency of the step-daughter. The supper passed\nunhappily and culminated in a painful scene. Mr. Cave gave way at last to\nextreme exasperation, and went out banging the front door violently. The\nrest of the family, having discussed him with the freedom his absence\nwarranted, hunted the house from garret to cellar, hoping to light upon\nthe crystal.\n\nThe next day the two customers called again. They were received by Mrs.\nCave almost in tears. It transpired that no one _could_ imagine all\nthat she had stood from Cave at various times in her married pilgrimage.\n... She also gave a garbled account of the disappearance. The clergyman\nand the Oriental laughed silently at one another, and said it was very\nextraordinary. As Mrs. Cave seemed disposed to give them the complete\nhistory of her life they made to leave the shop. Thereupon Mrs. Cave,\nstill clinging to hope, asked for the clergyman's address, so that, if she\ncould get anything out of Cave, she might communicate it. The address was\nduly given, but apparently was afterwards mislaid. Mrs. Cave can remember\nnothing about it.\n\nIn the evening of that day the Caves seem to have exhausted their\nemotions, and Mr. Cave, who had been out in the afternoon, supped in a\ngloomy isolation that contrasted pleasantly with the impassioned\ncontroversy of the previous days. For some time matters were very badly\nstrained in the Cave household, but neither crystal nor customer\nreappeared.\n\nNow, without mincing the matter, we must admit that Mr. Cave was a liar.\nHe knew perfectly well where the crystal was. It was in the rooms of Mr.\nJacoby Wace, Assistant Demonstrator at St. Catherine's Hospital,\nWestbourne Street. It stood on the sideboard partially covered by a black\nvelvet cloth, and beside a decanter of American whisky. It is from Mr.\nWace, indeed, that the particulars upon which this narrative is based were\nderived. Cave had taken off the thing to the hospital hidden in the\ndog-fish sack, and there had pressed the young investigator to keep it for\nhim. Mr. Wace was a little dubious at first. His relationship to Cave was\npeculiar. He had a taste for singular characters, and he had more than\nonce invited the old man to smoke and drink in his rooms, and to unfold\nhis rather amusing views of life in general and of his wife in particular.\nMr. Wace had encountered Mrs. Cave, too, on occasions when Mr. Cave was\nnot at home to attend to him. He knew the constant interference to which\nCave was subjected, and having weighed the story judicially, he decided to\ngive the crystal a refuge. Mr. Cave promised to explain the reasons for\nhis remarkable affection for the crystal more fully on a later occasion,\nbut he spoke distinctly of seeing visions therein. He called on Mr. Wace\nthe same evening.\n\nHe told a complicated story. The crystal he said had come into his\npossession with other oddments at the forced sale of another curiosity\ndealer's effects, and not knowing what its value might be, he had ticketed\nit at ten shillings. It had hung upon his hands at that price for some\nmonths, and he was thinking of \"reducing the figure,\" when he made a\nsingular discovery.\n\nAt that time his health was very bad--and it must be borne in mind that,\nthroughout all this experience, his physical condition was one of ebb--and\nhe was in considerable distress by reason of the negligence, the positive\nill-treatment even, he received from his wife and step-children. His wife\nwas vain, extravagant, unfeeling, and had a growing taste for private\ndrinking; his step-daughter was mean and over-reaching; and his step-son\nhad conceived a violent dislike for him, and lost no chance of showing it.\nThe requirements of his business pressed heavily upon him, and Mr. Wace\ndoes not think that he was altogether free from occasional intemperance.\nHe had begun life in a comfortable position, he was a man of fair\neducation, and he suffered, for weeks at a stretch, from melancholia and\ninsomnia. Afraid to disturb his family, he would slip quietly from his\nwife's side, when his thoughts became intolerable, and wander about the\nhouse. And about three o'clock one morning, late in August, chance\ndirected him into the shop.\n\nThe dirty little place was impenetrably black except in one spot, where he\nperceived an unusual glow of light. Approaching this, he discovered it to\nbe the crystal egg, which was standing on the corner of the counter\ntowards the window. A thin ray smote through a crack in the shutters,\nimpinged upon the object, and seemed as it were to fill its entire\ninterior.\n\nIt occurred to Mr. Cave that this was not in accordance with the laws of\noptics as he had known them in his younger days. He could understand the\nrays being refracted by the crystal and coming to a focus in its interior,\nbut this diffusion jarred with his physical conceptions. He approached the\ncrystal nearly, peering into it and round it, with a transient revival of\nthe scientific curiosity that in his youth had determined his choice of a\ncalling. He was surprised to find the light not steady, but writhing\nwithin the substance of the egg, as though that object was a hollow sphere\nof some luminous vapour. In moving about to get different points of view,\nhe suddenly found that he had come between it and the ray, and that the\ncrystal none the less remained luminous. Greatly astonished, he lifted it\nout of the light ray and carried it to the darkest part of the shop. It\nremained bright for some four or five minutes, when it slowly faded and\nwent out. He placed it in the thin streak of daylight, and its\nluminousness was almost immediately restored.\n\nSo far, at least, Mr. Wace was able to verify the remarkable story of Mr.\nCave. He has himself repeatedly held this crystal in a ray of light (which\nhad to be of a less diameter than one millimetre). And in a perfect\ndarkness, such as could be produced by velvet wrapping, the crystal did\nundoubtedly appear very faintly phosphorescent. It would seem, however,\nthat the luminousness was of some exceptional sort, and not equally\nvisible to all eyes; for Mr. Harbinger--whose name will be familiar to the\nscientific reader in connection with the Pasteur Institute--was quite\nunable to see any light whatever. And Mr. Wace's own capacity for its\nappreciation was out of comparison inferior to that of Mr. Cave's. Even\nwith Mr. Cave the power varied very considerably: his vision was most\nvivid during states of extreme weakness and fatigue.\n\nNow, from the outset, this light in the crystal exercised a curious\nfascination upon Mr. Cave. And it says more for his loneliness of soul\nthan a volume of pathetic writing could do, that he told no human being of\nhis curious observations. He seems to have been living in such an\natmosphere of petty spite that to admit the existence of a pleasure would\nhave been to risk the loss of it. He found that as the dawn advanced, and\nthe amount of diffused light increased, the crystal became to all\nappearance non-luminous. And for some time he was unable to see anything\nin it, except at night-time, in dark corners of the shop.\n\nBut the use of an old velvet cloth, which he used as a background for a\ncollection of minerals, occurred to him, and by doubling this, and putting\nit over his head and hands, he was able to get a sight of the luminous\nmovement within the crystal even in the day-time. He was very cautious\nlest he should be thus discovered by his wife, and he practised this\noccupation only in the afternoons, while she was asleep upstairs, and then\ncircumspectly in a hollow under the counter. And one day, turning the\ncrystal about in his hands, he saw something. It came and went like a\nflash, but it gave him the impression that the object had for a moment\nopened to him the view of a wide and spacious and strange country; and\nturning it about, he did, just as the light faded, see the same vision\nagain.\n\nNow it would be tedious and unnecessary to state all the phases of Mr.\nCave's discovery from this point. Suffice that the effect was this: the\ncrystal, being peered into at an angle of about 137 degrees from the\ndirection of the illuminating ray, gave a clear and consistent picture of\na wide and peculiar country-side. It was not dream-like at all: it\nproduced a definite impression of reality, and the better the light the\nmore real and solid it seemed. It was a moving picture: that is to say,\ncertain objects moved in it, but slowly in an orderly manner like real\nthings, and, according as the direction of the lighting and vision\nchanged, the picture changed also. It must, indeed, have been like looking\nthrough an oval glass at a view, and turning the glass about to get at\ndifferent aspects.\n\nMr. Cave's statements, Mr. Wace assures me, were extremely circumstantial,\nand entirely free from any of that emotional quality that taints\nhallucinatory impressions. But it must be remembered that all the efforts\nof Mr. Wace to see any similar clarity in the faint opalescence of the\ncrystal were wholly unsuccessful, try as he would. The difference in\nintensity of the impressions received by the two men was very great, and\nit is quite conceivable that what was a view to Mr. Cave was a mere\nblurred nebulosity to Mr. Wace.\n\nThe view, as Mr. Cave described it, was invariably of an extensive plain,\nand he seemed always to be looking at it from a considerable height, as if\nfrom a tower or a mast. To the east and to the west the plain was bounded\nat a remote distance by vast reddish cliffs, which reminded him of those\nhe had seen in some picture; but what the picture was Mr. Wace was unable\nto ascertain. These cliffs passed north and south--he could tell the\npoints of the compass by the stars that were visible of a night--receding\nin an almost illimitable perspective and fading into the mists of the\ndistance before they met. He was nearer the eastern set of cliffs; on the\noccasion of his first vision the sun was rising over them, and black\nagainst the sunlight and pale against their shadow appeared a multitude of\nsoaring forms that Mr. Cave regarded as birds. A vast range of buildings\nspread below him; he seemed to be looking down upon them; and as they\napproached the blurred and refracted edge of the picture they became\nindistinct. There were also trees curious in shape, and in colouring a\ndeep mossy green and an exquisite grey, beside a wide and shining canal.\nAnd something great and brilliantly coloured flew across the picture. But\nthe first time Mr. Cave saw these pictures he saw only in flashes, his\nhands shook, his head moved, the vision came and went, and grew foggy and\nindistinct. And at first he had the greatest difficulty in finding the\npicture again once the direction of it was lost.\n\nHis next clear vision, which came about a week after the first, the\ninterval having yielded nothing but tantalising glimpses and some useful\nexperience, showed him the view down the length of the valley. The view\nwas different, but he had a curious persuasion, which his subsequent\nobservations abundantly confirmed, that he was regarding the strange world\nfrom exactly the same spot, although he was looking in a different\ndirection. The long façade of the great building, whose roof he had looked\ndown upon before, was now receding in perspective. He recognised the roof.\nIn the front of the façade was a terrace of massive proportions and\nextraordinary length, and down the middle of the terrace, at certain\nintervals, stood huge but very graceful masts, bearing small shiny objects\nwhich reflected the setting sun. The import of these small objects did not\noccur to Mr. Cave until some time after, as he was describing the scene to\nMr. Wace. The terrace overhung a thicket of the most luxuriant and\ngraceful vegetation, and beyond this was a wide grassy lawn on which\ncertain broad creatures, in form like beetles but enormously larger,\nreposed. Beyond this again was a richly decorated causeway of pinkish\nstone; and beyond that, and lined with dense red weeds, and passing up the\nvalley exactly parallel with the distant cliffs, was a broad and\nmirror-like expanse of water. The air seemed full of squadrons of great\nbirds, manoeuvring in stately curves; and across the river was a multitude\nof splendid buildings, richly coloured and glittering with metallic tracery\nand facets, among a forest of moss-like and lichenous trees. And suddenly\nsomething flapped repeatedly across the vision, like the fluttering of a\njewelled fan or the beating of a wing, and a face, or rather the upper\npart of a face with very large eyes, came as it were close to his own and\nas if on the other side of the crystal. Mr. Cave was so startled and so\nimpressed by the absolute reality of these eyes that he drew his head back\nfrom the crystal to look behind it. He had become so absorbed in watching\nthat he was quite surprised to find himself in the cool darkness of his\nlittle shop, with its familiar odour of methyl, mustiness, and decay. And\nas he blinked about him, the glowing crystal faded and went out.\n\nSuch were the first general impressions of Mr. Cave. The story is\ncuriously direct and circumstantial. From the outset, when the valley\nfirst flashed momentarily on his senses, his imagination was strangely\naffected, and as he began to appreciate the details of the scene he saw,\nhis wonder rose to the point of a passion. He went about his business\nlistless and distraught, thinking only of the time when he should be able\nto return to his watching. And then a few weeks after his first sight of\nthe valley came the two customers, the stress and excitement of their\noffer, and the narrow escape of the crystal from sale, as I have already\ntold.\n\nNow, while the thing was Mr. Cave's secret, it remained a mere wonder, a\nthing to creep to covertly and peep at, as a child might peep upon a\nforbidden garden. But Mr. Wace has, for a young scientific investigator, a\nparticularly lucid and consecutive habit of mind. Directly the crystal and\nits story came to him, and he had satisfied himself, by seeing the\nphosphorescence with his own eyes, that there really was a certain\nevidence for Mr. Cave's statements, he proceeded to develop the matter\nsystematically. Mr. Cave was only too eager to come and feast his eyes on\nthis wonderland he saw, and he came every night from half-past eight until\nhalf-past ten, and sometimes, in Mr. Wace's absence, during the day. On\nSunday afternoons, also, he came. From the outset Mr. Wace made copious\nnotes, and it was due to his scientific method that the relation between\nthe direction from which the initiating ray entered the crystal and the\norientation of the picture were proved. And, by covering the crystal in a\nbox perforated only with a small aperture to admit the exciting ray, and\nby substituting black holland for his buff blinds, he greatly improved the\nconditions of the observations; so that in a little while they were able\nto survey the valley in any direction they desired.\n\nSo having cleared the way, we may give a brief account of this visionary\nworld within the crystal. The things were in all cases seen by Mr. Cave,\nand the method of working was invariably for him to watch the crystal and\nreport what he saw, while Mr. Wace (who as a science student had learnt\nthe trick of writing in the dark) wrote a brief note of his report. When\nthe crystal faded, it was put into its box in the proper position and the\nelectric light turned on. Mr. Wace asked questions, and suggested\nobservations to clear up difficult points. Nothing, indeed, could have\nbeen less visionary and more matter-of-fact.\n\nThe attention of Mr. Cave had been speedily directed to the bird-like\ncreatures he had seen so abundantly present in each of his earlier\nvisions. His first impression was soon corrected, and he considered for a\ntime that they might represent a diurnal species of bat. Then he thought,\ngrotesquely enough, that they might be cherubs. Their heads were round and\ncuriously human, and it was the eyes of one of them that had so startled\nhim on his second observation. They had broad, silvery wings, not\nfeathered, but glistening almost as brilliantly as new-killed fish and\nwith the same subtle play of colour, and these wings were not built on the\nplan of bird-wing or bat, Mr. Wace learned, but supported by curved ribs\nradiating from the body. (A sort of butterfly wing with curved ribs seems\nbest to express their appearance.) The body was small, but fitted with two\nbunches of prehensile organs, like long tentacles, immediately under the\nmouth. Incredible as it appeared to Mr. Wace, the persuasion at last\nbecame irresistible that it was these creatures which owned the great\nquasi-human buildings and the magnificent garden that made the broad\nvalley so splendid. And Mr. Cave perceived that the buildings, with other\npeculiarities, had no doors, but that the great circular windows, which\nopened freely, gave the creatures egress and entrance. They would alight\nupon their tentacles, fold their wings to a smallness almost rod-like, and\nhop into the interior. But among them was a multitude of smaller-winged\ncreatures, like great dragon-flies and moths and flying beetles, and\nacross the greensward brilliantly-coloured gigantic ground-beetles crawled\nlazily to and fro. Moreover, on the causeways and terraces, large-headed\ncreatures similar to the greater winged flies, but wingless, were visible,\nhopping busily upon their hand-like tangle of tentacles.\n\nAllusion has already been made to the glittering objects upon masts that\nstood upon the terrace of the nearer building. It dawned upon Mr. Cave,\nafter regarding one of these masts very fixedly on one particularly vivid\nday that the glittering object there was a crystal exactly like that into\nwhich he peered. And a still more careful scrutiny convinced him that each\none in a vista of nearly twenty carried a similar object.\n\nOccasionally one of the large flying creatures would flutter up to one,\nand folding its wings and coiling a number of its tentacles about the\nmast, would regard the crystal fixedly for a space,--sometimes for as long\nas fifteen minutes. And a series of observations, made at the suggestion\nof Mr. Wace, convinced both watchers that, so far as this visionary world\nwas concerned, the crystal into which they peered actually stood at the\nsummit of the end-most mast on the terrace, and that on one occasion at\nleast one of these inhabitants of this other world had looked into Mr.\nCave's face while he was making these observations.\n\nSo much for the essential facts of this very singular story. Unless we\ndismiss it all as the ingenious fabrication of Mr. Wace, we have to\nbelieve one of two things: either that Mr. Cave's crystal was in two\nworlds at once, and that while it was carried about in one, it remained\nstationary in the other, which seems altogether absurd; or else that it\nhad some peculiar relation of sympathy with another and exactly similar\ncrystal in this other world, so that what was seen in the interior of the\none in this world was, under suitable conditions, visible to an observer\nin the corresponding crystal in the other world; and _vice versa_. At\npresent, indeed, we do not know of any way in which two crystals could so\ncome _en rapport_, but nowadays we know enough to understand that the\nthing is not altogether impossible. This view of the crystals as _en\nrapport_ was the supposition that occurred to Mr. Wace, and to me at\nleast it seems extremely plausible...\n\nAnd where was this other world? On this, also, the alert intelligence of\nMr. Wace speedily threw light. After sunset, the sky darkened rapidly--\nthere was a very brief twilight interval indeed--and the stars shone out.\nThey were recognisably the same as those we see, arranged in the same\nconstellations. Mr. Cave recognised the Bear, the Pleiades, Aldebaran, and\nSirius; so that the other world must be somewhere in the solar system,\nand, at the utmost, only a few hundreds of millions of miles from our own.\nFollowing up this clue, Mr. Wace learned that the midnight sky was a\ndarker blue even than our midwinter sky, and that the sun seemed a little\nsmaller. _And there were two small moons!_ \"like our moon but\nsmaller, and quite differently marked,\" one of which moved so rapidly that\nits motion was clearly visible as one regarded it. These moons were never\nhigh in the sky, but vanished as they rose: that is, every time they\nrevolved they were eclipsed because they were so near their primary\nplanet. And all this answers quite completely, although Mr. Cave did not\nknow it, to what must be the condition of things on Mars.\n\nIndeed, it seems an exceedingly plausible conclusion that peering into\nthis crystal Mr. Cave did actually see the planet Mars and its\ninhabitants. And if that be the case, then the evening star that shone so\nbrilliantly in the sky of that distant vision was neither more nor less\nthan our own familiar earth.\n\nFor a time the Martians--if they were Martians--do not seem to have known\nof Mr. Cave's inspection. Once or twice one would come to peer, and go\naway very shortly to some other mast, as though the vision was\nunsatisfactory. During this time Mr. Cave was able to watch the\nproceedings of these winged people without being disturbed by their\nattentions, and although his report is necessarily vague and fragmentary,\nit is nevertheless very suggestive. Imagine the impression of humanity a\nMartian observer would get who, after a difficult process of preparation\nand with considerable fatigue to the eyes, was able to peer at London from\nthe steeple of St. Martin's Church for stretches, at longest, of four\nminutes at a time. Mr. Cave was unable to ascertain if the winged Martians\nwere the same as the Martians who hopped about the causeways and terraces,\nand if the latter could put on wings at will. He several times saw certain\nclumsy bipeds, dimly suggestive of apes, white and partially translucent,\nfeeding among certain of the lichenous trees, and once some of these fled\nbefore one of the hopping, round-headed Martians. The latter caught one in\nits tentacles, and then the picture faded suddenly and left Mr. Cave most\ntantalisingly in the dark. On another occasion a vast thing, that Mr. Cave\nthought at first was some gigantic insect, appeared advancing along the\ncauseway beside the canal with extraordinary rapidity. As this drew nearer\nMr. Cave perceived that it was a mechanism of shining metals and of\nextraordinary complexity. And then, when he looked again, it had passed\nout of sight.\n\nAfter a time Mr. Wace aspired to attract the attention of the Martians,\nand the next time that the strange eyes of one of them appeared close to\nthe crystal Mr. Cave cried out and sprang away, and they immediately\nturned on the light and began to gesticulate in a manner suggestive of\nsignalling. But when at last Mr. Cave examined the crystal again the\nMartian had departed.\n\nThus far these observations had progressed in early November, and then Mr.\nCave, feeling that the suspicions of his family about the crystal were\nallayed, began to take it to and fro with him in order that, as occasion\narose in the daytime or night, he might comfort himself with what was fast\nbecoming the most real thing in his existence.\n\nIn December Mr. Wace's work in connection with a forthcoming examination\nbecame heavy, the sittings were reluctantly suspended for a week, and for\nten or eleven days--he is not quite sure which--he saw nothing of Cave. He\nthen grew anxious to resume these investigations, and, the stress of his\nseasonal labours being abated, he went down to Seven Dials. At the corner\nhe noticed a shutter before a bird fancier's window, and then another at a\ncobbler's. Mr. Cave's shop was closed.\n\nHe rapped and the door was opened by the step-son in black. He at once\ncalled Mrs. Cave, who was, Mr. Wace could not but observe, in cheap but\nample widow's weeds of the most imposing pattern. Without any very great\nsurprise Mr. Wace learnt that Cave was dead and already buried. She was in\ntears, and her voice was a little thick. She had just returned from\nHighgate. Her mind seemed occupied with her own prospects and the\nhonourable details of the obsequies, but Mr. Wace was at last able to\nlearn the particulars of Cave's death. He had been found dead in his shop\nin the early morning, the day after his last visit to Mr. Wace, and the\ncrystal had been clasped in his stone-cold hands. His face was smiling,\nsaid Mrs. Cave, and the velvet cloth from the minerals lay on the floor at\nhis feet. He must have been dead five or six hours when he was found.\n\nThis came as a great shock to Wace, and he began to reproach himself\nbitterly for having neglected the plain symptoms of the old man's\nill-health. But his chief thought was of the crystal. He approached that\ntopic in a gingerly manner, because he knew Mrs. Cave's peculiarities. He\nwas dumfounded to learn that it was sold.\n\nMrs. Cave's first impulse, directly Cave's body had been taken upstairs,\nhad been to write to the mad clergyman who had offered five pounds for the\ncrystal, informing him of its recovery; but after a violent hunt, in which\nher daughter joined her, they were convinced of the loss of his address.\nAs they were without the means required to mourn and bury Cave in the\nelaborate style the dignity of an old Seven Dials inhabitant demands, they\nhad appealed to a friendly fellow-tradesman in Great Portland Street. He\nhad very kindly taken over a portion of the stock at a valuation. The\nvaluation was his own, and the crystal egg was included in one of the\nlots. Mr. Wace, after a few suitable condolences, a little off-handedly\nproffered perhaps, hurried at once to Great Portland Street. But there he\nlearned that the crystal egg had already been sold to a tall, dark man in\ngrey. And there the material facts in this curious, and to me at least\nvery suggestive, story come abruptly to an end. The Great Portland Street\ndealer did not know who the tall dark man in grey was, nor had he observed\nhim with sufficient attention to describe him minutely. He did not even\nknow which way this person had gone after leaving the shop. For a time Mr.\nWace remained in the shop, trying the dealer's patience with hopeless\nquestions, venting his own exasperation. And at last, realising abruptly\nthat the whole thing had passed out of his hands, had vanished like a\nvision of the night, he returned to his own rooms, a little astonished to\nfind the notes he had made still tangible and visible upon, his untidy\ntable.\n\nHis annoyance and disappointment were naturally very great. He made a\nsecond call (equally ineffectual) upon the Great Portland Street dealer,\nand he resorted to advertisements in such periodicals as were lively to\ncome into the hands of a _bric-a-brac_ collector. He also wrote\nletters to _The Daily Chronicle_ and _Nature_, but both those\nperiodicals, suspecting a hoax, asked him to reconsider his action before\nthey printed, and he was advised that such a strange story, unfortunately\nso bare of supporting evidence, might imperil his reputation as an\ninvestigator. Moreover, the calls of his proper work were urgent. So that\nafter a month or so, save for an occasional reminder to certain dealers,\nhe had reluctantly to abandon the quest for the crystal egg, and from that\nday to this it remains undiscovered. Occasionally, however, he tells me,\nand I can quite believe him, he has bursts of zeal, in which he abandons\nhis more urgent occupation and resumes the search.\n\nWhether or not it will remain lost for ever, with the material and origin\nof it, are things equally speculative at the present time. If the present\npurchaser is a collector, one would have expected the enquiries of Mr.\nWace to have reached him through the dealers. He has been able to discover\nMr. Cave's clergyman and \"Oriental\"--no other than the Rev. James Parker\nand the young Prince of Bosso-Kuni in Java. I am obliged to them for\ncertain particulars. The object of the Prince was simply curiosity--and\nextravagance. He was so eager to buy because Cave was so oddly reluctant\nto sell. It is just as possible that the buyer in the second instance was\nsimply a casual purchaser and not a collector at all, and the crystal egg,\nfor all I know, may at the present moment be within a mile of me,\ndecorating a drawing-room or serving as a paper-weight--its remarkable\nfunctions all unknown. Indeed, it is partly with the idea of such a\npossibility that I have thrown this narrative into a form that will give\nit a chance of being read by the ordinary consumer of fiction.\n\nMy own ideas in the matter are practically identical with those of Mr.\nWace. I believe the crystal on the mast in Mars and the crystal egg of Mr.\nCave's to be in some physical, but at present quite inexplicable, way\n_en rapport_, and we both believe further that the terrestrial\ncrystal must have been--possibly at some remote date--sent hither from\nthat planet, in order to give the Martians a near view of our affairs.\nPossibly the fellows to the crystals on the other masts are also on our\nglobe. No theory of hallucination suffices for the facts.\n\n\n\n\n XX.\n\n THE STAR.\n\n\nIt was on the first day of the new year that the announcement was made,\nalmost simultaneously from three observatories, that the motion of the\nplanet Neptune, the outermost of all the planets that wheel about the sun,\nhad become very erratic. Ogilvy had already called attention to a\nsuspected retardation in its velocity in December. Such a piece of news\nwas scarcely calculated to interest a world the greater portion of whose\ninhabitants were unaware of the existence of the planet Neptune, nor\noutside the astronomical profession did the subsequent discovery of a\nfaint remote speck of light in the region of the perturbed planet cause\nany very great excitement. Scientific people, however, found the\nintelligence remarkable enough, even before it became known that the new\nbody was rapidly growing larger and brighter, that its motion was quite\ndifferent from the orderly progress of the planets, and that the\ndeflection of Neptune and its satellite was becoming now of an\nunprecedented kind.\n\nFew people without a training in science can realise the huge isolation of\nthe solar system. The sun with its specks of planets, its dust of\nplanetoids, and its impalpable comets, swims in a vacant immensity that\nalmost defeats the imagination. Beyond the orbit of Neptune there is\nspace, vacant so far as human observation has penetrated, without warmth\nor light or sound, blank emptiness, for twenty million times a million\nmiles. That is the smallest estimate of the distance to be traversed\nbefore the very nearest of the stars is attained. And, saving a few comets\nmore unsubstantial than the thinnest flame, no matter had ever to human\nknowledge crossed this gulf of space until early in the twentieth century\nthis strange wanderer appeared. A vast mass of matter it was, bulky,\nheavy, rushing without warning out of the black mystery of the sky into\nthe radiance of the sun. By the second day it was clearly visible to any\ndecent instrument, as a speck with a barely sensible diameter, in the\nconstellation Leo near Regulus. In a little while an opera glass could\nattain it.\n\nOn the third day of the new year the newspaper readers of two hemispheres\nwere made aware for the first time of the real importance of this unusual\napparition in the heavens. \"A Planetary Collision,\" one London paper\nheaded the news, and proclaimed Duchaine's opinion that this strange new\nplanet would probably collide with Neptune. The leader-writers enlarged\nupon the topic. So that in most of the capitals of the world, on January\n3rd, there was an expectation, however vague, of some imminent phenomenon\nin the sky; and as the night followed the sunset round the globe,\nthousands of men turned their eyes skyward to see--the old familiar stars\njust as they had always been.\n\nUntil it was dawn in London and Pollux setting and the stars overhead\ngrown pale. The Winter's dawn it was, a sickly filtering accumulation of\ndaylight, and the light of gas and candles shone yellow in the windows to\nshow where people were astir. But the yawning policeman saw the thing, the\nbusy crowds in the markets stopped agape, workmen going to their work\nbetimes, milkmen, the drivers of news-carts, dissipation going home jaded\nand pale, homeless wanderers, sentinels on their beats, and, in the\ncountry, labourers trudging afield, poachers slinking home, all over the\ndusky quickening country it could be seen--and out at sea by seamen\nwatching for the day--a great white star, come suddenly into the westward\nsky!\n\nBrighter it was than any star in our skies; brighter than the evening star\nat its brightest. It still glowed out white and large, no mere twinkling\nspot of light, but a small, round, clear shining disc, an hour after the\nday had come. And where science has not reached, men stared and feared,\ntelling one another of the wars and pestilences that are foreshadowed by\nthese fiery signs in the Heavens. Sturdy Boers, dusky Hottentots, Gold\nCoast negroes, Frenchmen, Spaniards, Portuguese, stood in the warmth of\nthe sunrise watching the setting of this strange new star.\n\nAnd in a hundred observatories there had been suppressed excitement,\nrising almost to shouting pitch, as the two remote bodies had rushed\ntogether, and a hurrying to and fro, to gather photographic apparatus and\nspectroscope, and this appliance and that, to record this novel,\nastonishing sight, the destruction of a world. For it was a world, a\nsister planet of our earth, far greater than our earth indeed, that had so\nsuddenly flashed into flaming death. Neptune it was had been struck,\nfairly and squarely, by the strange planet from outer space, and the heat\nof the concussion had incontinently turned two solid globes into one vast\nmass of incandescence. Round the world that day, two hours before the\ndawn, went the pallid great white star, fading only as it sank westward\nand the sun mounted above it. Everywhere men marvelled at it, but of all\nthose who saw it none could have marvelled more than those sailors,\nhabitual watchers of the stars, who far away at sea had heard nothing of\nits advent and saw it now rise like a pigmy moon and climb zenithward and\nhang overhead and sink westward with the passing of the night.\n\nAnd when next it rose over Europe everywhere were crowds of watchers on\nhilly slopes, on house-roofs, in open spaces, staring eastward for the\nrising of the great new star. It rose with a white glow in front of it,\nlike the glare of a white fire, and those who had seen it come into\nexistence the night before cried out at the sight of it. \"It is larger,\"\nthey cried. \"It is brighter!\" And indeed the moon, a quarter full and\nsinking in the west, was in its apparent size beyond comparison, but\nscarcely in all its breadth had it as much brightness now as the little\ncircle of the strange new star.\n\n\"It is brighter!\" cried the people clustering in the streets. But in the\ndim observatories the watchers held their breath and peered at one\nanother. \"_It is nearer_!\" they said. \"_Nearer_!\"\n\nAnd voice after voice repeated, \"It is nearer,\" and the clicking telegraph\ntook that up, and it trembled along telephone wires, and in a thousand\ncities grimy compositors fingered the type. \"It is nearer.\" Men writing in\noffices, struck with a strange realisation, flung down their pens, men\ntalking in a thousand places suddenly came upon a grotesque possibility in\nthose words, \"It is nearer.\" It hurried along awakening streets, it was\nshouted down the frost-stilled ways of quiet villages, men who had read\nthese things from the throbbing tape stood in yellow-lit doorways shouting\nthe news to the passers-by. \"It is nearer,\" Pretty women, flushed and\nglittering, heard the news told jestingly between the dances, and feigned\nan intelligent interest they did not feel. \"Nearer! Indeed. How curious!\nHow very, very clever people must be to find out things like that!\"\n\nLonely tramps faring through the wintry night murmured those words to\ncomfort themselves--looking skyward. \"It has need to be nearer, for the\nnight's as cold as charity. Don't seem much warmth from it if it _is_\nnearer, all the same.\"\n\n\"What is a new star to me?\" cried the weeping woman, kneeling beside her\ndead.\n\nThe schoolboy, rising early for his examination work, puzzled it out for\nhimself--with the great white star shining broad and bright through the\nfrost-flowers of his window. \"Centrifugal, centripetal,\" he said, with his\nchin on his fist. \"Stop a planet in its flight, rob it of its centrifugal\nforce, what then? Centripetal has it, and down it falls into the sun! And\nthis--!\n\n\"Do _we_ come in the way? I wonder--\"\n\nThe light of that day went the way of its brethren, and with the later\nwatches of the frosty darkness rose the strange star again. And it was now\nso bright that the waxing moon seemed but a pale yellow ghost of itself,\nhanging huge in the sunset. In a South African city a great man had\nmarried, and the streets were alight to welcome his return with his bride.\n\"Even the skies have illuminated,\" said the flatterer. Under Capricorn,\ntwo negro lovers, daring the wild beasts and evil spirits for love of one\nanother, crouched together in a cane brake where the fire-flies hovered.\n\"That is our star,\" they whispered, and felt strangely comforted by the\nsweet brilliance of its light.\n\nThe master mathematician sat in his private room and pushed the papers from\nhim. His calculations were already finished. In a small white phial there\nstill remained a little of the drug that had kept him awake and active for\nfour long nights. Each day, serene, explicit, patient as ever, he had\ngiven his lecture to his students, and then had come back at once to this\nmomentous calculation. His face was grave, a little drawn and hectic from\nhis drugged activity. For some time he seemed lost in thought. Then he\nwent to the window, and the blind went up with a click. Half-way up the\nsky, over the clustering roofs, chimneys, and steeples of the city, hung\nthe star.\n\nHe looked at it as one might look into the eyes of a brave enemy. \"You may\nkill me,\" he said after a silence. \"But I can hold you--and all the\nuniverse for that matter--in the grip of this small brain. I would not\nchange. Even now.\"\n\nHe looked at the little phial. \"There will be no need of sleep again,\" he\nsaid. The next day at noon, punctual to the minute, he entered his lecture\ntheatre, put his hat on the end of the table as his habit was, and\ncarefully selected a large piece of chalk. It was a joke among his\nstudents that he could not lecture without that piece of chalk to fumble\nin his fingers, and once he had been stricken to impotence by their hiding\nhis supply. He came and looked under his grey eyebrows at the rising tiers\nof young fresh faces, and spoke with his accustomed studied commonness of\nphrasing.\n\n\"Circumstances have arisen--circumstances beyond my control,\" he said, and\npaused, \"which will debar me from completing the course I had designed.\nIt would seem, gentlemen, if I may put the thing clearly and briefly,\nthat--Man has lived in vain.\"\n\nThe students glanced at one another. Had they heard aright? Mad? Raised\neyebrows and grinning lips there were, but one or two faces remained\nintent upon his calm grey-fringed face. \"It will be interesting,\" he was\nsaying, \"to devote this morning to an exposition, so far as I can make it\nclear to you, of the calculations that have led me to this conclusion. Let\nus assume----\"\n\nHe turned towards the blackboard, meditating a diagram in the way that was\nusual to him. \"What was that about 'lived in vain'?\" whispered one student\nto another. \"Listen,\" said the other, nodding towards the lecturer.\n\nAnd presently they began to understand.\n\n * * * * *\n\nThat night the star rose later, for its proper eastward motion had carried\nit some way across Leo towards Virgo, and its brightness was so great that\nthe sky became a luminous blue as it rose, and every star was hidden in\nits turn, save only Jupiter near the zenith, Capella, Aldebaran, Sirius,\nand the pointers of the Bear. It was very white and beautiful. In many\nparts of the world that night a pallid halo encircled it about. It was\nperceptibly larger; in the clear refractive sky of the tropics it seemed\nas if it were nearly a quarter the size of the moon. The frost was still\non the ground in England, but the world was as brightly lit as if it were\nmidsummer moonlight. One could see to read quite ordinary print by that\ncold, clear light, and in the cities the lamps burnt yellow and wan.\n\nAnd everywhere the world was awake that night, and throughout Christendom\na sombre murmur hung in the keen air over the country-side like the\nbelling of bees in the heather, and this murmurous tumult grew to a\nclangour in the cities. It was the tolling of the bells in a million\nbelfry towers and steeples, summoning the people to sleep no more, to sin\nno more, but to gather in their churches and pray. And overhead, growing\nlarger and brighter, as the earth rolled on its way and the night passed,\nrose the dazzling star.\n\nAnd the streets and houses were alight in all the cities, the shipyards\nglared, and whatever roads led to high country were lit and crowded all\nnight long. And in all the seas about the civilized lands, ships with\nthrobbing engines, and ships with bellying sails, crowded with men and\nliving creatures, were standing out to ocean and the north. For already\nthe warning of the master mathematician had been telegraphed all over the\nworld and translated into a hundred tongues. The new planet and Neptune,\nlocked in a fiery embrace, were whirling headlong, ever faster and faster\ntowards the sun. Already every second this blazing mass flew a hundred\nmiles, and every second its terrific velocity increased. As it flew now,\nindeed, it must pass a hundred million of miles, wide of the earth and\nscarcely affect it. But near its destined path, as yet only slightly\nperturbed, spun the mighty planet Jupiter and his moons sweeping splendid\nround the sun. Every moment now the attraction between the fiery star and\nthe greatest of the planets grew stronger. And the result of that\nattraction? Inevitably Jupiter would be deflected from its orbit into\nan elliptical path, and the burning star, swung by his attraction wide of\nits sunward rush, would \"describe a curved path,\" and perhaps collide\nwith, and certainly pass very close to, our earth. \"Earthquakes, volcanic\noutbreaks, cyclones, sea waves, floods, and a steady rise in temperature\nto I know not what limit\"--so prophesied the master mathematician.\n\nAnd overhead, to carry out his words, lonely and cold and livid blazed the\nstar of the coming doom.\n\nTo many who stared at it that night until their eyes ached it seemed that\nit was visibly approaching. And that night, too, the weather changed, and\nthe frost that had gripped all Central Europe and France and England\nsoftened towards a thaw.\n\nBut you must not imagine, because I have spoken of people praying through\nthe night and people going aboard ships and people fleeing towards\nmountainous country, that the whole world was already in a terror because\nof the star. As a matter of fact, use and wont still ruled the world, and\nsave for the talk of idle moments and the splendour of the night, nine\nhuman beings out of ten were still busy at their common occupations. In\nall the cities the shops, save one here and there, opened and closed at\ntheir proper hours, the doctor and the undertaker plied their trades, the\nworkers gathered in the factories, soldiers drilled, scholars studied,\nlovers sought one another, thieves lurked and fled, politicians planned\ntheir schemes. The presses of the newspapers roared through the nights,\nand many a priest of this church and that would not open his holy building\nto further what he considered a foolish panic. The newspapers insisted on\nthe lesson of the year 1000--for then, too, people had anticipated the\nend. The star was no star--mere gas--a comet; and were it a star it could\nnot possibly strike the earth. There was no precedent for such a thing.\nCommon-sense was sturdy everywhere, scornful, jesting, a little inclined\nto persecute the obdurate fearful. That night, at seven-fifteen by\nGreenwich time, the star would be at its nearest to Jupiter. Then the\nworld would see the turn things would take. The master mathematician's\ngrim warnings were treated by many as so much mere elaborate\nself-advertisement. Common-sense at last, a little heated by argument,\nsignified its unalterable convictions by going to bed. So, too, barbarism\nand savagery, already tired of the novelty, went about their nightly\nbusiness, and, save for a howling dog here and there, the beast world left\nthe star unheeded.\n\nAnd yet, when at last the watchers in the European States saw the star\nrise, an hour later, it is true, but no larger than it had been the night\nbefore, there were still plenty awake to laugh at the master\nmathematician--to take the danger as if it had passed.\n\nBut hereafter the laughter ceased. The star grew--it grew with a terrible\nsteadiness hour after hour, a little larger each hour, a little nearer\nthe midnight zenith, and brighter and brighter, until it had turned night\ninto a second day. Had it come straight to the earth instead of in a\ncurved path, had it lost no velocity to Jupiter, it must have leapt the\nintervening gulf in a day; but as it was, it took five days altogether to\ncome by our planet. The next night it had become a third the size of the\nmoon before it set to English eyes, and the thaw was assured. It rose over\nAmerica near the size of the moon, but blinding white to look at, and\n_hot_; and a breath of hot wind blew now with its rising and\ngathering strength, and in Virginia, and Brazil, and down the St. Lawrence\nvalley, it shone intermittently through a driving reek of thunder-clouds,\nflickering violet lightning, and hail unprecedented. In Manitoba was a\nthaw and devastating floods. And upon all the mountains of the earth the\nsnow and ice began to melt that night, and all the rivers coming out of\nhigh country flowed thick and turbid, and soon--in their upper reaches--\nwith swirling trees and the bodies of beasts and men. They rose steadily,\nsteadily in the ghostly brilliance, and came trickling over their banks at\nlast, behind the flying population of their valleys.\n\nAnd along the coast of Argentina and up the South Atlantic the tides were\nhigher than had ever been in the memory of man, and the storms drove the\nwaters in many cases scores of miles inland, drowning whole cities. And so\ngreat grew the heat during the night that the rising of the sun was like\nthe coming of a shadow. The earthquakes began and grew until all down\nAmerica from the Arctic Circle to Cape Horn, hillsides were sliding,\nfissures were opening, and houses and walls crumbling to destruction. The\nwhole side of Cotopaxi slipped out in one vast convulsion, and a tumult of\nlava poured out so high and broad and swift and liquid that in one day it\nreached the sea.\n\nSo the star, with the wan moon in its wake, marched across the Pacific,\ntrailed the thunder-storms like the hem of a robe, and the growing tidal\nwave that toiled behind it, frothing and eager, poured over island and\nisland and swept them clear of men: until that wave came at last--in a\nblinding light and with the breath of a furnace, swift and terrible it\ncame--a wall of water, fifty feet high, roaring hungrily, upon the long\ncoasts of Asia, and swept inland across the plains of China. For a space\nthe star, hotter now and larger and brighter than the sun in its strength,\nshowed with pitiless brilliance the wide and populous country; towns and\nvillages with their pagodas and trees, roads, wide cultivated fields,\nmillions of sleepless people staring in helpless terror at the\nincandescent sky; and then, low and growing, came the murmur of the flood.\nAnd thus it was with millions of men that night--a flight nowhither, with\nlimbs heavy with heat and breath fierce and scant, and the flood like a\nwall swift and white behind. And then death.\n\nChina was lit glowing white, but over Japan and Java and all the islands\nof Eastern Asia the great star was a ball of dull red fire because of the\nsteam and smoke and ashes the volcanoes were spouting forth to salute its\ncoming. Above was the lava, hot gases and ash, and below the seething\nfloods, and the whole earth swayed and rumbled with the earthquake shocks.\nSoon the immemorial snows of Thibet and the Himalaya were melting and\npouring down by ten million deepening converging channels upon the plains\nof Burmah and Hindostan. The tangled summits of the Indian jungles were\naflame in a thousand places, and below the hurrying waters around the\nstems were dark objects that still struggled feebly and reflected the\nblood-red tongues of fire. And in a rudderless confusion a multitude of\nmen and women fled down the broad river-ways to that one last hope of\nmen--the open sea.\n\nLarger grew the star, and larger, hotter, and brighter with a terrible\nswiftness now. The tropical ocean had lost its phosphorescence, and the\nwhirling steam rose in ghostly wreaths from the black waves that plunged\nincessantly, speckled with storm-tossed ships.\n\nAnd then came a wonder. It seemed to those who in Europe watched for the\nrising of the star that the world must have ceased its rotation. In a\nthousand open spaces of down and upland the people who had fled thither\nfrom the floods and the falling houses and sliding slopes of hill watched\nfor that rising in vain. Hour followed hour through a terrible suspense,\nand the star rose not. Once again men set their eyes upon the old\nconstellations they had counted lost to them for ever. In England it was\nhot and clear overhead, though the ground quivered perpetually, but in the\ntropics, Sirius and Capella and Aldebaran showed through a veil of steam.\nAnd when at last the great star rose near ten hours late, the sun rose\nclose upon it, and in the centre of its white heart was a disc of black.\n\nOver Asia it was the star had begun to fall behind the movement of the\nsky, and then suddenly, as it hung over India, its light had been veiled.\nAll the plain of India from the mouth of the Indus to the mouths of the\nGanges was a shallow waste of shining water that night, out of which rose\ntemples and palaces, mounds and hills, black with people. Every minaret\nwas a clustering mass of people, who fell one by one into the turbid\nwaters, as heat and terror overcame them. The whole land seemed a-wailing,\nand suddenly there swept a shadow across that furnace of despair, and a\nbreath of cold wind, and a gathering of clouds, out of the cooling air.\nMen looking up, near blinded, at the star, saw that a black disc was\ncreeping across the light. It was the moon, coming between the star and\nthe earth. And even as men cried to God at this respite, out of the East\nwith a strange inexplicable swiftness sprang the sun. And then star, sun,\nand moon rushed together across the heavens.\n\nSo it was that presently to the European watchers star and sun rose close\nupon each other, drove headlong for a space and then slower, and at last\ncame to rest, star and sun merged into one glare of flame at the zenith of\nthe sky. The moon no longer eclipsed the star but was lost to sight in the\nbrilliance of the sky. And though those who were still alive regarded it\nfor the most part with that dull stupidity that hunger, fatigue, heat and\ndespair engender, there were still men who could perceive the meaning of\nthese signs. Star and earth had been at their nearest, had swung about one\nanother, and the star had passed. Already it was receding, swifter and\nswifter, in the last stage of its headlong journey downward into the sun.\n\nAnd then the clouds gathered, blotting out the vision of the sky, the\nthunder and lightning wove a garment round the world; all over the earth\nwas such a downpour of rain as men had never before seen, and where the\nvolcanoes flared red against the cloud canopy there descended torrents of\nmud. Everywhere the waters were pouring off the land, leaving mud-silted\nruins, and the earth littered like a storm-worn beach with all that had\nfloated, and the dead bodies of the men and brutes, its children. For days\nthe water streamed off the land, sweeping away soil and trees and houses\nin the way, and piling huge dykes and scooping out Titanic gullies over\nthe country-side. Those were the days of darkness that followed the star\nand the heat. All through them, and for many weeks and months, the\nearthquakes continued.\n\nBut the star had passed, and men, hunger-driven and gathering courage only\nslowly, might creep back to their ruined cities, buried granaries, and\nsodden fields. Such few ships as had escaped the storms of that time came\nstunned and shattered and sounding their way cautiously through the new\nmarks and shoals of once familiar ports. And as the storms subsided men\nperceived that everywhere the days were hotter than of yore, and the sun\nlarger, and the moon, shrunk to a third of its former size, took now\nfourscore days between its new and new.\n\nBut of the new brotherhood that grew presently among men, of the saving of\nlaws and books and machines, of the strange change that had come over\nIceland and Greenland and the shores of Baffin's Bay, so that the sailors\ncoming there presently found them green and gracious, and could scarce\nbelieve their eyes, this story does not tell. Nor of the movement of\nmankind, now that the earth was hotter, northward and southward towards\nthe poles of the earth. It concerns itself only with the coming and the\npassing of the star.\n\nThe Martian astronomers--for there are astronomers on Mars, although they\nare very different beings from men--were naturally profoundly interested\nby these things. They saw them from their own standpoint of course.\n\"Considering the mass and temperature of the missile that was flung\nthrough our solar system into the sun,\" one wrote, \"it is astonishing what\na little damage the earth, which it missed so narrowly, has sustained. All\nthe familiar continental markings and the masses of the seas remain\nintact, and indeed the only difference seems to be a shrinkage of the\nwhite discolouration (supposed to be frozen water) round either pole.\"\nWhich only shows how small the vastest of human catastrophes may seem at a\ndistance of a few million miles.\n\n\n\n\n XXI.\n\n THE MAN WHO COULD WORK MIRACLES.\n\n A PANTOUM IN PROSE.\n\n\nIt is doubtful whether the gift was innate. For my own part, I think it\ncame to him suddenly. Indeed, until he was thirty he was a sceptic, and\ndid not believe in miraculous powers. And here, since it is the most\nconvenient place, I must mention that he was a little man, and had eyes of\na hot brown, very erect red hair, a moustache with ends that he twisted\nup, and freckles. His name was George McWhirter Fotheringay--not the sort\nof name by any means to lead to any expectation of miracles--and he was\nclerk at Gomshott's. He was greatly addicted to assertive argument. It was\nwhile he was asserting the impossibility of miracles that he had his first\nintimation of his extraordinary powers. This particular argument was being\nheld in the bar of the Long Dragon, and Toddy Beamish was conducting the\nopposition by a monotonous but effective \"So _you_ say,\" that drove\nMr. Fotheringay to the very limit of his patience.\n\nThere were present, besides these two, a very dusty cyclist, landlord Cox,\nand Miss Maybridge, the perfectly respectable and rather portly barmaid of\nthe Dragon. Miss Maybridge was standing with her back to Mr. Fotheringay,\nwashing glasses; the others were watching him, more or less amused by the\npresent ineffectiveness of the assertive method. Goaded by the Torres\nVedras tactics of Mr. Beamish, Mr. Fotheringay determined to make an\nunusual rhetorical effort. \"Looky here, Mr. Beamish,\" said Mr.\nFotheringay. \"Let us clearly understand what a miracle is. It's something\ncontrariwise to the course of nature, done by power of will, something\nwhat couldn't happen without being specially willed.\"\n\n\"So _you_ say,\" said Mr. Beamish, repulsing him.\n\nMr. Fotheringay appealed to the cyclist, who had hitherto been a silent\nauditor, and received his assent--given with a hesitating cough and a\nglance at Mr. Beamish. The landlord would express no opinion, and Mr.\nFotheringay, returning to Mr. Beamish, received the unexpected concession\nof a qualified assent to his definition of a miracle.\n\n\"For instance,\" said Mr. Fotheringay, greatly encouraged. \"Here would be a\nmiracle. That lamp, in the natural course of nature, couldn't burn like\nthat upsy-down, could it, Beamish?\"\n\n\"_You_ say it couldn't,\" said Beamish.\n\n\"And you?\" said Fotheringay. \"You don't mean to say--eh?\"\n\n\"No,\" said Beamish reluctantly. \"No, it couldn't.\"\n\n\"Very well,\" said Mr. Fotheringay. \"Then here comes someone, as it might\nbe me, along here, and stands as it might be here, and says to that lamp,\nas I might do, collecting all my will--Turn upsy-down without breaking,\nand go on burning steady, and--Hullo!\"\n\nIt was enough to make anyone say \"Hullo!\" The impossible, the incredible,\nwas visible to them all. The lamp hung inverted in the air, burning\nquietly with its flame pointing down. It was as solid, as indisputable as\never a lamp was, the prosaic common lamp of the Long Dragon bar.\n\nMr. Fotheringay stood with an extended forefinger and the knitted brows of\none anticipating a catastrophic smash. The cyclist, who was sitting next\nthe lamp, ducked and jumped across the bar. Everybody jumped, more or\nless. Miss Maybridge turned and screamed. For nearly three seconds the\nlamp remained still. A faint cry of mental distress came from Mr.\nFotheringay. \"I can't keep it up,\" he said, \"any longer.\" He staggered\nback, and the inverted lamp suddenly flared, fell against the corner of\nthe bar, bounced aside, smashed upon the floor, and went out.\n\nIt was lucky it had a metal receiver, or the whole place would have been\nin a blaze. Mr. Cox was the first to speak, and his remark, shorn of\nneedless excrescences, was to the effect that Fotheringay was a fool.\nFotheringay was beyond disputing even so fundamental a proposition as\nthat! He was astonished beyond measure at the thing that had occurred. The\nsubsequent conversation threw absolutely no light on the matter so far as\nFotheringay was concerned; the general opinion not only followed Mr. Cox\nvery closely but very vehemently. Everyone accused Fotheringay of a silly\ntrick, and presented him to himself as a foolish destroyer of comfort and\nsecurity. His mind was in a tornado of perplexity, he was himself inclined\nto agree with them, and he made a remarkably ineffectual opposition to the\nproposal of his departure.\n\nHe went home flushed and heated, coat-collar crumpled, eyes smarting, and\nears red. He watched each of the ten street lamps nervously as he passed\nit. It was only when he found himself alone in his little bedroom in\nChurch Row that he was able to grapple seriously with his memories of the\noccurrence, and ask, \"What on earth happened?\"\n\nHe had removed his coat and boots, and was sitting on the bed with his\nhands in his pockets repeating the text of his defence for the seventeenth\ntime, \"I didn't want the confounded thing to upset,\" when it occurred to\nhim that at the precise moment he had said the commanding words he had\ninadvertently willed the thing he said, and that when he had seen the lamp\nin the air he had felt that it depended on him to maintain it there\nwithout being clear how this was to be done. He had not a particularly\ncomplex mind, or he might have stuck for a time at that \"inadvertently\nwilled,\" embracing, as it does, the abstrusest problems of voluntary\naction; but as it was, the idea came to him with a quite acceptable\nhaziness. And from that, following, as I must admit, no clear logical\npath, he came to the test of experiment.\n\nHe pointed resolutely to his candle and collected his mind, though he felt\nhe did a foolish thing. \"Be raised up,\" he said. But in a second that\nfeeling vanished. The candle was raised, hung in the air one giddy moment,\nand as Mr. Fotheringay gasped, fell with a smash on his toilet-table,\nleaving him in darkness save for the expiring glow of its wick.\n\nFor a time Mr. Fotheringay sat in the darkness, perfectly still. \"It did\nhappen, after all,\" he said. \"And 'ow _I'm_ to explain it I\n_don't_ know.\" He sighed heavily, and began feeling in his pockets\nfor a match. He could find none, and he rose and groped about the\ntoilet-table. \"I wish I had a match,\" he said. He resorted to his coat,\nand there was none there, and then it dawned upon him that miracles were\npossible even with matches. He extended a hand and scowled at it in the\ndark. \"Let there be a match in that hand,\" he said. He felt some light\nobject fall across his palm and his fingers closed upon a match.\n\nAfter several ineffectual attempts to light this, he discovered it was a\nsafety match. He threw it down, and then it occurred to him that he might\nhave willed it lit. He did, and perceived it burning in the midst of his\ntoilet-table mat. He caught it up hastily, and it went out. His perception\nof possibilities enlarged, and he felt for and replaced the candle in its\ncandlestick. \"Here! _you_ be lit,\" said Mr. Fotheringay, and\nforthwith the candle was flaring, and he saw a little black hole in the\ntoilet-cover, with a wisp of smoke rising from it. For a time he stared\nfrom this to the little flame and back, and then looked up and met his own\ngaze in the looking-glass. By this help he communed with himself in\nsilence for a time.\n\n\"How about miracles now?\" said Mr. Fotheringay at last, addressing his\nreflection.\n\nThe subsequent meditations of Mr. Fotheringay were of a severe but\nconfused description. So far, he could see it was a case of pure willing\nwith him. The nature of his experiences so far disinclined him for any\nfurther experiments, at least until he had reconsidered them. But he\nlifted a sheet of paper, and turned a glass of water pink and then green,\nand he created a snail, which he miraculously annihilated, and got himself\na miraculous new tooth-brush. Somewhere in the small hours he had reached\nthe fact that his will-power must be of a particularly rare and pungent\nquality, a fact of which he had indeed had inklings before, but no certain\nassurance. The scare and perplexity of his first discovery was now\nqualified by pride in this evidence of singularity and by vague\nintimations of advantage. He became aware that the church clock was\nstriking one, and as it did not occur to him that his daily duties at\nGomshott's might be miraculously dispensed with, he resumed undressing, in\norder to get to bed without further delay. As he struggled to get his\nshirt over his head, he was struck with a brilliant idea. \"Let me be in\nbed,\" he said, and found himself so. \"Undressed,\" he stipulated; and,\nfinding the sheets cold, added hastily, \"and in my nightshirt--ho, in a\nnice soft woollen nightshirt. Ah!\" he said with immense enjoyment. \"And\nnow let me be comfortably asleep...\"\n\nHe awoke at his usual hour and was pensive all through breakfast-time,\nwondering whether his over-night experience might not be a particularly\nvivid dream. At length his mind turned again to cautious experiments. For\ninstance, he had three eggs for breakfast; two his landlady had supplied,\ngood, but shoppy, and one was a delicious fresh goose-egg, laid, cooked,\nand served by his extraordinary will. He hurried off to Gomshott's in a\nstate of profound but carefully concealed excitement, and only remembered\nthe shell of the third egg when his landlady spoke of it that night. All\nday he could do no work because of this astonishing new self-knowledge,\nbut this caused him no inconvenience, because he made up for it\nmiraculously in his last ten minutes.\n\nAs the day wore on his state of mind passed from wonder to elation, albeit\nthe circumstances of his dismissal from the Long Dragon were still\ndisagreeable to recall, and a garbled account of the matter that had\nreached his colleagues led to some badinage. It was evident he must be\ncareful how he lifted frangible articles, but in other ways his gift\npromised more and more as he turned it over in his mind. He intended among\nother things to increase his personal property by unostentatious acts of\ncreation. He called into existence a pair of very splendid diamond studs,\nand hastily annihilated them again as young Gomshott came across the\ncounting-house to his desk. He was afraid young Gomshott might wonder how\nhe had come by them. He saw quite clearly the gift required caution and\nwatchfulness in its exercise, but so far as he could judge the\ndifficulties attending its mastery would be no greater than those he had\nalready faced in the study of cycling. It was that analogy, perhaps, quite\nas much as the feeling that he would be unwelcome in the Long Dragon, that\ndrove him out after supper into the lane beyond the gasworks, to rehearse\na few miracles in private.\n\nThere was possibly a certain want of originality in his attempts, for,\napart from his will-power, Mr. Fotheringay was not a very exceptional man.\nThe miracle of Moses' rod came to his mind, but the night was dark and\nunfavourable to the proper control of large miraculous snakes. Then he\nrecollected the story of \"Tannhäuser\" that he had read on the back of the\nPhilharmonic programme. That seemed to him singularly attractive and\nharmless. He stuck his walking-stick--a very nice Poona-Penang lawyer--\ninto the turf that edged the footpath, and commanded the dry wood to\nblossom. The air was immediately full of the scent of roses, and by means\nof a match he saw for himself that this beautiful miracle was indeed\naccomplished. His satisfaction was ended by advancing footsteps. Afraid of\na premature discovery of his powers, he addressed the blossoming stick\nhastily: \"Go back.\" What he meant was \"Change back;\" but of course he was\nconfused. The stick receded at a considerable velocity, and incontinently\ncame a cry of anger and a bad word from the approaching person. \"Who are\nyou throwing brambles at, you fool?\" cried a voice. \"That got me on the\nshin.\"\n\n\"I'm sorry, old chap,\" said Mr. Fotheringay, and then, realising the\nawkward nature of the explanation, caught nervously at his moustache. He\nsaw Winch, one of the three Immering constables, advancing.\n\n\"What d'yer mean by it?\" asked the constable. \"Hullo! it's you, is it? The\ngent that broke the lamp at the Long Dragon!\"\n\n\"I don't mean anything by it,\" said Mr. Fotheringay. \"Nothing at all.\"\n\n\"What d'yer do it for then?\"\n\n\"Oh, bother!\" said Mr. Fotheringay.\n\n\"Bother indeed! D'yer know that stick hurt? What d'yer do it for, eh?\"\n\nFor the moment Mr. Fotheringay could not think what he had done it for.\nHis silence seemed to irritate Mr. Winch. \"You've been assaulting the\npolice, young man, this time. That's what _you_ done.\"\n\n\"Look here, Mr. Winch,\" said Mr. Fotheringay, annoyed and confused, \"I'm\nsorry, very. The fact is----\"\n\n\"Well?\"\n\nHe could think of no way but the truth. \"I was working a miracle.\" He\ntried to speak in an off-hand way, but try as he would he couldn't.\n\n\"Working a--! 'Ere, don't you talk rot. Working a miracle, indeed!\nMiracle! Well, that's downright funny! Why, you's the chap that don't\nbelieve in miracles... Fact is, this is another of your silly conjuring\ntricks--that's what this is. Now, I tell you--\"\n\nBut Mr. Fotheringay never heard what Mr. Winch was going to tell him. He\nrealised he had given himself away, flung his valuable secret to all the\nwinds of heaven. A violent gust of irritation swept him to action. He\nturned on the constable swiftly and fiercely. \"Here,\" he said, \"I've had\nenough of this, I have! I'll show you a silly conjuring trick, I will! Go\nto Hades! Go, now!\"\n\nHe was alone!\n\nMr. Fotheringay performed no more miracles that night, nor did he trouble\nto see what had become of his flowering stick. He returned to the town,\nscared and very quiet, and went to his bedroom. \"Lord!\" he said, \"it's a\npowerful gift--an extremely powerful gift. I didn't hardly mean as much as\nthat. Not really... I wonder what Hades is like!\"\n\nHe sat on the bed taking off his boots. Struck by a happy thought he\ntransferred the constable to San Francisco, and without any more\ninterference with normal causation went soberly to bed. In the night he\ndreamt of the anger of Winch.\n\nThe next day Mr. Fotheringay heard two interesting items of news. Someone\nhad planted a most beautiful climbing rose against the elder Mr.\nGomshott's private house in the Lullaborough Road, and the river as far as\nRawling's Mill was to be dragged for Constable Winch.\n\nMr. Fotheringay was abstracted and thoughtful all that day, and performed\nno miracles except certain provisions for Winch, and the miracle of\ncompleting his day's work with punctual perfection in spite of all the\nbee-swarm of thoughts that hummed through his mind. And the extraordinary\nabstraction and meekness of his manner was remarked by several people, and\nmade a matter for jesting. For the most part he was thinking of Winch.\n\nOn Sunday evening he went to chapel, and oddly enough, Mr. Maydig, who\ntook a certain interest in occult matters, preached about \"things that are\nnot lawful.\" Mr. Fotheringay was not a regular chapelgoer, but the system\nof assertive scepticism, to which I have already alluded, was now very\nmuch shaken. The tenor of the sermon threw an entirely new light on these\nnovel gifts, and he suddenly decided to consult Mr. Maydig immediately\nafter the service. So soon as that was determined, he found himself\nwondering why he had not done so before.\n\nMr. Maydig, a lean, excitable man with quite remarkably long wrists and\nneck, was gratified at a request for a private conversation from a young\nman whose carelessness in religious matters was a subject for general\nremark in the town. After a few necessary delays, he conducted him to the\nstudy of the manse, which was contiguous to the chapel, seated him\ncomfortably, and, standing in front of a cheerful fire--his legs threw a\nRhodian arch of shadow on the opposite wall--requested Mr. Fotheringay to\nstate his business.\n\nAt first Mr. Fotheringay was a little abashed, and found some difficulty\nin opening the matter. \"You will scarcely believe me, Mr. Maydig, I am\nafraid\"--and so forth for some time. He tried a question at last, and\nasked Mr. Maydig his opinion of miracles.\n\nMr. Maydig was still saying \"Well\" in an extremely judicial tone, when Mr.\nFotheringay interrupted again: \"You don't believe, I suppose, that some\ncommon sort of person--like myself, for instance--as it might be sitting\nhere now, might have some sort of twist inside him that made him able to\ndo things by his will.\"\n\n\"It's possible,\" said Mr. Maydig. \"Something of the sort, perhaps, is\npossible.\"\n\n\"If I might make free with something here, I think I might show you by a\nsort of experiment,\" said Mr. Fotheringay. \"Now, take that tobacco-jar on\nthe table, for instance. What I want to know is whether what I am going to\ndo with it is a miracle or not. Just half a minute, Mr. Maydig, please.\"\n\nHe knitted his brows, pointed to the tobacco-jar and said: \"Be a bowl of\nvi'lets.\"\n\nThe tobacco-jar did as it was ordered.\n\nMr. Maydig started violently at the change, and stood looking from the\nthaumaturgist to the bowl of flowers. He said nothing. Presently he\nventured to lean over the table and smell the violets; they were\nfresh-picked and very fine ones. Then he stared at Mr. Fotheringay again.\n\n\"How did you do that?\" he asked.\n\nMr. Fotheringay pulled his moustache. \"Just told it--and there you are. Is\nthat a miracle, or is it black art, or what is it? And what do you think's\nthe matter with me? That's what I want to ask.\"\n\n\"It's a most extraordinary occurrence.\"\n\n\"And this day last week I knew no more that I could do things like that\nthan you did. It came quite sudden. It's something odd about my will, I\nsuppose, and that's as far as I can see.\"\n\n\"Is that--the only thing. Could you do other things besides that?\"\n\n\"Lord, yes!\" said Mr. Fotheringay. \"Just anything.\" He thought, and\nsuddenly recalled a conjuring entertainment he had seen. \"Here!\" he\npointed, \"change into a bowl of fish--no, not that--change into a glass\nbowl full of water with goldfish swimming in it. That's better! You see\nthat, Mr. Maydig?\"\n\n\"It's astonishing. It's incredible. You are either a most extraordinary...\nBut no----\"\n\n\"I could change it into anything,\" said Mr. Fotheringay. \"Just anything.\nHere! be a pigeon, will you?\"\n\nIn another moment a blue pigeon was fluttering round the room and making\nMr. Maydig duck every time it came near him. \"Stop there, will you?\" said\nMr. Fotheringay; and the pigeon hung motionless in the air. \"I could\nchange it back to a bowl of flowers,\" he said, and after replacing the\npigeon on the table worked that miracle. \"I expect you will want your pipe\nin a bit,\" he said, and restored the tobacco-jar.\n\nMr. Maydig had followed all these later changes in a sort of ejaculatory\nsilence. He stared at Mr. Fotheringay and in a very gingerly manner picked\nup the tobacco-jar, examined it, replaced it on the table. \"_Well_!\"\nwas the only expression of his feelings.\n\n\"Now, after that it's easier to explain what I came about,\" said Mr.\nFotheringay; and proceeded to a lengthy and involved narrative of his\nstrange experiences, beginning with the affair of the lamp in the Long\nDragon and complicated by persistent allusions to Winch. As he went on,\nthe transient pride Mr. Maydig's consternation had caused passed away; he\nbecame the very ordinary Mr. Fotheringay of everyday intercourse again.\nMr. Maydig listened intently, the tobacco-jar in his hand, and his bearing\nchanged also with the course of the narrative. Presently, while Mr.\nFotheringay was dealing with the miracle of the third egg, the minister\ninterrupted with a fluttering, extended hand.\n\n\"It is possible,\" he said. \"It is credible. It is amazing, of course, but\nit reconciles a number of amazing difficulties. The power to work miracles\nis a gift--a peculiar quality like genius or second sight; hitherto it has\ncome very rarely and to exceptional people. But in this case...I have\nalways wondered at the miracles of Mahomet, and at Yogi's miracles, and\nthe miracles of Madame Blavatsky. But, of course--Yes, it is simply a\ngift! It carries out so beautifully the arguments of that great thinker\"--\nMr. Maydig's voice sank--\"his Grace the Duke of Argyll. Here we plumb some\nprofounder law--deeper than the ordinary laws of nature. Yes--yes. Go on.\nGo on!\"\n\nMr. Fotheringay proceeded to tell of his misadventure with Winch, and Mr.\nMaydig, no longer overawed or scared, began to jerk his limbs about and\ninterject astonishment. \"It's this what troubled me most,\" proceeded Mr.\nFotheringay; \"it's this I'm most mijitly in want of advice for; of course\nhe's at San Francisco--wherever San Francisco may be--but of course it's\nawkward for both of us, as you'll see, Mr. Maydig. I don't see how he can\nunderstand what has happened, and I daresay he's scared and exasperated\nsomething tremendous, and trying to get at me. I daresay he keeps on\nstarting off to come here. I send him back, by a miracle, every few hours,\nwhen I think of it. And, of course, that's a thing he won't be able to\nunderstand, and it's bound to annoy him; and, of course, if he takes a\nticket every time it will cost him a lot of money. I done the best I could\nfor him, but, of course, it's difficult for him to put himself in my\nplace. I thought afterwards that his clothes might have got scorched, you\nknow--if Hades is all it's supposed to be--before I shifted him. In that\ncase I suppose they'd have locked him up in San Francisco. Of course I\nwilled him a new suit of clothes on him directly I thought of it. But, you\nsee, I'm already in a deuce of a tangle----\"\n\nMr. Maydig looked serious. \"I see you are in a tangle. Yes, it's a\ndifficult position. How you are to end it...\" He became diffuse and\ninconclusive.\n\n\"However, we'll leave Winch for a little and discuss the larger question.\nI don't think this is a case of the black art or anything of the sort. I\ndon't think there is any taint of criminality about it at all, Mr.\nFotheringay--none whatever, unless you are suppressing material facts. No,\nit's miracles--pure miracles--miracles, if I may say so, of the very\nhighest class.\"\n\nHe began to pace the hearthrug and gesticulate, while Mr. Fotheringay sat\nwith his arm on the table and his head on his arm, looking worried. \"I\ndon't see how I'm to manage about Winch,\" he said.\n\n\"A gift of working miracles--apparently a very powerful gift,\" said Mr.\nMaydig, \"will find a way about Winch--never fear. My dear sir, you are a\nmost important man--a man of the most astonishing possibilities. As\nevidence, for example! And in other ways, the things you may do...\"\n\n\"Yes, _I've_ thought of a thing or two,\" said Mr. Fotheringay. \"But--\nsome of the things came a bit twisty. You saw that fish at first? Wrong\nsort of bowl and wrong sort of fish. And I thought I'd ask someone.\"\n\n\"A proper course,\" said Mr. Maydig, \"a very proper course--altogether the\nproper course.\" He stopped and looked at Mr. Fotheringay. \"It's\npractically an unlimited gift. Let us test your powers, for instance. If\nthey really _are_ ... If they really are all they seem to be.\"\n\nAnd so, incredible as it may seem, in the study of the little house behind\nthe Congregational Chapel, on the evening of Sunday, Nov. 10, 1896, Mr.\nFotheringay, egged on and inspired by Mr. Maydig, began to work miracles.\nThe reader's attention is specially and definitely called to the date. He\nwill object, probably has already objected, that certain points in this\nstory are improbable, that if any things of the sort already described had\nindeed occurred, they would have been in all the papers at that time. The\ndetails immediately following he will find particularly hard to accept,\nbecause among other things they involve the conclusion that he or she, the\nreader in question, must have been killed in a violent and unprecedented\nmanner more than a year ago. Now a miracle is nothing if not improbable,\nand as a matter of fact the reader _was_ killed in a violent and\nunprecedented manner in 1896. In the subsequent course of this story that\nwill become perfectly clear and credible, as every right-minded and\nreasonable reader will admit. But this is not the place for the end of the\nstory, being but little beyond the hither side of the middle. And at first\nthe miracles worked by Mr. Fotheringay were timid little miracles--little\nthings with the cups and parlour fitments, as feeble as the miracles of\nTheosophists, and, feeble as they were, they were received with awe by his\ncollaborator. He would have preferred to settle the Winch business out of\nhand, but Mr. Maydig would not let him. But after they had worked a dozen\nof these domestic trivialities, their sense of power grew, their\nimagination began to show signs of stimulation, and their ambition\nenlarged. Their first larger enterprise was due to hunger and the\nnegligence of Mrs. Minchin, Mr. Maydig's housekeeper. The meal to which\nthe minister conducted Mr. Fotheringay was certainly ill-laid and\nuninviting as refreshment for two industrious miracle-workers; but they\nwere seated, and Mr. Maydig was descanting in sorrow rather than in anger\nupon his housekeeper's shortcomings, before it occurred to Mr. Fotheringay\nthat an opportunity lay before him. \"Don't you think, Mr. Maydig,\" he\nsaid, \"if it isn't a liberty, _I_----\"\n\n\"My dear Mr. Fotheringay! Of course! No--I didn't think.\"\n\nMr. Fotheringay waved his hand. \"What shall we have?\" he said, in a large,\ninclusive spirit, and, at Mr. Maydig's order, revised the supper very\nthoroughly. \"As for me,\" he said, eyeing Mr. Maydig's selection, \"I am\nalways particularly fond of a tankard of stout and a nice Welsh rarebit,\nand I'll order that. I ain't much given to Burgundy,\" and forthwith stout\nand Welsh rarebit promptly appeared at his command. They sat long at their\nsupper, talking like equals, as Mr. Fotheringay presently perceived, with\na glow of surprise and gratification, of all the miracles they would\npresently do. \"And, by-the-by, Mr. Maydig,\" said Mr. Fotheringay, \"I might\nperhaps be able to help you--in a domestic way.\"\n\n\"Don't quite follow,\" said Mr. Maydig, pouring out a glass of miraculous\nold Burgundy.\n\nMr. Fotheringay helped himself to a second Welsh rarebit out of vacancy,\nand took a mouthful. \"I was thinking,\" he said, \"I might be able (_chum,\nchum_) to work (_chum, chum_) a miracle with Mrs. Minchin\n(_chum, chum_)--make her a better woman.\"\n\nMr. Maydig put down the glass and looked doubtful.\n\n\"She's----She strongly objects to interference, you know, Mr.\nFotheringay. And--as a matter of fact--it's well past eleven and she's\nprobably in bed and asleep. Do you think, on the whole----\"\n\nMr. Fotheringay considered these objections. \"I don't see that it\nshouldn't be done in her sleep.\"\n\nFor a time Mr. Maydig opposed the idea, and then he yielded. Mr.\nFotheringay issued his orders, and a little less at their ease, perhaps,\nthe two gentlemen proceeded with their repast. Mr. Maydig was enlarging on\nthe changes he might expect in his housekeeper next day, with an optimism,\nthat seemed even to Mr. Fotheringay's supper senses a little forced and\nhectic, when a series of confused noises from upstairs began. Their eyes\nexchanged interrogations, and Mr. Maydig left the room hastily. Mr.\nFotheringay heard him calling up to his housekeeper and then his footsteps\ngoing softly up to her.\n\nIn a minute or so the minister returned, his step light, his face radiant.\n\"Wonderful!\" he said, \"and touching! Most touching!\"\n\nHe began pacing the hearthrug. \"A repentance--a most touching repentance--\nthrough the crack of the door. Poor woman! A most wonderful change! She\nhad got up. She must have got up at once. She had got up out of her sleep\nto smash a private bottle of brandy in her box. And to confess it too!...\nBut this gives us--it opens--a most amazing vista of possibilities. If we\ncan work this miraculous change in _her_...\"\n\n\"The thing's unlimited seemingly,\" said Mr. Fotheringay. \"And about Mr.\nWinch----\"\n\n\"Altogether unlimited.\" And from the hearthrug Mr. Maydig, waving the\nWinch difficulty aside, unfolded a series of wonderful proposals--\nproposals he invented as he went along.\n\nNow what those proposals were does not concern the essentials of this\nstory. Suffice it that they were designed in a spirit of infinite\nbenevolence, the sort of benevolence that used to be called post-prandial.\nSuffice it, too, that the problem of Winch remained unsolved. Nor is it\nnecessary to describe how far that series got to its fulfilment. There\nwere astonishing changes. The small hours found Mr. Maydig and Mr.\nFotheringay careering across the chilly market square under the still\nmoon, in a sort of ecstasy of thaumaturgy, Mr. Maydig all flap and\ngesture, Mr. Fotheringay short and bristling, and no longer abashed at his\ngreatness. They had reformed every drunkard in the Parliamentary division,\nchanged all the beer and alcohol to water (Mr. Maydig had overruled Mr.\nFotheringay on this point); they had, further, greatly improved the\nrailway communication of the place, drained Flinder's swamp, improved the\nsoil of One Tree Hill, and cured the vicar's wart. And they were going to\nsee what could be done with the injured pier at South Bridge. \"The place,\"\ngasped Mr. Maydig, \"won't be the same place to-morrow. How surprised and\nthankful everyone will be!\" And just at that moment the church clock\nstruck three.\n\n\"I say,\" said Mr. Fotheringay, \"that's three o'clock! I must be getting\nback. I've got to be at business by eight. And besides, Mrs. Wimms----\"\n\n\"We're only beginning,\" said Mr. Maydig, full of the sweetness of\nunlimited power. \"We're only beginning. Think of all the good we're doing.\nWhen people wake----\"\n\n\"But----,\" said Mr. Fotheringay.\n\nMr. Maydig gripped his arm suddenly. His eyes were bright and wild. \"My\ndear chap,\" he said, \"there's no hurry. Look\"--he pointed to the moon at\nthe zenith--\"Joshua!\"\n\n\"Joshua?\" said Mr. Fotheringay.\n\n\"Joshua,\" said Mr. Maydig. \"Why not? Stop it.\"\n\nMr. Fotheringay looked at the moon.\n\n\"That's a bit tall,\" he said, after a pause.\n\n\"Why not?\" said Mr. Maydig. \"Of course it doesn't stop. You stop the\nrotation of the earth, you know. Time stops. It isn't as if we were doing\nharm.\"\n\n\"H'm!\" said Mr. Fotheringay. \"Well,\" he sighed, \"I'll try. Here!\"\n\nHe buttoned up his jacket and addressed himself to the habitable globe,\nwith as good an assumption of confidence as lay in his power. \"Jest stop\nrotating, will you?\" said Mr. Fotheringay.\n\nIncontinently he was flying head over heels through the air at the rate of\ndozens of miles a minute. In spite of the innumerable circles he was\ndescribing per second, he thought; for thought is wonderful--sometimes as\nsluggish as flowing pitch, sometimes as instantaneous as light. He thought\nin a second, and willed. \"Let me come down safe and sound. Whatever else\nhappens, let me down safe and sound.\"\n\nHe willed it only just in time, for his clothes, heated by his rapid\nflight through the air, were already beginning to singe. He came down with\na forcible, but by no means injurious, bump in what appeared to be a mound\nof fresh-turned earth. A large mass of metal and masonry, extraordinarily\nlike the clock-tower in the middle of the market square, hit the earth\nnear him, ricochetted over him, and flew into stonework, bricks, and\ncement, like a bursting bomb. A hurtling cow hit one of the larger blocks\nand smashed like an egg. There was a crash that made all the most violent\ncrashes of his past life seem like the sound of falling dust, and this was\nfollowed by a descending series of lesser crashes. A vast wind roared\nthroughout earth and heaven, so that he could scarcely lift his head to\nlook. For a while he was too breathless and astonished even to see where\nhe was or what had happened. And his first movement was to feel his head\nand reassure himself that his streaming hair was still his own.\n\n\"Lord!\" gasped Mr. Fotheringay, scarce able to speak for the gale, \"I've\nhad a squeak! What's gone wrong? Storms and thunder. And only a minute ago\na fine night. It's Maydig set me on to this sort of thing. _What_ a\nwind! If I go on fooling in this way I'm bound to have a thundering\naccident!...\n\n\"Where's Maydig?\n\n\"What a confounded mess everything's in!\"\n\nHe looked about him so far as his flapping jacket would permit. The\nappearance of things was really extremely strange. \"The sky's all right\nanyhow,\" said Mr. Fotheringay. \"And that's about all that is all right.\nAnd even there it looks like a terrific gale coming up. But there's the\nmoon overhead. Just as it was just now. Bright as midday. But as for the\nrest----Where's the village? Where's--where's anything? And what on earth\nset this wind a-blowing? I didn't order no wind.\"\n\nMr. Fotheringay struggled to get to his feet in vain, and after one\nfailure, remained on all fours, holding on. He surveyed the moonlit world\nto leeward, with the tails of his jacket streaming over his head. \"There's\nsomething seriously wrong,\" said Mr. Fotheringay. \"And what it is--\ngoodness knows.\"\n\nFar and wide nothing was visible in the white glare through the haze of\ndust that drove before a screaming gale but tumbled masses of earth and\nheaps of inchoate ruins, no trees, no houses, no familiar shapes, only a\nwilderness of disorder, vanishing at last into the darkness beneath the\nwhirling columns and streamers, the lightnings and thunderings of a\nswiftly rising storm. Near him in the livid glare was something that might\nonce have been an elm-tree, a smashed mass of splinters, shivered from\nboughs to base, and further a twisted mass of iron girders--only too\nevidently the viaduct--rose out of the piled confusion.\n\nYou see, when Mr. Fotheringay had arrested the rotation of the solid\nglobe, he had made no stipulation concerning the trifling movables upon\nits surface. And the earth spins so fast that the surface at its equator\nis travelling at rather more than a thousand miles an hour, and in these\nlatitudes at more than half that pace. So that the village, and Mr.\nMaydig, and Mr. Fotheringay, and everybody and everything had been jerked\nviolently forward at about nine miles per second--that is to say, much\nmore violently than if they had been fired out of a cannon. And every\nhuman being, every living creature, every house, and every tree--all the\nworld as we know it--had been so jerked and smashed and utterly destroyed.\nThat was all.\n\nThese things Mr. Fotheringay did not, of course, fully appreciate. But he\nperceived that his miracle had miscarried, and with that a great disgust\nof miracles came upon him. He was in darkness now, for the clouds had\nswept together and blotted out his momentary glimpse of the moon, and the\nair was full of fitful struggling tortured wraiths of hail. A great\nroaring of wind and waters filled earth and sky, and peering under his\nhand through the dust and sleet to windward, he saw by the play of the\nlightnings a vast wall of water pouring towards him.\n\n\"Maydig!\" screamed Mr. Fotheringay's feeble voice amid the elemental\nuproar. \"Here!--Maydig!\n\n\"Stop!\" cried Mr. Fotheringay to the advancing water. \"Oh, for goodness'\nsake, stop!\n\n\"Just a moment,\" said Mr. Fotheringay to the lightnings and thunder. \"Stop\njest a moment while I collect my thoughts... And now what shall I do?\" he\nsaid. \"What _shall_ I do? Lord! I wish Maydig was about.\"\n\n\"I know,\" said Mr. Fotheringay. \"And for goodness' sake let's have it\nright _this_ time.\"\n\nHe remained on all fours, leaning against the wind, very intent to have\neverything right.\n\n\"Ah!\" he said. \"Let nothing what I'm going to order happen until I say\n'Off!'...Lord! I wish I'd thought of that before!\"\n\nHe lifted his little voice against the whirlwind, shouting louder and\nlouder in the vain desire to hear himself speak. \"Now then!--here goes!\nMind about that what I said just now. In the first place, when all I've\ngot to say is done, let me lose my miraculous power, let my will become\njust like anybody else's will, and all these dangerous miracles be\nstopped. I don't like them. I'd rather I didn't work 'em. Ever so much.\nThat's the first thing. And the second is--let me be back just before the\nmiracles begin; let everything be just as it was before that blessed lamp\nturned up. It's a big job, but it's the last. Have you got it? No more\nmiracles, everything as it was--me back in the Long Dragon just before I\ndrank my half-pint. That's it! Yes.\"\n\nHe dug his fingers into the mould, closed his eyes, and said \"Off!\"\n\nEverything became perfectly still. He perceived that he was standing\nerect.\n\n\"So _you_ say,\" said a voice.\n\nHe opened his eyes. He was in the bar of the Long Dragon, arguing about\nmiracles with Toddy Beamish. He had a vague sense of some great thing\nforgotten that instantaneously passed. You see that, except for the loss\nof his miraculous powers, everything was back as it had been, his mind and\nmemory therefore were now just as they had been at the time when this\nstory began. So that he knew absolutely nothing of all that is told here--\nknows nothing of all that is told here to this day. And among other\nthings, of course, he still did not believe in miracles.\n\n\"I tell you that miracles, properly speaking, can't possibly happen,\" he\nsaid, \"whatever you like to hold. And I'm prepared to prove it up to the\nhilt.\"\n\n\"That's what _you_ think,\" said Toddy Beamish, and \"Prove it if you\ncan.\"\n\n\"Looky here, Mr. Beamish,\" said Mr. Fotheringay. \"Let us clearly\nunderstand what a miracle is. It's something contrariwise to the course of\nnature done by power of Will...\"\n\n\n\n\n XXII.\n\n A VISION OF JUDGMENT.\n\n\nI.\n\nBru-a-a-a.\n\nI listened, not understanding.\n\nWa-ra-ra-ra.\n\n\"Good Lord!\" said I, still only half awake. \"What an infernal shindy!\"\n\nRa-ra-ra-ra-ra-ra-ra-ra-ra Ta-ra-rra-ra.\n\n\"It's enough,\" said I, \"to wake----\" and stopped short. Where was I?\n\nTa-rra-rara--louder and louder.\n\n\"It's either some new invention----\"\n\nToora-toora-toora! Deafening!\n\n\"No,\" said I, speaking loud in order to hear myself. \"That's the Last\nTrump.\"\n\nTooo-rraa!\n\n\nII.\n\nThe last note jerked me out of my grave like a hooked minnow.\n\nI saw my monument (rather a mean little affair, and I wished I knew who'd\ndone it), and the old elm tree and the sea view vanished like a puff of\nsteam, and then all about me--a multitude no man could number, nations,\ntongues, kingdoms, peoples--children of all the ages, in an amphitheatral\nspace as vast as the sky. And over against us, seated on a throne of\ndazzling white cloud, the Lord God and all the host of his angels. I\nrecognised Azrael by his darkness and Michael by his sword, and the great\nangel who had blown the trumpet stood with the trumpet still half raised.\n\n\nIII.\n\n\"Prompt,\" said the little man beside me. \"Very prompt. Do you see the\nangel with the book?\"\n\nHe was ducking and craning his head about to see over and under and\nbetween the souls that crowded round us. \"Everybody's here,\" he said.\n\"Everybody. And now we shall know--\n\n\"There's Darwin,\" he said, going off at a tangent. \"_He'll_ catch it!\nAnd there--you see?--that tall, important-looking man trying to catch the\neye of the Lord God, that's the Duke. But there's a lot of people one\ndoesn't know.\n\n\"Oh! there's Priggles, the publisher. I have always wondered about\nprinters' overs. Priggles was a clever man ... But we shall know now--even\nabout him.\n\n\"I shall hear all that. I shall get most of the fun before ... _My_\nletter's S.\"\n\nHe drew the air in between his teeth.\n\n\"Historical characters, too. See? That's Henry the Eighth. There'll be a\ngood bit of evidence. Oh, damn! He's Tudor.\"\n\nHe lowered his voice. \"Notice this chap, just in front of us, all covered\nwith hair. Paleolithic, you know. And there again--\"\n\nBut I did not heed him, because I was looking at the Lord God.\n\n\nIV.\n\n\"Is this _all_?\" asked the Lord God.\n\nThe angel at the book--it was one of countless volumes, like the British\nMuseum Reading-room Catalogue, glanced at us and seemed to count us in the\ninstant.\n\n\"That's all,\" he said, and added: \"It was, O God, a very little planet.\"\n\nThe eyes of God surveyed us.\n\n\"Let us begin,\" said the Lord God.\n\n\nV.\n\nThe angel opened the book and read a name. It was a name full of A's, and\nthe echoes of it came back out of the uttermost parts of space. I did not\ncatch it clearly, because the little man beside me said, in a sharp jerk,\n\"_What's_ that?\" It sounded like \"Ahab\" to me; but it could not have\nbeen the Ahab of Scripture.\n\nInstantly a small black figure was lifted up to a puffy cloud at the very\nfeet of God. It was a stiff little figure, dressed in rich outlandish\nrobes and crowned, and it folded its arms and scowled.\n\n\"Well?\" said God, looking down at him.\n\nWe were privileged to hear the reply, and indeed the acoustic properties\nof the place were marvellous.\n\n\"I plead guilty,\" said the little figure.\n\n\"Tell them what you have done,\" said the Lord God.\n\n\"I was a king,\" said the little figure, \"a great king, and I was lustful\nand proud and cruel. I made wars, I devastated countries, I built palaces,\nand the mortar was the blood of men. Hear, O God, the witnesses against\nme, calling to you for vengeance. Hundreds and thousands of witnesses.\" He\nwaved his hands towards us. \"And worse! I took a prophet--one of your\nprophets----\"\n\n\"One of my prophets,\" said the Lord God.\n\n\"And because he would not bow to me, I tortured him for four days and\nnights, and in the end he died. I did more, O God, I blasphemed. I robbed\nyou of your honours----\"\n\n\"Robbed me of my honours,\" said the Lord God.\n\n\"I caused myself to be worshipped in your stead. No evil was there but I\npractised it; no cruelty wherewith I did not stain my soul. And at last\nyou smote me, O God!\"\n\nGod raised his eyebrows slightly.\n\n\"And I was slain in battle. And so I stand before you, meet for your\nnethermost Hell! Out of your greatness daring no lies, daring no pleas,\nbut telling the truth of my iniquities before all mankind.\"\n\nHe ceased. His face I saw distinctly, and it seemed to me white and\nterrible and proud and strangely noble. I thought of Milton's Satan.\n\n\"Most of that is from the Obelisk,\" said the Recording Angel, finger on\npage.\n\n\"It is,\" said the Tyrannous Man, with a faint touch of surprise.\n\nThen suddenly God bent forward and took this man in his hand, and held him\nup on his palm as if to see him better. He was just a little dark stroke\nin the middle of God's palm.\n\n\"_Did_ he do all this?\" said the Lord God.\n\nThe Recording Angel flattened his book with his hand.\n\n\"In a way,\" said the Recording Angel, carelessly. Now when I looked again\nat the little man his face had changed in a very curious manner. He was\nlooking at the Recording Angel with a strange apprehension in his eyes,\nand one hand fluttered to his mouth. Just the movement of a muscle or so,\nand all that dignity of defiance was gone.\n\n\"Read,\" said the Lord God.\n\nAnd the angel read, explaining very carefully and fully all the wickedness\nof the Wicked Man. It was quite an intellectual treat.--A little \"daring\"\nin places, I thought, but of course Heaven has its privileges...\n\n\nVI.\n\nEverybody was laughing. Even the prophet of the Lord whom the Wicked Man\nhad tortured had a smile on his face. The Wicked Man was really such a\npreposterous little fellow.\n\n\"And then,\" read the Recording Angel, with a smile that set us all agog,\n\"one day, when he was a little irascible from over-eating, he--\"\n\n\"Oh, not _that_,\" cried the Wicked Man, \"nobody knew of _that_.\n\n\"It didn't happen,\" screamed the Wicked Man. \"I was bad--I was really bad.\nFrequently bad, but there was nothing so silly--so absolutely silly--\"\n\nThe angel went on reading.\n\n\"O God!\" cried the Wicked Man. \"Don't let them know that! I'll repent!\nI'll apologise...\"\n\nThe Wicked Man on God's hand began to dance and weep. Suddenly shame\novercame him. He made a wild rush to jump off the ball of God's little\nfinger, but God stopped him by a dexterous turn of the wrist. Then he made\na rush for the gap between hand and thumb, but the thumb closed. And all\nthe while the angel went on reading--reading. The Wicked Man rushed to and\nfro across God's palm, and then suddenly turned about and fled up the\nsleeve of God.\n\nI expected God would turn him out, but the mercy of God is infinite.\n\nThe Recording Angel paused.\n\n\"Eh?\" said the Recording Angel.\n\n\"Next,\" said God, and before the Recording Angel could call the name a\nhairy creature in filthy rags stood upon God's palm.\n\n\nVII.\n\n\"Has God got Hell up his sleeve then?\" said the little man beside me.\n\n\"_Is_ there a Hell?\" I asked.\n\n\"If you notice,\" he said--he peered between the feet of the great angels--\n\"there's no particular indication of a Celestial City.\"\n\n\"'Ssh!\" said a little woman near us, scowling. \"Hear this blessed Saint!\"\n\n\nVIII.\n\n\"He was Lord of the Earth, but I was the prophet of the God of Heaven,\"\ncried the Saint, \"and all the people marvelled at the sign. For I, O God,\nknew of the glories of thy Paradise. No pain, no hardship, gashing with\nknives, splinters thrust under my nails, strips of flesh flayed off, all\nfor the glory and honour of God.\"\n\nGod smiled.\n\n\"And at last I went, I in my rags and sores, smelling of my holy\ndiscomforts----\"\n\nGabriel laughed abruptly.\n\n\"And lay outside his gates, as a sign, as a wonder----\"\n\n\"As a perfect nuisance,\" said the Recording Angel, and began to read,\nheedless of the fact that the saint was still speaking of the gloriously\nunpleasant things he had done that Paradise might be his.\n\nAnd behold, in that book the record of the Saint also was a revelation, a\nmarvel.\n\nIt seemed not ten seconds before the Saint also was rushing to and fro\nover the great palm of God. Not ten seconds! And at last he also shrieked\nbeneath that pitiless and cynical exposition, and fled also, even as the\nWicked Man had fled, into the shadow of the sleeve. And it was permitted\nus to see into the shadow of the sleeve. And the two sat side by side,\nstark of all delusions, in the shadow of the robe of God's charity, like\nbrothers.\n\nAnd thither also I fled in my turn.\n\n\nIX.\n\n\"And now,\" said God, as he shook us out of his sleeve upon the planet he\nhad given us to live upon, the planet that whirled about green Sirius for\na sun, \"now that you understand me and each other a little better,...try\nagain.\"\n\nThen he and his great angels turned themselves about and suddenly had\nvanished...\n\nThe Throne had vanished.\n\nAll about me was a beautiful land, more beautiful than any I had ever seen\nbefore--waste, austere, and wonderful; and all about me were the\nenlightened souls of men in new clean bodies...\n\n\n\n\n XXIII.\n\n JIMMY GOGGLES THE GOD.\n\n\n\"It isn't every one who's been a god,\" said the sunburnt man. \"But it's\nhappened to me--among other things.\"\n\nI intimated my sense of his condescension.\n\n\"It don't leave much for ambition, does it?\" said the sunburnt man.\n\n\"I was one of those men who were saved from the _Ocean Pioneer_.\nGummy! how time flies! It's twenty years ago. I doubt if you'll remember\nanything of the _Ocean Pioneer_?\"\n\nThe name was familiar, and I tried to recall when and where I had read it.\nThe _Ocean Pioneer_? \"Something about gold dust,\" I said vaguely,\n\"but the precise--\"\n\n\"That's it,\" he said. \"In a beastly little channel she hadn't no business\nin--dodging pirates. It was before they'd put the kybosh on that business.\nAnd there'd been volcanoes or something and all the rocks was wrong.\nThere's places about by Soona where you fair have to follow the rocks\nabout to see where they're going next. Down she went in twenty fathoms\nbefore you could have dealt for whist, with fifty thousand pounds worth of\ngold aboard, it was said, in one form or another.\"\n\n\"Survivors?\"\n\n\"Three.\"\n\n\"I remember the case now,\" I said. \"There was something about salvage----\"\n\nBut at the word salvage the sunburnt man exploded into language so\nextraordinarily horrible that I stopped aghast. He came down to more\nordinary swearing, and pulled himself up abruptly. \"Excuse me,\" he said,\n\"but--salvage!\"\n\nHe leant over towards me. \"I was in that job,\" he said. \"Tried to make\nmyself a rich man, and got made a god instead. I've got my feelings----\n\n\"It ain't all jam being a god,\" said the sunburnt man, and for some time\nconversed by means of such pithy but unprogressive axioms. At last he took\nup his tale again.\n\n\"There was me,\" said the sunburnt man, \"and a seaman named Jacobs, and\nAlways, the mate of the _Ocean Pioneer_. And him it was that set the\nwhole thing going. I remember him now, when we was in the jolly-boat,\nsuggesting it all to our minds just by one sentence. He was a wonderful\nhand at suggesting things. 'There was forty thousand pounds,' he said, 'on\nthat ship, and it's for me to say just where she went down.' It didn't\nneed much brains to tumble to that. And he was the leader from the first\nto the last. He got hold of the Sanderses and their brig; they were\nbrothers, and the brig was the _Pride of Banya_, and he it was bought\nthe diving dress--a second-hand one with a compressed air apparatus\ninstead of pumping. He'd have done the diving too, if it hadn't made him\nsick going down. And the salvage people were mucking about with a chart\nhe'd cooked up, as solemn as could be, at Starr Race, a hundred and twenty\nmiles away.\n\n\"I can tell you we was a happy lot aboard that brig, jokes and drink and\nbright hopes all the time. It all seemed so neat and clean and\nstraightforward, and what rough chaps call a 'cert.' And we used to\nspeculate how the other blessed lot, the proper salvagers, who'd started\ntwo days before us, were getting on, until our sides fairly ached. We all\nmessed together in the Sanderses' cabin--it was a curious crew, all\nofficers and no men--and there stood the diving-dress waiting its turn.\nYoung Sanders was a humorous sort of chap, and there certainly was\nsomething funny in the confounded thing's great fat head and its stare,\nand he made us see it too. 'Jimmy Goggles,' he used to call it, and talk\nto it like a Christian. Asked if he was married, and how Mrs. Goggles was,\nand all the little Goggleses. Fit to make you split. And every blessed day\nall of us used to drink the health of Jimmy Goggles in rum, and unscrew\nhis eye and pour a glass of rum in him, until, instead of that nasty\nmackintosheriness, he smelt as nice in his inside as a cask of rum. It was\njolly times we had in those days, I can tell you--little suspecting, poor\nchaps! what was a-coming.\n\n\"We weren't going to throw away our chances by any blessed hurry, you\nknow, and we spent a whole day sounding our way towards where the\n_Ocean Pioneer_ had gone down, right between two chunks of ropy grey\nrock--lava rocks that rose nearly out of the water. We had to lay off\nabout half a mile to get a safe anchorage, and there was a thundering row\nwho should stop on board. And there she lay just as she had gone down, so\nthat you could see the top of the masts that was still standing perfectly\ndistinctly. The row ended in all coming in the boat. I went down in the\ndiving-dress on Friday morning directly it was light.\n\n\"What a surprise it was! I can see it all now quite distinctly. It was a\nqueer-looking place, and the light was just coming. People over here think\nevery blessed place in the tropics is a flat shore and palm-trees and\nsurf, bless 'em! This place, for instance, wasn't a bit that way. Not\ncommon rocks they were, undermined by waves; but great curved banks like\nironwork cinder heaps, with green slime below, and thorny shrubs and\nthings just waving upon them here and there, and the water glassy calm and\nclear, and showing you a kind of dirty gray-black shine, with huge flaring\nred-brown weeds spreading motionless, and crawling and darting things\ngoing through it. And far away beyond the ditches and pools and the heaps\nwas a forest on the mountain flank, growing again after the fires and\ncinder showers of the last eruption. And the other way forest, too, and a\nkind of broken--what is it?--amby-theatre of black and rusty cinders\nrising out of it all, and the sea in a kind of bay in the middle.\n\n\"The dawn, I say, was just coming, and there wasn't much colour about\nthings, and not a human being but ourselves anywhere in sight up or down\nthe channel. Except the _Pride of Banya_, lying out beyond a lump of\nrocks towards the line of the sea.\n\n\"Not a human being in sight,\" he repeated, and paused.\n\n\"_I_ don't know where they came from, not a bit. And we were feeling\nso safe that we were all alone that poor young Sanders was a-singing. I\nwas in Jimmy Goggles, all except the helmet. 'Easy,' says Always, 'there's\nher mast.' And after I'd had just one squint over the gunwale, I caught up\nthe bogey, and almost tipped out as old Sanders brought the boat round.\nWhen the windows were screwed and everything was all right, I shut the\nvalve from the air-belt in order to help my sinking, and jumped overboard,\nfeet foremost--for we hadn't a ladder. I left the boat pitching, and all\nof them staring down into water after me, as my head sank down into the\nweeds and blackness that lay about the mast. I suppose nobody, not the\nmost cautious chap in the world, would have bothered about a look-out at\nsuch a desolate place. It stunk of solitude.\n\n\"Of course you must understand that I was a greenhorn at diving. None of\nus were divers. We'd had to muck about with the thing to get the way of\nit, and this was the first time I'd been deep. It feels damnable. Your\nears hurt beastly. I don't know if you've ever hurt yourself yawning or\nsneezing, but it takes you like that, only ten times worse. And a pain\nover the eyebrows here--splitting--and a feeling like influenza in the\nhead. And it isn't all heaven in your lungs and things. And going down\nfeels like the beginning of a lift, only it keeps on. And you can't turn\nyour head to see what's above you, and you can't get a fair squint at\nwhat's happening to your feet without bending down something painful. And\nbeing deep it was dark, let alone the blackness of the ashes and mud that\nformed the bottom. It was like going down out of the dawn back into the\nnight, so to speak.\n\n\"The mast came up like a ghost out of the black, and then a lot of fishes,\nand then a lot of flapping red seaweed, and then whack I came with a kind\nof dull bang on the deck of the _Ocean Pioneer_, and the fishes that\nhad been feeding on the dead rose about me like a swarm of flies from road\nstuff in summer-time. I turned on the compressed air again--for the suit\nwas a bit thick and mackintoshery after all, in spite of the rum--and\nstood recovering myself. It struck coolish down there, and that helped\ntake off the stuffiness a bit.\"\n\n\"When I began to feel easier, I started looking about me. It was an\nextraordinary sight. Even the light was extraordinary, a kind of\nreddy-coloured twilight, on account of the streamers of seaweed that\nfloated up on either side of the ship. And far overhead just a moony,\ndeep green blue. The deck of the ship, except for a slight list to\nstarboard, was level, and lay all dark and long between the weeds, clear\nexcept where the masts had snapped when she rolled, and vanishing into\nblack night towards the forecastle. There wasn't any dead on the decks,\nmost were in the weeds alongside, I suppose; but afterwards I found two\nskeletons lying in the passengers' cabins, where death had come to them.\nIt was curious to stand on that deck and recognise it all, bit by bit; a\nplace against the rail where I'd been fond of smoking by starlight, and\nthe corner where an old chap from Sydney used to flirt with a widow we\nhad aboard. A comfortable couple they'd been, only a month ago, and now\nyou couldn't have got a meal for a baby crab off either of them.\n\n\"I've always had a bit of a philosophical turn, and I daresay I spent the\nbest part of five minutes in such thoughts before I went below to find\nwhere the blessed dust was stored. It was slow work hunting, feeling it\nwas for the most part, pitchy dark, with confusing blue gleams down the\ncompanion. And there were things moving about, a dab at my glass once, and\nonce a pinch at my leg. Crabs, I expect. I kicked a lot of loose stuff\nthat puzzled me, and stooped and picked up something all knobs and spikes.\nWhat do you think? Backbone! But I never had any particular feeling for\nbones. We had talked the affair over pretty thoroughly, and Always knew\njust where the stuff was stowed. I found it that trip. I lifted a box one\nend an inch or more.\"\n\nHe broke off in his story. \"I've lifted it,\" he said, \"as near as that!\nForty thousand pounds' worth of pure gold! Gold! I shouted inside my\nhelmet as a kind of cheer, and hurt my ears. I was getting confounded\nstuffy and tired by this time--I must have been down twenty-five minutes\nor more--and I thought this was good enough. I went up the companion\nagain, and as my eyes came up flush with the deck, a thundering great crab\ngave a kind of hysterical jump and went scuttling off sideways. Quite a\nstart it gave me. I stood up clear on deck and shut the valve behind the\nhelmet to let the air accumulate to carry me up again--I noticed a kind of\nwhacking from above, as though they were hitting the water with an oar,\nbut I didn't look up. I fancied they were signalling me to come up.\n\n\"And then something shot down by me--something heavy, and stood a-quiver\nin the planks. I looked, and there was a long knife I'd seen young Sanders\nhandling. Thinks I, he's dropped it, and I was still calling him this kind\nof fool and that---for it might have hurt me serious--when I began to lift\nand drive up towards the daylight. Just about the level of the top spars\nof the _Ocean Pioneer_, whack! I came against something sinking down,\nand a boot knocked in front of my helmet. Then something else, struggling\nfrightful. It was a big weight atop of me, whatever it was, and moving and\ntwisting about. I'd have thought it a big octopus, or some such thing, if\nit hadn't been for the boot. But octopuses don't wear boots. It was all in\na moment, of course.\n\n\"I felt myself sinking down again, and I threw my arms about to keep\nsteady, and the whole lot rolled free of me and shot down as I went up--\"\n\nHe paused.\n\n\"I saw young Sanders's face, over a naked black shoulder, and a spear\ndriven clean through his neck, and out of his mouth and neck what looked\nlike spirts of pink smoke in the water. And down they went clutching one\nanother, and turning over, and both too far gone to leave go. And in\nanother second my helmet came a whack, fit to split, against the niggers'\ncanoe. It was niggers! Two canoes full.\n\n\"It was lively times I tell you? Overboard came Always with three spears\nin him. There was the legs of three or four black chaps kicking about me\nin the water. I couldn't see much, but I saw the game was up at a glance,\ngave my valve a tremendous twist, and went bubbling down again after poor\nAlways, in as awful a state of scare and astonishment as you can well\nimagine. I passed young Sanders and the nigger going up again and\nstruggling still a bit, and in another moment I was standing in the dim\nagain on the deck of the _Ocean Pioneer_.\n\n\"Gummy, thinks I, here's a fix! Niggers? At first I couldn't see anything\nfor it but Stifle below or Stabs above. I didn't properly understand how\nmuch air there was to last me out, but I didn't feel like standing very\nmuch more of it down below. I was hot and frightfully heady, quite apart\nfrom the blue funk I was in. We'd never reckoned with these beastly\nnatives, filthy Papuan beasts. It wasn't any good coming up where I was,\nbut I had to do something. On the spur of the moment, I clambered over the\nside of the brig and landed among the weeds, and set off through the\ndarkness as fast as I could. I just stopped once and knelt, and twisted\nback my head in the helmet and had a look up. It was a most extraordinary\nbright green-blue above, and the two canoes and the boat floating there\nvery small and distant like a kind of twisted H. And it made me feel sick\nto squint up at it, and think what the pitching and swaying of the three\nmeant.\n\n\"It was just about the most horrible ten minutes I ever had, blundering\nabout in that darkness--pressure something awful, like being buried in\nsand, pain across the chest, sick with funk, and breathing nothing as it\nseemed but the smell of rum and mackintosh. Gummy! After a bit, I found\nmyself going up a steepish sort of slope. I had another squint to see if\nanything was visible of the canoes and boats, and then kept on. I stopped\nwith my head a foot from the surface, and tried to see where I was going,\nbut, of course, nothing was to be seen but the reflection of the bottom.\nThen out I dashed, like knocking my head through a mirror. Directly I got\nmy eyes out of the water, I saw I'd come up a kind of beach near the\nforest. I had a look round, but the natives and the brig were both hidden\nby a big hummucky heap of twisted lava. The born fool in me suggested a\nrun for the woods. I didn't take the helmet off, but I eased open one of\nthe windows, and, after a bit of a pant, went on out of the water. You'd\nhardly imagine how clean and light the air tasted.\n\n\"Of course, with four inches of lead in your boot soles, and your head in\na copper knob the size of a football, and been thirty-five minutes under\nwater, you don't break any records running. I ran like a ploughboy going\nto work. And half-way to the trees I saw a dozen niggers or more, coming\nout in a gaping, astonished sort of way to meet me.\n\n\"I just stopped dead, and cursed myself for all the fools out of London. I\nhad about as much chance of cutting back to the water as a turned turtle.\nI just screwed up my window again to leave my hands free, and waited for\nthem. There wasn't anything else for me to do.\n\n\"But they didn't come on very much. I began to suspect why. 'Jimmy\nGoggles,' I says, 'it's your beauty does it.' I was inclined to be a\nlittle lightheaded, I think, with all these dangers about and the change\nin the pressure of the blessed air. 'Who're ye staring at?' I said, as if\nthe savages could hear me. 'What d'ye take me for? I'm hanged if I don't\ngive you something to stare at,' I said, and with that I screwed up the\nescape valve and turned on the compressed air from the belt, until I was\nswelled out like a blown frog. Regular imposing it must have been. I'm\nblessed if they'd come on a step; and presently one and then another went\ndown on their hands and knees. They didn't know what to make of me, and\nthey was doing the extra polite, which was very wise and reasonable of\nthem. I had half a mind to edge back seaward and cut and run, but it\nseemed too hopeless. A step back and they'd have been after me. And out of\nsheer desperation I began to march towards them up the beach, with slow,\nheavy steps, and waving my blown-out arms about, in a dignified manner.\nAnd inside of me I was singing as small as a tomtit.\n\n\"But there's nothing like a striking appearance to help a man over a\ndifficulty,--I've found that before and since. People like ourselves,\nwho're up to diving dresses by the time we're seven, can scarcely imagine\nthe effect of one on a simple-minded savage. One or two of these niggers\ncut and run, the others started in a great hurry trying to knock their\nbrains out on the ground. And on I went as slow and solemn and\nsilly-looking and artful as a jobbing plumber. It was evident they took\nme for something immense.\n\n\"Then up jumped one and began pointing, making extraordinary gestures to\nme as he did so, and all the others began sharing their attention between\nme and something out at; sea. 'What's the matter now?' I said. I turned\nslowly on account of my dignity, and there I saw, coming round a point,\nthe poor old _Pride of Banya_ towed by a couple of canoes. The sight\nfairly made me sick. But they evidently expected some recognition, so I\nwaved my arms in a striking sort of non-committal manner. And then I\nturned and stalked on towards the trees again. At that time I was praying\nlike mad, I remember, over and over again: 'Lord help me through with it!\nLord help me through with it!' It's only fools who know nothing of danger\ncan afford to laugh at praying.\"\n\n\"But these niggers weren't going to let me walk through and away like\nthat. They started a kind of bowing dance about me, and sort of pressed me\nto take a pathway that lay through the trees. It was clear to me they\ndidn't take me for a British citizen, whatever else they thought of me,\nand for my own part I was never less anxious to own up to the old country.\n\n\"You'd hardly believe it, perhaps, unless you're familiar with savages,\nbut these poor, misguided, ignorant creatures took me straight to their\nkind of joss place to present me to the blessed old black stone there. By\nthis time I was beginning to sort of realise the depth of their ignorance,\nand directly I set eyes on this deity I took my cue. I started a baritone\nhowl, 'wow-wow,' very long on one note, and began waving my arms about a\nlot, and then very slowly and ceremoniously turned their image over on its\nside and sat down on it. I wanted to sit down badly, for diving dresses\nain't much wear in the tropics. Or, to put it different like, they're a\nsight too much. It took away their breath, I could see, my sitting on\ntheir joss, but in less time than a minute they made up their minds and\nwere hard at work worshipping me. And I can tell you I felt a bit relieved\nto see things turning out so well, in spite of the weight on my shoulders\nand feet.\n\n\"But what made me anxious was what the chaps in the canoes might think\nwhen they came back. If they'd seen me in the boat before I went down, and\nwithout the helmet on--for they might have been spying and hiding since\nover night--they would very likely take a different view from the others.\nI was in a deuce of a stew about that for hours, as it seemed, until the\nshindy of the arrival began.\n\n\"But they took it down--the whole blessed village took it down. At the\ncost of sitting up stiff and stern, as much like those sitting Egyptian\nimages one sees as I could manage, for pretty nearly twelve hours, I\nshould guess at least, on end, I got over it. You'd hardly think what it\nmeant in that heat and stink. I don't think any of them dreamt of the man\ninside. I was just a wonderful leathery great joss that had come up with\nluck out of the water. But the fatigue! the heat! the beastly closeness!\nthe mackintosheriness and the rum! and the fuss! They lit a stinking fire\non a kind of lava slab there was before me, and brought in a lot of gory\nmuck--the worst parts of what they were feasting on outside, the Beasts--\nand burnt it all in my honour. I was getting a bit hungry, but I\nunderstand now how gods manage to do without eating, what with the smell\nof burnt-offerings about them. And they brought in a lot of the stuff\nthey'd got off the brig and, among other stuff, what I was a bit relieved\nto see, the kind of pneumatic pump that was used for the compressed air\naffair, and then a lot of chaps and girls came in and danced about me\nsomething disgraceful. It's extraordinary the different ways different\npeople have of showing respect. If I'd had a hatchet handy I'd have gone\nfor the lot of them--they made me feel that wild. All this time I sat as\nstiff as company, not knowing anything better to do. And at last, when\nnightfall came, and the wattle joss-house place got a bit too shadowy for\ntheir taste--all these here savages are afraid of the dark, you know--and\nI started a sort of 'Moo' noise, they built big bonfires outside and left\nme alone in peace in the darkness of my hut, free to unscrew my windows a\nbit and think things over, and feel just as bad as I liked. And Lord! I\nwas sick.\n\n\"I was weak and hungry, and my mind kept on behaving like a beetle on a\npin, tremendous activity and nothing done at the end of it. Come round\njust where it was before. There was sorrowing for the other chaps, beastly\ndrunkards certainly, but not deserving such a fate, and young Sanders with\nthe spear through his neck wouldn't go out of my mind. There was the\ntreasure down there in the _Ocean Pioneer_, and how one might get it\nand hide it somewhere safer, and get away and come back for it. And there\nwas the puzzle where to get anything to eat. I tell you I was fair\nrambling. I was afraid to ask by signs for food, for fear of behaving too\nhuman, and so there I sat and hungered until very near the dawn. Then the\nvillage got a bit quiet, and I couldn't stand it any longer, and I went\nout and got some stuff like artichokes in a bowl and some sour milk. What\nwas left of these I put away among the other offerings, just to give them\na hint of my tastes. And in the morning they came to worship, and found me\nsitting up stiff and respectable on their previous god, just as they'd\nleft me overnight. I'd got my back against the central pillar of the hut,\nand, practically, I was asleep. And that's how I became a god among the\nheathen--false god, no doubt, and blasphemous, but one can't always pick\nand choose.\n\n\"Now, I don't want to crack myself up as a god beyond my merits, but I\nmust confess that while I was god to these people they was extraordinary\nsuccessful. I don't say there's anything in it, mind you. They won a\nbattle with another tribe--I got a lot of offerings I didn't want through\nit--they had wonderful fishing, and their crop of pourra was exceptional\nfine. And they counted the capture of the brig among the benefits I\nbrought 'em. I must say I don't think that was a poor record for a\nperfectly new hand. And, though perhaps you'd scarcely credit it, I was\nthe tribal god of those beastly savages for pretty nearly four months...\n\n\"What else could I do, man? But I didn't wear that diving-dress all the\ntime. I made 'em rig me up a sort of holy of holies, and a deuce of a time\nI had too, making them understand what it was I wanted them to do. That\nindeed was the great difficulty--making them understand my wishes. I\ncouldn't let myself down by talking their lingo badly, even if I'd been\nable to speak at all, and I couldn't go flapping a lot of gestures at\nthem. So I drew pictures in sand and sat down beside them and hooted like\none o'clock. Sometimes they did the things I wanted all right, and\nsometimes they did them all wrong. They was always very willing,\ncertainly. All the while I was puzzling how I was to get the confounded\nbusiness settled. Every night before the dawn I used to march out in full\nrig and go off to a place where I could see the channel in which the\n_Ocean Pioneer_ lay sunk, and once even, one moonlight night, I tried\nto walk out to her, but the weeds and rocks and dark clean beat me. I\ndidn't get back till full day, and then I found all those silly niggers\nout on the beach praying their sea-god to return to them. I was that vexed\nand tired, messing and tumbling about, and coming up and going down again,\nI could have punched their silly heads all round when they started\nrejoicing. Hanged if I like so much ceremony.\n\n\"And then came the missionary. That missionary! _What_ a Guy! Gummy!\nIt was in the afternoon, and I was sitting in state in my outer temple\nplace, sitting on that old black stone of theirs, when he came. I heard a\nrow outside and jabbering, and then his voice speaking to an interpreter.\n'They worship stocks and stones,' he said, and I knew what was up, in a\nflash. I had one of my windows out for comfort, and I sang out straight\naway on the spur of the moment. 'Stocks and stones!' I says. 'You come\ninside,' I says, 'and I'll punch your blooming Exeter Hall of a head.'\n\n\"There was a kind of silence and more jabbering, and in he came, Bible in\nhand, after the manner of them--a little sandy chap in specks and a pith\nhelmet. I flatter myself that me sitting there in the shadows, with my\ncopper head and my big goggles, struck him a bit of a heap at first.\n'Well,' I says, 'how's the trade in scissors?' for I don't hold with\nmissionaries.\n\n\"I had a lark with that missionary. He was a raw hand, and quite\noutclassed by a man like me. He gasped out who was I, and I told him to\nread the inscription at my feet if he wanted to know. There wasn't no\ninscription; why should there be? but down he goes to read, and his\ninterpreter, being of course as superstitious as any of them, more so by\nreason of his seeing missionary close to, took it for an act of worship\nand plumped down like a shot. All my people gave a howl of triumph, and\nthere wasn't any more business to be done in my village after that\njourney, not by the likes of him.\n\n\"But, of course, I was a fool to choke him off like that. If I'd had any\nsense I should have told him straight away of the treasure and taken him\ninto Co. I've no doubt he'd have come into Co. A child, with a few hours\nto think it over, could have seen the connection between my diving dress\nand the loss of the _Ocean Pioneer_. A week after he left I went out\none morning and saw the _Motherhood_, the salver's ship from Starr\nRace, towing up the channel and sounding. The whole blessed game was up,\nand all my trouble thrown away. Gummy! How wild I felt! And guying it in\nthat stinking silly dress! Four months!\"\n\nThe sunburnt man's story degenerated again. \"Think of it,\" he said, when\nhe emerged to linguistic purity once more. \"Forty thousand pounds' worth\nof gold.\"\n\n\"Did the little missionary come back?\" I asked.\n\n\"Oh yes! bless him! And he pledged his reputation there was a man inside\nthe god, and started out to see as much with tremendous ceremony. But\nwasn't--he got sold again. I always did hate scenes and explanations, and\nlong before he came I was out of it all--going home to Banya along the\ncoast, hiding in bushes by day, and thieving food from the villages by\nnight. Only weapon, a spear. No clothes, no money. Nothing. My face, my\nfortune, as the saying is. And just a squeak of eight thousand pounds of\ngold--fifth share. But the natives cut up rusty, thank goodness, because\nthey thought it was him had driven their luck away.\"\n\n\n\n\n XXIV.\n\n MISS WINCHELSEA'S HEART.\n\n\nMiss Winchelsea was going to Rome. The matter had filled her mind for a\nmonth or more, and had overflowed so abundantly into her conversation that\nquite a number of people who were not going to Rome, and who were not\nlikely to go to Rome, had made it a personal grievance against her. Some\nindeed had attempted quite unavailingly to convince her that Rome was not\nnearly such a desirable place as it was reported to be, and others had\ngone so far as to suggest behind her back that she was dreadfully \"stuck\nup\" about \"that Rome of hers.\" And little Lily Hardhurst had told her\nfriend Mr. Binns that so far as she was concerned Miss Winchelsea might\n\"go to her old Rome and stop there; _she_ (Miss Lily Hardhurst)\nwouldn't grieve.\" And the way in which Miss Winchelsea put herself upon\nterms of personal tenderness with Horace and Benvenuto Cellini and Raphael\nand Shelley and Keats--if she had been Shelley's widow she could not have\nprofessed a keener interest in his grave--was a matter of universal\nastonishment. Her dress was a triumph of tactful discretion, sensible, but\nnot too \"touristy\"'--Miss Winchelsea had a great dread of being\n\"touristy\"--and her Baedeker was carried in a cover of grey to hide its\nglaring red. She made a prim and pleasant little figure on the Charing\nCross platform, in spite of her swelling pride, when at last the great day\ndawned, and she could start for Rome. The day was bright, the Channel\npassage would be pleasant, and all the omens promised well. There was the\ngayest sense of adventure in this unprecedented departure.\n\nShe was going with two friends who had been fellow-students with her at\nthe training college, nice honest girls both, though not so good at\nhistory and literature as Miss Winchelsea. They both looked up to her\nimmensely, though physically they had to look down, and she anticipated\nsome pleasant times to be spent in \"stirring them up\" to her own pitch of\nAEsthetic and historical enthusiasm. They had secured seats already, and\nwelcomed her effusively at the carriage door. In the instant criticism of\nthe encounter she noted that Fanny had a slightly \"touristy\" leather\nstrap, and that Helen had succumbed to a serge jacket with side pockets,\ninto which her hands were thrust. But they were much too happy with\nthemselves and the expedition for their friend to attempt any hint at the\nmoment about these things. As soon as the first ecstasies were over--\nFanny's enthusiasm was a little noisy and crude, and consisted mainly\nin emphatic repetitions of \"Just _fancy_! we're going to Rome, my\ndear!--Rome!\"--they gave their attention to their fellow-travellers. Helen\nwas anxious to secure a compartment to themselves, and, in order to\ndiscourage intruders, got out and planted herself firmly on the step. Miss\nWinchelsea peeped out over her shoulder, and made sly little remarks about\nthe accumulating people on the platform, at which Fanny laughed gleefully.\n\nThey were travelling with one of Mr. Thomas Gunn's parties--fourteen days\nin Rome for fourteen pounds. They did not belong to the personally\nconducted party, of course--Miss Winchelsea had seen to that--but they\ntravelled with it because of the convenience of that arrangement. The\npeople were the oddest mixture, and wonderfully amusing. There was a\nvociferous red-faced polyglot personal conductor in a pepper-and-salt\nsuit, very long in the arms and legs and very active. He shouted\nproclamations. When he wanted to speak to people he stretched out an arm\nand held them until his purpose was accomplished. One hand was full of\npapers, tickets, counterfoils of tourists. The people of the personally\nconducted party were, it seemed, of two sorts; people the conductor wanted\nand could not find, and people he did not want and who followed him in a\nsteadily growing tail up and down the platform. These people seemed,\nindeed, to think that their one chance of reaching Rome lay in keeping\nclose to him. Three little old ladies were particularly energetic in his\npursuit, and at last maddened him to the pitch of clapping them into a\ncarriage and daring them to emerge again. For the rest of the time, one,\ntwo, or three of their heads protruded from the window wailing inquiries\nabout \"a little wicker-work box\" whenever he drew near. There was a very\nstout man with a very stout wife in shiny black; there was a little old\nman like an aged hostler.\n\n\"What _can_ such people want in Rome?\" asked Miss Winchelsea. \"What\ncan it mean to them?\" There was a very tall curate in a very small straw\nhat, and a very short curate encumbered by a long camera stand. The\ncontrast amused Fanny very much. Once they heard some one calling for\n\"Snooks.\" \"I always thought that name was invented by novelists,\" said\nMiss Winchelsea. \"Fancy! Snooks. I wonder which _is_ Mr. Snooks.\"\nFinally they picked out a very stout and resolute little man in a large\ncheck suit. \"If he isn't Snooks, he ought to be,\" said Miss Winchelsea.\n\nPresently the conductor discovered Helen's attempt at a corner in\ncarriages. \"Room for five,\" he bawled with a parallel translation on his\nfingers. A party of four together--mother, father, and two daughters--\nblundered in, all greatly excited. \"It's all right, Ma--you let me,\" said\none of the daughters, hitting her mother's bonnet with a handbag she\nstruggled to put in the rack. Miss Winchelsea detested people who banged\nabout and called their mother \"Ma.\" A young man travelling alone followed.\nHe was not at all \"touristy\" in his costume, Miss Winchelsea observed; his\nGladstone bag was of good pleasant leather with labels reminiscent of\nLuxembourg and Ostend, and his boots, though brown, were not vulgar. He\ncarried an overcoat on his arm. Before these people had properly settled\nin their places, came an inspection of tickets and a slamming of doors,\nand behold! they were gliding out of Charing Cross Station on their way to\nRome.\n\n\"Fancy!\" cried Fanny, \"we are going to Rome, my dear! Rome! I don't seem\nto believe it, even now.\"\n\nMiss Winchelsea suppressed Fanny's emotions with a little smile, and the\nlady who was called \"Ma\" explained to people in general why they had \"cut\nit so close\" at the station. The two daughters called her \"Ma\" several\ntimes, toned her down in a tactless, effective way, and drove her at last\nto the muttered inventory of a basket of travelling requisites. Presently\nshe looked up. \"Lor!\" she said, \"I didn't bring _them_!\" Both the\ndaughters said \"Oh, Ma!\" But what \"them\" was did not appear.\n\nPresently Fanny produced Hare's _Walks in Rome_, a sort of mitigated\nguide-book very popular among Roman visitors; and the father of the two\ndaughters began to examine his books of tickets minutely, apparently in a\nsearch after English words. When he had looked at the tickets for a long\ntime right way up, he turned them upside down. Then he produced a fountain\npen and dated them with considerable care. The young man having completed\nan unostentatious survey of his fellow-travellers produced a book and fell\nto reading. When Helen and Fanny were looking out of the window at\nChislehurst--the place interested Fanny because the poor dear Empress of\nthe French used to live there--Miss Winchelsea took the opportunity to\nobserve the book the young man held. It was not a guide-book but a little\nthin volume of poetry--_bound_. She glanced at his face--it seemed a\nrefined, pleasant face to her hasty glance. He wore a little gilt\n_pince-nez_. \"Do you think she lives there now?\" said Fanny, and Miss\nWinchelsea's inspection came to an end.\n\nFor the rest of the journey Miss Winchelsea talked little, and what she\nsaid was as agreeable and as stamped with refinement as she could make it.\nHer voice was always low and clear and pleasant, and she took care that on\nthis occasion it was particularly low and clear and pleasant. As they came\nunder the white cliffs the young man put his book of poetry away, and when\nat last the train stopped beside the boat, he displayed a graceful\nalacrity with the impedimenta of Miss Winchelsea and her friends. Miss\nWinchelsea \"hated nonsense,\" but she was pleased to see the young man\nperceived at once that they were ladies, and helped them without any\nviolent geniality; and how nicely he showed that his civilities were to be\nno excuse for further intrusions. None of her little party had been out of\nEngland before, and they were all excited and a little nervous at the\nChannel passage. They stood in a little group in a good place near the\nmiddle of the boat--the young man had taken Miss Winchelsea's carry-all\nthere and had told her it was a good place--and they watched the white\nshores of Albion recede and quoted Shakespeare and made quiet fun of their\nfellow-travellers in the English way.\n\nThey were particularly amused at the precautions the bigger-sized people\nhad taken against the little waves--cut lemons and flasks prevailed, one\nlady lay full length in a deck chair with a handkerchief over her face,\nand a very broad resolute man in a bright brown \"touristy\" suit walked all\nthe way from England to France along the deck, with his legs as widely\napart as Providence permitted. These were all excellent precautions, and\nnobody was ill. The personally-conducted party pursued the conductor about\nthe deck with inquiries, in a manner that suggested to Helen's mind the\nrather vulgar image of hens with a piece of bacon rind, until at last he\nwent into hiding below. And the young man with the thin volume of poetry\nstood at the stern watching England receding, looking rather lonely and\nsad to Miss Winchelsea's eye.\n\nAnd then came Calais and tumultuous novelties, and the young man had not\nforgotten Miss Winchelsea's hold-all and the other little things. All\nthree girls, though they had passed Government examinations in French to\nany extent, were stricken with a dumb shame of their accents, and the\nyoung man was very useful. And he did not intrude. He put them in a\ncomfortable carriage and raised his hat and went away. Miss Winchelsea\nthanked him in her best manner--a pleasing, cultivated manner--and Fanny\nsaid he was \"nice\" almost before he was out of earshot. \"I wonder what he\ncan be,\" said Helen. \"He's going to Italy, because I noticed green tickets\nin his book.\" Miss Winchelsea almost told them of the poetry, and decided\nnot to do so. And presently the carriage windows seized hold upon them and\nthe young man was forgotten. It made them feel that they were doing an\neducated sort of thing to travel through a country whose commonest\nadvertisements were in idiomatic French, and Miss Winchelsea made\nunpatriotic comparisons because there were weedy little sign-board\nadvertisements by the rail side instead of the broad hoardings that deface\nthe landscape in our land. But the north of France is really uninteresting\ncountry, and after a time Fanny reverted to Hare's _Walks_, and Helen\ninitiated lunch. Miss Winchelsea awoke out of a happy reverie; she had\nbeen trying to realise, she said, that she was actually going to Rome, but\nshe perceived at Helen's suggestion that she was hungry, and they lunched\nout of their baskets very cheerfully. In the afternoon they were tired and\nsilent until Helen made tea. Miss Winchelsea might have dozed, only she\nknew Fanny slept with her mouth open; and as their fellow-passengers were\ntwo rather nice, critical-looking ladies of uncertain age--who knew French\nwell enough to talk it--she employed herself in keeping Fanny awake. The\nrhythm of the train became insistent, and the streaming landscape outside\nbecame at last quite painful to the eye. They were already dreadfully\ntired of travelling before their night's stoppage came.\n\nThe stoppage for the night was brightened by the appearance of the young\nman, and his manners were all that could be desired and his French quite\nserviceable.\n\nHis coupons availed for the same hotel as theirs, and by chance, as it\nseemed, he sat next Miss Winchelsea at the _table d'hôte._ In spite\nof her enthusiasm for Rome, she had thought out some such possibility very\nthoroughly, and when he ventured to make a remark upon the tediousness of\ntravelling--he let the soup and fish go by before he did this--she did not\nsimply assent to his proposition, but responded with another. They were\nsoon comparing their journeys, and Helen and Fanny were cruelly overlooked\nin the conversation.. It was to be the same journey, they found; one day\nfor the galleries at Florence--\"from what I hear,\" said the young man, \"it\nis barely enough,\"--and the rest at Rome. He talked of Rome very\npleasantly; he was evidently quite well read, and he quoted Horace about\nSoracte. Miss Winchelsea had \"done\" that book of Horace for her\nmatriculation, and was delighted to cap his quotation. It gave a sort of\ntone to things, this incident--a touch of refinement to mere chatting.\nFanny expressed a few emotions, and Helen interpolated a few sensible\nremarks, but the bulk of the talk on the girls' side naturally fell to\nMiss Winchelsea.\n\nBefore they reached Rome this young man was tacitly of their party. They\ndid not know his name nor what he was, but it seemed he taught, and Miss\nWinchelsea had a shrewd idea he was an extension lecturer. At any rate he\nwas something of that sort, something gentlemanly and refined without\nbeing opulent and impossible. She tried once or twice to ascertain whether\nhe came from Oxford or Cambridge, but he missed her timid opportunities.\nShe tried to get him to make remarks about those places to see if he would\nsay \"come up\" to them instead of \"go down,\"--she knew that was how you\ntold a 'Varsity man. He used the word \"'Varsity\"--not university--in quite\nthe proper way.\n\nThey saw as much of Mr. Ruskin's Florence as the brief time permitted; he\nmet them in the Pitti Gallery and went round with them, chatting brightly,\nand evidently very grateful for their recognition. He knew a great deal\nabout art, and all four enjoyed the morning immensely. It was fine to go\nround recognising old favourites and finding new beauties, especially\nwhile so many people fumbled helplessly with Baedeker. Nor was he a bit of\na prig, Miss Winchelsea said, and indeed she detested prigs. He had a\ndistinct undertone of humour, and was funny, for example, without being\nvulgar, at the expense of the quaint work of Beato Angelico. He had a\ngrave seriousness beneath it all, and was quick to seize the moral lessons\nof the pictures. Fanny went softly among these masterpieces; she admitted\n\"she knew so little about them,\" and she confessed that to her they were\n\"all beautiful.\" Fanny's \"beautiful\" inclined to be a little monotonous,\nMiss Winchelsea thought. She had been quite glad when the last sunny Alp\nhad vanished, because of the staccato of Fanny's admiration. Helen said\nlittle, but Miss Winchelsea had found her a trifle wanting on the\naesthetic side in the old days and was not surprised; sometimes she\nlaughed at the young man's hesitating, delicate jests and sometimes she\ndidn't, and sometimes she seemed quite lost to the art about them in the\ncontemplation of the dresses of the other visitors.\n\nAt Rome the young man was with them intermittently. A rather \"touristy\"\nfriend of his took him away at times. He complained comically to Miss\nWinchelsea. \"I have only two short weeks in Rome,\" he said, \"and my friend\nLeonard wants to spend a whole day at Tivoli looking at a waterfall.\"\n\n\"What is your friend Leonard?\" asked Miss Winchelsea abruptly.\n\n\"He's the most enthusiastic pedestrian I ever met,\" the young man\nreplied--amusingly, but a little unsatisfactorily, Miss Winchelsea\nthought.\n\nThey had some glorious times, and Fanny could not think what they would\nhave done without him. Miss Winchelsea's interest and Fanny's enormous\ncapacity for admiration were insatiable. They never flagged--through\npictures and sculpture galleries, immense crowded churches, ruins and\nmuseums, Judas trees and prickly pears, wine carts and palaces, they\nadmired their way unflinchingly. They never saw a stone pine or a\neucalyptus but they named and admired it; they never glimpsed Soracte but\nthey exclaimed. Their common ways were made wonderful by imaginative play.\n\"Here Caesar may have walked,\" they would say. \"Raphael may have seen\nSoracte from this very point.\" They happened on the tomb of Bibulus. \"Old\nBibulus,\" said the young man. \"The oldest monument of Republican Rome!\"\nsaid Miss Winchelsea.\n\n\"I'm dreadfully stupid,\" said Fanny, \"but who _was_ Bibulus?\"\n\nThere was a curious little pause.\n\n\"Wasn't he the person who built the wall?\" said Helen.\n\nThe young man glanced quickly at her and laughed. \"That was Balbus,\" he\nsaid. Helen reddened, but neither he nor Miss Winchelsea threw any light\nupon Fanny's ignorance about Bibulus.\n\nHelen was more taciturn than the other three, but then she was always\ntaciturn, and usually she took care of the tram tickets and things like\nthat, or kept her eye on them if the young man took them, and told him\nwhere they were when he wanted them. Glorious times they had, these young\npeople, in that pale brown cleanly city of memories that was once the\nworld. Their only sorrow was the shortness of the time. They said indeed\nthat the electric trams and the '70 buildings, and that criminal\nadvertisement that glares upon the Forum, outraged their aesthetic\nfeelings unspeakably; but that was only part of the fun. And indeed Rome\nis such a wonderful place that it made Miss Winchelsea forget some of her\nmost carefully prepared enthusiasms at times, and Helen, taken unawares,\nwould suddenly admit the beauty of unexpected things. Yet Fanny and Helen\nwould have liked a shop window or so in the English quarter if Miss\nWinchelsea's uncompromising hostility to all other English visitors had\nnot rendered that district impossible.\n\nThe intellectual and aesthetic fellowship of Miss Winchelsea and the\nscholarly young man passed insensibly towards a deeper feeling. The\nexuberant Fanny did her best to keep pace with their recondite admiration\nby playing her \"beautiful\" with vigour, and saying \"Oh! _let's_ go,\"\nwith enormous appetite whenever a new place of interest was mentioned. But\nHelen developed a certain want of sympathy towards the end that\ndisappointed Miss Winchelsea a little. She refused to see \"anything\" in\nthe face of Beatrice Cenci--Shelley's Beatrice Cenci!--in the Barberini\nGallery; and one day, when they were deploring the electric trams, she\nsaid rather snappishly that \"people must get about somehow, and it's\nbetter than torturing horses up these horrid little hills.\" She spoke of\nthe Seven Hills of Rome as \"horrid little hills \"!\n\nAnd the day they went on the Palatine--though Miss Winchelsea did not know\nof this--she remarked suddenly to Fanny, \"Don't hurry like that, my dear;\n_they_ don't want us to overtake them. And we don't say the right\nthings for them when we _do_ get near.\"\n\n\"I wasn't trying to overtake them,\" said Fanny, slackening her excessive\npace; \"I wasn't indeed.\" And for a minute she was short of breath.\n\nBut Miss Winchelsea had come upon happiness. It was only when she came to\nlook back across an intervening tragedy that she quite realised how happy\nshe had been pacing among the cypress-shadowed ruins, and exchanging the\nvery highest class of information the human mind can possess, the most\nrefined impressions it is possible to convey. Insensibly emotion crept\ninto their intercourse, sunning itself openly and pleasantly at last when\nHelen's modernity was not too near. Insensibly their interest drifted from\nthe wonderful associations about them to their more intimate and personal\nfeelings. In a tentative way information was supplied; she spoke\nallusively of her school, of her examination successes, of her gladness\nthat the days of \"Cram\" were over. He made it quite clear that he also was\na teacher. They spoke of the greatness of their calling, of the necessity\nof sympathy to face its irksome details, of a certain loneliness they\nsometimes felt.\n\nThat was in the Colosseum, and it was as far as they got that day, because\nHelen returned with Fanny--she had taken her into the upper galleries. Yet\nthe private dreams of Miss Winchelsea, already vivid and concrete enough,\nbecame now realistic in the highest degree. She figured that pleasant\nyoung man lecturing in the most edifying way to his students, herself\nmodestly prominent as his intellectual mate and helper; she figured a\nrefined little home, with two bureaus, with white shelves of high-class\nbooks, and autotypes of the pictures of Rossetti and Burne Jones, with\nMorris's wall-papers and flowers in pots of beaten copper. Indeed she\nfigured many things. On the Pincio the two had a few precious moments\ntogether, while Helen marched Fanny off to see the _muro Torto_, and\nhe spoke at once plainly. He said he hoped their friendship was only\nbeginning, that he already found her company very precious to him, that\nindeed it was more than that.\n\nHe became nervous, thrusting at his glasses with trembling fingers as\nthough he fancied his emotions made them unstable. \"I should of course,\"\nhe said, \"tell you things about myself. I know it is rather unusual my\nspeaking to you like this. Only our meeting has been so accidental--or\nprovidential--and I am snatching at things. I came to Rome expecting a\nlonely tour ... and I have been so very happy, so very happy. Quite\nrecently I have found myself in a position--I have dared to think----,\nAnd----\"\n\nHe glanced over his shoulder and stopped. He said \"Demn!\" quite\ndistinctly--and she did not condemn him for that manly lapse into\nprofanity. She looked and saw his friend Leonard advancing. He drew\nnearer; he raised his hat to Miss Winchelsea, and his smile was almost a\ngrin. \"I've been looking for you everywhere, Snooks,\" he said. \"You\npromised to be on the Piazza steps half-an-hour ago.\"\n\nSnooks! The name struck Miss Winchelsea like a blow in the face. She did\nnot hear his reply. She thought afterwards that Leonard must have\nconsidered her the vaguest-minded person. To this day she is not sure\nwhether she was introduced to Leonard or not, nor what she said to him. A\nsort of mental paralysis was upon her. Of all offensive surnames--Snooks!\n\nHelen and Fanny were returning, there were civilities, and the young men\nwere receding. By a great effort she controlled herself to face the\ninquiring eyes of her friends. All that afternoon she lived the life of a\nheroine under the indescribable outrage of that name, chatting, observing,\nwith \"Snooks\" gnawing at her heart. From the moment that it first rang\nupon her ears, the dream of her happiness was prostrate in the dust. All\nthe refinement she had figured was ruined and defaced by that cognomen's\nunavoidable vulgarity.\n\nWhat was that refined little home to her now, spite of autotypes, Morris\npapers, and bureaus? Athwart it in letters of fire ran an incredible\ninscription: \"Mrs. Snooks.\" That may seem a little thing to the reader,\nbut consider the delicate refinement of Miss Winchelsea's mind. Be as\nrefined as you can and then think of writing yourself down:--\"Snooks.\" She\nconceived herself being addressed as Mrs. Snooks by all the people she\nliked least, conceived the patronymic touched with a vague quality of\ninsult. She figured a card of grey and silver bearing 'Winchelsea'\ntriumphantly effaced by an arrow, Cupid's arrow, in favour of \"Snooks.\"\nDegrading confession of feminine weakness! She imagined the terrible\nrejoicings of certain girl friends, of certain grocer cousins from whom\nher growing refinement had long since estranged her. How they would make\nit sprawl across the envelope that would bring their sarcastic\ncongratulations. Would even his pleasant company compensate her for that?\n\"It is impossible,\" she muttered; \"impossible! _Snooks!_\"\n\nShe was sorry for him, but not so sorry as she was for herself. For him\nshe had a touch of indignation. To be so nice, so refined, while all the\ntime he was \"Snooks,\" to hide under a pretentious gentility of demeanour\nthe badge sinister of his surname seemed a sort of treachery. To put it in\nthe language of sentimental science she felt he had \"led her on.\"\n\nThere were, of course, moments of terrible vacillation, a period even when\nsomething almost like passion bid her throw refinement to the winds. And\nthere was something in her, an unexpurgated vestige of vulgarity that made\na strenuous attempt at proving that Snooks was not so very bad a name\nafter all. Any hovering hesitation flew before Fanny's manner, when Fanny\ncame with an air of catastrophe to tell that she also knew the horror.\nFanny's voice fell to a whisper when she said _Snooks_. Miss\nWinchelsea would not give him any answer when at last, in the Borghese,\nshe could have a minute with him; but she promised him a note.\n\nShe handed him that note in the little book of poetry he had lent her, the\nlittle book that had first drawn them together. Her refusal was ambiguous,\nallusive. She could no more tell him why she rejected him than she could\nhave told a cripple of his hump. He too must feel something of the\nunspeakable quality of his name. Indeed he had avoided a dozen chances of\ntelling it, she now perceived. So she spoke of \"obstacles she could not\nreveal\"--\"reasons why the thing he spoke of was impossible.\" She addressed\nthe note with a shiver, \"E.K. Snooks.\"\n\nThings were worse than she had dreaded; he asked her to explain. How\n_could_ she explain? Those last two days in Rome were dreadful. She\nwas haunted by his air of astonished perplexity. She knew she had given\nhim intimate hopes, she had not the courage to examine her mind thoroughly\nfor the extent of her encouragement. She knew he must think her the most\nchangeable of beings. Now that she was in full retreat, she would not even\nperceive his hints of a possible correspondence. But in that matter he did\na thing that seemed to her at once delicate and romantic. He made a\ngo-between of Fanny. Fanny could not keep the secret, and came and told\nher that night under a transparent pretext of needed advice. \"Mr. Snooks,\"\nsaid Fanny, \"wants to write to me. Fancy! I had no idea. But should I let\nhim?\" They talked it over long and earnestly, and Miss Winchelsea was\ncareful to keep the veil over her heart. She was already repenting his\ndisregarded hints. Why should she not hear of him sometimes--painful\nthough his name must be to her? Miss Winchelsea decided it might be\npermitted, and Fanny kissed her good-night with unusual emotion. After she\nhad gone Miss Winchelsea sat for a long time at the window of her little\nroom. It was moonlight, and down the street a man sang \"Santa Lucia\" with\nalmost heart-dissolving tenderness... She sat very still.\n\nShe breathed a word very softly to herself. The word was \"_Snooks_.\"\nThen she got up with a profound sigh, and went to bed. The next morning he\nsaid to her meaningly, \"I shall hear of you through your friend.\"\n\nMr. Snooks saw them off from Rome with that pathetic interrogative\nperplexity still on his face, and if it had not been for Helen he would\nhave retained Miss Winchelsea's hold-all in his hand as a sort of\nencyclopaedic keepsake. On their way back to England Miss Winchelsea on\nsix separate occasions made Fanny promise to write to her the longest of\nlong letters. Fanny, it seemed, would be quite near Mr. Snooks. Her new\nschool--she was always going to new schools--would be only five miles from\nSteely Bank, and it was in the Steely Bank Polytechnic, and one or two\nfirst-class schools, that Mr. Snooks did his teaching. He might even see\nher at times. They could not talk much of him--she and Fanny always spoke\nof \"him,\" never of Mr. Snooks--because Helen was apt to say unsympathetic\nthings about him. Her nature had coarsened very much, Miss Winchelsea\nperceived, since the old Training College days; she had become hard and\ncynical. She thought he had a weak face, mistaking refinement for weakness\nas people of her stamp are apt to do, and when she heard his name was\nSnooks, she said she had expected something of the sort. Miss Winchelsea\nwas careful to spare her own feelings after that, but Fanny was less\ncircumspect.\n\nThe girls parted in London, and Miss Winchelsea returned, with a new\ninterest in life, to the Girls' High School in which she had been an\nincreasingly valuable assistant for the last three years. Her new interest\nin life was Fanny as a correspondent, and to give her a lead she wrote her\na lengthy descriptive letter within a fortnight of her return. Fanny\nanswered, very disappointingly. Fanny indeed had no literary gift, but it\nwas new to Miss Winchelsea to find herself deploring the want of gifts in\na friend. That letter was even criticised aloud in the safe solitude of\nMiss Winchelsea's study, and her criticism, spoken with great bitterness,\nwas \"Twaddle!\" It was full of just the things Miss Winchelsea's letter had\nbeen full of, particulars of the school. And of Mr. Snooks, only this\nmuch: \"I have had a letter from Mr. Snooks, and he has been over to see me\non two Saturday afternoons running. He talked about Rome and you; we both\ntalked about you. Your ears must have burnt, my dear...\"\n\nMiss Winchelsea repressed a desire to demand more explicit information,\nand wrote the sweetest, long letter again. \"Tell me all about yourself,\ndear. That journey has quite refreshed our ancient friendship, and I do so\nwant to keep in touch with you.\" About Mr. Snooks she simply wrote on the\nfifth page that she was glad Fanny had seen him, and that if he\n_should_ ask after her, she was to be remembered to him _very\nkindly_ (underlined). And Fanny replied most obtusely in the key of\nthat \"ancient friendship,\" reminding Miss Winchelsea of a dozen foolish\nthings of those old schoolgirl days at the Training College, and saying\nnot a word about Mr. Snooks!\n\nFor nearly a week Miss Winchelsea was so angry at the failure of Fanny as\na go-between that she could not write to her. And then she wrote less\neffusively, and in her letter she asked point-blank, \"Have you seen Mr.\nSnooks?\" Fanny's letter was unexpectedly satisfactory. \"I _have_ seen\nMr. Snooks,\" she wrote, and having once named him she kept on about him;\nit was all Snooks--Snooks this and Snooks that. He was to give a public\nlecture, said Fanny, among other things. Yet Miss Winchelsea, after the\nfirst glow of gratification, still found this letter a little\nunsatisfactory. Fanny did not report Mr. Snooks as saying anything about\nMiss Winchelsea, nor as looking a little white and worn, as he ought to\nhave been doing. And behold! before she had replied, came a second letter\nfrom Fanny on the same theme, quite a gushing letter, and covering six\nsheets with her loose feminine hand.\n\nAnd about this second letter was a rather odd little thing that Miss\nWinchelsea only noticed as she re-read it the third time. Fanny's natural\nfemininity had prevailed even against the round and clear traditions of\nthe Training College; she was one of those she-creatures born to\nmake all her _m'_s and _n'_s and _u'_s and _r'_s and _e'_s\nalike, and to leave her _o'_s and _a'_s open and her _i'_s\nundotted. So that it was only after an elaborate comparison of word with\nword that Miss Winchelsea felt assured Mr. Snooks was not really \"Mr.\nSnooks\" at all! In Fanny's first letter of gush he was Mr. \"Snooks,\" in\nher second the spelling was changed to Mr. \"Senoks.\" Miss Winchelsea's\nhand positively trembled as she turned the sheet over--it meant so much to\nher. For it had already begun to seem to her that even the name of Mrs.\nSnooks might be avoided at too great a price, and suddenly--this\npossibility! She turned over the six sheets, all dappled with that\ncritical name, and everywhere the first letter had the form of an\n_e_! For a time she walked the room with a hand pressed upon her\nheart.\n\nShe spent a whole day pondering this change, weighing a letter of inquiry\nthat should be at once discreet and effectual; weighing, too, what action\nshe should take after the answer came. She was resolved that if this\naltered spelling was anything more than a quaint fancy of Fanny's, she\nwould write forthwith to Mr. Snooks. She had now reached a stage when the\nminor refinements of behaviour disappear. Her excuse remained uninvented,\nbut she had the subject of her letter clear in her mind, even to the hint\nthat \"circumstances in my life have changed very greatly since we talked\ntogether.\" But she never gave that hint. There came a third letter from\nthat fitful correspondent Fanny. The first line proclaimed her \"the\nhappiest girl alive.\"\n\nMiss Winchelsea crushed the letter in her hand--the rest unread--and sat\nwith her face suddenly very still. She had received it just before morning\nschool, and had opened it when the junior mathematicians were well under\nway. Presently she resumed reading with an appearance of great calm. But\nafter the first sheet she went on reading the third without discovering\nthe error:--\"told him frankly I did not like his name,\" the third sheet\nbegan. \"He told me he did not like it himself--you know that sort of\nsudden, frank way he has\"--Miss Winchelsea did know. \"So I said, 'couldn't\nyou change it?' He didn't see it at first. Well, you know, dear, he had\ntold me what it really meant; it means Sevenoaks, only it has got down to\nSnooks--both Snooks and Noaks, dreadfully vulgar surnames though they be,\nare really worn forms of Sevenoaks. So I said--even I have my bright ideas\nat times--'If it got down from Sevenoaks to Snooks, why not get it back\nfrom Snooks to Sevenoaks?' And the long and the short of it is, dear, he\ncouldn't refuse me, and he changed his spelling there and then to Senoks\nfor the bills of the new lecture. And afterwards, when we are married, we\nshall put in the apostrophe and make it Se'noks. Wasn't it kind of him to\nmind that fancy of mine, when many men would have taken offence? But it is\njust like him all over; he is as kind as he is clever. Because he knew as\nwell as I did that I would have had him in spite of it, had he been ten\ntimes Snooks. But he did it all the same.\"\n\nThe class was startled by the sound of paper being viciously torn, and\nlooked up to see Miss Winchelsea white in the face and with some very\nsmall pieces of paper clenched in one hand. For a few seconds they stared\nat her stare, and then her expression changed back to a more familiar one.\n\"Has any one finished number three?\" she asked in an even tone. She\nremained calm after that. But impositions ruled high that day. And she\nspent two laborious evenings writing letters of various sorts to Fanny,\nbefore she found a decent congratulatory vein. Her reason struggled\nhopelessly against the persuasion that Fanny had behaved in an exceedingly\ntreacherous manner.\n\nOne may be extremely refined and still capable of a very sore heart.\nCertainly Miss Winchelsea's heart was very sore. She had moods of sexual\nhostility, in which she generalised uncharitably about mankind. \"He forgot\nhimself with me,\" she said. \"But Fanny is pink and pretty and soft and a\nfool--a very excellent match for a Man.\" And by way of a wedding present\nshe sent Fanny a gracefully bound volume of poetry by George Meredith, and\nFanny wrote back a grossly happy letter to say that it was \"_all_\nbeautiful.\" Miss Winchelsea hoped that some day Mr. Senoks might take up\nthat slim book and think for a moment of the donor. Fanny wrote several\ntimes before and about her marriage, pursuing that fond legend of their\n\"ancient friendship,\" and giving her happiness in the fullest detail. And\nMiss Winchelsea wrote to Helen for the first time after the Roman journey,\nsaying nothing about the marriage, but expressing very cordial feelings.\n\nThey had been in Rome at Easter, and Fanny was married in the August\nvacation. She wrote a garrulous letter to Miss Winchelsea, describing her\nhome-coming and the astonishing arrangements of their \"teeny, weeny\"\nlittle house. Mr. Se'noks was now beginning to assume a refinement in Miss\nWinchelsea's memory out of all proportion to the facts of the case, and\nshe tried in vain to imagine his cultured greatness in a \"teeny weeny\"\nlittle house. \"Am busy enamelling a cosy corner,\" said Fanny, sprawling to\nthe end of her third sheet, \"so excuse more.\" Miss Winchelsea answered in\nher best style, gently poking fun at Fanny's arrangements, and hoping\nintensely that Mr. Se'noks might see the letter. Only this hope enabled\nher to write at all, answering not only that letter but one in November\nand one at Christmas.\n\nThe two latter communications contained urgent invitations for her to come\nto Steely Bank on a visit during the Christmas holidays. She tried to\nthink that _he_ had told her to ask that, but it was too much like\nFanny's opulent good-nature. She could not but believe that he must be\nsick of his blunder by this time; and she had more than a hope that he\nwould presently write her a letter beginning \"Dear Friend.\" Something\nsubtly tragic in the separation was a great support to her, a sad\nmisunderstanding. To have been jilted would have been intolerable. But he\nnever wrote that letter beginning \"Dear Friend.\"\n\nFor two years Miss Winchelsea could not go to see her friends, in spite of\nthe reiterated invitations of Mrs. Sevenoaks--it became full Sevenoaks in\nthe second year. Then one day near the Easter rest she felt lonely and\nwithout a soul to understand her in the world, and her mind ran once more\non what is called Platonic friendship. Fanny was clearly happy and busy in\nher new sphere of domesticity, but no doubt _he_ had his lonely\nhours. Did he ever think of those days in Rome, gone now beyond recalling?\nNo one had understood her as he had done; no one in all the world. It\nwould be a sort of melancholy pleasure to talk to him again, and what harm\ncould it do? Why should she deny herself? That night she wrote a sonnet,\nall but the last two lines of the octave--which would not come; and the\nnext day she composed a graceful little note to tell Fanny she was coming\ndown.\n\nAnd so she saw him again.\n\nEven at the first encounter it was evident he had changed; he seemed\nstouter and less nervous, and it speedily appeared that his conversation\nhad already lost much of its old delicacy. There even seemed a\njustification for Helen's description of weakness in his face--in certain\nlights it _was_ weak. He seemed busy and preoccupied about his\naffairs, and almost under the impression that Miss Winchelsea had come for\nthe sake of Fanny. He discussed his dinner with Fanny in an intelligent\nway. They only had one good long talk together, and that came to nothing.\nHe did not refer to Rome, and spent some time abusing a man who had stolen\nan idea he had had for a text-book. It did not seem a very wonderful idea\nto Miss Winchelsea. She discovered he had forgotten the names of more than\nhalf the painters whose work they had rejoiced over in Florence.\n\nIt was a sadly disappointing week, and Miss Winchelsea was glad when it\ncame to an end. Under various excuses she avoided visiting them again.\nAfter a time the visitor's room was occupied by their two little boys, and\nFanny's invitations ceased. The intimacy of her letters had long since\nfaded away.\n\n\n\n\n XXV.\n\n A DREAM OF ARMAGEDDON.\n\n\nThe man with the white face entered the carriage at Rugby. He moved slowly\nin spite of the urgency of his porter, and even while he was still on the\nplatform I noted how ill he seemed. He dropped into the corner over\nagainst me with a sigh, made an incomplete attempt to arrange his\ntravelling shawl, and became motionless, with his eyes staring vacantly.\nPresently he was moved by a sense of my observation, looked up at me, and\nput out a spiritless hand for his newspaper. Then he glanced again in my\ndirection.\n\nI feigned to read. I feared I had unwittingly embarrassed him, and in a\nmoment I was surprised to find him speaking.\n\n\"I beg your pardon?\" said I.\n\n\"That book,\" he repeated, pointing a lean finger, \"is about dreams.\"\n\n\"Obviously,\" I answered, for it was Fortnum-Roscoe's _Dream States_,\nand the title was on the cover.\n\nHe hung silent for a space as if he sought words. \"Yes,\" he said, at last,\n\"but they tell you nothing.\"\n\nI did not catch his meaning for a second.\n\n\"They don't know,\" he added.\n\nI looked a little more attentively at his face.\n\n\"There are dreams,\" he said, \"and dreams.\" That sort of proposition I\nnever dispute. \"I suppose----\" he hesitated. \"Do you ever dream? I mean\nvividly.\"\n\n\"I dream very little,\" I answered. \"I doubt if I have three vivid dreams\nin a year.\"\n\n\"Ah!\" he said, and seemed for a moment to collect his thoughts.\n\n\"Your dreams don't mix with your memories?\" he asked abruptly. \"You don't\nfind yourself in doubt: did this happen or did it not?\"\n\n\"Hardly ever. Except just for a momentary hesitation now and then. I\nsuppose few people do.\"\n\n\"Does _he_ say----\" he indicated the book.\n\n\"Says it happens at times and gives the usual explanation about intensity\nof impression and the like to account for its not happening as a rule. I\nsuppose you know something of these theories----\"\n\n\"Very little--except that they are wrong.\"\n\nHis emaciated hand played with the strap of the window for a time. I\nprepared to resume reading, and that seemed to precipitate his next\nremark. He leant forward almost as though he would touch me.\n\n\"Isn't there something called consecutive dreaming--that goes on night\nafter night?\"\n\n\"I believe there is. There are cases given in most books on mental\ntrouble.\"\n\n\"Mental trouble! Yes. I daresay there are. It's the right place for them.\nBut what I mean----\" He looked at his bony knuckles. \"Is that sort of\nthing always dreaming? _Is_ it dreaming? Or is it something else?\nMightn't it be something else?\"\n\nI should have snubbed his persistent conversation but for the drawn\nanxiety of his face. I remember now the look of his faded eyes and the\nlids red stained--perhaps you know that look.\n\n\"I'm not just arguing about a matter of opinion,\" he said. \"The thing's\nkilling me.\"\n\n\"Dreams?\"\n\n\"If you call them dreams. Night after night. Vivid!--so vivid ... this--\"\n(he indicated the landscape that went streaming by the window) \"seems\nunreal in comparison! I can scarcely remember who I am, what business I am\non ...\"\n\nHe paused. \"Even now--\"\n\n\"The dream is always the same--do you mean?\" I asked.\n\n\"It's over.\"\n\n\"You mean?\"\n\n\"I died.\"\n\n\"Died?\"\n\n\"Smashed and killed, and now so much of me as that dream was is dead. Dead\nfor ever. I dreamt I was another man, you know, living in a different part\nof the world and in a different time. I dreamt that night after night.\nNight after night I woke into that other life. Fresh scenes and fresh\nhappenings--until I came upon the last--\"\n\n\"When you died?\"\n\n\"When I died.\"\n\n\"And since then--\"\n\n\"No,\" he said. \"Thank God! that was the end of the dream...\"\n\nIt was clear I was in for this dream. And, after all, I had an hour before\nme, the light was fading fast, and Fortnum-Roscoe has a dreary way with\nhim. \"Living in a different time,\" I said: \"do you mean in some different\nage?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Past?\"\n\n\"No, to come--to come.\"\n\n\"The year three thousand, for example?\"\n\n\"I don't know what year it was. I did when I was asleep, when I was\ndreaming, that is, but not now--not now that I am awake. There's a lot of\nthings I have forgotten since I woke out of these dreams, though I knew\nthem at the time when I was--I suppose it was dreaming. They called the\nyear differently from our way of calling the year... What _did_ they\ncall it?\" He put his hand to his forehead. \"No,\" said he, \"I forget.\"\n\nHe sat smiling weakly. For a moment I feared he did not mean to tell me\nhis dream. As a rule, I hate people who tell their dreams, but this struck\nme differently. I proffered assistance even. \"It began----\" I suggested.\n\n\"It was vivid from the first. I seemed to wake up in it suddenly. And it's\ncurious that in these dreams I am speaking of I never remembered this life\nI am living now. It seemed as if the dream life was enough while it\nlasted. Perhaps----But I will tell you how I find myself when I do my\nbest to recall it all. I don't remember anything clearly until I found\nmyself sitting in a sort of loggia looking out over the sea. I had been\ndozing, and suddenly I woke up--fresh and vivid--not a bit dreamlike--\nbecause the girl had stopped fanning me.\"\n\n\"The girl?\"\n\n\"Yes, the girl. You must not interrupt or you will put me out.\"\n\nHe stopped abruptly. \"You won't think I'm mad?\" he said.\n\n\"No,\" I answered; \"you've been dreaming. Tell me your dream.\"\n\n\"I woke up, I say, because the girl had stopped fanning me. I was not\nsurprised to find myself there or anything of that sort, you understand. I\ndid not feel I had fallen into it suddenly. I simply took it up at that\npoint. Whatever memory I had of _this_ life, this nineteenth-century\nlife, faded as I woke, vanished like a dream. I knew all about myself,\nknew that my name was no longer Cooper but Hedon, and all about my\nposition in the world. I've forgotten a lot since I woke--there's a want\nof connection--but it was all quite clear and matter-of-fact then.\"\n\nHe hesitated again, gripping the window strap, putting his face forward,\nand looking up to me appealingly.\n\n\"This seems bosh to you?\"\n\n\"No, no!\" I cried. \"Go on. Tell me what this loggia was like.\"\n\n\"It was not really a loggia--I don't know what to call it. It faced south.\nIt was small. It was all in shadow except the semicircle above the balcony\nthat showed the sky and sea and the corner where the girl stood. I was on\na couch--it was a metal couch with light striped cushions--and the girl\nwas leaning over the balcony with her back to me. The light of the sunrise\nfell on her ear and cheek. Her pretty white neck and the little curls that\nnestled there, and her white shoulder were in the sun, and all the grace\nof her body was in the cool blue shadow. She was dressed--how can I\ndescribe it? It was easy and flowing. And altogether there she stood, so\nthat it came to me how beautiful and desirable she was, as though I had\nnever seen her before. And when at last I sighed and raised myself upon my\narm she turned her face to me--\"\n\nHe stopped.\n\n\"I have lived three-and-fifty years in this world. I have had mother,\nsisters, friends, wife and daughters--all their faces, the play of their\nfaces, I know. But the face of this girl--it is much more real to me. I\ncan bring it back into memory so that I see it again--I could draw it or\npaint it. And after all--\"\n\nHe stopped--but I said nothing.\n\n\"The face of a dream--the face of a dream. She was beautiful. Not that\nbeauty which is terrible, cold, and worshipful, like the beauty of a\nsaint; nor that beauty that stirs fierce passions; but a sort of\nradiation, sweet lips that softened into smiles, and grave gray eyes. And\nshe moved gracefully, she seemed to have part with all pleasant and\ngracious things--\"\n\nHe stopped, and his face was downcast and hidden. Then he looked up at me\nand went on, making no further attempt to disguise his absolute belief in\nthe reality of his story.\n\n\"You see, I had thrown up my plans and ambitions, thrown up all I had ever\nworked for or desired, for her sake. I had been a master man away there in\nthe north, with influence and property and a great reputation, but none of\nit had seemed worth having beside her. I had come to the place, this city\nof sunny pleasures, with her, and left all those things to wreck and ruin\njust to save a remnant at least of my life. While I had been in love with\nher before I knew that she had any care for me, before I had imagined that\nshe would dare--that we should dare--all my life had seemed vain and\nhollow, dust and ashes. It _was_ dust and ashes. Night after night,\nand through the long days I had longed and desired--my soul had beaten\nagainst the thing forbidden!\n\n\"But it is impossible for one man to tell another just these things. It's\nemotion, it's a tint, a light that comes and goes. Only while it's there,\neverything changes, everything. The thing is I came away and left them in\ntheir crisis to do what they could.\"\n\n\"Left whom?\" I asked, puzzled.\n\n\"The people up in the north there. You see--in this dream, anyhow--I had\nbeen a big man, the sort of man men come to trust in, to group themselves\nabout. Millions of men who had never seen me were ready to do things and\nrisk things because of their confidence in me. I had been playing that\ngame for years, that big laborious game, that vague, monstrous political\ngame amidst intrigues and betrayals, speech and agitation. It was a vast\nweltering world, and at last I had a sort of leadership against the Gang--\nyou know it was called the Gang--a sort of compromise of scoundrelly\nprojects and base ambitions and vast public emotional stupidities and\ncatch-words--the Gang that kept the world noisy and blind year by year,\nand all the while that it was drifting, drifting towards infinite\ndisaster. But I can't expect you to understand the shades and\ncomplications of the year--the year something or other ahead. I had it\nall--down to the smallest details--in my dream. I suppose I had been\ndreaming of it before I awoke, and the fading outline of some queer new\ndevelopment I had imagined still hung about me as I rubbed my eyes. It was\nsome grubby affair that made me thank God for the sunlight. I sat up on\nthe couch and remained looking at the woman, and rejoicing--rejoicing that\nI had come away out of all that tumult and folly and violence before it\nwas too late. After all, I thought, this is life--love and beauty, desire\nand delight, are they not worth all those dismal struggles for vague,\ngigantic ends? And I blamed myself for having ever sought to be a leader\nwhen I might have given my days to love. But then, thought I, if I had not\nspent my early days sternly and austerely, I might have wasted myself upon\nvain and worthless women, and at the thought all my being went out in love\nand tenderness to my dear mistress, my dear lady, who had come at last and\ncompelled me--compelled me by her invincible charm for me--to lay that\nlife aside.\n\n\"'You are worth it,' I said, speaking without intending her to hear; 'you\nare worth it, my dearest one; worth pride and praise and all things. Love!\nto have _you_ is worth them all together.' And at the murmur of my\nvoice she turned about.\n\n\"'Come and see,' she cried--I can hear her now--come and see the sunrise\nupon Monte Solaro.'\n\n\"I remember how I sprang to my feet and joined her at the balcony. She put\na white hand upon my shoulder and pointed towards great masses of\nlimestone flushing, as it were, into life. I looked. But first I noted the\nsunlight on her face caressing the lines of her cheeks and neck. How can I\ndescribe to you the scene we had before us? We were at Capri----\"\n\n\"I have been there,\" I said. \"I have clambered up Monte Solaro and drunk\n_vero Capri_--muddy stuff like cider--at the summit.\"\n\n\"Ah!\" said the man with the white face; \"then perhaps you can tell me--you\nwill know if this was indeed Capri. For in this life I have never been\nthere. Let me describe it. We were in a little room, one of a vast\nmultitude of little rooms, very cool and sunny, hollowed out of the\nlimestone of a sort of cape, very high above the sea. The whole island,\nyou know, was one enormous hotel, complex beyond explaining, and on the\nother side there were miles of floating hotels, and huge floating stages\nto which the flying machines came. They called it a Pleasure City. Of\ncourse, there was none of that in your time--rather, I should say,\n_is_ none of that _now_. Of course. Now!--yes.\n\n\"Well, this room of ours was at the extremity of the cape, so that one\ncould see east and west. Eastward was a great cliff--a thousand feet high\nperhaps, coldly grey except for one bright edge of gold, and beyond it the\nIsle of the Sirens, and a falling coast that faded and passed into the hot\nsunrise. And when one turned to the west, distinct and near was a little\nbay, a little beach still in shadow. And out of that shadow rose Solaro,\nstraight and tall, flushed and golden-crested, like a beauty throned, and\nthe white moon was floating behind her in the sky. And before us from east\nto west stretched the many-tinted sea all dotted with little\nsailing-boats.\n\n\"To the eastward, of course, these little boats were gray and very minute\nand clear, but to the westward they were little boats of gold--shining\ngold--almost like little flames. And just below us was a rock with an arch\nworn through it. The blue sea-water broke to green and foam all round the\nrock, and a galley came gliding out of the arch.\"\n\n\"I know that rock,\" I said. \"I was nearly drowned there. It is called the\nFaraglioni.\"\n\n\"_Faraglioni_? Yes, _she_ called it that,\" answered the man with\nthe white face. \"There was some story--but that----\"\n\nHe put his hand to his forehead again. \"No,\" he said, \"I forget that\nstory.\n\n\"Well, that is the first thing I remember, the first dream I had, that\nlittle shaded room and the beautiful air and sky and that dear lady of\nmine, with her shining arms and her graceful robe, and how we sat and\ntalked in half whispers to one another. We talked in whispers, not because\nthere was any one to hear, but because there was still such a freshness of\nmind between us that our thoughts were a little frightened, I think, to\nfind themselves at last in words. And so they went softly.\n\n\"Presently we were hungry, and we went from our apartment, going by a\nstrange passage with a moving floor, until we came to the great\nbreakfast-room--there was a fountain and music. A pleasant and joyful\nplace it was, with its sunlight and splashing, and the murmur of plucked\nstrings. And we sat and ate and smiled at one another, and I would not\nheed a man who was watching me from a table near by.\n\n\"And afterwards we went on to the dancing-hall. But I cannot describe\nthat hall. The place was enormous, larger than any building you have ever\nseen--and in one place there was the old gate of Capri, caught into the\nwall of a gallery high overhead. Light girders, stems and threads of gold,\nburst from the pillars like fountains, streamed like an Aurora across the\nroof and interlaced, like--like conjuring tricks. All about the great\ncircle for the dancers there were beautiful figures, strange dragons, and\nintricate and wonderful grotesques bearing lights. The place was inundated\nwith artificial light that shamed the newborn day. And as we went through\nthe throng the people turned about and looked at us, for all through the\nworld my name and face were known, and how I had suddenly thrown up pride,\nand struggle to come to this place. And they looked also at the lady\nbeside me, though half the story of how at last she had come to me was\nunknown or mistold. And few of the men who were there, I know, but judged\nme a happy man, in spite of all the shame and dishonour that had come upon\nmy name.\n\n\"The air was full of music, full of harmonious scents, full of the rhythm\nof beautiful motions. Thousands of beautiful people swarmed about the\nhall, crowded the galleries, sat in a myriad recesses; they were dressed\nin splendid colours and crowned with flowers; thousands danced about the\ngreat circle beneath the white images of the ancient gods, and glorious\nprocessions of youths and maidens came and went. We two danced, not the\ndreary monotonies of your days--of this time, I mean--but dances that were\nbeautiful, intoxicating. And even now I can see my lady dancing--dancing\njoyously. She danced, you know, with a serious face; she danced with a\nserious dignity, and yet she was smiling at me and caressing me--smiling\nand caressing with her eyes.\n\n\"The music was different,\" he murmured. \"It went--I cannot describe it;\nbut it was infinitely richer and more varied than any music that has ever\ncome to me awake.\n\n\"And then--it was when we had done dancing--a man came to speak to me. He\nwas a lean, resolute man, very soberly clad for that place, and already I\nhad marked his face watching me in the breakfasting hall, and afterwards\nas we went along the passage I had avoided his eye. But now, as we sat in\na little alcove smiling at the pleasure of all the people who went to and\nfro across the shining floor, he came and touched me, and spoke to me so\nthat I was forced to listen. And he asked that he might speak to me for a\nlittle time apart.\n\n\"'No,' I said. 'I have no secrets from this lady. What do you want to tell\nme?'\n\n\"He said it was a trivial matter, or at least a dry matter, for a lady to\nhear.\n\n\"'Perhaps for me to hear,' said I.\n\n\"He glanced at her, as though almost he would appeal to her. Then he asked\nme suddenly if I. had heard of a great and avenging declaration that\nGresham had made. Now, Gresham had always before been the man next to\nmyself in the leadership of that great party in the north. He was a\nforcible, hard, and tactless man, and only I had been able to control and\nsoften him. It was on his account even more than my own, I think, that the\nothers had been so dismayed at my retreat. So this question about what he\nhad done re-awakened my old interest in the life I had put aside just for\na moment.\n\n\"'I have taken no heed of any news for many days,' I said. 'What has\nGresham been saying?'\n\n\"And with that the man began, nothing loth, and I must confess ever; I was\nstruck by Gresham's reckless folly in the wild and threatening words he\nhad used. And this messenger they had sent to me not only told me of\nGresham's speech, but went on to ask counsel and to point out what need\nthey had of me. While he talked, my lady sat a little forward and watched\nhis face and mine.\n\n\"My old habits of scheming and organising reasserted themselves. I could\neven see myself suddenly returning to the north, and all the dramatic\neffect of it. All that this man said witnessed to the disorder of the\nparty indeed, but not to its damage. I should go back stronger than I had\ncome. And then I thought of my lady. You see--how can I tell you? There\nwere certain peculiarities of our relationship--as things are I need not\ntell about that--which would render her presence with me impossible. I\nshould have had to leave her; indeed, I should have had to renounce her\nclearly and openly, if I was to do all that I could do in the north. And\nthe man knew _that_, even as he talked to her and me, knew it as well\nas she did, that my steps to duty were--first, separation, then\nabandonment. At the touch of that thought my dream of a return was\nshattered. I turned on the man suddenly, as he was imagining his eloquence\nwas gaining ground with me.\n\n\"'What have I to do with these things now?' I said. 'I have done with\nthem. Do you think I am coquetting with your people in coming here?'\n\n\"'No,' he said; 'but----'\n\n\"'Why cannot you leave me alone? I have done with these things. I have\nceased to be anything but a private man.'\n\n\"'Yes,' he answered. 'But have you thought?--this talk of war, these\nreckless challenges, these wild aggressions----'\n\n\"I stood up.\n\n\"'No,' I cried. 'I won't hear you. I took count of all those things, I\nweighed them--and I have come away.\"\n\n\"He seemed to consider the possibility of persistence. He looked from me\nto where the lady sat regarding us.\n\n\"'War,' he said, as if he were speaking to himself, and then turned slowly\nfrom me and walked away.\n\n\"I stood, caught in the whirl of thoughts his appeal had set going.\n\n\"I heard my lady's voice.\n\n\"'Dear,' she said; 'but if they have need of you--'\n\n\"She did not finish her sentence, she let it rest there. I turned to her\nsweet face, and the balance of my mood swayed and reeled.\n\n\"'They want me only to do the thing they dare not do themselves,' I said.\n'If they distrust Gresham they must settle with him themselves.'\n\n\"She looked at me doubtfully.\n\n\"'But war--' she said.\n\n\"I saw a doubt on her face that I had seen before, a doubt of herself and\nme, the first shadow of the discovery that, seen strongly and completely,\nmust drive us apart for ever.\n\n\"Now, I was an older mind than hers, and I could sway her to this belief\nor that.\n\n\"'My dear one,' I said, 'you must not trouble over these things. There\nwill be no war. Certainly there will be no war. The age of wars is past.\nTrust me to know the justice of this case. They have no right upon me,\ndearest, and no one has a right upon me. I have been free to choose my\nlife, and I have chosen this.'\n\n\"'But _war_--' she said.\n\n\"I sat down beside her. I put an arm behind her and took her hand in mine.\nI set myself to drive that doubt away--I set myself to fill her mind with\npleasant things again. I lied to her, and in lying to her I lied also to\nmyself. And she was only too ready to believe me, only too ready to\nforget.\n\n\"Very soon the shadow had gone again, and we were hastening to our\nbathing-place in the Grotta del Bovo Marino, where it was our custom to\nbathe every day. We swam and splashed one another, and in that buoyant\nwater I seemed to become something lighter and stronger than a man. And at\nlast we came out dripping and rejoicing and raced among the rocks. And\nthen I put on a dry bathing-dress, and we sat to bask in the sun, and\npresently I nodded, resting my head against her knee, and she put her hand\nupon my hair and stroked it softly and I dozed. And behold! as it were\nwith the snapping of the string of a violin, I was awakening, and I was in\nmy own bed in Liverpool, in the life of to-day.\n\n\"Only for a time I could not believe that all these vivid moments had been\nno more than the substance of a dream.\n\n\"In truth, I could not believe it a dream, for all the sobering reality of\nthings about me. I bathed and dressed as it were by habit, and as I shaved\nI argued why I of all men should leave the woman I loved to go back to\nfantastic politics in the hard and strenuous north. Even if Gresham did\nforce the world back to war, what was that to me? I was a man, with the\nheart of a man, and why should I feel the responsibility of a deity for\nthe way the world might go?\n\n\"You know that is not quite the way I think about affairs, about my real\naffairs. I am a solicitor, you know, with a point of view.\n\n\"The vision was so real, you must understand, so utterly unlike a dream,\nthat I kept perpetually recalling little irrelevant details; even the\nornament of a bookcover that lay on my wife's sewing-machine in the\nbreakfast-room recalled with the utmost vividness the gilt line that ran\nabout the seat in the alcove where I had talked with the messenger from my\ndeserted party. Have you ever heard of a dream that had a quality like\nthat?\"\n\n\"Like--?\"\n\n\"So that afterwards you remembered little details you had forgotten.\"\n\nI thought. I had never noticed the point before, but he was right.\n\n\"Never,\" I said. \"That is what you never seem to do with dreams.\"\n\n\"No,\" he answered. \"But that is just what I did. I am a solicitor, you\nmust understand, in Liverpool, and I could not help wondering what the\nclients and business people I found myself talking to in my office would\nthink if I told them suddenly I was in love with a girl who would be born\na couple of hundred years or so hence, and worried about the politics of\nmy great-great-great-grandchildren. I was chiefly busy that day\nnegotiating a ninety-nine-year building lease. It was a private builder in\na hurry, and we wanted to tie him in every possible way. I had an\ninterview with him, and he showed a certain want of temper that sent me to\nbed still irritated. That night I had no dream. Nor did I dream the next\nnight, at least, to remember.\n\n\"Something of that intense reality of conviction vanished. I began to feel\nsure it _was_ a dream. And then it came again.\n\n\"When the dream came again, nearly four days later, it was very different.\nI think it certain that four days had also elapsed _in_ the dream.\nMany things had happened in the north, and the shadow of them was back\nagain between us, and this time it was not so easily dispelled. I began, I\nknow, with moody musings. Why, in spite of all, should I go back, go back\nfor all the rest of my days, to toil and stress, insults, and perpetual\ndissatisfaction, simply to save hundreds of millions of common people,\nwhom I did not love, whom too often I could not do other than despise,\nfrom the stress and anguish of war and infinite misrule? And, after all, I\nmight fail. _They_ all sought their own narrow ends, and why should\nnot I--why should not I also live as a man? And out of such thoughts her\nvoice summoned me, and I lifted my eyes.\n\n\"I found myself awake and walking. We had come out above the Pleasure\nCity, we were near the summit of Monte Solaro and looking towards the bay.\nIt was the late afternoon and very clear. Far away to the left Ischia hung\nin a golden haze between sea and sky, and Naples was coldly white against\nthe hills, and before us was Vesuvius with a tall and slender streamer\nfeathering at last towards the south, and the ruins of Torre dell'\nAnnunziata and Castellammare glittering and near.\"\n\nI interrupted suddenly: \"You have been to Capri, of course?\"\n\n\"Only in this dream,\" he said, \"only in this dream. All across the bay\nbeyond Sorrento were the floating palaces of the Pleasure City moored and\nchained. And northward were the broad floating stages that received the\naeroplanes. Aeroplanes fell out of the sky every afternoon, each bringing\nits thousands of pleasure-seekers from the uttermost parts of the earth to\nCapri and its delights. All these things, I say, stretched below.\n\n\"But we noticed them only incidentally because of an unusual sight that\nevening had to show. Five war aeroplanes that had long slumbered useless\nin the distant arsenals of the Rhine-mouth were manoeuvring now in the\neastward sky. Gresham had astonished the world by producing them and\nothers, and sending them to circle here and there. It was the threat\nmaterial in the great game of bluff he was playing, and it had taken even\nme by surprise. He was one of those incredibly stupid energetic people who\nseem sent by heaven to create disasters. His energy to the first glance\nseemed so wonderfully like capacity! But he had no imagination, no\ninvention, only a stupid, vast, driving force of will, and a mad faith in\nhis stupid idiot 'luck' to pull him through. I remember how we stood out\nupon the headland watching the squadron circling far away, and how I\nweighed the full meaning of the sight, seeing clearly the way things must\n_go_. And then even it was not too late. I might have gone back, I\nthink, and saved the world. The people of the north would follow me, I\nknew, granted only that in one thing I respected their moral standards.\nThe east and south would trust me as they would trust no other northern\nman. And I knew I had only to put it to her and she would have let me\ngo... Not because she did not love me!\n\n\"Only I did not want to go; my will was all the other way about. I had so\nnewly thrown off the incubus of responsibility: I was still so fresh a\nrenegade from duty that the daylight clearness of what I _ought_ to\ndo had no power at all to touch my will. My will was to live, to gather\npleasures, and make my dear lady happy. But though this sense of vast\nneglected duties had no power to draw me, it could make me silent and\npreoccupied, it robbed the days I had spent of half their brightness and\nroused me into dark meditations in the silence of the night. And as I\nstood and watched Gresham's aeroplanes sweep to and fro--those birds of\ninfinite ill omen--she stood beside me, watching me, perceiving the\ntrouble indeed, but not perceiving it clearly--her eyes questioning my\nface, her expression shaded with perplexity. Her face was grey because the\nsunset was fading out of the sky. It was no fault of hers that she held\nme. She had asked me to go from her, and again in the night-time and with\ntears she had asked me to go.\n\n\"At last it was the sense of her that roused me from my mood. I turned\nupon her suddenly and challenged her to race down the mountain slopes.\n'No,' she said, as if I jarred with her gravity, but I was resolved to end\nthat gravity and made her run--no one can be very grey and sad who is out\nof breath---and when she stumbled I ran with my hand beneath her arm. We\nran down past a couple of men, who turned back staring in astonishment at\nmy behaviour--they must have recognised my face. And half-way down the\nslope came a tumult in the air--clang-clank, clang-clank--and we stopped,\nand presently over the hill-crest those war things came flying one behind\nthe other.\"\n\nThe man seemed hesitating on the verge of a description.\n\n\"What were, they like?\" I asked.\n\n\"They had never fought,\" he said. \"They were just like our ironclads are\nnowadays; they had never fought. No one knew what they might do, with\nexcited men inside them; few even cared to speculate. They were great\ndriving things shaped like spear-heads without a shaft, with a propeller\nin the place of the shaft.\"\n\n\"Steel?\"\n\n\"Not steel.\"\n\n\"Aluminium?\"\n\n\"No, no, nothing of that sort. An alloy that was very common--as common as\nbrass, for example. It was called--let me see--\" He squeezed his forehead\nwith the fingers of one hand. \"I am forgetting everything,\" he said.\n\n\"And they carried guns?\"\n\n\"Little guns, firing high explosive shells. They fired the guns backwards,\nout of the base of the leaf, so to speak, and rammed with the beak. That\nwas the theory, you know, but they had never been fought. No one could\ntell exactly what was going to happen. And meanwhile I suppose it was very\nfine to go whirling through the air like a flight of young swallows, swift\nand easy. I guess the captains tried not to think too clearly what the\nreal thing would be like. And these flying war machines, you know, were\nonly one sort of the endless war contrivances that had been invented and\nhad fallen into abeyance during the long peace. There were all sorts of\nthese things that people were routing out and furbishing up; infernal\nthings, silly things; things that had never been tried; big engines,\nterrible explosives, great guns. You know the silly way of these ingenious\nsort of men who make these things; they turn 'em out as beavers build\ndams, and with no more sense of the rivers they're going to divert and the\nlands they're going to flood!\n\n\"As we went down the winding stepway to our hotel again in the twilight I\nforesaw it all: I saw how clearly and inevitably things were driving for\nwar in Gresham's silly, violent hands, and I had some inkling of what war\nwas bound to be under these new conditions. And even then, though I knew\nit was drawing near the limit of my opportunity, I could find no will to\ngo back.\"\n\nHe sighed.\n\n\"That was my last chance.\n\n\"We did not go into the city until the sky was full of stars, so we walked\nout upon the high terrace, to and fro, and--she counselled me to go back.\n\n\"'My dearest,' she said, and her sweet face looked up to me, 'this is\nDeath. This life you lead is Death. Go back to them, go back to your\nduty--'\n\n\"She began to weep, saying between her sobs, and clinging to my arm as she\nsaid it, 'Go back--go back.'\n\n\"Then suddenly she fell mute, and glancing down at her face, I read in an\ninstant the thing she had thought to do. It was one of those moments when\none _sees_.\n\n\"'No!' I said.\n\n\"'No?' she asked, in surprise, and I think a little fearful at the answer\nto her thought.\n\n\"'Nothing,' I said, 'shall send me back. Nothing! I have chosen. Love, I\nhave chosen, and the world must go. Whatever happens, I will live this\nlife--I will live for _you_! It--nothing shall turn me aside;\nnothing, my dear one. Even if you died--even if you died--'\n\n\"'Yes?' she murmured, softly.\n\n\"'Then--I also would die.'\n\n\"And before she could speak again I began to talk, talking eloquently--as\nI _could_ do in that life--talking to exalt love, to make the life we\nwere living seem heroic and glorious; and the thing I was deserting\nsomething hard and enormously ignoble that it was a fine thing to set\naside. I bent all my mind to throw that glamour upon it, seeking not only\nto convert her but myself to that. We talked, and she clung to me, torn\ntoo between all that she deemed noble and all that she knew was sweet. And\nat last I did make it heroic, made all the thickening disaster of the\nworld only a sort of glorious setting to our unparalleled love, and we two\npoor foolish souls strutted there at last, clad in that splendid delusion,\ndrunken rather with that glorious delusion, under the still stars.\n\n\"And so my moment passed.\n\n\"It was my last chance. Even as we went to and fro there, the leaders of\nthe south and east were gathering their resolve, and the hot answer that\nshattered Gresham's bluffing for ever took shape and waited. And all over\nAsia, and the ocean, and the south, the air and the wires were throbbing\nwith their warnings to prepare--prepare.\n\n\"No one living, you know, knew what war was; no one could imagine, with\nall these new inventions, what horror war might bring. I believe most\npeople still believed it would be a matter of bright uniforms and shouting\ncharges and triumphs and flags and bands--in a time when half the world\ndrew its food-supply from regions ten thousand miles away----\"\n\nThe man with the white face paused. I glanced at him, and his face was\nintent on the floor of the carriage. A little railway station, a string of\nloaded trucks, a signal-box, and the back of a cottage shot by the\ncarriage window, and a bridge passed with a clap of noise, echoing the\ntumult of the train.\n\n\"After that,\" he said, \"I dreamt often. For three weeks of nights that\ndream was my life. And the worst of it was there were nights when I could\nnot dream, when I lay tossing on a bed in _this_ accursed life; and\n_there_--somewhere lost to me--things were happening--momentous,\nterrible things... I lived at nights--my days, my waking days, this life\nI am living now, became a faded, far-away dream, a drab setting, the cover\nof the book.\"\n\nHe thought.\n\n\"I could tell you all, tell you every little thing in the dream, but as to\nwhat I did in the daytime--no. I could not tell--I do not remember. My\nmemory--my memory has gone. The business of life slips from me--\"\n\nHe leant forward, and pressed his hands upon his eyes. For a long time he\nsaid nothing.\n\n\"And then?\" said I.\n\n\"The war burst like a hurricane.\"\n\nHe stared before him at unspeakable things.\n\n\"And then?\" I urged again.\n\n\"One touch of unreality,\" he said, in the low tone of a man who speaks to\nhimself, \"and they would have been nightmares. But they were not\nnightmares--they were not nightmares. _No_!\"\n\nHe was silent for so long that it dawned upon me that there was a danger\nof losing the rest of the story. But he went on talking again in the same\ntone of questioning self-communion.\n\n\"What was there to do but flight? I had not thought the war would touch\nCapri--I had seemed to see Capri as being out of it all, as the contrast\nto it all; but two nights after the whole place was shouting and bawling,\nevery woman almost and every other man wore a badge--Gresham's badge--and\nthere was no music but a jangling war-song over and over again, and\neverywhere men enlisting, and in the dancing halls they were drilling. The\nwhole island was a-whirl with rumours; it was said again and again, that\nfighting had begun. I had not expected this. I had seen so little of the\nlife of pleasure that I had failed to reckon with this violence of the\namateurs. And as for me, I was out of it. I was like a man who might have\nprevented the firing of a magazine. The time had gone. I was no one; the\nvainest stripling with a badge counted for more than I. The crowd jostled\nus and bawled in our ears; that accursed song deafened us; a woman\nshrieked at my lady because no badge was on her, and we two went back to\nour own place again, ruffled and insulted--my lady white and silent, and I\na-quiver with rage. So furious was I, I could have quarrelled with her if\nI could have found one shade of accusation in her eyes.\n\n\"All my magnificence had gone from me. I walked up and down our rock cell,\nand outside was the darkling sea and a light to the southward that flared\nand passed and came again.\n\n\"'We must get out of this place,' I said over and over. 'I have made my\nchoice, and I will have no hand in these troubles. I will have nothing of\nthis war. We have taken our lives out of all these things. This is no\nrefuge for us. Let us go.'\n\n\"And the next day we were already in flight from the war that covered the\nworld.\n\n\"And all the rest was Flight--all the rest was Flight.\"\n\nHe mused darkly.\n\n\"How much was there of it?\"\n\nHe made no answer.\n\n\"How many days?\"\n\nHis face was white and drawn and his hands were clenched. He took no heed\nof my curiosity.\n\nI tried to draw him back to his story with questions.\n\n\"Where did you go?\" I said.\n\n\"When?\"\n\n\"When you left Capri.\"\n\n\"South-west,\" he said, and glanced at me for a second. \"We went in a\nboat.\"\n\n\"But I should have thought an aeroplane?\"\n\n\"They had been seized.\"\n\nI questioned him no more. Presently I thought he was beginning again. He\nbroke out in an argumentative monotone:\n\n\"But why should it be? If, indeed, this battle, this slaughter and stress,\n_is_ life, why have we this craving for pleasure and beauty? If there\n_is_ no refuge, if there is no place of peace, and if all our dreams\nof quiet places are a folly and a snare, why have we such dreams? Surely\nit was no ignoble cravings, no base intentions, had brought us to this; it\nwas love had isolated us. Love had come to me with her eyes and robed in\nher beauty, more glorious than all else in life, in the very shape and\ncolour of life, and summoned me away. I had silenced all the voices, I had\nanswered all the questions--I had come to her. And suddenly there was\nnothing but War and Death!\"\n\nI had an inspiration. \"After all,\" I said, \"it could have been only a\ndream.\"\n\n\"A dream!\" he cried, flaming upon me, \"a dream--when, even now--\"\n\nFor the first time he became animated. A faint flush crept into his cheek.\nHe raised his open hand and clenched it, and dropped it to his knee. He\nspoke, looking away from me, and for all the rest of the time he looked\naway. \"We are but phantoms,\" he said, \"and the phantoms of phantoms,\ndesires like cloud shadows and wills of straw that eddy in the wind; the\ndays pass, use and wont carry us through as a train carries the shadow of\nits lights--so be it? But one thing is real and certain, one thing is no\ndream stuff, but eternal and enduring. It is the centre of my life, and\nall other things about it are subordinate or altogether vain. I loved her,\nthat woman of a dream. And she and I are dead together!\n\n\"A dream! How can it be a dream, when it drenched a living life with\nunappeasable sorrow, when it makes all that I have lived for and cared for\nworthless and unmeaning?\n\n\"Until that very moment when she was killed I believed we had still a\nchance of getting away,\" he said. \"All through the night and morning that\nwe sailed across the sea from Capri to Salerno we talked of escape. We\nwere full of hope, and it clung about us to the end, hope for the life\ntogether we should lead, out of it all, out of the battle and struggle,\nthe wild and empty passions, the empty, arbitrary 'thou shalt' and 'thou\nshalt not' of the world. We were uplifted, as though our quest was a holy\nthing, as though love for one another was a mission...\n\n\"Even when from our boat we saw the fair face of that great rock Capri--\nalready scarred and gashed by the gun emplacements and hiding-places that\nwere to make it a fastness--we reckoned nothing of the imminent slaughter,\nthough the fury of preparation hung about in puffs and clouds of dust at a\nhundred points amidst the grey; but, indeed, I made a text of that and\ntalked. There, you know, was the rock, still beautiful for all its scars,\nwith its countless windows and arches and ways, tier upon tier, for a\nthousand feet, a vast carving of grey, broken by vine-clad terraces, and\nlemon and orange groves, and masses of agave and prickly pear, and puffs\nof almond blossom. And out under the archway that is built over the\nPiccola Marina other boats were coming; and as we came round the cape and\nwithin sight of the mainland, another little string of boats came into\nview, driving before the wind towards the south-west. In a little while a\nmultitude had come out, the remoter just little specks of ultramarine in\nthe shadow of the eastward cliff.\n\n\"'It is love and reason,' I said, 'fleeing from all this madness of war.'\n\n\"And though we presently saw a squadron of aeroplanes flying across the\nsouthern sky we did not heed it. There it was--a line of little dots in\nthe sky--and then more, dotting the south-eastern horizon, and then still\nmore, until all that quarter of the sky was stippled with blue specks. Now\nthey were all thin little strokes of blue, and now one and now a multitude\nwould heel and catch the sun and become short flashes of light. They came,\nrising and falling and growing larger, like some huge flight of gulls or\nrooks or such-like birds, moving with a marvellous uniformity, and ever as\nthey drew nearer they spread over a greater width of sky. The southward\nwing flung itself in an arrow-headed cloud athwart the sun. And then\nsuddenly they swept round to the eastward and streamed eastward, growing\nsmaller and smaller and clearer and clearer again until they vanished from\nthe sky. And after that we noted to the northward, and very high,\nGresham's fighting machines hanging high over Naples like an evening swarm\nof gnats.\n\n\"It seemed to have no more to do with us than a flight of birds.\n\n\"Even the mutter of guns far away in the south-east seemed to us to\nsignify nothing...\n\n\"Each day, each dream after that, we were still exalted, still seeking\nthat refuge where we might live and love. Fatigue had come upon us, pain\nand many distresses. For though we were dusty and stained by our toilsome\ntramping, and half starved, and with the horror of the dead men we had\nseen and the flight of the peasants--for very soon a gust of fighting\nswept up the peninsula--with these things haunting our minds it still\nresulted only in a deepening resolution to escape. Oh, but she was brave\nand patient! She who had never faced hardship and exposure had courage for\nherself--and me. We went to and fro seeking an outlet, over a country all\ncommandeered and ransacked by the gathering hosts of war. Always we went\non foot. At first there were other fugitives, but we did not mingle with\nthem. Some escaped northward, some were caught in the torrent of peasantry\nthat swept along the main roads; many gave themselves into the hands of\nthe soldiery and were sent northward. Many of the men were impressed. But\nwe kept away from these things; we had brought no money to bribe a passage\nnorth, and I feared for my lady at the hands of these conscript crowds. We\nhad landed at Salerno, and we had been turned back from Cava, and we had\ntried to cross towards Taranto by a pass over Mount Alburno, but we had\nbeen driven back for want of food, and so we had come down among the\nmarshes by Paestum, where those great temples stand alone. I had some\nvague idea that by Paestum it might be possible to find a boat or\nsomething, and take once more to sea. And there it was the battle overtook\nus.\n\n\"A sort of soul-blindness had me. Plainly I could see that we were being\nhemmed in; that the great net of that giant Warfare had us in its toils.\nMany times we had seen the levies that had come down from the north going\nto and fro, and had come upon them in the distance amidst the mountains\nmaking ways for the ammunition and preparing the mounting of the guns.\nOnce we fancied they had fired at us, taking us for spies--at any rate a\nshot had gone shuddering over us. Several times we had hidden in woods\nfrom hovering aeroplanes.\n\n\"But all these things do not matter now, these nights of flight and\npain... We were in an open place near those great temples at Paestum, at\nlast, on a blank stony place dotted with spiky bushes, empty and desolate\nand so flat that a grove of eucalyptus far away showed to the feet of its\nstems. How I can see it! My lady was sitting down under a bush resting a\nlittle, for she was very weak and weary, and I was standing up watching to\nsee if I could tell the distance of the firing that came and went. They\nwere still, you know, fighting far from each other, with these terrible\nnew weapons that had never before been used: guns that would carry beyond\nsight, and aeroplanes that would do----What _they_ would do no man\ncould foretell.\n\n\"I knew that we were between the two armies, and that they drew together.\nI knew we were in danger, and that we could not stop there and rest!\n\n\"Though all those things were in my mind, they were in the background.\nThey seemed to be affairs beyond our concern. Chiefly, I was thinking of\nmy lady. An aching distress filled me. For the first time she had owned\nherself beaten and had fallen a-weeping. Behind me I could hear her\nsobbing, but I would not turn round to her because I knew she had need of\nweeping, and had held herself so far and so long for me. It was well, I\nthought, that she would weep and rest, and then we would toil on again,\nfor I had no inkling of the thing that hung so near. Even now I can see\nher as she sat there, her lovely hair upon her shoulder, can mark again\nthe deepening hollow of her cheek.\n\n\"'If we had parted,' she said, 'if I had let you go--'\n\n\"'No,' said I. 'Even now I do not repent. I will not repent; I made my\nchoice, and I will hold on to the end.'\n\n\"And then--\n\n\"Overhead in the sky flashed something and burst, and all about us I heard\nthe bullets making a noise like a handful of peas suddenly thrown. They\nchipped the stones about us, and whirled fragments from the bricks and\npassed...\"\n\nHe put his hand to his mouth, and then moistened his lips.\n\n\"At the flash I had turned about...\n\n\"You know--she stood up--\n\n\"She stood up, you know, and moved a step towards me--\n\n\"As though she wanted to reach me--\n\n\"And she had been shot through the heart.\"\n\nHe stopped and stared at me. I felt all that foolish incapacity an\nEnglishman feels on such occasions. I met his eyes for a moment, and then\nstared out of the window. For a long space we kept silence. When at last I\nlooked at him he was sitting back in his corner, his arms folded and his\nteeth gnawing at his knuckles.\n\nHe bit his nail suddenly, and stared at it.\n\n\"I carried her,\" he said, \"towards the temples, in my arms--as though it\nmattered. I don't know why. They seemed a sort of sanctuary, you know,\nthey had lasted so long, I suppose.\n\n\"She must have died almost instantly. Only--I talked to her--all the way.\"\n\nSilence again.\n\n\"I have seen those temples,\" I said abruptly, and indeed he had brought\nthose still, sunlit arcades of worn sandstone very vividly before me.\n\n\"It was the brown one, the big brown one. I sat down on a fallen pillar\nand held her in my arms... Silent after the first babble was over. And\nafter a little while the lizards came out and ran about again, as though\nnothing unusual was going on, as though nothing had changed... It was\ntremendously still there, the sun high and the shadows still; even the\nshadows of the weeds upon the entablature were still--in spite of the\nthudding and banging that went all about the sky.\n\n\"I seem to remember that the aeroplanes came up out of the south, and that\nthe battle went away to the west. One aeroplane was struck, and overset\nand fell. I remember that--though it didn't interest me in the least. It\ndidn't seem to signify. It was like a wounded gull, you know--flapping for\na time in the water. I could see it down the aisle of the temple--a black\nthing in the bright blue water.\n\n\"Three or four times shells burst about the beach, and then that ceased.\nEach time that happened all the lizards scuttled in and hid for a space.\nThat was all the mischief done, except that once a stray bullet gashed the\nstone hard by--made just a fresh bright surface.\n\n\"As the shadows grew longer, the stillness seemed greater.\n\n\"The curious thing,\" he remarked, with the manner of a man who makes a\ntrivial conversation, \"is that I didn't _think_--I didn't think at\nall. I sat with her in my arms amidst the stones--in a sort of lethargy--\nstagnant.\n\n\"And I don't remember waking up. I don't remember dressing that day. I\nknow I found myself in my office, with my letters all slit open in front\nof me, and how I was struck by the absurdity of being there, seeing that\nin reality I was sitting, stunned, in that Paestum Temple with a dead\nwoman in my arms. I read my letters like a machine. I have forgotten what\nthey were about.\"\n\nHe stopped, and there was a long silence.\n\nSuddenly I perceived that we were running down the incline from Chalk Farm\nto Euston. I started at this passing of time. I turned on him with a\nbrutal question with the tone of \"Now or never.\"\n\n\"And did you dream again?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\nHe seemed to force himself to finish. His voice was very low.\n\n\"Once more, and as it were only for a few instants. I seemed to have\nsuddenly awakened out of a great apathy, to have risen into a sitting\nposition, and the body lay there on the stones beside me. A gaunt body.\nNot her, you know. So soon--it was not her...\n\n\"I may have heard voices. I do not know. Only I knew clearly that men were\ncoming into the solitude and that that was a last outrage.\n\n\"I stood up and walked through the temple, and then there came into\nsight--first one man with a yellow face, dressed in a uniform of dirty\nwhite, trimmed with blue, and then several, climbing to the crest of the\nold wall of the vanished city, and crouching there. They were little\nbright figures in the sunlight, and there they hung, weapon in hand,\npeering cautiously before them.\n\n\"And further away I saw others, and then more at another point in the\nwall. It was a long lax line of men in open order.\n\n\"Presently the man I had first seen stood up and shouted a command, and\nhis men came tumbling down the wall and into the high weeds towards the\ntemple. He scrambled down with them and led them. He came facing towards\nme, and when he saw me he stopped.\n\n\"At first I had watched these men with a mere curiosity, but when I had\nseen they meant to come to the temple I was moved to forbid them. I\nshouted to the officer.\n\n\"'You must not come here,' I cried, '_I_ am here. I am here with my\ndead.'\n\n\"He stared, and then shouted a question back to me in some unknown tongue.\n\n\"I repeated what I had said.\n\n\"He shouted again, and I folded my arms and stood still. Presently he\nspoke to his men and came forward. He carried a drawn sword.\n\n\"I signed to him to keep away, but he continued to advance. I told him\nagain very patiently and clearly: 'You must not come here. These are old\ntemples, and I am here with my dead.'\n\n\"Presently he was so close I could see his face clearly. It was a narrow\nface, with dull grey eyes, and a black moustache. He had a scar on his\nupper lip, and he was dirty and unshaven. He kept shouting unintelligible\nthings, questions perhaps, at me.\n\n\"I know now that he was afraid of me, but at the time that did not occur\nto me. As I tried to explain to him he interrupted me in imperious tones,\nbidding me, I suppose, stand aside.\n\n\"He made to go past me, and I caught hold of him.\n\n\"I saw his face change at my grip.\n\n\"'You fool,' I cried. 'Don't you know? She is dead!'\n\n\"He started back. He looked at me with cruel eyes.\n\n\"I saw a sort of exultant resolve leap into them--delight. Then suddenly,\nwith a scowl, he swept his sword back--_so_--and thrust.\"\n\nHe stopped abruptly.\n\nI became aware of a change in the rhythm of the train. The brakes lifted\ntheir voices and the carriage jarred and jerked. This present world\ninsisted upon itself, became clamorous. I saw through the steamy window\nhuge electric lights glaring down from tall masts upon a fog, saw rows of\nstationary empty carriages passing by, and then a signal-box, hoisting its\nconstellation of green and red into the murky London twilight, marched\nafter them. I looked again at his drawn features.\n\n\"He ran me through the heart. It was with a sort of astonishment--no fear,\nno pain--but just amazement, that I felt it pierce me, felt the sword\ndrive home into my body. It didn't hurt, you know. It didn't hurt at all.\"\n\nThe yellow platform lights came into the field of view, passing first\nrapidly, then slowly, and at last stopping with a jerk. Dim shapes of men\npassed to and fro without.\n\n\"Euston!\" cried a voice.\n\n\"Do you mean--?\"\n\n\"There was no pain, no sting or smart. Amazement and then darkness\nsweeping over everything. The hot, brutal face before me, the face of the\nman who had killed me, seemed to recede. It swept out of existence--\"\n\n\"Euston!\" clamoured the voices outside; \"Euston!\"\n\nThe carriage door opened, admitting a flood of sound, and a porter stood\nregarding us. The sounds of doors slamming, and the hoof-clatter of\ncab-horses, and behind these things the featureless remote roar of the\nLondon cobble-stones, came to my ears. A truck-load of lighted lamps\nblazed along the platform.\n\n\"A darkness, a flood of darkness that opened and spread and blotted out\nall things.\"\n\n\"Any luggage, sir?\" said the porter.\n\n\"And that was the end?\" I asked.\n\nHe seemed to hesitate. Then, almost inaudibly, he answered, \"_No_.\"\n\n\"You mean?\"\n\n\"I couldn't get to her. She was there on the other side of the temple--\nAnd then--\"\n\n\"Yes,\" I insisted. \"Yes?\"\n\n\"Nightmares,\" he cried; \"nightmares indeed! My God! Great birds that\nfought and tore.\"\n\n\n\n\n XXVI.\n\n THE VALLEY OF SPIDERS.\n\n\nTowards mid-day the three pursuers came abruptly round a bend in the\ntorrent bed upon the sight of a very broad and spacious valley. The\ndifficult and winding trench of pebbles along which they had tracked the\nfugitives for so long expanded to a broad slope, and with a common impulse\nthe three men left the trail, and rode to a little eminence set with\nolive-dun trees, and there halted, the two others, as became them, a\nlittle behind the man with the silver-studded bridle.\n\nFor a space they scanned the great expanse below them with eager eyes. It\nspread remoter and remoter, with only a few clusters of sere thorn bushes\nhere and there, and the dim suggestions of some now waterless ravine to\nbreak its desolation of yellow grass. Its purple distances melted at last\ninto the bluish slopes of the further hills--hills it might be of a\ngreener kind--and above them, invisibly supported, and seeming indeed to\nhang in the blue, were the snow-clad summits of mountains--that grew\nlarger and bolder to the northwestward as the sides of the valley drew\ntogether. And westward the valley opened until a distant darkness under\nthe sky told where the forests began. But the three men looked neither\neast nor west, but only steadfastly across the valley.\n\nThe gaunt man with the scarred lip was the first to speak. \"Nowhere,\" he\nsaid, with a sigh of disappointment in his voice. \"But, after all, they\nhad a full day's start.\"\n\n\"They don't know we are after them,\" said the little man on the white\nhorse.\n\n\"_She_ would know,\" said the leader bitterly, as if speaking to\nhimself.\n\n\"Even then they can't go fast. They've got no beast but the mule, and all\nto-day the girl's foot has been bleeding----\"\n\nThe man with the silver bridle flashed a quick intensity of rage on him.\n\"Do you think I haven't seen that?\" he snarled.\n\n\"It helps, anyhow,\" whispered the little man to himself.\n\nThe gaunt man with the scarred lip stared impassively. \"They can't be over\nthe valley,\" he said. \"If we ride hard----\"\n\nHe glanced at the white horse and paused.\n\n\"Curse all white horses!\" said the man with the silver bridle, and turned\nto scan the beast his curse included.\n\nThe little man looked down between the melancholy ears of his steed.\n\n\"I did my best,\" he said.\n\nThe two others stared again across the valley for a space. The gaunt man\npassed the back of his hand across the scarred lip.\n\n\"Come up!\" said the man who owned the silver bridle, suddenly. The little\nman started and jerked his rein, and the horse hoofs of the three made a\nmultitudinous faint pattering upon the withered grass as they turned back\ntowards the trail...\n\nThey rode cautiously down the long slope before them, and so came through\na waste of prickly twisted bushes and strange dry shapes of thorny\nbranches that grew amongst the rocks, into the levels below. And there the\ntrail grew faint, for the soil was scanty, and the only herbage was this\nscorched dead straw that lay upon the ground. Still, by hard scanning, by\nleaning beside the horses' necks and pausing ever and again, even these\nwhite men could contrive to follow after their prey.\n\nThere were trodden places, bent and broken blades of the coarse grass, and\never and again the sufficient intimation of a footmark. And once the\nleader saw a brown smear of blood where the half-caste girl may have trod.\nAnd at that under his breath he cursed her for a fool.\n\nThe gaunt man checked his leader's tracking, and the little man on the\nwhite horse rode behind, a man lost in a dream. They rode one after\nanother, the man with the silver bridle led the way, and they spoke never\na word. After a time it came to the little man on the white horse that the\nworld was very still. He started out of his dream. Besides the little\nnoises of their horses and equipment, the whole great valley kept the\nbrooding quiet of a painted scene.\n\nBefore him went his master and his fellow, each intently leaning forward\nto the left, each impassively moving with the paces of his horse; their\nshadows went before them--still, noiseless, tapering attendants; and\nnearer a crouched cool shape was his own. He looked about him. What was it\nhad gone? Then he remembered the reverberation from the banks of the gorge\nand the perpetual accompaniment of shifting, jostling pebbles. And,\nmoreover----? There was no breeze. That was it! What a vast, still place\nit was, a monotonous afternoon slumber! And the sky open and blank except\nfor a sombre veil of haze that had gathered in the upper valley.\n\nHe straightened his back, fretted with his bridle, puckered his lips to\nwhistle, and simply sighed. He turned in his saddle for a time, and stared\nat the throat of the mountain gorge out of which they had come. Blank!\nBlank slopes on either side, with never a sign of a decent beast or tree--\nmuch less a man. What a land it was! What a wilderness! He dropped again\ninto his former pose.\n\nIt filled him with a momentary pleasure to see a wry stick of purple black\nflash out into the form of a snake, and vanish amidst the brown. After\nall, the infernal valley _was_ alive. And then, to rejoice him still\nmore, came a little breath across his face, a whisper that came and went,\nthe faintest inclination of a stiff black-antlered bush upon a little\ncrest, the first intimations of a possible breeze. Idly he wetted his\nfinger, and held it up.\n\nHe pulled up sharply to avoid a collision with the gaunt man, who had\nstopped at fault upon the trail. Just at that guilty moment he caught his\nmaster's eye looking towards him.\n\nFor a time he forced an interest in the tracking. Then, as they rode on\nagain, he studied his master's shadow and hat and shoulder, appearing and\ndisappearing behind the gaunt man's nearer contours. They had ridden four\ndays out of the very limits of the world into this desolate place, short\nof water, with nothing but a strip of dried meat under their saddles, over\nrocks and mountains, where surely none but these fugitives had ever been\nbefore--for _that_!\n\nAnd all this was for a girl, a mere wilful child! And the man had whole\ncityfuls of people to do his basest bidding--girls, women! Why in the name\nof passionate folly _this_ one in particular? asked the little man,\nand scowled at the world, and licked his parched lips with a blackened\ntongue. It was the way of the master, and that was all he knew. Just\nbecause she sought to evade him...\n\nHis eye caught a whole row of high-plumed canes bending in unison, and\nthen the tails of silk that hung before his neck flapped and fell. The\nbreeze was growing stronger. Somehow it took the stiff stillness out of\nthings--and that was well.\n\n\"Hullo!\" said the gaunt man.\n\nAll three stopped abruptly.\n\n\"What?\" asked the master. \"What?\"\n\n\"Over there,\" said the gaunt man, pointing up the valley.\n\n\"What?\"\n\n\"Something coming towards us.\"\n\nAnd as he spoke a yellow animal crested a rise and came bearing down upon\nthem. It was a big wild dog, coming before the wind, tongue out, at a\nsteady pace, and running with such an intensity of purpose that he did not\nseem to see the horsemen he approached. He ran with his nose up,\nfollowing, it was plain, neither scent nor quarry. As he drew nearer the\nlittle man felt for his sword. \"He's mad,\" said the gaunt rider.\n\n\"Shout!\" said the little man, and shouted.\n\nThe dog came on. Then when the little man's blade was already out, it\nswerved aside and went panting by them and passed. The eyes of the little\nman followed its flight. \"There was no foam,\" he said. For a space the man\nwith the silver-studded bridle stared up the valley. \"Oh, come on!\" he\ncried at last. \"What does it matter?\" and jerked his horse into movement\nagain.\n\nThe little man left the insoluble mystery of a dog that fled from nothing\nbut the wind, and lapsed into profound musings on human character. \"Come\non!\" he whispered to himself. \"Why should it be given to one man to say\n'Come on!' with that stupendous violence of effect? Always, all his life,\nthe man with the silver bridle has been saying that. If _I_ said\nit--!\" thought the little man. But people marvelled when the master was\ndisobeyed even in the wildest things. This half-caste girl seemed to him,\nseemed to every one, mad--blasphemous almost. The little man, by way of\ncomparison, reflected on the gaunt rider with the scarred lip, as stalwart\nas his master, as brave and, indeed, perhaps braver, and yet for him there\nwas obedience, nothing but to give obedience duly and stoutly...\n\nCertain sensations of the hands and knees called the little man back to\nmore immediate things. He became aware of something. He rode up beside his\ngaunt fellow. \"Do you notice the horses?\" he said in an undertone.\n\nThe gaunt face looked interrogation.\n\n\"They don't like this wind,\" said the little man, and dropped behind as\nthe man with the silver bridle turned upon him.\n\n\"It's all right,\" said the gaunt-faced man.\n\nThey rode on again for a space in silence. The foremost two rode downcast\nupon the trail, the hindmost man watched the haze that crept down the\nvastness of the valley, nearer and nearer, and noted how the wind grew in\nstrength moment by moment. Far away on the left he saw a line of dark\nbulks--wild hog, perhaps, galloping down the valley, but of that he said\nnothing, nor did he remark again upon the uneasiness of the horses.\n\nAnd then he saw first one and then a second great white ball, a great\nshining white ball like a gigantic head of thistledown, that drove before\nthe wind athwart the path. These balls soared high in the air, and dropped\nand rose again and caught for a moment, and hurried on and passed, but at\nthe sight of them the restlessness of the horses increased.\n\nThen presently he saw that more of these drifting globes--and then soon\nvery many more--were hurrying towards him down the valley.\n\nThey became aware of a squealing. Athwart the path a huge boar rushed,\nturning his head but for one instant to glance at them, and then hurling\non down the valley again. And at that all three stopped and sat in their\nsaddles, staring into the thickening haze that was coming upon them.\n\n\"If it were not for this thistle-down--\" began the leader.\n\nBut now a big globe came drifting past within a score of yards of them. It\nwas really not an even sphere at all, but a vast, soft, ragged, filmy\nthing, a sheet gathered by the corners, an aerial jelly-fish, as it were,\nbut rolling over and over as it advanced, and trailing long cobwebby\nthreads and streamers that floated in its wake.\n\n\"It isn't thistle-down,\" said the little man.\n\n\"I don't like the stuff,\" said the gaunt man.\n\nAnd they looked at one another.\n\n\"Curse it!\" cried the leader. \"The air's full of lit up there. If it keeps\non at this pace long, it will stop us altogether.\"\n\nAn instinctive feeling, such as lines out a herd of deer at the approach\nof some ambiguous thing, prompted them to turn their horses to the wind,\nride forward for a few paces, and stare at that advancing multitude of\nfloating masses. They came on before the wind with a sort of smooth\nswiftness, rising and falling noiselessly, sinking to earth, rebounding\nhigh, soaring--all with a perfect unanimity, with a still, deliberate\nassurance.\n\nRight and left of the horsemen the pioneers of this strange army passed.\nAt one that rolled along the ground, breaking shapelessly and trailing out\nreluctantly into long grappling ribbons and bands, all three horses began\nto shy and dance. The master was seized with a sudden, unreasonable\nimpatience. He cursed the drifting globes roundly. \"Get on!\" he cried;\n\"get on! What do these things matter? How _can_ they matter? Back to\nthe trail!\" He fell swearing at his horse and sawed the bit across its\nmouth.\n\nHe shouted aloud with rage. \"I will follow that trail, I tell you,\" he\ncried. \"Where is the trail?\"\n\nHe gripped the bridle of his prancing horse and searched amidst the grass.\nA long and clinging thread fell across his face, a grey streamer dropped\nabout his bridle arm, some big, active thing with many legs ran down the\nback of his head. He looked up to discover one of those grey masses\nanchored as it were above him by these things and flapping out ends as a\nsail flaps when a boat comes about--but noiselessly.\n\nHe had an impression of many eyes, of a dense crew of squat bodies, of\nlong, many-jointed limbs hauling at their mooring ropes to bring the thing\ndown upon him. For a space he stared up, reining in his prancing horse\nwith the instinct born of years of horsemanship. Then the flat of a sword\nsmote his back, and a blade flashed overhead and cut the drifting balloon\nof spider-web free, and the whole mass lifted softly and drove clear and\naway.\n\n\"Spiders!\" cried the voice of the gaunt man. \"The things are full of big\nspiders! Look, my lord!\"\n\nThe man with the silver bridle still followed the mass that drove away.\n\n\"Look, my lord!\"\n\nThe master found himself staring down at a red smashed thing on the ground\nthat, in spite of partial obliteration, could still wriggle unavailing\nlegs. Then, when the gaunt man pointed to another mass that bore down upon\nthem, he drew his sword hastily. Up the valley now it was like a fog bank\ntorn to rags. He tried to grasp the situation.\n\n\"Ride for it!\" the little man was shouting. \"Ride for it down the valley.\"\n\nWhat happened then was like the confusion of a battle. The man with the\nsilver bridle saw the little man go past him, slashing furiously at\nimaginary cobwebs, saw him cannon into the horse of the gaunt man and hurl\nit and its rider to earth. His own horse went a dozen paces before he\ncould rein it in. Then he looked up to avoid imaginary dangers, and then\nback again to see a horse rolling on the ground, the gaunt man standing\nand slashing over it at a rent and fluttering mass of grey that streamed\nand wrapped about them both. And thick and fast as thistle-down on waste\nland on a windy day in July the cobweb masses were coming on.\n\nThe little man had dismounted, but he dared not release his horse. He was\nendeavouring to lug the struggling brute back with the strength of one\narm, while with the other he slashed aimlessly. The tentacles of a second\ngrey mass had entangled themselves with the struggle, and this second grey\nmass came to its moorings, and slowly sank.\n\nThe master set his teeth, gripped his bridle, lowered his head, and\nspurred his horse forward. The horse on the ground rolled over, there was\nblood and moving shapes upon the flanks, and the gaunt man suddenly\nleaving it, ran forward towards his master, perhaps ten paces. His legs\nwere swathed and encumbered with grey; he made ineffectual movements with\nhis sword. Grey streamers waved from him; there was a thin veil of grey\nacross his face. With his left hand he beat at something on his body, and\nsuddenly he stumbled and fell. He struggled to rise, and fell again, and\nsuddenly, horribly, began to howl, \"Oh--ohoo, ohooh!\"\n\nThe master could see the great spiders upon him, and others upon the\nground.\n\nAs he strove to force his horse nearer to this gesticulating, screaming\ngrey object that struggled up and down, there came a clatter of hoofs, and\nthe little man, in act of mounting, swordless, balanced on his belly\nathwart the white horse, and clutching its mane, whirled past. And again a\nclinging thread of grey gossamer swept across the master's face. All about\nhim, and over him, it seemed this drifting, noiseless cobweb circled and\ndrew nearer him...\n\nTo the day of his death he never knew just how the event of that moment\nhappened. Did he, indeed, turn his horse, or did it really of its own\naccord stampede after its fellow? Suffice it that in another second he was\ngalloping full tilt down the valley with his sword whirling furiously\noverhead. And all about him on the quickening breeze, the spiders'\nair-ships, their air bundles and air sheets, seemed to him to hurry in a\nconscious pursuit.\n\nClatter, clatter, thud, thud,--the man with the silver bridle rode,\nheedless of his direction, with his fearful face looking up now right, now\nleft, and his sword arm ready to slash. And a few hundred yards ahead of\nhim, with a tail of torn cobweb trailing behind him, rode the little man\non the white horse, still but imperfectly in the saddle. The reeds bent\nbefore them, the wind blew fresh and strong, over his shoulder the master\ncould see the webs hurrying to overtake...\n\nHe was so intent to escape the spiders' webs that only as his horse\ngathered together for a leap did he realise the ravine ahead. And then he\nrealised it only to misunderstand and interfere. He was leaning forward on\nhis horse's neck and sat up and back all too late.\n\nBut if in his excitement he had failed to leap, at any rate he had not\nforgotten how to fall. He was horseman again in mid-air. He came off clear\nwith a mere bruise upon his shoulder, and his horse rolled, kicking\nspasmodic legs, and lay still. But the master's sword drove its point into\nthe hard soil, and snapped clean across, as though Chance refused him any\nlonger as her Knight, and the splintered end missed his face by an inch or\nso.\n\nHe was on his feet in a moment, breathlessly scanning the on-rushing\nspider-webs. For a moment he was minded to run, and then thought of the\nravine, and turned back. He ran aside once to dodge one drifting terror,\nand then he was swiftly clambering down the precipitous sides, and out of\nthe touch of the gale.\n\nThere, under the lee of the dry torrent's steeper banks, he might crouch\nand watch these strange, grey masses pass and pass in safety till the wind\nfell, and it became possible to escape. And there for a long time he\ncrouched, watching the strange, grey, ragged masses trail their streamers\nacross his narrowed sky.\n\nOnce a stray spider fell into the ravine close beside him--a full foot it\nmeasured from leg to leg and its body was half a man's hand--and after he\nhad watched its monstrous alacrity of search and escape for a little while\nand tempted it to bite his broken sword, he lifted up his iron-heeled boot\nand smashed it into a pulp. He swore as he did so, and for a time sought\nup and down for another.\n\nThen presently, when he was surer these spider swarms could not drop into\nthe ravine, he found a place where he could sit down, and sat and fell\ninto deep thought and began, after his manner, to gnaw his knuckles and\nbite his nails. And from this he was moved by the coming of the man with\nthe white horse.\n\nHe heard him long before he saw him, as a clattering of hoofs, stumbling\nfootsteps, and a reassuring voice. Then the little man appeared, a rueful\nfigure, still with a tail of white cobweb trailing behind him. They\napproached each other without speaking, without a salutation. The little\nman was fatigued and shamed to the pitch of hopeless bitterness, and came\nto a stop at last, face to face with his seated master. The latter winced\na little under his dependent's eye. \"Well?\" he said at last, with no\npretence of authority.\n\n\"You left him?\"\n\n\"My horse bolted.\"\n\n\"I know. So did mine.\"\n\nHe laughed at his master mirthlessly.\n\n\"I say my horse bolted,\" said the man who once had a silver-studded\nbridle.\n\n\"Cowards both,\" said the little man.\n\nThe other gnawed his knuckle through some meditative moments, with his eye\non his inferior.\n\n\"Don't call me a coward,\" he said at length.\n\n\"You are a coward, like myself.\"\n\n\"A coward possibly. There is a limit beyond which every man must fear.\nThat I have learnt at last. But not like yourself. That is where the\ndifference comes in.\"\n\n\"I never could have dreamt you would have left him. He saved your life two\nminutes before... Why are you our lord?\"\n\nThe master gnawed his knuckles again, and his countenance was dark.\n\n\"No man calls me a coward,\" he said. \"No ... A broken sword is better\nthan none ... One spavined white horse cannot be expected to carry two\nmen a four days' journey. I hate white horses, but this time it cannot be\nhelped. You begin to understand me? I perceive that you are minded, on the\nstrength of what you have seen and fancy, to taint my reputation. It is\nmen of your sort who unmake kings. Besides which--I never liked you.\"\n\n\"My lord!\" said the little man.\n\n\"No,\" said the master. \"_No!_\"\n\nHe stood up sharply as the little man moved. For a minute perhaps they\nfaced one another. Overhead the spiders' balls went driving. There was a\nquick movement among the pebbles; a running of feet, a cry of despair, a\ngasp and a blow...\n\nTowards nightfall the wind fell. The sun set in a calm serenity, and the\nman who had once possessed the silver bridle came at last very cautiously\nand by an easy slope out of the ravine again; but now he led the white\nhorse that once belonged to the little man. He would have gone back to his\nhorse to get his silver-mounted bridle again, but he feared night and a\nquickening breeze might still find him in the valley, and besides, he\ndisliked greatly to think he might discover his horse all swathed in\ncobwebs and perhaps unpleasantly eaten.\n\nAnd as he thought of those cobwebs, and of all the dangers he had been\nthrough, and the manner in which he had been preserved that day, his hand\nsought a little reliquary that hung about his neck, and he clasped it for\na moment with heartfelt gratitude. As he did so his eyes went across the\nvalley.\n\n\"I was hot with passion,\" he said, \"and now she has met her reward. They\nalso, no doubt--\"\n\nAnd behold! far away out of the wooded slopes across the valley, but in\nthe clearness of the sunset, distinct and unmistakable, he saw a little\nspire of smoke.\n\nAt that his expression of serene resignation changed to an amazed anger.\nSmoke? He turned the head of the white horse about, and hesitated. And as\nhe did so a little rustle of air went through the grass about him. Far\naway upon some reeds swayed a tattered sheet of grey. He looked at the\ncobwebs; he looked at the smoke.\n\n\"Perhaps, after all, it is not them,\" he said at last.\n\nBut he knew better.\n\nAfter he had stared at the smoke for some time, he mounted the white\nhorse.\n\nAs he rode, he picked his way amidst stranded masses of web. For some\nreason there were many dead spiders on the ground, and those that lived\nfeasted guiltily on their fellows. At the sound of his horse's hoofs they\nfled.\n\nTheir time had passed. From the ground, without either a wind to carry\nthem or a winding-sheet ready, these things, for all their poison, could\ndo him little evil.\n\nHe flicked with his belt at those he fancied came too near. Once, where a\nnumber ran together over a bare place, he was minded to dismount and\ntrample them with his boots, but this impulse he overcame. Ever and again\nhe turned in his saddle, and looked back at the smoke.\n\n\"Spiders,\" he muttered over and over again. \"Spiders. Well, well... The\nnext time I must spin a web.\"\n\n\n\n\n XXVII.\n\n THE NEW ACCELERATOR.\n\n\nCertainly, if ever a man found a guinea when he was looking for a pin, it\nis my good friend Professor Gibberne. I have heard before of investigators\novershooting the mark, but never quite to the extent that he has done. He\nhas really, this time at any rate, without any touch of exaggeration in the\nphrase, found something to revolutionise human life. And that when he was\nsimply seeking an all-round nervous stimulant to bring languid people up\nto the stresses of these pushful days. I have tasted the stuff now several\ntimes, and I cannot do better than describe the effect the thing had on\nme. That there are astonishing experiences in store for all in search of\nnew sensations will become apparent enough.\n\nProfessor Gibberne, as many people know, is my neighbour in Folkestone.\nUnless my memory plays me a trick, his portrait at various ages has\nalready appeared in _The Strand Magazine_--think late in 1899 but I\nam unable to look it up because I have lent that volume to someone who has\nnever sent it back. The reader may, perhaps, recall the high forehead and\nthe singularly long black eyebrows that give such a Mephistophelean touch\nto his face. He occupies one of those pleasant little detached houses in\nthe mixed style that make the western end of the Upper Sandgate Road so\ninteresting. His is the one with the Flemish gables and the Moorish\nportico, and it is in the little room with the mullioned bay window that\nhe works when he is down here, and in which of an evening we have so often\nsmoked and talked together. He is a mighty jester, but, besides, he likes\nto talk to me about his work; he is one of those men who find a help and\nstimulus in talking, and so I have been able to follow the conception of\nthe New Accelerator right up from a very early stage. Of course, the\ngreater portion of his experimental work is not done in Folkestone, but in\nGower Street, in the fine new laboratory next to the hospital that he has\nbeen the first to use.\n\nAs every one knows, or at least as all intelligent people know, the\nspecial department in which Gibberne has gained so great and deserved a\nreputation among physiologists is the action of drugs upon the nervous\nsystem. Upon soporifics, sedatives, and anaesthetics he is, I am told,\nunequalled. He is also a chemist of considerable eminence, and I suppose\nin the subtle and complex jungle of riddles that centres about the\nganglion cell and the axis fibre there are little cleared places of his\nmaking, little glades of illumination, that, until he sees fit to publish\nhis results, are still inaccessible to every other living man. And in the\nlast few years he has been particularly assiduous upon this question of\nnervous stimulants, and already, before the discovery of the New\nAccelerator, very successful with them. Medical science has to thank him\nfor at least three distinct and absolutely safe invigorators of unrivalled\nvalue to practising men. In cases of exhaustion the preparation known as\nGibberne's B Syrup has, I suppose, saved more lives already than any\nlifeboat round the coast.\n\n\"But none of these little things begin to satisfy me yet,\" he told me\nnearly a year ago. \"Either they increase the central energy without\naffecting the nerves, or they simply increase the available energy by\nlowering the nervous conductivity; and all of them are unequal and local\nin their operation. One wakes up the heart and viscera and leaves the\nbrain stupefied, one gets at the brain champagne fashion, and does nothing\ngood for the solar plexus, and what I want--and what, if it's an earthly\npossibility, I mean to have--is a stimulant that stimulates all round,\nthat wakes you up for a time from the crown of your head to the tip of\nyour great toe, and makes you go two--or even three--to everybody else's\none. Eh? That's the thing I'm after.\"\n\n\"It would tire a man,\" I said.\n\n\"Not a doubt of it. And you'd eat double or treble--and all that. But just\nthink what the thing would mean. Imagine yourself with a little phial like\nthis\"--he held up a little bottle of green glass and marked his points\nwith it--\"and in this precious phial is the power to think twice as fast,\nmove twice as quickly, do twice as much work in a given time as you could\notherwise do.\"\n\n\"But is such a thing possible?\"\n\n\"I believe so. If it isn't, I've wasted my time for a year. These various\npreparations of the hypophosphites, for example, seem to show that\nsomething of the sort... Even if it was only one and a half times as fast\nit would do.\"\n\n\"It _would_ do,\" I said.\n\n\"If you were a statesman in a corner, for example, time rushing up against\nyou, something urgent to be done, eh?\"\n\n\"He could dose his private secretary,\" I said.\n\n\"And gain--double time. And think if _you_, for example, wanted to\nfinish a book.\"\n\n\"Usually,\" I said, \"I wish I'd never begun 'em.\"\n\n\"Or a doctor, driven to death, wants to sit down and think out a case. Or\na barrister--or a man cramming for an examination.\"\n\n\"Worth a guinea a drop,\" said I, \"and more--to men like that.\"\n\n\"And in a duel, again,\" said Gibberne, \"where it all depends on your\nquickness in pulling the trigger.\"\n\n\"Or in fencing,\" I echoed.\n\n\"You see,\" said Gibberne, \"if I get it as an all-round thing, it will\nreally do you no harm at all--except perhaps to an infinitesimal degree it\nbrings you nearer old age. You will just have lived twice to other\npeople's once--\"\n\n\"I suppose,\" I meditated, \"in a duel--it would be fair?\"\n\n\"That's a question for the seconds,\" said Gibberne.\n\nI harked back further. \"And you really think such a thing _is_\npossible?\" I said.\n\n\"As possible,\" said Gibberne, and glanced at something that went throbbing\nby the window, \"as a motor-bus. As a matter of fact--\"\n\nHe paused and smiled at me deeply, and tapped slowly on the edge of his\ndesk with the green phial. \"I think I know the stuff... Already I've got\nsomething coming.\" The nervous smile upon his face betrayed the gravity of\nhis revelation. He rarely talked of his actual experimental work unless\nthings were very near the end. \"And it may be, it may be--I shouldn't be\nsurprised--it may even do the thing at a greater rate than twice.\"\n\n\"It will be rather a big thing,\" I hazarded.\n\n\"It will be, I think, rather a big thing.\"\n\nBut I don't think he quite knew what a big thing it was to be, for all\nthat.\n\nI remember we had several talks about the stuff after that. \"The New\nAccelerator\" he called it, and his tone about it grew more confident on\neach occasion. Sometimes he talked nervously of unexpected physiological\nresults its use might have, and then he would get a little unhappy; at\nothers he was frankly mercenary, and we debated long and anxiously how the\npreparation might be turned to commercial account. \"It's a good thing,\"\nsaid Gibberne, \"a tremendous thing. I know I'm giving the world something,\nand I think it only reasonable we should expect the world to pay. The\ndignity of science is all very well, but I think somehow I must have the\nmonopoly of the stuff for, say, ten years. I don't see why _all_ the\nfun in life should go to the dealers in ham.\"\n\nMy own interest in the coming drug certainly did not wane in the time. I\nhave always had a queer little twist towards metaphysics in my mind. I\nhave always been given to paradoxes about space and time, and it seemed to\nme that Gibberne was really preparing no less than the absolute\nacceleration of life. Suppose a man repeatedly dosed with such a\npreparation: he would live an active and record life indeed, but he would\nbe an adult at eleven, middle-aged at twenty-five, and by thirty well on\nthe road to senile decay. It seemed to me that so far Gibberne was only\ngoing to do for any one who took his drug exactly what Nature has done for\nthe Jews and Orientals, who are men in their teens and aged by fifty, and\nquicker in thought and act than we are all the time. The marvel of drugs\nhas always been great to my mind; you can madden a man, calm a man, make\nhim incredibly strong and alert or a helpless log, quicken this passion\nand allay that, all by means of drugs, and here was a new miracle to be\nadded to this strange armoury of phials the doctors use! But Gibberne was\nfar too eager upon his technical points to enter very keenly into my\naspect of the question.\n\nIt was the 7th or 8th of August when he told me the distillation that\nwould decide his failure or success for a time was going forward as we\ntalked, and it was on the 10th that he told me the thing was done and the\nNew Accelerator a tangible reality in the world. I met him as I was going\nup the Sandgate Hill towards Folkestone--I think I was going to get my\nhair cut, and he came hurrying down to meet me--I suppose he was coming to\nmy house to tell me at once of his success. I remember that his eyes were\nunusually bright and his face flushed, and I noted even then the swift\nalacrity of his step.\n\n\"It's done,\" he cried, and gripped my hand, speaking very fast; \"it's more\nthan done. Come up to my house and see.\"\n\n\"Really?\"\n\n\"Really!\" he shouted. \"Incredibly! Come up and see.\"\n\n\"And it does--twice?\"\n\n\"It does more, much more. It scares me. Come up and see the stuff. Taste\nit! Try it! It's the most amazing stuff on earth.\" He gripped my arm and;\nwalking at such a pace that he forced me into a trot, went shouting with\nme up the hill. A whole _char-à-banc_-ful of people turned and stared\nat us in unison after the manner of people in _chars-à-banc_. It was\none of those hot, clear days that Folkestone sees so much of, every colour\nincredibly bright and every outline hard. There was a breeze, of course,\nbut not so much breeze as sufficed under these conditions to keep me cool\nand dry. I panted for mercy.\n\n\"I'm not walking fast, am I?\" cried Gibberne, and slackened his pace to a\nquick march.\n\n\"You've been taking some of this stuff,\" I puffed.\n\n\"No,\" he said. \"At the utmost a drop of water that stood in a beaker from\nwhich I had washed out the last traces of the stuff. I took some last\nnight, you know. But that is ancient history now.\"\n\n\"And it goes twice?\" I said, nearing his doorway in a grateful\nperspiration.\n\n\"It goes a thousand times, many thousand times!\" cried Gibberne, with a\ndramatic gesture, flinging open his Early English carved oak gate.\n\n\"Phew!\" said I, and followed him to the door.\n\n\"I don't know how many times it goes,\" he said, with his latch-key in his\nhand.\n\n\"And you----\"\n\n\"It throws all sorts of light on nervous physiology, it kicks the theory\nof vision into a perfectly new shape! ... Heaven knows how many thousand\ntimes. We'll try all that after----The thing is to try the stuff now.\"\n\n\"Try the stuff?\" I said, as we went along the passage.\n\n\"Rather,\" said Gibberne, turning on me in his study. \"There it is in that\nlittle green phial there! Unless you happen to be afraid?\"\n\nI am a careful man by nature, and only theoretically adventurous. I\n_was_ afraid. But on the other hand, there is pride.\n\n\"Well,\" I haggled. \"You say you've tried it?\"\n\n\"I've tried it,\" he said, \"and I don't look hurt by it, do I? I don't even\nlook livery, and I _feel_----\"\n\nI sat down. \"Give me the potion,\" I said. \"If the worst comes to the\nworst it will save having my hair cut, and that, I think, is one of the\nmost hateful duties of a civilised man. How do you take the mixture?\"\n\n\"With water,\" said Gibberne, whacking down a carafe.\n\nHe stood up in front of his desk and regarded me in his easy-chair; his\nmanner was suddenly affected by a touch of the Harley Street specialist.\n\"It's rum stuff, you know,\" he said.\n\nI made a gesture with my hand.\n\n\"I must warn you, in the first place, as soon as you've got it down to\nshut your eyes, and open them very cautiously in a minute or so's time.\nOne still sees. The sense of vision is a question of length of vibration,\nand not of multitude of impacts; but there's a kind of shock to the\nretina, a nasty giddy confusion just at the time if the eyes are open.\nKeep 'em shut.\"\n\n\"Shut,\" I said. \"Good!\"\n\n\"And the next thing is, keep still. Don't begin to whack about. You may\nfetch something a nasty rap if you do. Remember you will be going several\nthousand times faster than you ever did before, heart, lungs, muscles,\nbrain--everything--and you will hit hard without knowing it. You won't\nknow it, you know. You'll feel just as you do now. Only everything in the\nworld will seem to be going ever so many thousand times slower than it\never went before. That's what makes it so deuced queer.\"\n\n\"Lor,\" I said. \"And you mean----\"\n\n\"You'll see,\" said he, and took up a little measure. He glanced at the\nmaterial on his desk. \"Glasses,\" he said, \"water. All here. Mustn't take\ntoo much for the first attempt.\"\n\nThe little phial glucked out its precious contents. \"Don't forget what I\ntold you,\" he said, turning the contents of the measure into a glass in\nthe manner of an Italian waiter measuring whisky. \"Sit with the eyes\ntightly shut and in absolute stillness for two minutes,\" he said. \"Then\nyou will hear me speak.\"\n\nHe added an inch or so of water to the little dose in each glass.\n\n\"By-the-by,\" he said, \"don't put your glass down. Keep it in your hand and\nrest your hand on your knee. Yes--so. And now----\"\n\nHe raised his glass.\n\n\"The New Accelerator,\" I said.\n\n\"The New Accelerator,\" he answered, and we touched glasses and drank, and\ninstantly I closed my eyes.\n\nYou know that blank non-existence into which one drops when one has taken\n\"gas.\" For an indefinite interval it was like that. Then I heard Gibberne\ntelling me to wake up, and I stirred and opened my eyes. There he stood as\nhe had been standing, glass still in hand. It was empty, that was all the\ndifference.\n\n\"Well?\" said I.\n\n\"Nothing out of the way?\"\n\n\"Nothing. A slight feeling of exhilaration, perhaps. Nothing more.\"\n\n\"Sounds?\"\n\n\"Things are still,\" I said. \"By Jove! yes! They _are_ still. Except\nthe sort of faint pat, patter, like rain falling on different things. What\nis it?\"\n\n\"Analysed sounds,\" I think he said, but I am not sure. He glanced at the\nwindow. \"Have you ever seen a curtain before a window fixed in that way\nbefore?\"\n\nI followed his eyes, and there was the end of the curtain, frozen, as it\nwere, corner high, in the act of flapping briskly in the breeze.\n\n\"No,\" said I; \"that's odd.\"\n\n\"And here,\" he said, and opened the hand that held the glass. Naturally I\nwinced, expecting the glass to smash. But so far from smashing, it did not\neven seem to stir; it hung in mid-air--motionless. \"Roughly speaking,\"\nsaid Gibberne, \"an object in these latitudes falls 16 feet in the first\nsecond. This glass is falling 16 feet in a second now. Only, you see, it\nhasn't been falling yet for the hundredth part of a second. That gives you\nsome idea of the pace of my Accelerator.\"\n\nAnd he waved his hand round and round, over and under the slowly sinking\nglass. Finally he took it by the bottom, pulled it down and placed it very\ncarefully on the table. \"Eh?\" he said to me, and laughed.\n\n\"That seems all right,\" I said, and began very gingerly to raise myself\nfrom my chair. I felt perfectly well, very light and comfortable, and\nquite confident in my mind. I was going fast all over. My heart, for\nexample, was beating a thousand times a second, but that caused me no\ndiscomfort at all. I looked out of the window. An immovable cyclist, head\ndown and with a frozen puff of dust behind his driving-wheel, scorched to\novertake a galloping _char-à-banc_ that did not stir. I gaped in\namazement at this incredible spectacle. \"Gibberne,\" I cried, \"how long\nwill this confounded stuff last?\"\n\n\"Heaven knows!\" he answered. \"Last time I took it I went to bed and slept\nit off. I tell you, I was frightened. It must have lasted some minutes, I\nthink--it seemed like hours. But after a bit it slows down rather\nsuddenly, I believe.\"\n\nI was proud to observe that I did not feel frightened--I suppose because\nthere were two of us. \"Why shouldn't we go out?\" I asked.\n\n\"Why not?\"\n\n\"They'll see us.\"\n\n\"Not they. Goodness, no! Why, we shall be going a thousand times faster\nthan the quickest conjuring trick that was ever done. Come along! Which\nway shall we go? Window, or door?\"\n\nAnd out by the window we went.\n\nAssuredly of all the strange experiences that I have ever had, or\nimagined, or read of other people having or imagining, that little raid I\nmade with Gibberne on the Folkestone Leas, under the influence of the New\nAccelerator, was the strangest and maddest of all. We went out by his gate\ninto the road, and there we made a minute examination of the statuesque\npassing traffic. The tops of the wheels and some of the legs of the horses\nof this _char-à-banc,_ the end of the whip-lash and the lower jaw of\nthe conductor--who was just beginning to yawn--were perceptibly in motion,\nbut all the rest of the lumbering conveyance seemed still. And quite\nnoiseless except for a faint rattling that came from one man's throat. And\nas parts of this frozen edifice there were a driver, you know, and a\nconductor, and eleven people! The effect as we walked about the thing\nbegan by being madly queer and ended by being--disagreeable. There they\nwere, people like ourselves and yet not like ourselves, frozen in careless\nattitudes, caught in mid-gesture. A girl and a man smiled at one another,\na leering smile that threatened to last for evermore; a woman in a floppy\ncapelline rested her arm on the rail and stared at Gibberne's house with\nthe unwinking stare of eternity; a man stroked his moustache like a figure\nof wax, and another stretched a tiresome stiff hand with extended fingers\ntowards his loosened hat. We stared at them, we laughed at them, we made\nfaces at them, and then a sort of disgust of them came upon us, and we\nturned away and walked round in front of the cyclist towards the Leas.\n\n\"Goodness!\" cried Gibberne, suddenly; \"look there!\"\n\nHe pointed, and there at the tip of his finger and sliding down the air\nwith wings flapping slowly and at the speed of an exceptionally languid\nsnail--was a bee.\n\nAnd so we came out upon the Leas. There the thing seemed madder than ever.\nThe band was playing in the upper stand, though all the sound it made for\nus was a low-pitched, wheezy rattle, a sort of prolonged last sigh that\npassed at times into a sound like the slow, muffled ticking of some\nmonstrous clock. Frozen people stood erect, strange, silent,\nself-conscious-looking dummies hung unstably in mid-stride, promenading\nupon the grass. I passed close to a little poodle dog suspended in the act\nof leaping, and watched the slow movement of his legs as he sank to earth.\n\"Lord, look _here_!\" cried Gibberne, and we halted for a moment\nbefore a magnificent person in white faint--striped flannels, white shoes,\nand a Panama hat, who turned back to wink at two gaily dressed ladies he\nhad passed. A wink, studied with such leisurely deliberation as we could\nafford, is an unattractive thing. It loses any quality of alert gaiety,\nand one remarks that the winking eye does not completely close, that under\nits drooping lid appears the lower edge of an eyeball and a little line of\nwhite. \"Heaven give me memory,\" said I, \"and I will never wink again.\"\n\n\"Or smile,\" said Gibberne, with his eye on the lady's answering teeth.\n\n\"It's infernally hot, somehow,\" said I, \"Let's go slower.\"\n\n\"Oh, come along!\" said Gibberne.\n\nWe picked our way among the bath-chairs in the path. Many of the people\nsitting in the chairs seemed almost natural in their passive poses, but\nthe contorted scarlet of the bandsmen was not a restful thing to see. A\npurple-faced little gentleman was frozen in the midst of a violent\nstruggle to refold his newspaper against the wind; there were many\nevidences that all these people in their sluggish way were exposed to a\nconsiderable breeze, a breeze that had no existence so far as our\nsensations went. We came out and walked a little way from the crowd, and\nturned and regarded it. To see all that multitude changed to a picture,\nsmitten rigid, as it were, into the semblance of realistic wax, was\nimpossibly wonderful. It was absurd, of course; but it filled me with an\nirrational, an exultant sense of superior advantage. Consider the wonder\nof it! All that I had said, and thought, and done since the stuff had\nbegun to work in my veins had happened, so far as those people, so far as\nthe world in general went, in the twinkling of an eye. \"The New\nAccelerator----\" I began, but Gibberne interrupted me.\n\n\"There's that infernal old woman!\" he said.\n\n\"What old woman?\"\n\n\"Lives next door to me,\" said Gibberne. \"Has a lapdog that yaps. Gods! The\ntemptation is strong!\"\n\nThere is something very boyish and impulsive about Gibberne at times.\nBefore I could expostulate with him he had dashed forward, snatched the\nunfortunate animal out of visible existence, and was running violently\nwith it towards the cliff of the Leas. It was most extraordinary. The\nlittle brute, you know, didn't bark or wriggle or make the slightest sign\nof vitality. It kept quite stiffly in an attitude of somnolent repose, and\nGibberne held it by the neck. It was like running about with a dog of\nwood. \"Gibberne,\" I cried, \"put it down!\" Then I said something else. \"If\nyou run like that, Gibberne,\" I cried, \"you'll set your clothes on fire.\nYour linen trousers are going brown as it is!\"\n\nHe clapped his hand on his thigh and stood hesitating on the verge.\n\"Gibberne,\" I cried, coming up, \"put it down. This heat is too much! It's\nour running so! Two or three miles a second! Friction of the air!\"\n\n\"What?\" he said, glancing at the dog.\n\n\"Friction of the air,\" I shouted. \"Friction of the air. Going too fast.\nLike meteorites and things. Too hot. And, Gibberne! Gibberne! I'm all over\npricking and a sort of perspiration. You can see people stirring slightly.\nI believe the stuff's working off! Put that dog down.\"\n\n\"Eh?\" he said.\n\n\"It's working off,\" I repeated. \"We're too hot and the stuff's working\noff! I'm wet through.\"\n\nHe stared at me, then at the band, the wheezy rattle of whose performance\nwas certainly going faster. Then with a tremendous sweep of the arm he\nhurled the dog away from him and it went spinning upward, still inanimate,\nand hung at last over the grouped parasols of a knot of chattering people.\nGibberne was gripping my elbow. \"By Jove!\" he cried, \"I believe it\nis! A sort of hot pricking and--yes. That man's moving his\npocket-handkerchief! Perceptibly. We must get out of this sharp.\"\n\nBut we could not get out of it sharply enough. Luckily, perhaps! For we\nmight have run, and if we had run we should, I believe, have burst into\nflames. Almost certainly we should have burst into flames! You know we had\nneither of us thought of that... But before we could even begin to run\nthe action of the drug had ceased. It was the business of a minute\nfraction of a second. The effect of the New Accelerator passed like the\ndrawing of a curtain, vanished in the movement of a hand. I heard\nGibberne's voice in infinite alarm. \"Sit down,\" he said, and flop, down\nupon the turf at the edge of the Leas I sat--scorching as I sat. There is\na patch of burnt grass there still where I sat down. The whole stagnation\nseemed to wake up as I did so, the disarticulated vibration of the band\nrushed together into a blast of music, the promenaders put their feet down\nand walked their ways, the papers and flags began flapping, smiles passed\ninto words, the winker finished his wink and went on his way complacently,\nand all the seated people moved and spoke.\n\nThe whole world had come alive again, was going as fast as we were, or\nrather we were going no faster than the rest of the world. It was like\nslowing down as one comes into a railway station. Everything seemed to\nspin round for a second or two, I had the most transient feeling of\nnausea, and that was all. And the little dog, which had seemed to hang for\na moment when the force of Gibberne's arm was expended, fell with a swift\nacceleration clean through a lady's parasol!\n\nThat was the saving of us. Unless it was for one corpulent old gentleman\nin a bath-chair, who certainly did start at the sight of us, and\nafterwards regarded us at intervals with a darkly suspicious eye, and,\nfinally, I believe, said something to his nurse about us, I doubt if a\nsolitary person remarked our sudden appearance among them. Plop! We must\nhave appeared abruptly. We ceased to smoulder almost at once, though the\nturf beneath me was uncomfortably hot. The attention of every one--\nincluding even the Amusements' Association band, which on this occasion,\nfor the only time in its history, got out of tune--was arrested by the\namazing fact, and the still more amazing yapping and uproar caused by the\nfact, that a respectable, over-fed lapdog sleeping quietly to the east of\nthe bandstand should suddenly fall through the parasol of a lady on the\nwest--in a slightly singed condition due to the extreme velocity of its\nmovements through the air. In these absurd days, too, when we are all\ntrying to be as psychic, and silly, and superstitious as possible! People\ngot up and trod on other people, chairs were overturned, the Leas\npoliceman ran. How the matter settled itself I do not know--we were much\ntoo anxious to disentangle ourselves from the affair and get out of range\nof the eye of the old gentleman in the bath-chair to make minute\ninquiries. As soon as we were sufficiently cool and sufficiently recovered\nfrom our giddiness and nausea and confusion of mind to do so we stood up,\nand skirting the crowd, directed our steps back along the road below the\nMetropole towards Gibberne's house. But amidst the din I heard very\ndistinctly the gentleman who had been sitting beside the lady of the\nruptured sunshade using quite unjustifiable threats and language to one of\nthose chair-attendants who have \"Inspector\" written on their caps: \"If you\ndidn't throw the dog,\" he said, \"who _did_?\"\n\nThe sudden return of movement and familiar noises, and our natural anxiety\nabout ourselves (our clothes were still dreadfully hot, and the fronts of\nthe thighs of Gibberne's white trousers were scorched a drabbish brown),\nprevented the minute observations I should have liked to make on all these\nthings. Indeed, I really made no observations of any scientific value on\nthat return. The bee, of course, had gone. I looked for that cyclist, but\nhe was already out of sight as we came into the Upper Sandgate Road or\nhidden from us by traffic; the _char-à-banc_, however, with its\npeople now all alive and stirring, was clattering along at a spanking pace\nalmost abreast of the nearer church.\n\nWe noted, however, that the window-sill on which we had stepped in getting\nout of the house was slightly singed, and that the impressions of our feet\non the gravel of the path were unusually deep.\n\nSo it was I had my first experience of the New Accelerator. Practically we\nhad been running about and saying and doing all sorts of things in the\nspace of a second or so of time. We had lived half an hour while the band\nhad played, perhaps, two bars. But the effect it had upon us was that the\nwhole world had stopped for our convenient inspection. Considering all\nthings, and particularly considering our rashness in venturing out of the\nhouse, the experience might certainly have been much more disagreeable\nthan it was. It showed, no doubt, that Gibberne has still much to learn\nbefore his preparation is a manageable convenience, but its practicability\nit certainly demonstrated beyond all cavil.\n\nSince that adventure he has been steadily bringing its use under control,\nand I have several times, and without the slightest bad result, taken\nmeasured doses under his direction; though I must confess I have not yet\nventured abroad again while under its influence. I may mention, for\nexample, that this story has been written at one sitting and without\ninterruption, except for the nibbling of some chocolate, by its means. I\nbegan at 6.25, and my watch is now very nearly at the minute past the\nhalf-hour. The convenience of securing a long, uninterrupted spell of work\nin the midst of a day full of engagements cannot be exaggerated. Gibberne\nis now working at the quantitative handling of his preparation, with\nespecial reference to its distinctive effects upon different types of\nconstitution. He then hopes to find a Retarder, with which to dilute its\npresent rather excessive potency. The Retarder will, of course, have the\nreverse effect to the Accelerator; used alone it should enable the patient\nto spread a few seconds over many hours of ordinary time, and so to\nmaintain an apathetic inaction, a glacier-like absence of alacrity, amidst\nthe most animated or irritating surroundings. The two things together must\nnecessarily work an entire revolution in civilised existence. It is the\nbeginning of our escape from that Time Garment of which Carlyle speaks.\nWhile this Accelerator will enable us to concentrate ourselves with\ntremendous impact upon any moment or occasion that demands our utmost\nsense and vigour, the Retarder will enable us to pass in passive\ntranquillity through infinite hardship and tedium. Perhaps I am a little\noptimistic about the Retarder, which has indeed still to be discovered,\nbut about the Accelerator there is no possible sort of doubt whatever. Its\nappearance upon the market in a convenient, controllable, and assimilable\nform is a matter of the next few months. It will be obtainable of all\nchemists and druggists, in small green bottles, at a high but, considering\nits extraordinary qualities, by no means excessive price. Gibberne's\nNervous Accelerator it will be called, and he hopes to be able to supply\nit in three strengths: one in 200, one in 900, and one in 2000,\ndistinguished by yellow, pink, and white labels respectively.\n\nNo doubt its use renders a great number of very extraordinary things\npossible; for, of course, the most remarkable and, possibly, even criminal\nproceedings may be effected with impunity by thus dodging, as it were,\ninto the interstices of time. Like all potent preparations, it will be\nliable to abuse. We have, however, discussed this aspect of the question\nvery thoroughly, and we have decided that this is purely a matter of\nmedical jurisprudence and altogether outside our province. We shall\nmanufacture and sell the Accelerator, and as for the consequences--we\nshall see.\n\n\n\n\n XXVIII.\n\n THE TRUTH ABOUT PYECRAFT.\n\n\nHe sits not a dozen yards away. If I glance over my shoulder I can see\nhim. And if I catch his eye--and usually I catch his eye--it meets me with\nan expression----\n\nIt is mainly an imploring look--and yet with suspicion in it.\n\nConfound his suspicion! If I wanted to tell on him I should have told long\nago. I don't tell and I don't tell, and he ought to feel at his ease. As\nif anything so gross and fat as he could feel at ease! Who would believe\nme if I did tell?\n\nPoor old Pyecraft! Great, uneasy jelly of substance! The fattest clubman\nin London.\n\nHe sits at one of the little club tables in the huge bay by the fire,\nstuffing. What is he stuffing? I glance judiciously, and catch him biting\nat a round of hot buttered teacake, with his eyes on me. Confound him!\n--with his eyes on me!\n\nThat settles it, Pyecraft! Since you _will_ be abject, since you\n_will_ behave as though I was not a man of honour, here, right under\nyour embedded eyes, I write the thing down--the plain truth about\nPyecraft. The man I helped, the man I shielded, and who has requited me by\nmaking my club unendurable, absolutely unendurable, with his liquid\nappeal, with the perpetual \"don't tell\" of his looks.\n\nAnd, besides, why does he keep on eternally eating?\n\nWell, here goes for the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth!\n\nPyecraft----. I made the acquaintance of Pyecraft in this very\nsmoking-room. I was a young, nervous new member, and he saw it. I was\nsitting all alone, wishing I knew more of the members, and suddenly he\ncame, a great rolling front of chins and abdomina, towards me, and\ngrunted and sat down in a chair close by me and wheezed for a space, and\nscraped for a space with a match and lit a cigar, and then addressed me.\nI forget what he said--something about the matches not lighting properly,\nand afterwards as he talked he kept stopping the waiters one by one as\nthey went by, and telling them about the matches in that thin, fluty\nvoice he has. But, anyhow, it was in some such way we began our talking.\n\nHe talked about various things and came round to games. And thence to my\nfigure and complexion. \"_You_ ought to be a good cricketer,\" he said.\nI suppose I am slender, slender to what some people would call lean, and I\nsuppose I am rather dark, still----I am not ashamed of having a Hindu\ngreat-grandmother, but, for all that, I don't want casual strangers to see\nthrough me at a glance to _her_. So that I was set against Pyecraft\nfrom the beginning.\n\nBut he only talked about me in order to get to himself.\n\n\"I expect,\" he said, \"you take no more exercise than I do, and probably\nyou eat no less.\" (Like all excessively obese people he fancied he ate\nnothing.) \"Yet\"--and he smiled an oblique smile--\"we differ.\"\n\nAnd then he began to talk about his fatness and his fatness; all he did\nfor his fatness and all he was going to do for his fatness; what people\nhad advised him to do for his fatness and what he had heard of people\ndoing for fatness similar to his. \"_A priori_,\" he said, \"one would\nthink a question of nutrition could be answered by dietary and a question\nof assimilation by drugs.\" It was stifling. It was dumpling talk. It made\nme feel swelled to hear him.\n\nOne stands that sort of thing once in a way at a club, but a time came\nwhen I fancied I was standing too much. He took to me altogether too\nconspicuously. I could never go into the smoking-room but he would come\nwallowing towards me, and sometimes he came and gormandised round and\nabout me while I had my lunch. He seemed at times almost to be clinging to\nme. He was a bore, but not so fearful a bore as to be limited to me and\nfrom the first there was something in his manner--almost as though he\nknew, almost as though he penetrated to the fact that I _might_--that\nthere was a remote, exceptional chance in me that no one else presented.\n\n\"I'd give anything to get it down,\" he would say--\"anything,\" and peer at\nme over his vast cheeks and pant. Poor old Pyecraft! He has just gonged;\nno doubt to order another buttered teacake!\n\nHe came to the actual thing one day. \"Our Pharmacopoeia,\" he said, \"our\nWestern Pharmacopoeia, is anything but the last word of medical science.\nIn the East, I've been told----\"\n\nHe stopped and stared at me. It was like being at an aquarium.\n\nI was quite suddenly angry with him. \"Look here,\" I said, \"who told you\nabout my great-grandmother's recipes?\"\n\n\"Well,\" he fenced.\n\n\"Every time we've met for a week,\" I said--\"and we've met pretty often--\nyou've given me a broad hint or so about that little secret of mine.\"\n\n\"Well,\" he said, \"now the cat's out of the bag, I'll admit, yes, it is so.\nI had it----\"\n\n\"From Pattison?\"\n\n\"Indirectly,\" he said, which I believe was lying, \"yes.\"\n\n\"Pattison,\" I said, \"took that stuff at his own risk.\" He pursed his mouth\nand bowed.\n\n\"My great-grandmother's recipes,\" I said, \"are queer things to handle. My\nfather was near making me promise----\"\n\n\"He didn't?\"\n\n\"No. But he warned me. He himself used one--once.\"\n\n\"Ah! ... But do you think----? Suppose--suppose there did happen to be\none----\"\n\n\"The things are curious documents,\" I said. \"Even the smell of 'em ...\nNo!\"\n\nBut after going so far Pyecraft was resolved I should go farther. I was\nalways a little afraid if I tried his patience too much he would fall on\nme suddenly and smother me. I own I was weak. But I was also annoyed with\nPyecraft. I had got to that state of feeling for him that disposed me to\nsay, \"Well, _take_ the risk!\" The little affair of Pattison to which\nI have alluded was a different matter altogether. What it was doesn't\nconcern us now, but I knew, anyhow, that the particular recipe I used then\nwas safe. The rest I didn't know so much about, and, on the whole, I was\ninclined to doubt their safety pretty completely.\n\nYet even if Pyecraft got poisoned----\n\nI must confess the poisoning of Pyecraft struck me as an immense\nundertaking.\n\nThat evening I took that queer, odd-scented sandal-wood box out of my\nsafe, and turned the rustling skins over. The gentleman who wrote the\nrecipes for my great-grandmother evidently had a weakness for skins of a\nmiscellaneous origin, and his handwriting was cramped to the last degree.\nSome of the things are quite unreadable to me--though my family, with its\nIndian Civil Service associations, has kept up a knowledge of Hindustani\nfrom generation to generation--and none are absolutely plain sailing. But\nI found the one that I knew was there soon enough, and sat on the floor by\nmy safe for some time looking at it.\n\n\"Look here,\" said I to Pyecraft next day, and snatched the slip away from\nhis eager grasp.\n\n\"So far as I can make it out, this is a recipe for Loss of Weight. (\"Ah!\"\nsaid Pyecraft.) I'm not absolutely sure, but I think it's that. And if you\ntake my advice you'll leave it alone. Because, you know--I blacken my\nblood in your interest, Pyecraft--my ancestors on that side were, so far\nas I can gather, a jolly queer lot. See?\"\n\n\"Let me try it,\" said Pyecraft.\n\nI leant back in my chair. My imagination made one mighty effort and fell\nflat within me. \"What in Heaven's name, Pyecraft,\" I asked, \"do you think\nyou'll look like when you get thin?\"\n\nHe was impervious to reason, I made him promise never to say a word to me\nabout his disgusting fatness again whatever happened--never, and then I\nhanded him that little piece of skin.\n\n\"It's nasty stuff,\" I said.\n\n\"No matter,\" he said, and took it.\n\nHe goggled at it. \"But--but--\" he said\n\nHe had just discovered that it wasn't English.\n\n\"To the best of my ability,\" I said, \"I will do you a translation.\"\n\nI did my best. After that we didn't speak for a fortnight. Whenever he\napproached me I frowned and motioned him away, and he respected our\ncompact, but at the end of the fortnight he was as fat as ever. And then\nhe got a word in.\n\n\"I must speak,\" he said, \"It isn't fair. There's something wrong. It's\ndone me no good. You're not doing your great-grandmother justice.\"\n\n\"Where's the recipe?\"\n\nHe produced it gingerly from his pocket-book.\n\nI ran my eye over the items. \"Was the egg addled?\" I asked.\n\n\"No. Ought it to have been?\"\n\n\"That,\" I said, \"goes without saying in all my poor dear\ngreat-grandmother's recipes. When condition or quality is not specified\nyou must get the worst. She was drastic or nothing... And there's one or\ntwo possible alternatives to some of these other things. You got _fresh_\nrattlesnake venom?\"\n\n\"I got a rattlesnake from Jamrach's. It cost--it cost----\"\n\n\"That's your affair anyhow. This last item----\"\n\n\"I know a man who----\"\n\n\"Yes. H'm. Well, I'll write the alternatives down. So far as I know the\nlanguage, the spelling of this recipe is particularly atrocious.\nBy-the-by, dog here probably means pariah dog.\"\n\nFor a month after that I saw Pyecraft constantly at the club and as fat\nand anxious as ever. He kept our treaty, but at times he broke the spirit\nof it by shaking his head despondently. Then one day in the cloakroom he\nsaid, \"Your great-grandmother----\"\n\n\"Not a word against her,\" I said; and he held his peace.\n\nI could have fancied he had desisted, and I saw him one day talking to\nthree new members about his fatness as though he was in search of other\nrecipes. And then, quite unexpectedly, his telegram came.\n\n\"Mr. Formalyn!\" bawled a page-boy under my nose, and I took the telegram\nand opened it at once.\n\n\"_For Heaven's sake come_.--_Pyecraft_.\"\n\n\"H'm,\" said I, and to tell the truth I was so pleased at the\nrehabilitation of my great-grandmother's reputation this evidently\npromised that I made a most excellent lunch.\n\nI got Pyecraft's address from the hall porter. Pyecraft inhabited the\nupper half of a house in Bloomsbury, and I went there so soon as I had\ndone my coffee and Trappistine. I did not wait to finish my cigar.\n\n\"Mr. Pyecraft?\" said I, at the front door.\n\nThey believed he was ill; he hadn't been out for two days.\n\n\"He expects me,\" said I, and they sent me up.\n\nI rang the bell at the lattice-door upon the landing.\n\n\"He shouldn't have tried it, anyhow,\" I said to myself. \"A man who eats\nlike a pig ought to look like a pig.\"\n\nAn obviously worthy woman, with an anxious face and a carelessly placed\ncap, came and surveyed me through the lattice.\n\nI gave my name and she let me in in a dubious fashion.\n\n\"Well?\" said I, as we stood together inside Pyecraft's piece of the\nlanding.\n\n\"'E said you was to come in if you came,\" she said, and regarded me,\nmaking no motion to show me anywhere. And then, confidentially, \"'E's\nlocked in, sir.\"\n\n\"Locked in?\"\n\n\"Locked 'imself in yesterday morning and 'asn't let any one in since, sir.\nAnd ever and again _swearing_. Oh, my!\"\n\nI stared at the door she indicated by her glances. \"In there?\" I said.\n\n\"Yes, sir.\"\n\n\"What's up?\"\n\nShe shook her head sadly. \"'E keeps on calling for vittles, sir.\n'_Eavy_ vittles 'e wants. I get 'im what I can. Pork 'e's had, sooit\npuddin', sossiges, noo bread. Everythink like that. Left outside, if you\nplease, and me go away. 'E's eatin', sir, somethink _awful_.\"\n\nThere came a piping bawl from inside the door: \"That Formalyn?\"\n\n\"That you, Pyecraft?\" I shouted, and went and banged the door.\n\n\"Tell her to go away.\"\n\nI did.\n\nThen I could hear a curious pattering upon the door, almost like some one\nfeeling for the handle in the dark, and Pyecraft's familiar grunts.\n\n\"It's all right,\" I said, \"she's gone.\"\n\nBut for a long time the door didn't open.\n\nI heard the key turn. Then Pyecraft's voice said, \"Come in.\"\n\nI turned the handle and opened the door. Naturally I expected to see\nPyecraft.\n\nWell, you know, he wasn't there!\n\nI never had such a shock in my life. There was his sitting-room in a state\nof untidy disorder, plates and dishes among the books and writing things,\nand several chairs overturned, but Pyecraft----\n\n\"It's all right, old man; shut the door,\" he said, and then I discovered\nhim.\n\nThere he was, right up close to the cornice in the corner by the door, as\nthough some one had glued him to the ceiling. His face was anxious and\nangry. He panted and gesticulated. \"Shut the door,\" he said. \"If that\nwoman gets hold of it----\"\n\nI shut the door, and went and stood away from him and stared.\n\n\"If anything gives way and you tumble down,\" I said, \"you'll break your\nneck, Pyecraft.\"\n\n\"I wish I could,\" he wheezed.\n\n\"A man of your age and weight getting up to kiddish gymnastics----\"\n\n\"Don't,\" he said, and looked agonised.\n\n\"I'll tell you,\" he said, and gesticulated.\n\n\"How the deuce,\" said I, \"are you holding on up there?\"\n\nAnd then abruptly I realised that he was not holding on at all, that he\nwas floating up there--just as a gas-filled bladder might have floated in\nthe same position. He began a struggle to thrust himself away from the\nceiling and to clamber down the wall to me. \"It's that prescription,\" he\npanted, as he did so. \"Your great-gran----\"\n\nHe took hold of a framed engraving rather carelessly as he spoke and it\ngave way, and he flew back to the ceiling again, while the picture smashed\non to the sofa. Bump he went against the ceiling, and I knew then why he\nwas all over white on the more salient curves and angles of his person. He\ntried again more carefully, coming down by way of the mantel.\n\nIt was really a most extraordinary spectacle, that great, fat,\napoplectic-looking man upside down and trying to get from the ceiling\nto the floor. \"That prescription,\" he said. \"Too successful.\"\n\n\"How?\"\n\n\"Loss of weight--almost complete.\"\n\nAnd then, of course, I understood.\n\n\"By Jove, Pyecraft,\" said I, \"what you wanted was a cure for fatness! But\nyou always called it weight. You would call it weight.\"\n\nSomehow I was extremely delighted. I quite liked Pyecraft for the time.\n\"Let me help you!\" I said, and took his hand and pulled him down. He\nkicked about, trying to get foothold somewhere. It was very like holding a\nflag on a windy day.\n\n\"That table,\" he said, pointing, \"is solid mahogany and very heavy. If you\ncan put me under that----\"\n\nI did, and there he wallowed about like a captive balloon, while I stood\non his hearthrug and talked to him.\n\nI lit a cigar. \"Tell me,\" I said, \"what happened?\"\n\n\"I took it,\" he said.\n\n\"How did it taste?\"\n\n\"Oh, _beastly_!\"\n\nI should fancy they all did. Whether one regards the ingredients or\nthe probable compound or the possible results, almost all my\ngreat-grandmother's remedies appear to me at least to be extraordinarily\nuninviting. For my own part----\n\n\"I took a little sip first.\"\n\n\"Yes?\"\n\n\"And as I felt lighter and better after an hour, I decided to take the\ndraught.\"\n\n\"My dear Pyecraft!\"\n\n\"I held my nose,\" he explained. \"And then I kept on getting lighter and\nlighter--and helpless, you know.\"\n\nHe gave way suddenly to a burst of passion. \"What the goodness am I to\n_do?_\" he said.\n\n\"There's one thing pretty evident,\" I said, \"that you mustn't do. If you\ngo out of doors you'll go up and up.\" I waved an arm upward. \"They'd have\nto send Santos-Dumont after you to bring you down again.\"\n\n\"I suppose it will wear off?\"\n\nI shook my head. \"I don't think you can count on that,\" I said.\n\nAnd then there was another burst of passion, and he kicked out at adjacent\nchairs and banged the floor. He behaved just as I should have expected a\ngreat, fat, self-indulgent man to behave under trying circumstances--that\nis to say, very badly. He spoke of me and of my great-grandmother with an\nutter want of discretion.\n\n\"I never asked you to take the stuff,\" I said.\n\nAnd generously disregarding the insults he was putting upon me, I sat down\nin his armchair and began to talk to him in a sober, friendly fashion.\n\nI pointed out to him that this was a trouble he had brought upon himself,\nand that it had almost an air of poetical justice. He had eaten too much.\nThis he disputed, and for a time we argued the point.\n\nHe became noisy and violent, so I desisted from this aspect of his lesson.\n\"And then,\" said I, \"you committed the sin of euphuism. You called it, not\nFat, which is just and inglorious, but Weight. You----\"\n\nHe interrupted to say that he recognised all that. What was he to\n_do?_\n\nI suggested he should adapt himself to his new conditions. So we came to\nthe really sensible part of the business. I suggested that it would not be\ndifficult for him to learn to walk about on the ceiling with his hands----\n\n\"I can't sleep,\" he said.\n\nBut that was no great difficulty. It was quite possible, I pointed out, to\nmake a shake-up under a wire mattress, fasten the under things on with\ntapes, and have a blanket, sheet, and coverlet to button at the side. He\nwould have to confide in his housekeeper, I said; and after some\nsquabbling he agreed to that. (Afterwards it was quite delightful to see\nthe beautifully matter-of-fact way with which the good lady took all these\namazing inversions.) He could have a library ladder in his room, and all\nhis meals could be laid on the top of his bookcase. We also hit on an\ningenious device by which he could get to the floor whenever he wanted,\nwhich was simply to put the _British Encyclopaedia_ (tenth edition)\non the top of his open shelves. He just pulled out a couple of volumes and\nheld on, and down he came. And we agreed there must be iron staples along\nthe skirting, so that he could cling to those whenever he wanted to get\nabout the room on the lower level.\n\nAs we got on with the thing I found myself almost keenly interested. It\nwas I who called in the housekeeper and broke matters to her, and it was I\nchiefly who fixed up the inverted bed. In fact, I spent two whole days at\nhis flat. I am a handy, interfering sort of man with a screw-driver, and I\nmade all sorts of ingenious adaptations for him--ran a wire to bring his\nbells within reach, turned all his electric lights up instead of down, and\nso on. The whole affair was extremely curious and interesting to me, and\nit was delightful to think of Pyecraft like some great, fat blow-fly,\ncrawling about on his ceiling and clambering round the lintel of his doors\nfrom one room to another, and never, never, never coming to the club any\nmore...\n\nThen, you know, my fatal ingenuity got the better of me. I was sitting by\nhis fire drinking his whisky, and he was up in his favourite corner by the\ncornice, tacking a Turkey carpet to the ceiling, when the idea struck me.\n\"By Jove, Pyecraft!\" I said, \"all this is totally unnecessary.\"\n\nAnd before I could calculate the complete consequences of my notion I\nblurted it out. \"Lead underclothing,\" said I, and the mischief was done.\n\nPyecraft received the thing almost in tears. \"To be right ways up\nagain----\" he said.\n\nI gave him the whole secret before I saw where it would take me. \"Buy\nsheet lead,\" I said, \"stamp it into discs. Sew 'em all over your\nunderclothes until you have enough. Have lead-soled boots, carry a bag of\nsolid lead, and the thing is done! Instead of being a prisoner here you\nmay go abroad again, Pyecraft; you may travel----\"\n\nA still happier idea came to me. \"You need never fear a shipwreck. All you\nneed do is just slip off some or all of your clothes, take the necessary\namount of luggage in your hand, and float up in the air----\"\n\nIn his emotion he dropped the tack-hammer within an ace of my head. \"By\nJove!\" he said, \"I shall be able to come back to the club again.\"\n\n\"The thing pulled me up short. By Jove!\" I said, faintly. \"Yes. Of\ncourse--you will.\"\n\nHe did. He does. There he sits behind me now, stuffing--as I live!--a\nthird go of buttered teacake. And no one in the whole world knows--except\nhis housekeeper and me---that he weighs practically nothing; that he is a\nmere boring mass of assimilatory matter, mere clouds in clothing,\n_niente, nefas_, the most inconsiderable of men. There he sits\nwatching until I have done this writing. Then, if he can, he will waylay\nme. He will come billowing up to me...\n\nHe will tell me over again all about it, how it feels, how it doesn't\nfeel, how he sometimes hopes it is passing off a little. And always\nsomewhere in that fat, abundant discourse he will say, \"The secret's\nkeeping, eh? If any one knew of it--I should be so ashamed... Makes\na fellow look such a fool, you know. Crawling about on a ceiling and all\nthat...\"\n\nAnd now to elude Pyecraft, occupying, as he does, an admirable strategic\nposition between me and the door.\n\n\n\n\n XXIX.\n\n THE MAGIC SHOP.\n\n\nI had seen the Magic Shop from afar several times; I had passed it once or\ntwice, a shop window of alluring little objects, magic balls, magic hens,\nwonderful cones, ventriloquist dolls, the material of the basket trick,\npacks of cards that _looked_ all right, and all that sort of thing,\nbut never had I thought of going in until one day, almost without warning,\nGip hauled me by my finger right up to the window, and so conducted\nhimself that there was nothing for it but to take him in. I had not\nthought the place was there, to tell the truth--a modest-sized frontage in\nRegent Street, between the picture shop and the place where the chicks run\nabout just out of patent incubators,--but there it was sure enough. I had\nfancied it was down nearer the Circus, or round the corner in Oxford\nStreet, or even in Holborn; always over the way and a little inaccessible\nit had been, with something of the mirage in its position; but here it was\nnow quite indisputably, and the fat end of Gip's pointing finger made a\nnoise upon the glass.\n\n\"If I was rich,\" said Gip, dabbing a finger at the Disappearing Egg, \"I'd\nbuy myself that. And that\"--which was The Crying Baby, Very Human--\"and\nthat,\" which was a mystery, and called, so a neat card asserted, \"Buy One\nand Astonish Your Friends.\"\n\n\"Anything,\" said Gip, \"will disappear under one of those cones. I have\nread about it in a book.\n\n\"And there, dadda, is the Vanishing Halfpenny--only they've put it this\nway up so's we can't see how it's done.\"\n\nGip, dear boy, inherits his mother's breeding, and he did not propose to\nenter the shop or worry in any way; only, you know, quite unconsciously,\nhe lugged my finger doorward, and he made his interest clear.\n\n\"That,\" he said, and pointed to the Magic Bottle.\n\n\"If you had that?\" I said; at which promising inquiry he looked up with a\nsudden radiance.\n\n\"I could show it to Jessie,\" he said, thoughtful as ever of others.\n\n\"It's less than a hundred days to your birthday, Gibbles,\" I said, and\nlaid my hand on the door-handle.\n\nGip made no answer, but his grip tightened on my finger, and so we came\ninto the shop.\n\nIt was no common shop this; it was a magic shop, and all the prancing\nprecedence Gip would have taken in the matter of mere toys was wanting. He\nleft the burthen of the conversation to me.\n\nIt was a little, narrow shop, not very well lit, and the door-bell pinged\nagain with a plaintive note as we closed it behind us. For a moment or\nso we were alone and could glance about us. There was a tiger in\n_papier-mâché_ on the glass case that covered, the low counter--a\ngrave, kind-eyed tiger that waggled his head in a methodical manner; there\nwere several crystal spheres, a china hand holding magic cards, a stock of\nmagic fish-bowls in various sizes, and an immodest magic hat that\nshamelessly displayed its springs. On the floor were magic mirrors; one to\ndraw you out long and thin, one to swell your head and vanish your legs,\nand one to make you short and fat like a draught; and while, we were\nlaughing at these the shopman, as I suppose, came in.\n\nAt any rate, there he was behind the counter--a curious, sallow, dark man,\nwith one ear larger than the other and a chin like the toe-cap of a boot.\n\n\"What can we have the pleasure?\" he said, spreading his long magic fingers\non the glass case; and so with a start we were aware of him.\n\n\"I want,\" I said, \"to buy my little boy a few simple tricks.\"\n\n\"Legerdemain?\" he asked. \"Mechanical? Domestic?\"\n\n\"Anything amusing?\" said I.\n\n\"Um!\" said the shopman, and scratched his head for a moment as if\nthinking. Then, quite distinctly, he drew from his head a glass ball.\n\"Something in this way?\" he said, and held it out.\n\nThe action was unexpected. I had seen the trick done at entertainments\nendless times before--it's part of the common stock of conjurers--but I\nhad not expected it here. \"That's good,\" I said, with a laugh.\n\n\"Isn't it?\" said the shopman.\n\nGip stretched out his disengaged hand to take this object and found merely\na blank palm.\n\n\"It's in your pocket,\" said the shopman, and there it was!\n\n\"How much will that be?\" I asked.\n\n\"We make no charge for glass balls,\" said the shopman politely. \"We get\nthem\"--he picked one out of his elbow as he spoke--\"free.\" He produced\nanother from the back of his neck, and laid it beside its predecessor on\nthe counter. Gip regarded his glass ball sagely, then directed a look of\ninquiry at the two on the counter, and finally brought his round-eyed\nscrutiny to the shopman, who smiled. \"You may have those two,\" said the\nshopman, \"and, if you _don't_ mind one from my mouth. _So!_\"\n\nGip counselled me mutely for a moment, and then in a profound silence put\naway the four balls, resumed my reassuring finger, and nerved himself for\nthe next event.\n\n\"We get all our smaller tricks in that way,\" the shopman remarked.\n\nI laughed in the manner of one who subscribes to a jest. \"Instead of going\nto the wholesale shop,\" I said. \"Of course, it's cheaper.\"\n\n\"In a way,\" the shopman said. \"Though we pay in the end. But not so\nheavily--as people suppose... Our larger tricks, and our daily provisions\nand all the other things we want, we get out of that hat... And you know,\nsir, if you'll excuse my saying it, there _isn't_ a wholesale shop,\nnot for Genuine Magic goods, sir. I don't know if you noticed our\ninscription--the Genuine Magic Shop.\" He drew a business card from his\ncheek and handed it to me. \"Genuine,\" he said, with his finger on the\nword, and added, \"There is absolutely no deception, sir.\"\n\nHe seemed to be carrying out the joke pretty thoroughly, I thought.\n\nHe turned to Gip with a smile of remarkable affability. \"You, you know,\nare the Right Sort of Boy.\"\n\nI was surprised at his knowing that, because, in the interests of\ndiscipline, we keep it rather a secret even at home; but Gip received it\nin unflinching silence, keeping a steadfast eye on him.\n\n\"It's only the Right Sort of Boy gets through that doorway.\"\n\nAnd, as if by way of illustration, there came a rattling at the door, and\na squeaking little voice could be faintly heard. \"Nyar! I _warn_ 'a\ngo in there, dadda, I WARN 'a go in there. Ny-a-a-ah!\" and then the\naccents of a downtrodden parent, urging consolations and propitiations.\n\"It's locked, Edward,\" he said.\n\n\"But it isn't,\" said I.\n\n\"It is, sir,\" said the shopman, \"always--for that sort of child,\" and as\nhe spoke we had a glimpse of the other youngster, a little, white face,\npallid from sweet-eating and over-sapid food, and distorted by evil\npassions, a ruthless little egotist, pawing at the enchanted pane. \"It's\nno good, sir,\" said the shopman, as I moved, with my natural helpfulness,\ndoorward, and presently the spoilt child was carried off howling.\n\n\"How do you manage that?\" I said, breathing a little more freely.\n\n\"Magic!\" said the shopman, with a careless wave of the hand, and behold!\nsparks of coloured fire flew out of his fingers and vanished into the\nshadows of the shop.\n\n\"You were saying,\" he said, addressing himself to Gip, \"before you came\nin, that you would like one of our 'Buy One and Astonish your Friends'\nboxes?\"\n\nGip, after a gallant effort, said \"Yes.\"\n\n\"It's in your pocket.\"\n\nAnd leaning over the counter--he really had an extraordinary long body--\nthis amazing person produced the article in the customary conjurer's\nmanner. \"Paper,\" he said, and took a sheet out of the empty hat with the\nsprings; \"string,\" and behold his mouth was a string box, from which he\ndrew an unending thread, which when he had tied his parcel he bit off--\nand, it seemed to me, swallowed the ball of string. And then he lit a\ncandle at the nose of one of the ventriloquist's dummies, stuck one of his\nfingers (which had become sealing-wax red) into the flame, and so sealed\nthe parcel. \"Then there was the Disappearing Egg,\" he remarked, and\nproduced one from within my coat-breast and packed it, and also The Crying\nBaby, Very Human. I handed each parcel to Gip as it was ready, and he\nclasped them to his chest.\n\nHe said very little, but his eyes were eloquent; the clutch of his arms\nwas eloquent. He was the playground of unspeakable emotions. These, you\nknow, were _real_ Magics.\n\nThen, with a start, I discovered something moving about in my hat--\nsomething soft and jumpy. I whipped it off, and a ruffled pigeon--no doubt\na confederate--dropped out and ran on the counter, and went, I fancy, into\na cardboard box behind the _papier-mâché_ tiger.\n\n\"Tut, tut!\" said the shopman, dexterously relieving, me of my headdress;\n\"careless bird, and--as I live--nesting!\"\n\nHe shook my hat, and shook out into his extended hand, two or three eggs,\na large marble, a watch, about half a dozen of the inevitable glass balls,\nand then crumpled, crinkled paper, more and more and more, talking all the\ntime of the way in which people neglect to brush their hats _inside_\nas well as out--politely, of course, but with a certain personal\napplication. \"All sorts of things accumulate, sir... Not _you_, of\ncourse, in particular... Nearly every customer... Astonishing what they\ncarry about with them...\" The crumpled paper rose and billowed on the\ncounter more and more and more, until he was nearly hidden from us, until\nhe was altogether hidden, and still his voice went on and on. \"We none of\nus know what the fair semblance of a human being may conceal, Sir. Are we\nall then no better than brushed exteriors, whited sepulchres-----\"\n\nHis voice stopped--exactly like when you hit a neighbour's gramophone with\na well-aimed brick, the same instant silence--and the rustle of the paper\nstopped, and everything was still...\n\n\"Have you done with my hat?\" I said, after an interval.\n\nThere was no answer.\n\nI stared at Gip, and Gip stared at me, and there were our distortions in\nthe magic mirrors, looking very rum, and grave, and quiet...\n\n\"I think we'll go now,\" I said. \"Will you tell me how much all this comes\nto?...\n\n\"I say,\" I said, on a rather louder note, \"I want the bill; and my hat,\nplease.\"\n\nIt might have been a sniff from behind the paper pile...\n\n\"Let's look behind the counter, Gip,\" I said. \"He's making fun of us.\"\n\nI led Gip round the head-wagging tiger, and what do you think there was\nbehind the counter? No one at all! Only my hat on the floor, and a common\nconjurer's lop-eared white rabbit lost in meditation, and looking as\nstupid and crumpled as only a conjurer's rabbit can do. I resumed my hat,\nand the rabbit lolloped a lollop or so out of my way.\n\n\"Dadda!\" said Gip, in a guilty whisper.\n\n\"What is it, Gip?\" said I.\n\n\"I _do_ like this shop, dadda.\"\n\n\"So should I,\" I said to myself, \"if the counter wouldn't suddenly extend\nitself to shut one off from the door.\" But I didn't call Gip's attention\nto that. \"Pussy!\" he said, with a hand out to the rabbit as it came\nlolloping past us; \"Pussy, do Gip a magic!\" and his eyes followed it as it\nsqueezed through a door I had certainly not remarked a moment before. Then\nthis door opened wider, and the man with one ear larger than the other\nappeared again. He was smiling still, but his eye met mine with something\nbetween amusement and defiance. \"You'd like to see our showroom, sir,\" he\nsaid, with an innocent suavity. Gip tugged my finger forward. I glanced at\nthe counter and met the shopman's eye again. I was beginning to think the\nmagic just a little too genuine. \"We haven't _very_ much time,\" I\nsaid. But somehow we were inside the showroom before I could finish that.\n\n\"All goods of the same quality,\" said the shopman, rubbing his flexible\nhands together, \"and that is the Best. Nothing in the place that isn't\ngenuine Magic, and warranted thoroughly rum. Excuse me, sir!\"\n\nI felt him pull at something that clung to my coat-sleeve, and then I saw\nhe held a little, wriggling red demon by the tail--the little creature bit\nand fought and tried to get at his hand--and in a moment he tossed it\ncarelessly behind a counter. No doubt the thing was only an image of\ntwisted indiarubber, but for the moment--! And his gesture was exactly\nthat of a man who handles some petty biting bit of vermin. I glanced at\nGip, but Gip was looking at a magic rocking-horse. I was glad he hadn't\nseen the thing. \"I say,\" I said, in an undertone, and indicating Gip and\nthe red demon with my eyes, \"you haven't many things like _that_\nabout, have you?\"\n\n\"None of ours! Probably brought it with you,\" said the shopman--also in an\nundertone, and with a more dazzling smile than ever. \"Astonishing what\npeople _will_, carry about with them unawares!\" And then to Gip, \"Do\nyou see anything you fancy here?\"\n\nThere were many things that Gip fancied there.\n\nHe turned to this astonishing tradesman with mingled confidence and\nrespect. \"Is that a Magic Sword?\" he said.\n\n\"A Magic Toy Sword. It neither bends, breaks, nor cuts the fingers. It\nrenders the bearer invincible in battle against any one under eighteen.\nHalf a crown to seven and sixpence, according to size. These panoplies on\ncards are for juvenile knights-errant and very useful--shield of safety,\nsandals of swiftness, helmet of invisibility.\"\n\n\"Oh, dadda!\" gasped Gip.\n\nI tried to find out what they cost, but the shopman did not heed me.\nHe had got Gip now; he had got him away from my finger; he had embarked\nupon the exposition of all his confounded stock, and nothing was going to\nstop him. Presently I saw with a qualm of distrust and something very like\njealousy that Gip had hold of this person's finger as usually he has hold\nof mine. No doubt the fellow was interesting, I thought, and had an\ninterestingly faked lot of stuff, really _good_ faked stuff,\nstill----\n\nI wandered after them, saying very little, but keeping an eye on this\nprestidigital fellow. After all, Gip was enjoying it. And no doubt when\nthe time came to go we should be able to go quite easily.\n\nIt was a long, rambling place, that showroom, a gallery broken up by\nstands and stalls and pillars, with archways leading off to other\ndepartments, in which the queerest-looking assistants loafed and stared at\none, and with perplexing mirrors and curtains. So perplexing, indeed, were\nthese that I was presently unable to make out the door by which we had\ncome.\n\nThe shopman showed Gip magic trains that ran without steam or clockwork,\njust as you set the signals, and then some very, very valuable boxes of\nsoldiers that all came alive directly you took off the lid and said----I\nmyself haven't a very quick ear, and it was a tongue-twisting sound, but\nGip--he has his mother's ear--got it in no time. \"Bravo!\" said the\nshopman, putting the men back into the box unceremoniously and handing it\nto Gip. \"Now,\" said the shopman, and in a moment Gip had made them all\nalive again.\n\n\"You'll take that box?\" asked the shopman.\n\n\"We'll take that box,\" said I, \"unless you charge its full value. In which\ncase it would need a Trust Magnate----\"\n\n\"Dear heart! _No!_\" and the shopman swept the little men back again,\nshut the lid, waved the box in the air, and there it was, in brown paper,\ntied up and--_with Gip's full name and address on the paper!_\n\nThe shopman laughed at my amazement.\n\n\"This is the genuine magic,\" he said. \"The real thing.\"\n\n\"It's a little too genuine for my taste,\" I said again.\n\nAfter that he fell to showing Gip tricks, odd tricks, and still odder the\nway they were done. He explained them, he turned them inside out, and\nthere was the dear little chap nodding his busy bit of a head in the\nsagest manner.\n\nI did not attend as well as I might. \"Hey, presto!\" said the Magic\nShopman, and then would come the clear, small \"Hey, presto!\" of the boy.\nBut I was distracted by other things. It was being borne in upon me just\nhow tremendously rum this place was; it was, so to speak, inundated by a\nsense of rumness. There was something a little rum about the fixtures\neven, about the ceiling, about the floor, about the casually distributed\nchairs. I had a queer feeling that whenever I wasn't looking at them\nstraight they went askew, and moved about, and played a noiseless\npuss-in-the-corner behind my back. And the cornice had a serpentine design\nwith masks--masks altogether too expressive for proper plaster.\n\nThen abruptly my attention was caught by one of the odd-looking\nassistants. He was some way off and evidently unaware of my presence--I\nsaw a sort of three-quarter length of him over a pile of toys and through\nan arch--and, you know, he was leaning against a pillar in an idle sort of\nway doing the most horrid things with his features! The particular horrid\nthing he did was with his nose. He did it just as though he was idle and\nwanted to amuse himself. First of all it was a short, blobby nose, and\nthen suddenly he shot it out like a telescope, and then out it flew and\nbecame thinner and thinner until it was like a long, red flexible whip.\nLike a thing in a nightmare it was! He flourished it about and flung it\nforth as a fly-fisher flings his line.\n\nMy instant thought was that Gip mustn't see him. I turned about, and there\nwas Gip quite preoccupied with the shopman, and thinking no evil. They\nwere whispering together and looking at me. Gip was standing on a little\nstool, and the shopman was holding a sort of big drum in his hand.\n\n\"Hide and seek, dadda!\" cried Gip. \"You're He!\"\n\nAnd before I could do anything to prevent it, the shopman had clapped the\nbig drum over him.\n\nI saw what was up directly. \"Take that off,\" I cried, \"this instant!\nYou'll frighten the boy. Take it off!\"\n\nThe shopman with the unequal ears did so without a word, and held the big\ncylinder towards me to show its emptiness. And the little stool was\nvacant! In that instant my boy had utterly disappeared!...\n\nYou know, perhaps, that sinister something that comes like a hand out of\nthe unseen and grips your heart about. You know it takes your common self\naway and leaves you tense and deliberate, neither slow nor hasty, neither\nangry nor afraid. So it was with me.\n\nI came up to this grinning shopman and kicked his stool aside.\n\n\"Stop this folly!\" I said. \"Where is my boy?\"\n\n\"You see,\" he said, still displaying the drum's interior, \"there is no\ndeception----\"\n\nI put out my hand to grip him, and he eluded me by a dexterous movement. I\nsnatched again, and he turned from me and pushed open a door to escape.\n\"Stop!\" I said, and he laughed, receding. I leapt after him--into utter\ndarkness.\n\n_Thud!_\n\n\"Lor' bless my 'eart! I didn't see you coming, sir!\"\n\nI was in Regent Street, and I had collided with a decent-looking working\nman; and a yard away, perhaps, and looking a little perplexed with\nhimself, was Gip. There was some sort of apology, and then Gip had turned\nand come to me with a bright little smile, as though for a moment he had\nmissed me.\n\nAnd he was carrying four parcels in his arm!\n\nHe secured immediate possession of my finger.\n\nFor the second I was rather at a loss. I stared round to see the door of\nthe Magic Shop, and, behold, it was not there! There was no door, no shop,\nnothing, only the common pilaster between the shop where they sell\npictures and the window with the chicks! ...\n\nI did the only thing possible in that mental tumult; I walked straight to\nthe kerbstone and held up my umbrella for a cab.\n\n\"'Ansoms,\" said Gip, in a note of culminating exultation.\n\nI helped him in, recalled my address with an effort, and got in also.\nSomething unusual proclaimed itself in my tail-coat pocket, and I felt and\ndiscovered a glass ball. With a petulant expression I flung it into the\nstreet.\n\nGip said nothing.\n\nFor a space neither of us spoke.\n\n\"Dadda!\" said Gip, at last, \"that _was_ a proper shop!\"\n\nI came round with that to the problem of just how the whole thing had\nseemed to him. He looked completely undamaged--so far, good; he was\nneither scared nor unhinged, he was simply tremendously satisfied with the\nafternoon's entertainment, and there in his arms were the four parcels.\n\nConfound it! what could be in them?\n\n\"Um!\" I said. \"Little boys can't go to shops like that every day.\"\n\nHe received this with his usual stoicism, and for a moment I was sorry I\nwas his father and not his mother, and so couldn't suddenly there,\n_coram publico,_ in our hansom, kiss him. After all, I thought, the\nthing wasn't so very bad.\n\nBut it was only when we opened the parcels that I really began to be\nreassured. Three of them contained boxes of soldiers, quite ordinary lead\nsoldiers, but of so good a quality as to make Gip altogether forget that\noriginally these parcels had been Magic Tricks of the only genuine sort,\nand the fourth contained a kitten, a little living white kitten, in\nexcellent health and appetite and temper.\n\nI saw this unpacking with a sort of provisional relief. I hung about in\nthe nursery for quite an unconscionable time...\n\nThat happened six months ago. And now I am beginning to believe it is\nall right. The kitten had only the magic natural to all kittens, and\nthe soldiers seemed as steady a company as any colonel could desire. And\nGip----?\n\nThe intelligent parent will understand that I have to go cautiously with\nGip.\n\nBut I went so far as this one day. I said, \"How would you like your\nsoldiers to come alive, Gip, and march about by themselves?\"\n\n\"Mine do,\" said Gip. \"I just have to say a word I know before I open the\nlid.\"\n\n\"Then they march about alone?\"\n\n\"Oh, _quite_, dadda. I shouldn't like them if they didn't do that.\"\n\nI displayed no unbecoming surprise, and since then I have taken occasion\nto drop in upon him once or twice, unannounced, when the soldiers were\nabout, but so far I have never discovered them performing in anything like\na magical manner...\n\nIt's so difficult to tell.\n\nThere's also a question of finance. I have an incurable habit of paying\nbills. I have been up and down Regent Street several times looking for\nthat shop. I am inclined to think, indeed, that in that matter honour is\nsatisfied, and that, since Gip's name and address are known to them, I may\nvery well leave it to these people, whoever they may be, to send in their\nbill in their own time.\n\n\n\n\n XXX.\n\n THE EMPIRE OF THE ANTS.\n\n\nWhen Captain Gerilleau received instructions to take his new gunboat, the\n_Benjamin Constant,_ to Badama on the Batemo arm of the Guaramadema\nand there assist the inhabitants against a plague of ants, he suspected\nthe authorities of mockery. His promotion had been romantic and irregular,\nthe affections of a prominent Brazilian lady and the captain's liquid eyes\nhad played a part in the process, and the _Diario_ and _O\nFuturo_ had been lamentably disrespectful in their comments. He felt he\nwas to give further occasion for disrespect.\n\nHe was a Creole, his conceptions of etiquette and discipline were\npure-blooded Portuguese, and it was only to Holroyd, the Lancashire\nengineer who had come over with the boat, and as an exercise in the use of\nEnglish--his \"th\" sounds were very uncertain--that he opened his heart.\n\n\"It is in effect,\" he said, \"to make me absurd! What can a man do against\nants? Dey come, dey go.\"\n\n\"They say,\" said Holroyd, \"that these don't go. That chap you said was a\nSambo----\"\n\n\"Zambo;--it is a sort of mixture of blood.\"\n\n\"Sambo. He said the people are going!\"\n\nThe captain smoked fretfully for a time. \"Dese tings 'ave to happen,\" he\nsaid at last. \"What is it? Plagues of ants and suchlike as God wills. Dere\nwas a plague in Trinidad--the little ants that carry leaves. Orl der\norange-trees, all der mangoes! What does it matter? Sometimes ant armies\ncome into your houses--fighting ants; a different sort. You go and they\nclean the house. Then you come back again;--the house is clean, like new!\nNo cockroaches, no fleas, no jiggers in the floor.\"\n\n\"That Sambo chap,\" said Holroyd, \"says these are a different sort of ant.\"\n\nThe captain shrugged his shoulders, fumed, and gave his attention to a\ncigarette.\n\nAfterwards he reopened the subject. \"My dear 'Olroyd, what am I to do\nabout dese infernal ants?\"\n\nThe captain reflected. \"It is ridiculous,\" he said. But in the afternoon\nhe put on his full uniform and went ashore, and jars and boxes came back\nto the ship and subsequently he did. And Holroyd sat on deck in the\nevening coolness and smoked profoundly and marvelled at Brazil. They were\nsix days up the Amazon, some hundreds of miles from the ocean, and east\nand west of him there was a horizon like the sea, and to the south nothing\nbut a sand-bank island with some tufts of scrub. The water was always\nrunning like a sluice, thick with dirt, animated with crocodiles and\nhovering birds, and fed by some inexhaustible source of tree trunks; and\nthe waste of it, the headlong waste of it, filled his soul. The town of\nAlemquer, with its meagre church, its thatched sheds for houses, its\ndiscoloured ruins of ampler days, seemed a little thing lost in this\nwilderness of Nature, a sixpence dropped on Sahara. He was a young man,\nthis was his first sight of the tropics, he came straight from England,\nwhere Nature is hedged, ditched, and drained, into the perfection of\nsubmission, and he had suddenly discovered the insignificance of man. For\nsix days they had been steaming up from the sea by unfrequented channels;\nand man had been as rare as a rare butterfly. One saw one day a canoe,\nanother day a distant station, the next no men at all. He began to\nperceive that man is indeed a rare animal, having but a precarious hold\nupon this land.\n\nHe perceived it more clearly as the days passed, and he made his devious\nway to the Batemo, in the company of this remarkable commander, who ruled\nover one big gun, and was forbidden to waste his ammunition. Holroyd was\nlearning Spanish industriously, but he was still in the present tense and\nsubstantive stage of speech, and the only other person who had any words\nof English was a negro stoker, who had them all wrong. The second in\ncommand was a Portuguese, da Cunha, who spoke French, but it was a\ndifferent sort of French from the French Holroyd had learnt in Southport,\nand their intercourse was confined to politenesses and simple propositions\nabout the weather. And the weather, like everything else in this amazing\nnew world, the weather had no human aspect, and was hot by night and hot\nby day, and the air steam, even the wind was hot steam, smelling of\nvegetation in decay: and the alligators and the strange birds, the flies\nof many sorts and sizes, the beetles, the ants, the snakes and monkeys\nseemed to wonder what man was doing in an atmosphere that had no gladness\nin its sunshine and no coolness in its night. To wear clothing was\nintolerable, but to cast it aside was to scorch by day, and expose an\nampler area to the mosquitoes by night; to go on deck by day was to be\nblinded by glare and to stay below was to suffocate. And in the daytime\ncame certain flies, extremely clever and noxious about one's wrist and\nankle. Captain Gerilleau, who was Holroyd's sole distraction from these\nphysical distresses, developed into a formidable bore, telling the simple\nstory of his heart's affections day by day, a string of anonymous women,\nas if he was telling beads. Sometimes he suggested sport, and they shot at\nalligators, and at rare intervals they came to human aggregations in the\nwaste of trees, and stayed for a day or so, and drank and sat about, and,\none night, danced with Creole girls, who found Holroyd's poor elements of\nSpanish, without either past tense or future, amply sufficient for their\npurposes. But these were mere luminous chinks in the long grey passage of\nthe streaming river, up which the throbbing engines beat. A certain\nliberal heathen deity, in the shape of a demi-john, held seductive court\naft, and, it is probable, forward.\n\nBut Gerilleau learnt things about the ants, more things and more, at this\nstopping-place and that, and became interested in his mission.\n\n\"Dey are a new sort of ant,\" he said. \"We have got to be--what do you call\nit?--entomologie? Big. Five centimetres! Some bigger! It is ridiculous. We\nare like the monkeys---sent to pick insects... But dey are eating up the\ncountry.\"\n\nHe burst out indignantly. \"Suppose--suddenly, there are complications with\nEurope. Here am I--soon we shall be above the Rio Negro--and my gun,\nuseless!\"\n\nHe nursed his knee and mused.\n\n\"Dose people who were dere at de dancing place, dey 'ave come down. Dey\n'ave lost all they got. De ants come to deir house one afternoon. Everyone\nrun out. You know when de ants come one must--everyone runs out and they\ngo over the house. If you stayed they'd eat you. See? Well, presently dey\ngo back; dey say, 'The ants 'ave gone.' ... De ants _'aven't_ gone.\nDey try to go in--de son, 'e goes in. De ants fight.\"\n\n\"Swarm over him?\"\n\n\"Bite 'im. Presently he comes out again--screaming and running. He runs\npast them to the river. See? He gets into de water and drowns de ants--\nyes.\" Gerilleau paused, brought his liquid eyes close to Holroyd's face,\ntapped Holroyd's knee with his knuckle. \"That night he dies, just as if he\nwas stung by a snake.\"\n\n\"Poisoned--by the ants?\"\n\n\"Who knows?\" Gerilleau shrugged his shoulders. \"Perhaps they bit him\nbadly... When I joined dis service I joined to fight men. Dese things,\ndese ants, dey come and go. It is no business for men.\"\n\nAfter that he talked frequently of the ants to Holroyd, and whenever they\nchanced to drift against any speck of humanity in that waste of water and\nsunshine and distant trees, Holroyd's improving knowledge of the language\nenabled him to recognise the ascendant word _Saüba_, more and more\ncompletely dominating the whole.\n\nHe perceived the ants were becoming interesting, and the nearer he drew to\nthem the more interesting they became. Gerilleau abandoned his old themes\nalmost suddenly, and the Portuguese lieutenant became a conversational\nfigure; he knew something about the leaf-cutting ant, and expanded his\nknowledge. Gerilleau sometimes rendered what he had to tell to Holroyd. He\ntold of the little workers that swarm and fight, and the big workers that\ncommand and rule, and how these latter always crawled to the neck and how\ntheir bites drew blood. He told how they cut leaves and made fungus beds,\nand how their nests in Caracas are sometimes a hundred yards across. Two\ndays the three men spent disputing whether ants have eyes. The discussion\ngrew dangerously heated on the second afternoon, and Holroyd saved the\nsituation by going ashore in a boat to catch ants and see. He captured\nvarious specimens and returned, and some had eyes and some hadn't. Also,\nthey argued, do ants bite or sting?\n\n\"Dese ants,\" said Gerilleau, after collecting information at a rancho,\n\"have big eyes. They don't run about blind--not as most ants do. No! Dey\nget in corners and watch what you do.\"\n\n\"And they sting?\" asked Holroyd.\n\n\"Yes. Dey sting. Dere is poison in the sting.\" He meditated. \"I do not see\nwhat men can do against ants. Dey come and go.\"\n\n\"But these don't go.\"\n\n\"They will,\" said Gerilleau.\n\nPast Tamandu there is a long low coast of eighty miles without any\npopulation, and then one comes to the confluence of the main river and the\nBatemo arm like a great lake, and then the forest came nearer, came at\nlast intimately near. The character of the channel changes, snags abound,\nand the _Benjamin Constant_ moored by a cable that night, under the\nvery shadow of dark trees. For the first time for many days came a spell\nof coolness, and Holroyd and Gerilleau sat late, smoking cigars and\nenjoying this delicious sensation. Gerilleau's mind was full of ants and\nwhat they could do. He decided to sleep at last, and lay down on a\nmattress on deck, a man hopelessly perplexed, his last words, when he\nalready seemed asleep, were to ask, with a flourish of despair, \"What can\none do with ants?... De whole thing is absurd.\"\n\nHolroyd was left to scratch his bitten wrists, and meditate alone.\n\nHe sat on the bulwark and listened to the little changes in Gerilleau's\nbreathing until he was fast asleep, and then the ripple and lap of the\nstream took his mind, and brought back that sense of immensity that had\nbeen growing upon him since first he had left Para and come up the river.\nThe monitor showed but one small light, and there was first a little\ntalking forward and then stillness. His eyes went from the dim black\noutlines of the middle works of the gunboat towards the bank, to the black\noverwhelming mysteries of forest, lit now and then by a fire-fly, and\nnever still from the murmur of alien and mysterious activities...\n\nIt was the inhuman immensity of this land that astonished and oppressed\nhim. He knew the skies were empty of men, the stars were specks in an\nincredible vastness of space; he knew the ocean was enormous and\nuntamable, but in England he had come to think of the land as man's. In\nEngland it is indeed man's, the wild things live by sufferance, grow on\nlease, everywhere the roads, the fences, and absolute security runs. In an\natlas, too, the land is man's, and all coloured to show his claim to it--\nin vivid contrast to the universal independent blueness of the sea. He had\ntaken it for granted that a day would come when everywhere about the\nearth, plough and culture, light tramways and good roads, an ordered\nsecurity, would prevail. But now, he doubted.\n\nThis forest was interminable, it had an air of being invincible, and Man\nseemed at best an infrequent precarious intruder. One travelled for miles,\namidst the still, silent struggle of giant trees, of strangulating\ncreepers, of assertive flowers, everywhere the alligator, the turtle, and\nendless varieties of birds and insects seemed at home, dwelt\nirreplaceably--but man, man at most held a footing upon resentful\nclearings, fought weeds, fought beasts and insects for the barest\nfoothold, fell a prey to snake and beast, insect and fever, and was\npresently carried away. In many places down the river he had been\nmanifestly driven back, this deserted creek or that preserved the name of\na _casa_, and here and there ruinous white walls and a shattered\ntower enforced the lesson. The puma, the jaguar, were more the masters\nhere...\n\nWho were the real masters?\n\nIn a few miles of this forest there must be more ants than there are men\nin the whole world! This seemed to Holroyd a perfectly new idea. In a few\nthousand years men had emerged from barbarism to a stage of civilisation\nthat made them feel lords of the future and masters of the earth! But what\nwas to prevent the ants evolving also? Such ants as one knew lived in\nlittle communities of a few thousand individuals, made no concerted\nefforts against the greater world. But they had a language, they had an\nintelligence! Why should things stop at that any more than men had stopped\nat the barbaric stage? Suppose presently the ants began to store\nknowledge, just as men had done by means of books and records, use\nweapons, form great empires, sustain a planned and organised war?\n\nThings came back to him that Gerilleau had gathered about these ants they\nwere approaching. They used a poison like the poison of snakes. They\nobeyed greater leaders even as the leaf-cutting ants do. They were\ncarnivorous, and where they came they stayed...\n\nThe forest was very still. The water lapped incessantly against the side.\nAbout the lantern overhead there eddied a noiseless whirl of phantom\nmoths.\n\nGerilleau stirred in the darkness and sighed. \"What can one _do?_\" he\nmurmured, and turned over and was still again.\n\nHolroyd was roused from meditations that were becoming sinister by the hum\nof a mosquito.\n\n\nII.\n\nThe next morning Holroyd learnt they were within forty kilometres of\nBadama, and his interest in the banks intensified. He came up whenever an\nopportunity offered to examine his surroundings. He could see no signs of\nhuman occupation whatever, save for a weedy ruin of a house and the\ngreen-stained facade of the long-deserted monastery at Mojû, with a forest\ntree growing out of a vacant window space, and great creepers netted across\nits vacant portals. Several flights of strange yellow butterflies with\nsemi-transparent wings crossed the river that morning, and many alighted on\nthe monitor and were killed by the men. It was towards afternoon that they\ncame upon the derelict _cuberta_.\n\nShe did not at first appear to be derelict; both her sails were set and\nhanging slack in the afternoon calm, and there was the figure of a man\nsitting on the fore planking beside the shipped sweeps. Another man\nappeared to be sleeping face downwards on the sort of longitudinal bridge\nthese big canoes have in the waist. But it was presently apparent, from\nthe sway of her rudder and the way she drifted into the course of the\ngunboat, that something was out of order with her. Gerilleau surveyed her\nthrough a field-glass, and became interested in the queer darkness of the\nface of the sitting man, a red-faced man he seemed, without a nose--\ncrouching he was rather than sitting, and the longer the captain looked\nthe less he liked to look at him, and the less able he was to take his\nglasses away.\n\nBut he did so at last, and went a little way to call up Holroyd. Then he\nwent back to hail the cuberta. He hailed her again, and so she drove past\nhim. _Santa Rosa_ stood out clearly as her name.\n\nAs she came by and into the wake of the monitor, she pitched a little, and\nsuddenly the figure of the crouching man collapsed as though all its joints\nhad given way. His hat fell off, his head was not nice to look at, and his\nbody flopped lax and rolled out of sight behind the bulwarks.\n\n\"Caramba!\" cried Gerilleau, and resorted to Holroyd forthwith.\n\nHolroyd was half-way up the companion. \"Did you see dat?\" said the\ncaptain.\n\n\"Dead!\" said Holroyd. \"Yes. You'd better send a boat aboard. There's\nsomething wrong.\"\n\n\"Did you--by any chance--see his face?\"\n\n\"What was it like?\"\n\n\"It was--ugh!--I have no words.\" And the captain suddenly turned his back\non Holroyd and became an active and strident commander.\n\nThe gunboat came about, steamed parallel to the erratic course of the\ncanoe, and dropped the boat with Lieutenant da Cunha and three sailors to\nboard her. Then the curiosity of the captain made him draw up almost\nalongside as the lieutenant got aboard, so that the whole of the _Santa\nRosa_, deck and hold, was visible to Holroyd.\n\nHe saw now clearly that the sole crew of the vessel was these two dead\nmen, and though he could not see their faces, he saw by their outstretched\nhands, which were all of ragged flesh, that they had been subjected to\nsome strange exceptional process of decay. For a moment his attention\nconcentrated on those two enigmatical bundles of dirty clothes and laxly\nflung limbs, and then his eyes went forward to discover the open hold\npiled high with trunks and cases, and aft, to where the little cabin gaped\ninexplicably empty. Then he became aware that the planks of the middle\ndecking were dotted with moving black specks.\n\nHis attention was riveted by these specks. They were all walking in\ndirections radiating from the fallen man in a manner--the image came\nunsought to his mind--like the crowd dispersing from a bull-fight.\n\nHe became aware of Gerilleau beside him. \"Capo,\" he said, \"have you your\nglasses? Can you focus as closely as those planks there?\"\n\nGerilleau made an effort, grunted, and handed him the glasses.\n\nThere followed a moment of scrutiny. \"It's ants,\" said the Englishman, and\nhanded the focused field-glass back to Gerilleau.\n\nHis impression of them was of a crowd of large black ants, very like\nordinary ants except for their size, and for the fact that some of the\nlarger of them bore a sort of clothing of grey. But at the time his\ninspection was too brief for particulars. The head of Lieutenant da Cunha\nappeared over the side of the cuberta, and a brief colloquy ensued.\n\n\"You must go aboard,\" said Gerilleau.\n\nThe lieutenant objected that the boat was full of ants.\n\n\"You have your boots,\" said Gerilleau.\n\nThe lieutenant changed the subject. \"How did these men die?\" he asked.\n\nCaptain Gerilleau embarked upon speculations that Holroyd could not\nfollow, and the two men disputed with a certain increasing vehemence.\nHolroyd took up the field-glass and resumed his scrutiny, first of the\nants and then of the dead man amidships.\n\nHe has described these ants to me very particularly.\n\nHe says they were as large as any ants he has ever seen, black and moving\nwith a steady deliberation very different from the mechanical fussiness of\nthe common ant. About one in twenty was much larger than its fellows, and\nwith an exceptionally large head. These reminded him at once of the master\nworkers who are said to rule over the leaf-cutter ants; like them they\nseemed to be directing and co-ordinating the general movements. They\ntilted their bodies back in a manner altogether singular as if they made\nsome use of the fore feet. And he had a curious fancy that he was too far\noff to verify, that most of these ants of both kinds were wearing\naccoutrements, had things strapped about their bodies by bright white\nbands like white metal threads...\n\nHe put down the glasses abruptly, realising that the question of\ndiscipline between the captain and his subordinate had become acute.\n\n\"It is your duty,\" said the captain, \"to go aboard. It is my\ninstructions.\"\n\nThe lieutenant seemed on the verge of refusing. The head of one of the\nmulatto sailors appeared beside him.\n\n\"I believe these men were killed by the ants,\" said Holroyd abruptly in\nEnglish.\n\nThe captain burst into a rage. He made no answer to Holroyd. \"I have\ncommanded you to go aboard,\" he screamed to his subordinate in Portuguese.\n\"If you do not go aboard forthwith it is mutiny--rank mutiny. Mutiny and\ncowardice! Where is the courage that should animate us? I will have you in\nirons, I will have you shot like a dog.\" He began a torrent of abuse and\ncurses, he danced to and fro. He shook his fists, he behaved as if beside\nhimself with rage, and the lieutenant, white and still, stood looking at\nhim. The crew appeared forward, with amazed faces.\n\nSuddenly, in a pause of this outbreak, the lieutenant came to some heroic\ndecision, saluted, drew himself together and clambered upon the deck of\nthe cuberta.\n\n\"Ah!\" said Gerilleau, and his mouth shut like a trap. Holroyd saw the ants\nretreating before da Cunha's boots. The Portuguese walked slowly to the\nfallen man, stooped down, hesitated, clutched his coat and turned him\nover. A black swarm of ants rushed out of the clothes, and da Cunha\nstepped back very quickly and trod two or three times on the deck.\n\nHolroyd put up the glasses. He saw the scattered ants about the invader's\nfeet, and doing what he had never seen ants doing before. They had nothing\nof the blind movements of the common ant; they were looking at him--as a\nrallying crowd of men might look at some gigantic monster that had\ndispersed it.\n\n\"How did he die?\" the captain shouted.\n\nHolroyd understood the Portuguese to say the body was too much eaten to\ntell.\n\n\"What is there forward?\" asked Gerilleau.\n\nThe lieutenant walked a few paces, and began his answer in Portuguese. He\nstopped abruptly and beat off something from his leg. He made some\npeculiar steps as if he was trying to stamp on something invisible, and\nwent quickly towards the side. Then he controlled himself, turned about,\nwalked deliberately forward to the hold, clambered up to the fore decking,\nfrom which the sweeps are worked, stooped for a time over the second man,\ngroaned audibly, and made his way back and aft to the cabin, moving very\nrigidly. He turned and began a conversation with his captain, cold and\nrespectful in tone on either side, contrasting vividly with the wrath and\ninsult of a few moments before. Holroyd gathered only fragments of its\npurport.\n\nHe reverted to the field-glass, and was surprised to find the ants had\nvanished from all the exposed surfaces of the deck. He turned towards the\nshadows beneath the decking, and it seemed to him they were full of\nwatching eyes.\n\nThe cuberta, it was agreed; was derelict, but too full of ants to put men\naboard to sit and sleep: it must be towed. The lieutenant went forward to\ntake in and adjust the cable, and the men in the boat stood up to be ready\nto help him. Holroyd's glasses searched the canoe.\n\nHe became more and more impressed by the fact that a great if minute and\nfurtive activity was going on. He perceived that a number of gigantic\nants--they seemed nearly a couple of inches in length--carrying\noddly-shaped burthens for which he could imagine no use--were moving in\nrushes from one point of obscurity to another. They did not move in columns\nacross the exposed places, but in open, spaced-out lines, oddly suggestive\nof the rushes of modern infantry advancing under fire. A number were\ntaking cover under the dead man's clothes, and a perfect swarm was\ngathering along the side over which da Cunha must presently go.\n\nHe did not see them actually rush for the lieutenant as he returned, but\nhe has no doubt they did make a concerted rush. Suddenly the lieutenant\nwas shouting and cursing and beating at his legs. \"I'm stung!\" he shouted,\nwith a face of hate and accusation towards Gerilleau.\n\nThen he vanished over the side, dropped into his boat, and plunged at once\ninto the water. Holroyd heard the splash.\n\nThe three men in the boat pulled him out and brought him aboard, and that\nnight he died.\n\nIII.\n\nHolroyd and the captain came out of the cabin in which the swollen and\ncontorted body of the lieutenant lay and stood together at the stern of\nthe monitor, staring at the sinister vessel they trailed behind them. It\nwas a close, dark night that had only phantom flickerings of sheet\nlightning to illuminate it. The cuberta, a vague black triangle, rocked\nabout in the steamer's wake, her sails bobbing and flapping, and the black\nsmoke from the funnels, spark-lit ever and again, streamed over her\nswaying masts.\n\nGerilleau's mind was inclined to run on the unkind things the lieutenant\nhad said in the heat of his last fever.\n\n\"He says I murdered 'im,\" he protested. \"It is simply absurd. Someone\n_'ad_ to go aboard. Are we to run away from these confounded ants\nwhenever they show up?\"\n\nHolroyd said nothing. He was thinking of a disciplined rush of little\nblack shapes across bare sunlit planking.\n\n\"It was his place to go,\" harped Gerilleau. \"He died in the execution of\nhis duty. What has he to complain of? Murdered!... But the poor fellow\nwas--what is it?--demented. He was not in his right mind. The poison\nswelled him... U'm.\"\n\nThey came to a long silence.\n\n\"We will sink that canoe--burn it.\"\n\n\"And then?\"\n\nThe inquiry irritated Gerilleau. His shoulders went up, his hands flew out\nat right angles from his body. \"What is one to _do?_\" he said, his\nvoice going up to an angry squeak.\n\n\"Anyhow,\" he broke out vindictively, \"every ant in dat cuberta!--I will\nburn dem alive!\"\n\nHolroyd was not moved to conversation. A distant ululation of howling\nmonkeys filled the sultry night with foreboding sounds, and as the gunboat\ndrew near the black mysterious banks this was reinforced by a depressing\nclamour of frogs.\n\n\"What is one to _do?_\" the captain repeated after a vast interval,\nand suddenly becoming active and savage and blasphemous, decided to burn\nthe _Santa Rosa_ without further delay. Everyone aboard was pleased\nby that idea, everyone helped with zest; they pulled in the cable, cut it,\nand dropped the boat and fired her with tow and kerosene, and soon the\ncuberta was crackling and flaring merrily amidst the immensities of the\ntropical night. Holroyd watched the mounting yellow flare against the\nblackness, and the livid flashes of sheet lightning that came and went\nabove the forest summits, throwing them into momentary silhouette, and his\nstoker stood behind him watching also.\n\nThe stoker was stirred to the depths of his linguistics. \"_Saüba_ go\npop, pop,\" he said, \"Wahaw\" and laughed richly.\n\nBut Holroyd was thinking that these little creatures on the decked canoe\nhad also eyes and brains.\n\nThe whole thing impressed him as incredibly foolish and wrong, but--what\nwas one to _do_? This question came back enormously reinforced on the\nmorrow, when at last the gunboat reached Badama.\n\nThis place, with its leaf-thatch-covered houses and sheds, its\ncreeper-invaded sugar-mill, its little jetty of timber and canes, was very\nstill in the morning heat, and showed never a sign of living men. Whatever\nants there were at that distance were too small to see.\n\n\"All the people have gone,\" said Gerilleau, \"but we will do one thing\nanyhow. We will 'oot and vissel.\"\n\nSo Holroyd hooted and whistled.\n\nThen the captain fell into a doubting fit of the worst kind. \"Dere is one\nthing we can do,\" he said presently, \"What's that?\" said Holroyd.\n\n\"'Oot and vissel again.\"\n\nSo they did.\n\nThe captain walked his deck and gesticulated to himself. He seemed to have\nmany things on his mind. Fragments of speeches came from his lips. He\nappeared to be addressing some imaginary public tribunal either in Spanish\nor Portuguese. Holroyd's improving ear detected something about\nammunition. He came out of these preoccupations suddenly into English. \"My\ndear 'Olroyd!\" he cried, and broke off with \"But what _can_ one do?\"\n\nThey took the boat and the field-glasses, and went close in to examine the\nplace. They made out a number of big ants, whose still postures had a\ncertain effect of watching them, dotted about the edge of the rude\nembarkation jetty. Gerilleau tried ineffectual pistol shots at these.\nHolroyd thinks he distinguished curious earthworks running between the\nnearer houses, that may have been the work of the insect conquerors of\nthose human habitations. The explorers pulled past the jetty, and became\naware of a human skeleton wearing a loin cloth, and very bright and clean\nand shining, lying beyond. They came to a pause regarding this...\n\n\"I 'ave all dose lives to consider,\" said Gerilleau suddenly.\n\nHolroyd turned and stared at the captain, realising slowly that he\nreferred to the unappetising mixture of races that constituted his crew.\n\n\"To send a landing party--it is impossible--impossible. They will be\npoisoned, they will swell, they will swell up and abuse me and die. It is\ntotally impossible... If we land, I must land alone, alone, in thick\nboots and with my life in my hand. Perhaps I should live. Or again--I\nmight not land. I do not know. I do not know.\"\n\nHolroyd thought he did, but he said nothing.\n\n\"De whole thing,\" said Gerilleau suddenly, \"'as been got up to make me\nridiculous. De whole thing!\"\n\nThey paddled about and regarded the clean white skeleton from various\npoints of view, and then they returned to the gunboat. Then Gerilleau's\nindecisions became terrible. Steam was got up, and in the afternoon the\nmonitor went on up the river with an air of going to ask somebody\nsomething, and by sunset came back again and anchored. A thunderstorm\ngathered and broke furiously, and then the night became beautifully cool\nand quiet and everyone slept on deck. Except Gerilleau, who tossed about\nand muttered. In the dawn he awakened Holroyd.\n\n\"Lord!\" said Holroyd, \"what now?\"\n\n\"I have decided,\" said the captain.\n\n\"What--to land?\" said Holroyd, sitting up brightly.\n\n\"No!\" said the captain, and was for a time very reserved. \"I have\ndecided,\" he repeated, and Holroyd manifested symptoms of impatience.\n\n\"Well,--yes,\" said the captain, \"_I shall fire de big gun!_\"\n\nAnd he did! Heaven knows what the ants thought of it, but he did. He fired\nit twice with great sternness and ceremony. All the crew had wadding in\ntheir ears, and there was an effect of going into action about the whole\naffair, and first they hit and wrecked the old sugar-mill, and then they\nsmashed the abandoned store behind the jetty. And then Gerilleau\nexperienced the inevitable reaction.\n\n\"It is no good,\" he said to Holroyd; \"no good at all. No sort of bally\ngood. We must go back--for instructions. Dere will be de devil of a row\nabout dis ammunition--oh! de _devil_ of a row! You don't know,\n'Olroyd...\"\n\nHe stood regarding the world in infinite perplexity for a space.\n\n\"But what else was there to _do?_\" he cried.\n\nIn the afternoon the monitor started down stream again, and in the evening\na landing party took the body of the lieutenant and buried it on the bank\nupon which the new ants have so far not appeared...\n\nIV.\n\nI heard this story in a fragmentary state from Holroyd not three weeks\nago.\n\nThese new ants have got into his brain, and he has come back to England\nwith the idea, as he says, of \"exciting people\" about them \"before it is\ntoo late.\" He says they threaten British Guiana, which cannot be much over\na trifle of a thousand miles from their present sphere of activity, and\nthat the Colonial Office ought to get to work upon them at once. He\ndeclaims with great passion: \"These are intelligent ants. Just think what\nthat means!\"\n\nThere can be no doubt they are a serious pest, and that the Brazilian\nGovernment is well advised in offering a prize of five hundred pounds for\nsome effectual method of extirpation. It is certain too that since they\nfirst appeared in the hills beyond Badama, about three years ago, they\nhave achieved extraordinary conquests. The whole of the south bank of the\nBatemo River, for nearly sixty miles, they have in their effectual\noccupation; they have driven men out completely, occupied plantations and\nsettlements, and boarded and captured at least one ship. It is even said\nthey have in some inexplicable way bridged the very considerable Capuarana\narm and pushed many miles towards the Amazon itself. There can be little\ndoubt that they are far more reasonable and with a far better social\norganisation than any previously known ant species; instead of being in\ndispersed societies they are organised into what is in effect a single\nnation; but their peculiar and immediate formidableness lies not so much\nin this as in the intelligent use they make of poison against their larger\nenemies. It would seem this poison of theirs is closely akin to snake\npoison, and it is highly probable they actually manufacture it, and that\nthe larger individuals among them carry the needle-like crystals of it in\ntheir attacks upon men.\n\nOf course it is extremely difficult to get any detailed information about\nthese new competitors for the sovereignty of the globe. No eye-witnesses\nof their activity, except for such glimpses as Holroyd's, have survived\nthe encounter. The most extraordinary legends of their prowess and\ncapacity are in circulation in the region of the Upper Amazon, and grow\ndaily as the steady advance of the invader stimulates men's imaginations\nthrough their fears. These strange little creatures are credited not only\nwith the use of implements and a knowledge of fire and metals and with\norganised feats of engineering that stagger our northern minds--unused as\nwe are to such feats as that of the Saübas of Rio de Janeiro, who in 1841\ndrove a tunnel under the Parahyba where it is as wide as the Thames at\nLondon Bridge--but with an organised and detailed method of record and\ncommunication analogous to our books. So far their action has been a\nsteady progressive settlement, involving the flight or slaughter of every\nhuman being in the new areas they invade. They are increasing rapidly in\nnumbers, and Holroyd at least is firmly convinced that they will finally\ndispossess man over the whole of tropical South America.\n\nAnd why should they stop at tropical South America?\n\nWell, there they are, anyhow. By 1911 or thereabouts, if they go on as\nthey are going, they ought to strike the Capuarana Extension Railway, and\nforce themselves upon the attention of the European capitalist.\n\nBy 1920 they will be half-way down the Amazon. I fix 1950 or '60 at the\nlatest for the discovery of Europe.\n\n\n\n\n XXXI.\n\n THE DOOR IN THE WALL.\n\n\nI.\n\nOne confidential evening, not three months ago, Lionel Wallace told me\nthis story of the Door in the Wall. And at the time I thought that so far\nas he was concerned it was a true story.\n\nHe told it me with such a direct simplicity of conviction that I could not\ndo otherwise than believe in him. But in the morning, in my own flat, I\nwoke to a different atmosphere, and as I lay in bed and recalled the\nthings he had told me, stripped of the glamour of his earnest slow voice,\ndenuded of the focussed, shaded table light, the shadowy atmosphere that\nwrapped about him and me, and the pleasant bright things, the dessert and\nglasses and napery of the dinner we had shared, making them for the time a\nbright little world quite cut off from everyday realities, I saw it all as\nfrankly incredible. \"He was mystifying!\" I said, and then: \"How well he\ndid it!... It isn't quite the thing I should have expected him, of all\npeople, to do well.\"\n\nAfterwards as I sat up in bed and sipped my morning tea, I found myself\ntrying to account for the flavour of reality that perplexed me in his\nimpossible reminiscences, by supposing they did in some way suggest,\npresent, convey--I hardly know which word to use--experiences it was\notherwise impossible to tell.\n\nWell, I don't resort to that explanation now. I have got over my\nintervening doubts. I believe now, as I believed at the moment of telling,\nthat Wallace did to the very best of his ability strip the truth of his\nsecret for me. But whether he himself saw, or only thought he saw, whether\nhe himself was the possessor of an inestimable privilege or the victim of\na fantastic dream, I cannot pretend to guess. Even the facts of his death,\nwhich ended my doubts for ever, throw no light on that.\n\nThat much the reader must judge for himself.\n\nI forget now what chance comment or criticism of mine moved so reticent a\nman to confide in me. He was, I think, defending himself against an\nimputation of slackness and unreliability I had made in relation to a\ngreat public movement, in which he had disappointed me. But he plunged\nsuddenly. \"I have,\" he said, \"a preoccupation----\n\n\"I know,\" he went on, after a pause, \"I have been negligent. The fact is--\nit isn't a case of ghosts or apparitions--but--it's an odd thing to tell\nof, Redmond--I am haunted. I am haunted by something--that rather takes\nthe light out of things, that fills me with longings...\"\n\nHe paused, checked by that English shyness that so often overcomes us when\nwe would speak of moving or grave or beautiful things. \"You were at Saint\nAethelstan's all through,\" he said, and for a moment that seemed to me\nquite irrelevant. \"Well\"--and he paused. Then very haltingly at first, but\nafterwards more easily, he began to tell of the thing that was hidden in\nhis life, the haunting memory of a beauty and a happiness that filled his\nheart with insatiable longings, that made all the interests and spectacle\nof worldly life seem dull and tedious and vain to him.\n\nNow that I have the clue to it, the thing seems written visibly in his\nface. I have a photograph in which that look of detachment has been caught\nand intensified. It reminds me of what a woman once said of him--a woman\nwho had loved him greatly. \"Suddenly,\" she said, \"the interest goes out of\nhim. He forgets you. He doesn't care a rap for you--under his very\nnose...\"\n\nYet the interest was not always out of him, and when he was holding his\nattention to a thing Wallace could contrive to be an extremely successful\nman. His career, indeed, is set with successes. He left me behind him long\nago: he soared up over my head, and cut a figure in the world that I\ncouldn't cut--anyhow. He was still a year short of forty, and they say now\nthat he would have been in office and very probably in the new Cabinet if\nhe had lived. At school he always beat me without effort--as it were by\nnature. We were at school together at Saint Aethelstan's College in West\nKensington for almost all our school-time. He came into the school as my\ncoequal, but he left far above me, in a blaze of scholarships and\nbrilliant performance. Yet I think I made a fair average running. And it\nwas at school I heard first of the \"Door in the Wall\"--that I was to hear\nof a second time only a month before his death.\n\nTo him at least the Door in the Wall was a real door, leading through a\nreal wall to immortal realities. Of that I am now quite assured.\n\nAnd it came into his life quite early, when he was a little fellow between\nfive and six. I remember how, as he sat making his confession to me with a\nslow gravity, he reasoned and reckoned the date of it. \"There was,\" he\nsaid, \"a crimson Virginia creeper in it--all one bright uniform crimson,\nin a clear amber sunshine against a white wall. That came into the\nimpression somehow, though I don't clearly remember how, and there were\nhorse-chestnut leaves upon the clean pavement outside the green door. They\nwere blotched yellow and green, you know, not brown nor dirty, so that\nthey must have been new fallen. I take it that means October. I look out\nfor horse-chestnut leaves every year and I ought to know.\n\n\"If I'm right in that, I was about five years and four months old.\"\n\nHe was, he said, rather a precocious little boy--he learnt to talk at an\nabnormally early age, and he was so sane and \"old-fashioned,\" as people\nsay, that he was permitted an amount of initiative that most children\nscarcely attain by seven or eight. His mother died when he was two, and he\nwas under the less vigilant and authoritative care of a nursery governess.\nHis father was a stern, preoccupied lawyer, who gave him little attention,\nand expected great things of him. For all his brightness he found life a\nlittle grey and dull, I think. And one day he wandered.\n\nHe could not recall the particular neglect that enabled him to get away,\nnor the course he took among the West Kensington roads. All that had faded\namong the incurable blurs of memory. But the white wall and the green door\nstood out quite distinctly.\n\nAs his memory of that childish experience ran, he did at the very first\nsight of that door experience a peculiar emotion, an attraction, a desire\nto get to the door and open it and walk in. And at the same time he had\nthe clearest conviction that either it was unwise or it was wrong of him--\nhe could not tell which--to yield to this attraction. He insisted upon it\nas a curious thing that he knew from the very beginning--unless memory has\nplayed him the queerest trick--that the door was unfastened, and that he\ncould go in as he chose.\n\nI seem to see the figure of that little boy, drawn and repelled. And it\nwas very clear in his mind, too, though why it should be so was never\nexplained, that his father would be very angry if he went in through that\ndoor.\n\nWallace described all these moments of hesitation to me with the utmost\nparticularity. He went right past the door, and then, with his hands in\nhis pockets and making an infantile attempt to whistle, strolled right\nalong beyond the end of the wall. There he recalls a number of mean dirty\nshops, and particularly that of a plumber and decorator with a dusty\ndisorder of earthenware pipes, sheet lead, ball taps, pattern books of\nwall paper, and tins of enamel. He stood pretending to examine these\nthings, and _coveting_, passionately desiring, the green door.\n\nThen, he said, he had a gust of emotion. He made a run for it, lest\nhesitation should grip him again; he went plump with outstretched hand\nthrough the green door and let it slam behind him. And so, in a trice, he\ncame into the garden that has haunted all his life.\n\nIt was very difficult for Wallace to give me his full sense of that garden\ninto which he came.\n\nThere was something in the very air of it that exhilarated, that gave one\na sense of lightness and good happening and well-being; there was\nsomething in the sight of it that made all its colour clean and perfect\nand subtly luminous. In the instant of coming into it one was exquisitely\nglad--as only in rare moments, and when one is young and joyful one can be\nglad in this world. And everything was beautiful there...\n\nWallace mused before he went on telling me. \"You see,\" he said, with the\ndoubtful inflection of a man who pauses at incredible things, \"there were\ntwo great panthers there... Yes, spotted panthers. And I was not afraid.\nThere was a long wide path with marble-edged flower borders on either\nside, and these two huge velvety beasts were playing there with a ball.\nOne looked up and came towards me, a little curious as it seemed. It came\nright up to me, rubbed its soft round ear very gently against the small\nhand I held out, and purred. It was, I tell you, an enchanted garden. I\nknow. And the size? Oh! it stretched far and wide, this way and that. I\nbelieve there were hills far away. Heaven knows where West Kensington had\nsuddenly got to. And somehow it was just like coming home.\n\n\"You know, in the very moment the door swung to behind me, I forgot the\nroad with its fallen chestnut leaves, its cabs and tradesmen's carts, I\nforgot the sort of gravitational pull back to the discipline and obedience\nof home, I forgot all hesitations and fear, forgot discretion, forgot all\nthe intimate realities of this life. I became in a moment a very glad and\nwonder-happy little boy--in another world. It was a world with a different\nquality, a warmer, more penetrating and mellower light, with a faint clear\ngladness in its air, and wisps of sun-touched cloud in the blueness of its\nsky. And before me ran this long wide path, invitingly, with weedless beds\non either side, rich with untended flowers, and these two great panthers.\nI put my little hands fearlessly on their soft fur, and caressed their\nround ears and the sensitive corners under their ears, and played with\nthem, and it was as though they welcomed me home. There was a keen sense\nof home-coming in my mind, and when presently a tall, fair girl appeared\nin the pathway and came to meet me, smiling, and said 'Well?' to me, and\nlifted me, and kissed me, and put me down, and led me by the hand, there\nwas no amazement, but only an impression of delightful rightness, of being\nreminded of happy things that had in some strange way been overlooked.\nThere were broad red steps, I remember, that came into view between spikes\nof delphinium, and up these we went to a great avenue between very old and\nshady dark trees. All down this avenue, you know, between the red chapped\nstems, were marble seats of honour and statuary, and very tame and\nfriendly white doves...\n\n\"Along this cool avenue my girl-friend led me, looking down--I recall the\npleasant lines, the finely-modelled chin of her sweet kind face--asking me\nquestions in a soft, agreeable voice, and telling me things, pleasant\nthings I know, though what they were I was never able to recall...\nPresently a little Capuchin monkey, very clean, with a fur of ruddy brown\nand kindly hazel eyes, came down a tree to us and ran beside me, looking\nup at me and grinning, and presently leapt to my shoulder. So we two went\non our way in great happiness.\"\n\nHe paused.\n\n\"Go on,\" I said.\n\n\"I remember little things. We passed an old man musing among laurels, I\nremember, and a place gay with paroquets, and came through a broad shaded\ncolonnade to a spacious cool palace, full of pleasant fountains, full of\nbeautiful things, full of the quality and promise of heart's desire. And\nthere were many things and many people, some that still seem to stand out\nclearly and some that are a little vague; but all these people were\nbeautiful and kind. In some way--I don't know how--it was conveyed to me\nthat they all were kind to me, glad to have me there, and filling me with\ngladness by their gestures, by the touch of their hands, by the welcome\nand love in their eyes. Yes----\"\n\nHe mused for a while. \"Playmates I found there. That was very much to me,\nbecause I was a lonely little boy. They played delightful games in a\ngrass-covered court where there was a sun-dial set about with flowers. And\nas one played one loved...\n\n\"But--it's odd--there's a gap in my memory. I don't remember the games we\nplayed. I never remembered. Afterwards, as a child, I spent long hours\ntrying, even with tears, to recall the form of that happiness. I wanted to\nplay it all over again--in my nursery--by myself. No! All I remember is\nthe happiness and two dear playfellows who were most with me... Then\npresently came a sombre dark woman, with a grave, pale face and dreamy\neyes, a sombre woman, wearing a soft long robe of pale purple, who carried\na book, and beckoned and took me aside with her into a gallery above a\nhall--though my playmates were loth to have me go, and ceased their game\nand stood watching as I was carried away. Come back to us!' they cried.\n'Come back to us soon!' I looked up at her face, but she heeded them not\nat all. Her face was very gentle and grave. She took me to a seat in the\ngallery, and I stood beside her, ready to look at her book as she opened\nit upon her knee. The pages fell open. She pointed, and I looked,\nmarvelling, for in the living pages of that book I saw myself; it was a\nstory about myself, and in it were all the things that had happened to me\nsince ever I was born...\n\n\"It was wonderful to me, because the pages of that book were not pictures,\nyou understand, but realities.\"\n\nWallace paused gravely--looked at me doubtfully.\n\n\"Go on,\" I said. \"I understand.\"\n\n\"They were realities---yes, they must have been; people moved and things\ncame and went in them; my dear mother, whom I had near forgotten; then my\nfather, stern and upright, the servants, the nursery, all the familiar\nthings of home. Then the front door and the busy streets, with traffic to\nand fro. I looked and marvelled, and looked half doubtfully again into the\nwoman's face and turned the pages over, skipping this and that, to see\nmore of this book and more, and so at last I came to myself hovering and\nhesitating outside the green door in the long white wall, and felt again\nthe conflict and the fear.\n\n\"'And next?' I cried, and would have turned on, but the cool hand of the\ngrave woman delayed me.\n\n\"'Next?' I insisted, and struggled gently with her hand, pulling up her\nfingers with all my childish strength, and as she yielded and the page\ncame over she bent down upon me like a shadow and kissed my brow.\n\n\"But the page did not show the enchanted garden, nor the panthers, nor the\ngirl who had led me by the hand, nor the playfellows who had been so loth\nto let me go. It showed a long grey street in West Kensington, in that\nchill hour of afternoon before the lamps are lit, and I was there, a\nwretched little figure, weeping aloud, for all that I could do to restrain\nmyself, and I was weeping because I could not return to my dear\nplayfellows who had called after me, 'Come back to us! Come back to us\nsoon!' I was there. This was no page in a book, but harsh reality; that\nenchanted place and the restraining hand of the grave mother at whose knee\nI stood had gone--whither had they gone?\"\n\nHe halted again, and remained for a time staring into the fire.\n\n\"Oh! the woefulness of that return!\" he murmured.\n\n\"Well?\" I said, after a minute or so.\n\n\"Poor little wretch I was!--brought back to this grey world again! As I\nrealised the fulness of what had happened to me, I gave way to quite\nungovernable grief. And the shame and humiliation of that public weeping\nand my disgraceful home-coming remain with me still. I see again the\nbenevolent-looking old gentleman in gold spectacles who stopped and spoke\nto me--prodding me first with his umbrella. 'Poor little chap,' said he;\n'and are you lost then?'--and me a London boy of five and more! And he\nmust needs bring in a kindly young policeman and make a crowd of me, and\nso march me home. Sobbing, conspicuous, and frightened, I came back from\nthe enchanted garden to the steps of my father's house.\n\n\"That is as well as I can remember my vision of that garden--the garden\nthat haunts me still. Of course, I can convey nothing of that\nindescribable quality of translucent unreality, that _difference_\nfrom the common things of experience that hung about it all; but that--\nthat is what happened. If it was a dream, I am sure it was a day-time and\naltogether extraordinary dream... H'm!--naturally there followed a\nterrible questioning, by my aunt, my father, the nurse, the governess--\neveryone...\n\n\"I tried to tell them, and my father gave me my first thrashing for\ntelling lies. When afterwards I tried to tell my aunt, she punished me\nagain for my wicked persistence. Then, as I said, everyone was forbidden\nto listen to me, to hear a word about it. Even my fairytale books were\ntaken away from me for a time--because I was too 'imaginative.' Eh? Yes,\nthey did that! My father belonged to the old school... And my story was\ndriven back upon myself. I whispered it to my pillow--my pillow that was\noften damp and salt to my whispering lips with childish tears. And I added\nalways to my official and less fervent prayers this one heartfelt request:\n'Please God I may dream of the garden. Oh! take me back to my garden!'\nTake me back to my garden! I dreamt often of the garden. I may have added\nto it, I may have changed it; I do not know... All this, you understand,\nis an attempt to reconstruct from fragmentary memories a very early\nexperience. Between that and the other consecutive memories of my boyhood\nthere is a gulf. A time came when it seemed impossible I should ever speak\nof that wonder glimpse again.\"\n\nI asked an obvious question.\n\n\"No,\" he said. \"I don't remember that I ever attempted to find my way back\nto the garden in those early years. This seems odd to me now, but I think\nthat very probably a closer watch was kept on my movements after this\nmisadventure to prevent my going astray. No, it wasn't till you knew me\nthat I tried for the garden again. And I believe there was a period--\nincredible as it seems now--when I forgot the garden altogether--when I\nwas about eight or nine it may have been. Do you remember me as a kid at\nSaint Aethelstan's?\"\n\n\"Rather!\"\n\n\"I didn't show any signs, did I, in those days of having a secret dream?\"\n\n\nII.\n\nHe looked up with a sudden smile.\n\n\"Did you ever play North-West Passage with me?... No, of course you didn't\ncome my way!\"\n\n\"It was the sort of game,\" he went on, \"that every imaginative child plays\nall day. The idea was the discovery of a North-West Passage to school. The\nway to school was plain enough; the game consisted in finding some way\nthat wasn't plain, starting off ten minutes early in some almost hopeless\ndirection, and working my way round through unaccustomed streets to my\ngoal. And one day I got entangled among some rather low-class streets on\nthe other side of Campden Hill, and I began to think that for once the\ngame would be against me and that I should get to school late. I tried\nrather desperately a street that seemed a _cul-de-sac_, and found a\npassage at the end. I hurried through that with renewed hope. 'I shall do\nit yet,' I said, and passed a row of frowsy little shops that were\ninexplicably familiar to me, and behold! there was my long white wall and\nthe green door that led to the enchanted garden!\n\n\"The thing whacked upon me suddenly. Then, after all, that garden, that\nwonderful garden, wasn't a dream!\"\n\nHe paused.\n\n\"I suppose my second experience with the green door marks the world of\ndifference there is between the busy life of a schoolboy and the infinite\nleisure of a child. Anyhow, this second time I didn't for a moment think\nof going in straight away. You see----. For one thing, my mind was full of\nthe idea of getting to school in time--set on not breaking my record for\npunctuality. I must surely have felt _some_ little desire at least to\ntry the door--yes. I must have felt that... But I seem to remember the\nattraction of the door mainly as another obstacle to my overmastering\ndetermination to get to school. I was immensely interested by this\ndiscovery I had made, of course--I went on with my mind full of it--but I\nwent on. It didn't check me. I ran past, tugging out my watch, found I had\nten minutes still to spare, and then I was going downhill into familiar\nsurroundings. I got to school, breathless, it is true, and wet with\nperspiration, but in time. I can remember hanging up my coat and hat...\nWent right by it and left it behind me. Odd, eh?\"\n\nHe looked at me thoughtfully, \"Of course I didn't know then that it\nwouldn't always be there. Schoolboys have limited imaginations. I suppose\nI thought it was an awfully jolly thing to have it there, to know my way\nback to it, but there was the school tugging at me. I expect I was a good\ndeal distraught and inattentive that morning, recalling what I could of\nthe beautiful strange people I should presently see again. Oddly enough I\nhad no doubt in my mind that they would be glad to see me... Yes, I must\nhave thought of the garden that morning just as a jolly sort of place to\nwhich one might resort in the interludes of a strenuous scholastic career.\n\n\"I didn't go that day at all. The next day was a half holiday, and that\nmay have weighed with me. Perhaps, too, my state of inattention brought\ndown impositions upon me, and docked the margin of time necessary for the\n_detour_. I don't know. What I do know is that in the meantime the\nenchanted garden was so much upon my mind that I could not keep it to\nmyself.\n\n\"I told. What was his name?--a ferrety-looking youngster we used to call\nSquiff.\"\n\n\"Young Hopkins,\" said I.\n\n\"Hopkins it was. I did not like telling him. I had a feeling that in some\nway it was against the rules to tell him, but I did. He was walking part\nof the way home with me; he was talkative, and if we had not talked about\nthe enchanted garden we should have talked of something else, and it was\nintolerable to me to think about any other subject. So I blabbed.\n\n\"Well, he told my secret. The next day in the play interval I found myself\nsurrounded by half a dozen bigger boys, half teasing, and wholly curious\nto hear more of the enchanted garden. There was that big Fawcett--you\nremember him?--and Carnaby and Morley Reynolds. You weren't there by any\nchance? No, I think I should have remembered if you were...\n\n\"A boy is a creature of odd feelings. I was, I really believe, in spite of\nmy secret self-disgust, a little flattered to have the attention of these\nbig fellows. I remember particularly a moment of pleasure caused by the\npraise of Crawshaw--you remember Crawshaw major, the son of Crawshaw the\ncomposer?--who said it was the best lie he had ever heard. But at the same\ntime there was a really painful undertow of shame at telling what I felt\nwas indeed a sacred secret. That beast Fawcett made a joke about the girl\nin green----\"\n\nWallace's voice sank with the keen memory of that shame. \"I pretended not\nto hear,\" he said. \"Well, then Carnaby suddenly called me a young liar,\nand disputed with me when I said the thing was true. I said I knew where\nto find the green door, could lead them all there in ten minutes. Carnaby\nbecame outrageously virtuous, and said I'd have to--and bear out my words\nor suffer. Did you ever have Carnaby twist your arm? Then perhaps you'll\nunderstand how it went with me. I swore my story was true. There was\nnobody in the school then to save a chap from Carnaby, though Crawshaw put\nin a word or so. Carnaby had got his game. I grew excited and red-eared,\nand a little frightened. I behaved altogether like a silly little chap,\nand the outcome of it all was that instead of starting alone for my\nenchanted garden, I led the way presently--cheeks flushed, ears hot, eyes\nsmarting, and my soul one burning misery and shame--for a party of six\nmocking, curious, and threatening schoolfellows.\n\n\"We never found the white wall and the green door...\"\n\n\"You mean----?\"\n\n\"I mean I couldn't find it. I would have found it if I could.\n\n\"And afterwards when I could go alone I couldn't find it. I never found\nit. I seem now to have been always looking for it through my school-boy\ndays, but I never came upon it--never.\"\n\n\"Did the fellows--make it disagreeable?\"\n\n\"Beastly... Carnaby held a council over me for wanton lying. I remember\nhow I sneaked home and upstairs to hide the marks of my blubbering. But\nwhen I cried myself to sleep at last it wasn't for Carnaby, but for the\ngarden, for the beautiful afternoon I had hoped for, for the sweet\nfriendly women and the waiting playfellows, and the game I had hoped to\nlearn again, that beautiful forgotten game...\n\n\"I believed firmly that if I had not told--... I had bad times after\nthat--crying at night and wool-gathering by day. For two terms I slackened\nand had bad reports. Do you remember? Of course you would! It was\n_you_--your beating me in mathematics that brought me back to the\ngrind again.\"\n\n\nIII.\n\nFor a time my friend stared silently into the red heart of the fire. Then\nhe said: \"I never saw it again until I was seventeen.\n\n\"It leapt upon me for the third time--as I was driving to Paddington on my\nway to Oxford and a scholarship. I had just one momentary glimpse. I was\nleaning over the apron of my hansom smoking a cigarette, and no doubt\nthinking myself no end of a man of the world, and suddenly there was the\ndoor, the wall, the dear sense of unforgettable and still attainable\nthings.\n\n\"We clattered by--I too taken by surprise to stop my cab until we were\nwell past and round a corner. Then I had a queer moment, a double and\ndivergent movement of my will: I tapped the little door in the roof of the\ncab, and brought my arm down to pull out my watch. 'Yes, sir!' said the\ncabman, smartly. 'Er--well--it's nothing,' I cried. '_My_ mistake! We\nhaven't much time! Go on!' And he went on...\n\n\"I got my scholarship. And the night after I was told of that I sat over\nmy fire in my little upper room, my study, in my father's house, with his\npraise--his rare praise--and his sound counsels ringing in my ears, and I\nsmoked my favourite pipe--the formidable bulldog of adolescence--and\nthought of that door in the long white wall. 'If I had stopped,' I\nthought, 'I should have missed my scholarship, I should have missed\nOxford--muddled all the fine career before me! I begin to see things\nbetter!' I fell musing deeply, but I did not doubt then this career of\nmine was a thing that merited sacrifice.\n\n\"Those dear friends and that clear atmosphere seemed very sweet to me,\nvery fine but remote. My grip was fixing now upon the world. I saw another\ndoor opening--the door of my career.\"\n\nHe stared again into the fire. Its red light picked out a stubborn\nstrength in his face for just one flickering moment, and then it vanished\nagain.\n\n\"Well,\" he said and sighed, \"I have served that career. I have done--much\nwork, much hard work. But I have dreamt of the enchanted garden a thousand\ndreams, and seen its door, or at least glimpsed its door, four times since\nthen. Yes--four times. For a while this world was so bright and\ninteresting, seemed so full of meaning and opportunity, that the\nhalf-effaced charm of the garden was by comparison gentle and remote. Who\nwants to pat panthers on the way to dinner with pretty women and\ndistinguished men? I came down to London from Oxford, a man of bold\npromise that I have done something to redeem. Something--and yet there\nhave been disappointments...\n\n\"Twice I have been in love--I will not dwell on that--but once, as I went\nto someone who, I knew, doubted whether I dared to come, I took a short\ncut at a venture through an unfrequented road near Earl's Court, and so\nhappened on a white wall and a familiar green door. 'Odd!' said I to\nmyself, 'but I thought this place was on Campden Hill. It's the place I\nnever could find somehow--like counting Stonehenge--the place of that\nqueer daydream of mine.' And I went by it intent upon my purpose. It had\nno appeal to me that afternoon.\n\n\"I had just a moment's impulse to try the door, three steps aside were\nneeded at the most--though I was sure enough in my heart that it would\nopen to me--and then I thought that doing so might delay me on the way to\nthat appointment in which I thought my honour was involved. Afterwards I\nwas sorry for my punctuality--might at least have peeped in, I thought,\nand waved a hand to those panthers, but I knew enough by this time not to\nseek again belatedly that which is not found by seeking. Yes, that time\nmade me very sorry...\n\n\"Years of hard work after that, and never a sight of the door. It's only\nrecently it has come back to me. With it there has come a sense as though\nsome thin tarnish had spread itself over my world. I began to think of it\nas a sorrowful and bitter thing that I should never see that door again.\nPerhaps I was suffering a little from overwork--perhaps it was what I've\nheard spoken of as the feeling of forty. I don't know. But certainly the\nkeen brightness that makes effort easy has gone out of things recently,\nand that just at a time--with all these new political developments--when I\nought to be working. Odd, isn't it? But I do begin to find life toilsome,\nits rewards, as I come near them, cheap. I began a little while ago to\nwant the garden quite badly. Yes--and I've seen it three times.\"\n\n\"The garden?\"\n\n\"No---the door! And I haven't gone in!\"\n\nHe leant over the table to me, with an enormous sorrow in his voice as he\nspoke. \"Thrice I have had my chance--_thrice_! If ever that door\noffers itself to me again, I swore, I will go in, out of this dust and\nheat, out of this dry glitter of vanity, out of these toilsome futilities.\nI will go and never return. This time I will stay... I swore it, and when\nthe time came--_I didn't go_.\n\n\"Three times in one year have I passed that door and failed to enter.\nThree times in the last year.\n\n\"The first time was on the night of the snatch division on the Tenants'\nRedemption Bill, on which the Government was saved by a majority of three.\nYou remember? No one on our side--perhaps very few on the opposite side--\nexpected the end that night. Then the debate collapsed like eggshells. I\nand Hotchkiss were dining with his cousin at Brentford; we were both\nunpaired, and we were called up by telephone, and set off at once in his\ncousin's motor. We got in barely in time, and on the way we passed my wall\nand door--livid in the moonlight, blotched with hot yellow as the glare of\nour lamps lit it, but unmistakable. 'My God!' cried I. 'What?' said\nHotchkiss. 'Nothing!' I answered, and the moment passed.\n\n\"'I've made a great sacrifice,' I told the whip as I got in. 'They all\nhave,' he said, and hurried by.\n\n\"I do not see how I could have done otherwise then. And the next occasion\nwas as I rushed to my father's bedside to bid that stern old man farewell.\nThen, too, the claims of life were imperative. But the third time was\ndifferent; it happened a week ago. It fills me with hot remorse to recall\nit. I was with Gurker and Ralphs--it's no secret now, you know, that I've\nhad my talk with Gurker. We had been dining at Frobisher's, and the talk\nhad become intimate between us. The question of my place in the\nreconstructed Ministry lay always just over the boundary of the\ndiscussion. Yes--yes. That's all settled. It needn't be talked about yet,\nbut there's no reason to keep a secret from you... Yes--thanks! thanks!\nBut let me tell you my story.\n\n\"Then, on that night things were very much in the air. My position was a\nvery delicate one. I was keenly anxious to get some definite word from\nGurker, but was hampered by Ralphs' presence. I was using the best power\nof my brain to keep that light and careless talk not too obviously\ndirected to the point that concerned me. I had to. Ralphs' behaviour since\nhas more than justified my caution... Ralphs, I knew, would leave us\nbeyond the Kensington High Street, and then I could surprise Gurker by a\nsudden frankness. One has sometimes to resort to these little devices...\nAnd then it was that in the margin of my field of vision I became aware\nonce more of the white wall, the green door before us down the road.\n\n\"We passed it talking. I passed it. I can still see the shadow of Gurker's\nmarked profile, his opera hat tilted forward over his prominent nose, the\nmany folds of his neck wrap going before my shadow and Ralphs' as we\nsauntered past.\n\n\"I passed within twenty inches of the door. 'If I say good-night to them,\nand go in,' I asked myself, 'what will happen?' And I was all a-tingle for\nthat word with Gurker.\n\n\"I could not answer that question in the tangle of my other problems.\n'They will think me mad,' I thought. 'And suppose I vanish now!---Amazing\ndisappearance of a prominent politician!' That weighed with me. A thousand\ninconceivably petty worldlinesses weighed with me in that crisis.\"\n\nThen he turned on me with a sorrowful smile, and, speaking slowly, \"Here I\nam!\" he said.\n\n\"Here I am!\" he repeated, \"and my chance has gone from me. Three times in\none year the door has been offered me--the door that goes into peace, into\ndelight, into a beauty beyond dreaming, a kindness no man on earth can\nknow. And I have rejected it, Redmond, and it has gone----\"\n\n\"How do you know?\"\n\n\"I know. I know. I am left now to work it out, to stick to the tasks that\nheld me so strongly when my moments came. You say I have success--this\nvulgar, tawdry, irksome, envied thing. I have it.\" He had a walnut in his\nbig hand. \"If that was my success,\" he said, and crushed it, and held it\nout for me to see.\n\n\"Let me tell you something, Redmond. This loss is destroying me. For two\nmonths, for ten weeks nearly now, I have done no work at all, except the\nmost necessary and urgent duties. My soul is full of inappeasable regrets.\nAt nights--when it is less likely I shall be recognised--I go out. I\nwander. Yes. I wonder what people would think of that if they knew. A\nCabinet Minister, the responsible head of that most vital of all\ndepartments, wandering alone--grieving--sometimes near audibly lamenting--\nfor a door, for a garden!\"\n\n\nIV.\n\nI can see now his rather pallid face, and the unfamiliar sombre fire that\nhad come into his eyes. I see him very vividly to-night. I sit recalling\nhis words, his tones, and last evening's _Westminster Gazette_ still\nlies on my sofa, containing the notice of his death. At lunch to-day the\nclub was busy with his death. We talked of nothing else.\n\nThey found his body very early yesterday morning in a deep excavation near\nEast Kensington Station. It is one of two shafts that have been made in\nconnection with an extension of the railway southward. It is protected\nfrom the intrusion of the public by a hoarding upon the high road, in\nwhich a small doorway has been cut for the convenience of some of the\nworkmen who live in that direction. The doorway was left unfastened\nthrough a misunderstanding between two gangers, and through it he made his\nway...\n\nMy mind is darkened with questions and riddles.\n\nIt would seem he walked all the way from the House that night--he has\nfrequently walked home during the past Session--and so it is I figure his\ndark form coming along the late and empty streets, wrapped up, intent. And\nthen did the pale electric lights near the station cheat the rough\nplanking into a semblance of white? Did that fatal unfastened door awaken\nsome memory?\n\nWas there, after all, ever any green door in the wall at all?\n\nI do not know. I have told his story as he told it to me. There are times\nwhen I believe that Wallace was no more than the victim of the coincidence\nbetween a rare but not unprecedented type of hallucination and a careless\ntrap, but that indeed is not my profoundest belief. You may think me\nsuperstitious, if you will, and foolish; but, indeed, I am more than\nhalf convinced that he had, in truth, an abnormal gift, and a sense,\nsomething--I know not what---that in the guise of wall and door offered\nhim an outlet, a secret and peculiar passage of escape into another and\naltogether more beautiful world. At any rate, you will say, it betrayed\nhim in the end. But did it betray him? There you touch the inmost mystery\nof these dreamers, these men of vision and the imagination. We see our\nworld fair and common, the hoarding and the pit. By our daylight standard\nhe walked out of security into darkness, danger, and death.\n\nBut did he see like that?\n\n\n\n\n XXXII.\n\n THE COUNTRY OF THE BLIND.\n\n\nThree hundred miles and more from Chimborazo, one hundred from the snows\nof Cotopaxi, in the wildest wastes of Ecuador's Andes, there lies that\nmysterious mountain valley, cut off from the world of men, the Country of\nthe Blind. Long years ago that valley lay so far open to the world that\nmen might come at last through frightful gorges and over an icy pass into\nits equable meadows; and thither indeed men came, a family or so of\nPeruvian half-breeds fleeing from the lust and tyranny of an evil Spanish\nruler. Then came the stupendous outbreak of Mindobamba, when it was night\nin Quito for seventeen days, and the water was boiling at Yaguachi and all\nthe fish floating dying even as far as Guayaquil; everywhere along the\nPacific slopes there were land-slips and swift thawings and sudden floods,\nand one whole side of the old Arauca crest slipped and came down in\nthunder, and cut off the Country of the Blind for ever from the exploring\nfeet of men. But one of these early settlers had chanced to be on the\nhither side of the gorges when the world had so terribly shaken itself,\nand he perforce had to forget his wife and his child and all the friends\nand possessions he had left up there, and start life over again in the\nlower world. He started it again but ill, blindness overtook him, and he\ndied of punishment in the mines; but the story he told begot a legend that\nlingers along the length of the Cordilleras of the Andes to this day.\n\nHe told of his reason for venturing back from that fastness, into which he\nhad first been carried lashed to a llama, beside a vast bale of gear, when\nhe was a child. The valley, he said, had in it all that the heart of man\ncould desire--sweet water, pasture, and even climate, slopes of rich brown\nsoil with tangles of a shrub that bore an excellent fruit, and on one side\ngreat hanging forests of pine that held the avalanches high. Far overhead,\non three sides, vast cliffs of grey-green rock were capped by cliffs of\nice; but the glacier stream came not to them but flowed away by the\nfarther slopes, and only now and then huge ice masses fell on the valley\nside. In this valley it neither rained nor snowed, but the abundant\nsprings gave a rich green pasture, that irrigation would spread over all\nthe valley space. The settlers did well indeed there. Their beasts did\nwell and multiplied, and but one thing marred their happiness. Yet it was\nenough to mar it greatly. A strange disease had come upon them, and had\nmade all the children born to them there--and indeed, several older\nchildren also--blind. It was to seek some charm or antidote against this\nplague of blindness that he had with fatigue and danger and difficulty\nreturned down the gorge. In those days, in such cases, men did not think\nof germs and infections but of sins; and it seemed to him that the reason\nof this affliction must lie in the negligence of these priestless\nimmigrants to set up a shrine so soon as they entered the valley. He\nwanted a shrine--a handsome, cheap, effectual shrine--to be erected in the\nvalley; he wanted relics and such-like potent things of faith, blessed\nobjects and mysterious medals and prayers. In his wallet he had a bar of\nnative silver for which he would not account; he insisted there was none\nin the valley with something of the insistence of an inexpert liar. They\nhad all clubbed their money and ornaments together, having little need for\nsuch treasure up there, he said, to buy them holy help against their ill.\nI figure this dim-eyed young mountaineer, sunburnt, gaunt, and anxious,\nhat-brim clutched feverishly, a man all unused to the ways of the lower\nworld, telling this story to some keen-eyed, attentive priest before the\ngreat convulsion; I can picture him presently seeking to return with pious\nand infallible remedies against that trouble, and the infinite dismay with\nwhich he must have faced the tumbled vastness where the gorge had once\ncome out. But the rest of his story of mischances is lost to me, save that\nI know of his evil death after several years. Poor stray from that\nremoteness! The stream that had once made the gorge now bursts from the\nmouth of a rocky cave, and the legend his poor, ill-told story set going\ndeveloped into the legend of a race of blind men somewhere \"over there\"\none may still hear to-day.\n\nAnd amidst the little population of that now isolated and forgotten valley\nthe disease ran its course. The old became groping and purblind, the young\nsaw but dimly, and the children that were born to them saw never at all.\nBut life was very easy in that snow-rimmed basin, lost to all the world,\nwith neither thorns nor briars, with no evil insects nor any beasts save\nthe gentle breed of llamas they had lugged and thrust and followed up the\nbeds of the shrunken rivers in the gorges up which they had come. The\nseeing had become purblind so gradually that they scarcely noted their\nloss. They guided the sightless youngsters hither and thither until they\nknew the whole Valley marvellously, and when at last sight died out among\nthem the race lived on. They had even time to adapt themselves to the\nblind control of fire, which they made carefully in stoves of stone. They\nwere a simple strain of people at the first, unlettered, only slightly\ntouched with the Spanish civilisation, but with something of a tradition\nof the arts of old Peru and of its lost philosophy. Generation followed\ngeneration. They forgot many things; they devised many things. Their\ntradition of the greater world they came from became mythical in colour\nand uncertain. In all things save sight they were strong and able, and\npresently the chance of birth and heredity sent one who had an original\nmind and who could talk and persuade among them, and then afterwards\nanother. These two passed, leaving their effects, and the little community\ngrew in numbers and in understanding, and met and settled social and\neconomic problems that arose. Generation followed generation. Generation\nfollowed generation. There came a time when a child was born who was\nfifteen generations from that ancestor who went out of the valley with a\nbar of silver to seek God's aid, and who never returned. Thereabouts it\nchanced that a man came into this community from the outer world. And this\nis the story of that man.\n\nHe was a mountaineer from the country near Quito, a man who had been down\nto the sea and had seen the world, a reader of books in an original way,\nan acute and enterprising man, and he was taken on by a party of\nEnglishmen who had come out to Ecuador to climb mountains, to replace one\nof their three Swiss guides who had fallen ill. He climbed here and he\nclimbed there, and then came the attempt on Parascotopetl, the Matterhorn\nof the Andes, in which he was lost to the outer world. The story of the\naccident has been written a dozen times. Pointer's narrative is the best.\nHe tells how the little party worked their difficult and almost vertical\nway up to the very foot of the last and greatest precipice, and how they\nbuilt a night shelter amidst the snow upon a little shelf of rock, and,\nwith a touch of real dramatic power, how presently they found Nunez had\ngone from them. They shouted, and there was no reply; shouted and\nwhistled, and for the rest of that night they slept no more.\n\nAs the morning broke they saw the traces of his fall. It seems impossible\nhe could have uttered a sound. He had slipped eastward towards the unknown\nside of the mountain; far below he had struck a steep slope of snow, and\nploughed his way down it in the midst of a snow avalanche. His track went\nstraight to the edge of a frightful precipice, and beyond that everything\nwas hidden. Far, far below, and hazy with distance, they could see trees\nrising out of a narrow, shut-in valley--the lost Country of the Blind. But\nthey did not know it was the lost Country of the Blind, nor distinguish it\nin any way from any other narrow streak of upland valley. Unnerved by this\ndisaster, they abandoned their attempt in the afternoon, and Pointer was\ncalled away to the war before he could make another attack. To this day\nParascotopetl lifts an unconquered crest, and Pointer's shelter crumbles\nunvisited amidst the snows.\n\nAnd the man who fell survived.\n\nAt the end of the slope he fell a thousand feet, and came down in the\nmidst of a cloud of snow upon a snow slope even steeper than the one\nabove. Down this he was whirled, stunned and insensible, but without a\nbone broken in his body; and then at last came to gentler slopes, and at\nlast rolled out and lay still, buried amidst a softening heap of the white\nmasses that had accompanied and saved him. He came to himself with a dim\nfancy that he was ill in bed; then realised his position with a\nmountaineer's intelligence, and worked himself loose and, after a rest or\nso, out until he saw the stars. He rested flat upon his chest for a space,\nwondering where he was and what had happened to him. He explored his\nlimbs, and discovered that several of his buttons were gone and his coat\nturned over his head. His knife had gone from his pocket and his hat was\nlost, though he had tied it under his chin. He recalled that he had been\nlooking for loose stones to raise his piece of the shelter wall. His\nice-axe had disappeared.\n\nHe decided he must have fallen, and looked up to see, exaggerated by the\nghastly light of the rising moon, the tremendous flight he had taken. For\na while he lay, gazing blankly at that vast pale cliff towering above,\nrising moment by moment out of a subsiding tide of darkness. Its\nphantasmal, mysterious beauty held him for a space, and then he was seized\nwith a paroxysm of sobbing laughter...\n\nAfter a great interval of time he became aware that he was near the lower\nedge of the snow. Below, down what was now a moonlit and practicable\nslope, he saw the dark and broken appearance of rock-strewn turf. He\nstruggled to his feet, aching in every joint and limb, got down painfully\nfrom the heaped loose snow about him, went downward until he was on the\nturf, and there dropped rather than lay beside a boulder, drank deep from\nthe flask in his inner pocket, and instantly fell asleep...\n\nHe was awakened by the singing of birds in the trees far below.\n\nHe sat up and perceived he was on a little alp at the foot of a vast\nprecipice, that was grooved by the gully down which he and his snow had\ncome. Over against him another wall of rock reared itself against the sky.\nThe gorge between these precipices ran east and west and was full of the\nmorning sunlight, which lit to the westward the mass of fallen mountain\nthat closed the descending gorge. Below him it seemed there was a\nprecipice equally steep, but behind the snow in the gully he found a sort\nof chimney-cleft dripping with snow-water down which a desperate man might\nventure. He found it easier than it seemed, and came at last to another\ndesolate alp, and then after a rock climb of no particular difficulty to a\nsteep slope of trees. He took his bearings and turned his face up the\ngorge, for he saw it opened out above upon green meadows, among which he\nnow glimpsed quite distinctly a cluster of stone huts of unfamiliar\nfashion. At times his progress was like clambering along the face of a\nwall, and after a time the rising sun ceased to strike along the gorge,\nthe voices of the singing birds died away, and the air grew cold and dark\nabout him. But the distant valley with its houses was all the brighter for\nthat. He came presently to talus, and among the rocks he noted--for he was\nan observant man--an unfamiliar fern that seemed to clutch out of the\ncrevices with intense green hands. He picked a frond or so and gnawed its\nstalk and found it helpful.\n\nAbout midday he came at last out of the throat of the gorge into the plain\nand the sunlight. He was stiff and weary; he sat down in the shadow of a\nrock, filled up his flask with water from a spring and drank it down, and\nremained for a time resting before he went on to the houses.\n\nThey were very strange to his eyes, and indeed the whole aspect of that\nvalley became, as he regarded it, queerer and more unfamiliar. The greater\npart of its surface was lush green meadow, starred with many beautiful\nflowers, irrigated with extraordinary care, and bearing evidence of\nsystematic cropping piece by piece. High up and ringing the valley about\nwas a wall, and what appeared to be a circumferential water-channel, from\nwhich the little trickles of water that fed the meadow plants came, and on\nthe higher slopes above this flocks of llamas cropped the scanty herbage.\nSheds, apparently shelters or feeding-places for the llamas, stood against\nthe boundary wall here and there. The irrigation streams ran together into\na main channel down the centre of the valley, and this was enclosed on\neither side by a wall breast high. This gave a singularly urban quality to\nthis secluded place, a quality that was greatly enhanced by the fact that\na number of paths paved with black and white stones, and each with a\ncurious little kerb at the side, ran hither and thither in an orderly\nmanner. The houses of the central village were quite unlike the casual and\nhiggledy-piggledy agglomeration of the mountain villages he knew; they\nstood in a continuous row on either side of a central street of\nastonishing cleanness; here and there their particoloured facade was\npierced by a door, and not a solitary window broke their even frontage.\nThey were particoloured with extraordinary irregularity, smeared with a\nsort of plaster that was sometimes grey, sometimes drab, sometimes\nslate-coloured or dark brown; and it was the sight of this wild plastering\nfirst brought the word \"blind\" into the thoughts of the explorer. \"The\ngood man who did that,\" he thought, \"must have been as blind as a bat.\"\n\nHe descended a steep place, and so came to the wall and channel that ran\nabout the valley, near where the latter spouted out its surplus contents\ninto the deeps of the gorge in a thin and wavering thread of cascade. He\ncould now see a number of men and women resting on piled heaps of grass,\nas if taking a siesta, in the remoter part of the meadow, and nearer the\nvillage a number of recumbent children, and then nearer at hand three men\ncarrying pails on yokes along a little path that ran from the encircling\nwall towards the houses. These latter were clad in garments of llama cloth\nand boots and belts of leather, and they wore caps of cloth with back and\near flaps. They followed one another in single file, walking slowly and\nyawning as they walked, like men who have been up all night. There was\nsomething so reassuringly prosperous and respectable in their bearing that\nafter a moment's hesitation Nunez stood forward as conspicuously as\npossible upon his rock, and gave vent to a mighty shout that echoed round\nthe valley.\n\nThe three men stopped, and moved their heads as though they were looking\nabout them. They turned their faces this way and that, and Nunez\ngesticulated with freedom. But they did not appear to see him for all his\ngestures, and after a time, directing themselves towards the mountains far\naway to the right, they shouted as if in answer. Nunez bawled again, and\nthen once more, and as he gestured ineffectually the word \"blind\" came up\nto the top of his thoughts. \"The fools must be blind,\" he said.\n\nWhen at last, after much shouting and wrath, Nunez crossed the stream by a\nlittle bridge, came through a gate in the wall, and approached them, he\nwas sure that they were blind. He was sure that this was the Country of\nthe Blind of which the legends told. Conviction had sprung upon him, and a\nsense of great and rather enviable adventure. The three stood side by\nside, not looking at him, but with their ears directed towards him,\njudging him by his unfamiliar steps. They stood close together like men a\nlittle afraid, and he could see their eyelids closed and sunken, as though\nthe very balls beneath had shrunk away. There was an expression near awe\non their faces.\n\n\"A man,\" one said, in hardly recognisable Spanish--\"a man it is--a man or\na spirit--coming down from the rocks.\"\n\nBut Nunez advanced with the confident steps of a youth who enters upon\nlife. All the old stories of the lost valley and the Country of the Blind\nhad come back to his mind, and through his thoughts ran this old proverb,\nas if it were a refrain--\n\n\"In the Country of the Blind the One-eyed Man is King.\"\n\n\"In the Country of the Blind the One-eyed Man is King.\"\n\nAnd very civilly he gave them greeting. He talked to them and used his\neyes.\n\n\"Where does he come from, brother Pedro?\" asked one.\n\n\"Down out of the rocks.\"\n\n\"Over the mountains I come,\" said Nunez, \"out of the country beyond\nthere--where men can see. From near Bogota, where there are a hundred\nthousands of people, and where the city passes out of sight.\"\n\n\"Sight?\" muttered Pedro. \"Sight?\"\n\n\"He comes,\" said the second blind man, \"out of the rocks.\"\n\nThe cloth of their coats Nunez saw was curiously fashioned, each with a\ndifferent sort of stitching.\n\nThey startled him by a simultaneous movement towards him, each with a hand\noutstretched. He stepped back from the advance of these spread fingers.\n\n\"Come hither,\" said the third blind man, following his motion and\nclutching him neatly.\n\nAnd they held Nunez and felt him over, saying no word further until they\nhad done so.\n\n\"Carefully,\" he cried, with a finger in his eye, and found they thought\nthat organ, with its fluttering lids, a queer thing in him. They went over\nit again.\n\n\"A strange creature, Correa,\" said the one called Pedro. \"Feel the\ncoarseness of his hair. Like a llama's hair.\"\n\n\"Rough he is as the rocks that begot him,\" said Correa, investigating\nNunez's unshaven chin with a soft and slightly moist hand. \"Perhaps he\nwill grow finer.\" Nunez struggled a little under their examination, but\nthey gripped him firm.\n\n\"Carefully,\" he said again.\n\n\"He speaks,\" said the third man. \"Certainly he is a man.\"\n\n\"Ugh!\" said Pedro, at the roughness of his coat.\n\n\"And you have come into the world?\" asked Pedro.\n\n\"_Out_ of the world. Over mountains and glaciers; right over above\nthere, half-way to the sun. Out of the great big world that goes down,\ntwelve days' journey to the sea.\"\n\nThey scarcely seemed to heed him. \"Our fathers have told us men may be\nmade by the forces of Nature,\" said Correa. \"It is the warmth of things\nand moisture, and rottenness--rottenness.\"\n\n\"Let us lead him to the elders,\" said Pedro.\n\n\"Shout first,\" said Correa, \"lest the children be afraid... This is a\nmarvellous occasion.\"\n\nSo they shouted, and Pedro went first and took Nunez by the hand to lead\nhim to the houses.\n\nHe drew his hand away. \"I can see,\" he said.\n\n\"See?\" said Correa.\n\n\"Yes, see,\" said Nunez, turning towards him, and stumbled against Pedro's\npail.\n\n\"His senses are still imperfect,\" said the third blind man. \"He stumbles,\nand talks unmeaning words. Lead him by the hand.\"\n\n\"As you will,\" said Nunez, and was led along, laughing.\n\nIt seemed they knew nothing of sight.\n\nWell, all in good time he would teach them.\n\nHe heard people shouting, and saw a number of figures gathering together\nin the middle roadway of the village.\n\nHe found it tax his nerve and patience more than he had anticipated, that\nfirst encounter with the population of the Country of the Blind. The place\nseemed larger as he drew near to it, and the smeared plasterings queerer,\nand a crowd of children and men and women (the women and girls, he was\npleased to note, had some of them quite sweet faces, for all that their\neyes were shut and sunken) came about him, holding on to him, touching him\nwith soft, sensitive hands, smelling at him, and listening at every word\nhe spoke. Some of the maidens and children, however, kept aloof as if\nafraid, and indeed his voice seemed coarse and rude beside their softer\nnotes. They mobbed him. His three guides kept close to him with an effect\nof proprietorship, and said again and again, \"A wild man out of the rock.\"\n\n\"Bogota,\" he said. \"Bogota. Over the mountain crests.\"\n\n\"A wild man--using wild words,\" said Pedro. \"Did you hear that--\n_Bogota_? His mind is hardly formed yet. He has only the beginnings\nof speech.\"\n\nA little boy nipped his hand. \"Bogota!\" he said mockingly.\n\n\"Ay! A city to your village. I come from the great world--where men have\neyes and see.\"\n\n\"His name's Bogota,\" they said.\n\n\"He stumbled,\" said Correa, \"stumbled twice as we came hither.\"\n\n\"Bring him to the elders.\"\n\nAnd they thrust him suddenly through a doorway into a room as black as\npitch, save at the end there faintly glowed a fire. The crowd closed in\nbehind him and shut out all but the faintest glimmer of day, and before he\ncould arrest himself he had fallen headlong over the feet of a seated man.\nHis arm, outflung, struck the face of someone else as he went down; he\nfelt the soft impact of features and heard a cry of anger, and for a\nmoment he struggled against a number of hands that clutched him. It was a\none-sided fight. An inkling of the situation came to him, and he lay\nquiet.\n\n\"I fell down,\" he said; \"I couldn't see in this pitchy darkness.\"\n\nThere was a pause as if the unseen persons about him tried to understand\nhis words. Then the voice of Correa said: \"He is but newly formed. He\nstumbles as he walks and mingles words that mean nothing with his speech.\"\n\nOthers also said things about him that he heard or understood imperfectly.\n\n\"May I sit up?\" he asked, in a pause. \"I will not struggle against you\nagain.\"\n\nThey consulted and let him rise.\n\nThe voice of an older man began to question him, and Nunez found himself\ntrying to explain the great world out of which he had fallen, and the sky\nand mountains and sight and such-like marvels, to these elders who sat in\ndarkness in the Country of the Blind. And they would believe and\nunderstand nothing whatever he told them, a thing quite outside his\nexpectation. They would not even understand many of his words. For\nfourteen generations these people had been blind and cut off from all the\nseeing world; the names for all the things of sight had faded and changed;\nthe story of the outer world was faded and changed to a child's story; and\nthey had ceased to concern themselves with anything beyond the rocky\nslopes above their circling wall. Blind men of genius had arisen among\nthem and questioned the shreds of belief and tradition they had brought\nwith them from their seeing days, and had dismissed all these things as\nidle fancies, and replaced them with new and saner explanations. Much of\ntheir imagination had shrivelled with their eyes, and they had made for\nthemselves new imaginations with their ever more sensitive ears and\nfinger-tips. Slowly Nunez realised this; that his expectation of wonder\nand reverence at his origin and his gifts was not to be borne out; and\nafter his poor attempt to explain sight to them had been set aside as the\nconfused version of a new-made being describing the marvels of his\nincoherent sensations, he subsided, a little dashed, into listening to\ntheir instruction. And the eldest of the blind men explained to him life\nand philosophy and religion, how that the world (meaning their valley) had\nbeen first an empty hollow in the rocks, and then had come, first,\ninanimate things without the gift of touch, and llamas and a few other\ncreatures that had little sense, and then men, and at last angels, whom\none could hear singing and making fluttering sounds, but whom no one could\ntouch at all, which puzzled Nunez greatly until he thought of the birds.\n\nHe went on to tell Nunez how this time had been divided into the warm and\nthe cold, which are the blind equivalents of day and night, and how it was\ngood to sleep in the warm and work during the cold, so that now, but for\nhis advent, the whole town of the blind would have been asleep. He said\nNunez must have been specially created to learn and serve the wisdom, they\nhad acquired, and that for all his mental incoherency and stumbling\nbehaviour he must have courage, and do his best to learn, and at that all\nthe people in the doorway murmured encouragingly. He said the night--for\nthe blind call their day night--was now far gone, and it behoved every one\nto go back to sleep. He asked Nunez if he knew how to sleep, and Nunez\nsaid he did, but that before sleep he wanted food.\n\nThey brought him food--llama's milk in a bowl, and rough salted bread--and\nled him into a lonely place, to eat out of their hearing, and afterwards\nto slumber until the chill of the mountain evening roused them to begin\ntheir day again. But Nunez slumbered not at all.\n\nInstead, he sat up in the place where they had left him, resting his limbs\nand turning the unanticipated circumstances of his arrival over and over\nin his mind.\n\nEvery now and then he laughed, sometimes with amusement, and sometimes\nwith indignation.\n\n\"Unformed mind!\" he said. \"Got no senses yet! They little know they've\nbeen insulting their heaven-sent king and master. I see I must bring them\nto reason. Let me think--let me think.\"\n\nHe was still thinking when the sun set.\n\nNunez had an eye for all beautiful things, and it seemed to him that the\nglow upon the snowfields and glaciers that rose about the valley on every\nside was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. His eyes went from\nthat inaccessible glory to the village and irrigated fields, fast sinking\ninto the twilight, and suddenly a wave of emotion took him, and he thanked\nGod from the bottom of his heart that the power of sight had been given\nhim.\n\nHe heard a voice calling to him from out of the village. \"Ya ho there,\nBogota! Come hither!\"\n\nAt that he stood up smiling. He would show these people once and for all\nwhat sight would do for a man. They would seek him, but not find him.\n\n\"You move not, Bogota,\" said the voice.\n\nHe laughed noiselessly, and made two stealthy steps aside from the path.\n\n\"Trample not on the grass, Bogota; that is not allowed.\"\n\nNunez had scarcely heard the sound he made himself. He stopped amazed.\n\nThe owner of the voice came running up the piebald path towards him.\n\nHe stepped back into the pathway. \"Here I am,\" he said.\n\n\"Why did you not come when I called you?\" said the blind man. \"Must you be\nled like a child? Cannot you hear the path as you walk?\"\n\nNunez laughed. \"I can see it,\" he said.\n\n\"There is no such word as _see_,\" said the blind man, after a pause.\n\"Cease this folly, and follow the sound of my feet.\"\n\nNunez followed, a little annoyed.\n\n\"My time will come,\" he said.\n\n\"You'll learn,\" the blind man answered. \"There is much to learn in the\nworld.\"\n\n\"Has no one told you, 'In the Country of the Blind the One-eyed Man is\nKing'?\"\n\n\"What is blind?\" asked the blind man carelessly over his shoulder.\n\nFour days passed, and the fifth found the King of the Blind still\nincognito, as a clumsy and useless stranger among his subjects.\n\nIt was, he found, much more difficult to proclaim himself than he had\nsupposed, and in the meantime, while he meditated his _coup d'état,_\nhe did what he was told and learnt the manners and customs of the Country\nof the Blind. He found working and going about at night a particularly\nirksome thing, and he decided that that should be the first thing he would\nchange.\n\nThey led a simple, laborious life, these people, with all the elements of\nvirtue and happiness, as these things can be understood by men. They\ntoiled, but not oppressively; they had food and clothing sufficient for\ntheir needs; they had days and seasons of rest; they made much of music\nand singing, and there was love among them, and little children.\n\nIt was marvellous with what confidence and precision they went about their\nordered world. Everything, you see, had been made to fit their needs; each\nof the radiating paths of the valley area had a constant angle to the\nothers, and was distinguished by a special notch upon its kerbing; all\nobstacles and irregularities of path or meadow had long since been cleared\naway; all their methods and procedure arose naturally from their special\nneeds. Their senses had become marvellously acute; they could hear and\njudge the slightest gesture of a man a dozen paces away--could hear the\nvery beating of his heart. Intonation had long replaced expression with\nthem, and touches gesture, and their work with hoe and spade and fork was\nas free and confident as garden work can be. Their sense of smell was\nextraordinarily fine; they could distinguish individual differences as\nreadily as a dog can, and they went about the tending of the llamas, who\nlived among the rocks above and came to the wall for food and shelter,\nwith ease and confidence. It was only when at last Nunez sought to assert\nhimself that he found how easy and confident their movements could be.\n\nHe rebelled only after he had tried persuasion.\n\nHe tried at first on several occasions to tell them of sight. \"Look you\nhere, you people,\" he said. \"There are things you do not understand in\nme.\"\n\nOnce or twice one or two of them attended to him; they sat with faces\ndowncast and ears turned intelligently towards him, and he did his best to\ntell them what it was to see. Among his hearers was a girl, with eyelids\nless red and sunken than the others, so that one could almost fancy she\nwas hiding eyes, whom especially he hoped to persuade. He spoke of the\nbeauties of sight, of watching the mountains, of the sky and the sunrise,\nand they heard him with amused incredulity that presently became\ncondemnatory. They told him there were indeed no mountains at all, but\nthat the end of the rocks where the llamas grazed was indeed the end of\nthe world; thence sprang a cavernous roof of the universe, from which the\ndew and the avalanches fell; and when he maintained stoutly the world had\nneither end nor roof such as they supposed, they said his thoughts were\nwicked. So far as he could describe sky and clouds and stars to them it\nseemed to them a hideous void, a terrible blankness in the place of the\nsmooth roof to things in which they believed--it was an article of faith\nwith them that the cavern roof was exquisitely smooth to the touch. He saw\nthat in some manner he shocked them, and gave up that aspect of the matter\naltogether, and tried to show them the practical value of sight. One\nmorning he saw Pedro in the path called Seventeen and coming towards the\ncentral houses, but still too far off for hearing or scent, and he told\nthem as much. \"In a little while,\" he prophesied, \"Pedro will be here.\" An\nold man remarked that Pedro had no business on path Seventeen, and then,\nas if in confirmation, that individual as he drew near turned and went\ntransversely into path Ten, and so back with nimble paces towards the\nouter wall. They mocked Nunez when Pedro did not arrive, and afterwards,\nwhen he asked Pedro questions to clear his character, Pedro denied and\noutfaced him, and was afterwards hostile to him.\n\nThen he induced them to let him go a long way up the sloping meadows\ntowards the wall with one complacent individual, and to him he promised to\ndescribe all that happened among the houses. He noted certain goings and\ncomings, but the things that really seemed to signify to these people\nhappened inside of or behind the windowless houses--the only things they\ntook note of to test him by--and of these he could see or tell nothing;\nand it was after the failure of this attempt, and the ridicule they could\nnot repress, that he resorted to force. He thought of seizing a spade and\nsuddenly smiting one or two of them to earth, and so in fair combat\nshowing the advantage of eyes. He went so far with that resolution as to\nseize his spade, and then he discovered a new thing about himself, and\nthat was that it was impossible for him to hit a blind man in cold blood.\n\nHe hesitated, and found them all aware that he had snatched up the spade.\nThey stood alert, with their heads on one side, and bent ears towards him\nfor what he would do next.\n\n\"Put that spade down,\" said one, and he felt a sort of helpless horror. He\ncame near obedience.\n\nThen he thrust one backwards against a house wall, and fled past him and\nout of the village.\n\nHe went athwart one of their meadows, leaving a track of trampled grass\nbehind his feet, and presently sat down by the side of one of their ways.\nHe felt something of the buoyancy that comes to all men in the beginning\nof a fight, but more perplexity. He began to realise that you cannot even\nfight happily with creatures who stand upon a different mental basis to\nyourself. Far away he saw a number of men carrying spades and sticks come\nout of the street of houses, and advance in a spreading line along the\nseveral paths towards him. They advanced slowly, speaking frequently to\none another, and ever and again the whole cordon would halt and sniff the\nair and listen.\n\nThe first time they did this Nunez laughed. But afterwards he did not\nlaugh.\n\nOne struck his trail in the meadow grass, and came stooping and feeling\nhis way along it.\n\nFor five minutes he watched the slow extension of the cordon, and then his\nvague disposition to do something forthwith became frantic. He stood up,\nwent a pace or so towards the circumferential wall, turned, and went back\na little way. There they all stood in a crescent, still and listening.\n\nHe also stood still, gripping his spade very tightly in both hands. Should\nhe charge them?\n\nThe pulse in his ears ran into the rhythm of \"In the Country of the Blind\nthe One-eyed Man is King!\"\n\nShould he charge them?\n\nHe looked back at the high and unclimbable wall behind--unclimbable\nbecause of its smooth plastering, but withal pierced with many little\ndoors, and at the approaching line of seekers. Behind these others were\nnow coming out of the street of houses.\n\nShould he charge them?\n\n\"Bogota!\" called one. \"Bogota! where are you?\"\n\nHe gripped his spade still tighter, and advanced down the meadows towards\nthe place of habitations, and directly he moved they converged upon him.\n\"I'll hit them if they touch me,\" he swore; \"by Heaven, I will. I'll hit.\"\nHe called aloud, \"Look here, I'm going to do what I like in this valley.\nDo you hear? I'm going to do what I like and go where I like!\"\n\nThey were moving in upon him quickly, groping, yet moving rapidly. It was\nlike playing blind man's buff, with everyone blindfolded except one. \"Get\nhold of him!\" cried one. He found himself in the arc of a loose curve of\npursuers. He felt suddenly he must be active and resolute.\n\n\"You don't understand,\" he cried in a voice that was meant to be great and\nresolute, and which broke. \"You are blind, and I can see. Leave me alone!\"\n\n\"Bogota! Put down that spade, and come off the grass!\"\n\nThe last order, grotesque in its urban familiarity, produced a gust of\nanger.\n\n\"I'll hurt you,\" he said, sobbing with emotion. \"By Heaven, I'll hurt you.\nLeave me alone!\"\n\nHe began to run, not knowing clearly where to run. He ran from the nearest\nblind man, because it was a horror to hit him. He stopped, and then made a\ndash to escape from their closing ranks. He made for where a gap was wide,\nand the men on either side, with a quick perception of the approach of his\npaces, rushed in on one another. He sprang forward, and then saw he must\nbe caught, and _swish_! the spade had struck. He felt the soft thud\nof hand and arm, and the man was down with a yell of pain, and he was\nthrough.\n\nThrough! And then he was close to the street of houses again, and blind\nmen, whirling spades and stakes, were running with a sort of reasoned\nswiftness hither and thither.\n\nHe heard steps behind him just in time, and found a tall man rushing\nforward and swiping at the sound of him. He lost his nerve, hurled his\nspade a yard wide at his antagonist, and whirled about and fled, fairly\nyelling as he dodged another.\n\nHe was panic-stricken. He ran furiously to and fro, dodging when there was\nno need to dodge, and in his anxiety to see on every side of him at once,\nstumbling. For a moment he was down and they heard his fall. Far away in\nthe circumferential wall a little doorway looked like heaven, and he set\noff in a wild rush for it. He did not even look round at his pursuers\nuntil it was gained, and he had stumbled across the bridge, clambered a\nlittle way among the rocks, to the surprise and dismay of a young llama,\nwho went leaping out of sight, and lay down sobbing for breath.\n\nAnd so his _coup d'état_ came to an end.\n\nHe stayed outside the wall of the valley of the Blind for two nights and\ndays without food or shelter, and meditated upon the unexpected. During\nthese meditations he repeated very frequently and always with a profounder\nnote of derision the exploded proverb: \"In the Country of the Blind the\nOne-Eyed Man is King.\" He thought chiefly of ways of fighting and\nconquering these people, and it grew clear that for him no practicable way\nwas possible. He had no weapons, and now it would be hard to get one.\n\nThe canker of civilisation had got to him even in Bogota, and he could not\nfind it in himself to go down and assassinate a blind man. Of course, if\nhe did that, he might then dictate terms on the threat of assassinating\nthem all. But--sooner or later he must sleep!...\n\nHe tried also to find food among the pine trees, to be comfortable under\npine boughs while the frost fell at night, and--with less confidence--to\ncatch a llama by artifice in order to try to kill it--perhaps by hammering\nit with a stone--and so finally, perhaps, to eat some of it. But the\nllamas had a doubt of him and regarded him with distrustful brown eyes,\nand spat when he drew near. Fear came on him the second day and fits of\nshivering. Finally he crawled down to the wall of the Country of the Blind\nand tried to make terms. He crawled along by the stream, shouting, until\ntwo blind men came out to the gate and talked to him.\n\n\"I was mad,\" he said. \"But I was only newly made.\"\n\nThey said that was better.\n\nHe told them he was wiser now, and repented of all he had done.\n\nThen he wept without intention, for he was very weak and ill now, and they\ntook that as a favourable sign.\n\nThey asked him if he still thought he could \"_see_\"\n\n\"No,\" he said. \"That was folly. The word means nothing--less than\nnothing!\"\n\nThey asked him what was overhead.\n\n\"About ten times ten the height of a man there is a roof above the world--\nof rock--and very, very smooth.\" ... He burst again into hysterical\ntears. \"Before you ask me any more, give me some food or I shall die.\"\n\nHe expected dire punishments, but these blind people were capable of\ntoleration. They regarded his rebellion as but one more proof of his\ngeneral idiocy and inferiority; and after they had whipped him they\nappointed him to do the simplest and heaviest work they had for anyone to\ndo, and he, seeing no other way of living, did submissively what he was\ntold.\n\nHe was ill for some days, and they nursed him kindly. That refined his\nsubmission. But they insisted on his lying in the dark, and that was a\ngreat misery. And blind philosophers came and talked to him of the wicked\nlevity of his mind, and reproved him so impressively for his doubts about\nthe lid of rock that covered their cosmic casserole that he almost doubted\nwhether indeed he was not the victim of hallucination in not seeing it\noverhead.\n\nSo Nunez became a citizen of the Country of the Blind, and these people\nceased to be a generalised people and became individualities and familiar\nto him, while the world beyond the mountains became more and more remote\nand unreal. There was Yacob, his master, a kindly man when not annoyed;\nthere was Pedro, Yacob's nephew; and there was Medina-saroté, who was the\nyoungest daughter of Yacob. She was little esteemed in the world of the\nblind, because she had a clear-cut face, and lacked that satisfying,\nglossy smoothness that is the blind man's ideal of feminine beauty; but\nNunez thought her beautiful at first, and presently the most beautiful\nthing in the whole creation. Her closed eyelids were not sunken and red\nafter the common way of the valley, but lay as though they might open\nagain at any moment; and she had long eyelashes, which were considered a\ngrave disfigurement. And her voice was strong, and did not satisfy the\nacute hearing of the valley swains. So that she had no lover.\n\nThere came a time when Nunez thought that, could he win her, he would be\nresigned to live in the valley for all the rest of his days.\n\nHe watched her; he sought opportunities of doing her little services, and\npresently he found that she observed him. Once at a rest-day gathering\nthey sat side by side in the dim starlight, and the music was sweet. His\nhand came upon hers and he dared to clasp it. Then very tenderly she\nreturned his pressure. And one day, as they were at their meal in the\ndarkness, he felt her hand very softly seeking him, and as it chanced the\nfire leapt then and he saw the tenderness of her face.\n\nHe sought to speak to her.\n\nHe went to her one day when she was sitting in the summer moonlight\nspinning. The light made her a thing of silver and mystery. He sat down at\nher feet and told her he loved her, and told her how beautiful she seemed\nto him. He had a lover's voice, he spoke with a tender reverence that came\nnear to awe, and she had never before been touched by adoration. She made\nhim no definite answer, but it was clear his words pleased her.\n\nAfter that he talked to her whenever he could take an opportunity. The\nvalley became the world for him, and the world beyond the mountains where\nmen lived in sunlight seemed no more than a fairy tale he would some day\npour into her ears. Very tentatively and timidly he spoke to her of sight.\n\nSight seemed to her the most poetical of fancies, and she listened to his\ndescription of the stars and the mountains and her own sweet white-lit\nbeauty as though it was a guilty indulgence. She did not believe, she\ncould only half understand, but she was mysteriously delighted, and it\nseemed to him that she completely understood.\n\nHis love lost its awe and took courage. Presently he was for demanding\nher of Yacob and the elders in marriage, but she became fearful and\ndelayed. And it was one of her elder sisters who first told Yacob that\nMedina-saroté and Nunez were in love.\n\nThere was from the first very great opposition to the marriage of Nunez\nand Medina-saroté; not so much because they valued her as because they\nheld him as a being apart, an idiot, incompetent thing below the\npermissible level of a man. Her sisters opposed it bitterly as bringing\ndiscredit on them all; and old Yacob, though he had formed a sort of\nliking for his clumsy, obedient serf, shook his head and said the thing\ncould not be. The young men were all angry at the idea of corrupting the\nrace, and one went so far as to revile and strike Nunez. He struck back.\nThen for the first time he found an advantage in seeing, even by twilight,\nand after that fight was over no one was disposed to raise a hand against\nhim. But they still found his marriage impossible.\n\nOld Yacob had a tenderness for his last little daughter, and was grieved\nto have her weep upon his shoulder.\n\n\"You see, my dear, he's an idiot. He has delusions; he can't do anything\nright.\"\n\n\"I know,\" wept Medina-saroté. \"But he's better than he was. He's getting\nbetter. And he's strong, dear father, and kind--stronger and kinder than\nany I other man in the world. And he loves me--and, father, I love him.\"\n\nOld Yacob was greatly distressed to find her inconsolable, and, besides--\nwhat made it more distressing--he liked Nunez for many things. So he went\nand sat in the windowless council-chamber with the other elders and\nwatched the trend of the talk, and said, at the proper time, \"He's better\nthan he was. Very likely, some day, we shall find him as sane as\nourselves.\"\n\nThen afterwards one of the elders, who thought deeply, had an idea. He was\nthe great doctor among these people, their medicine-man, and he had a very\nphilosophical and inventive mind, and the idea of curing Nunez of his\npeculiarities appealed to him. One day when Yacob was present he returned\nto the topic of Nunez.\n\n\"I have examined Bogota,\" he said, \"and the case is clearer to me. I think\nvery probably he might be cured.\"\n\n\"That is what I have always hoped,\" said old Yacob.\n\n\"His brain is affected,\" said the blind doctor.\n\nThe elders murmured assent.\n\n\"Now, _what_ affects it?\"\n\n\"Ah!\" said old Yacob.\n\n\"_This_,\" said the doctor, answering his own question. \"Those queer\nthings that are called the eyes, and which exist to make an agreeable soft\ndepression in the face, are diseased, in the case of Bogota, in such a way\nas to affect his brain. They are greatly distended, he has eyelashes, and\nhis eyelids move, and consequently his brain is in a state of constant\nirritation and distraction.\"\n\n\"Yes?\" said old Yacob. \"Yes?\"\n\n\"And I think I may say with reasonable certainty that, in order to cure\nhim completely, all that we need do is a simple and easy surgical\noperation--namely, to remove these irritant bodies.\"\n\n\"And then he will be sane?\"\n\n\"Then he will be perfectly sane, and a quite admirable citizen.\"\n\n\"Thank Heaven for science!\" said old Yacob, and went forth at once to tell\nNunez of his happy hopes.\n\nBut Nunez's manner of receiving the good news struck him as being cold and\ndisappointing.\n\n\"One might think,\" he said, \"from the tone you take, that you did not care\nfor my daughter.\"\n\nIt was Medina-saroté who persuaded Nunez to face the blind surgeons.\n\n\"_You_ do not want me,\" he said, \"to lose my gift of sight?\"\n\nShe shook her head.\n\n\"My world is sight.\"\n\nHer head drooped lower.\n\n\"There are the beautiful things, the beautiful little things--the flowers,\nthe lichens among the rocks, the lightness and softness on a piece of fur,\nthe far sky with its drifting down of clouds, the sunsets and the stars.\nAnd there is _you_. For you alone it is good to have sight, to see\nyour sweet, serene face, your kindly lips, your dear, beautiful hands\nfolded together... It is these eyes of mine you won, these eyes that hold\nme to you, that these idiots seek. Instead, I must touch you, hear you,\nand never see you again. I must come under that roof of rock and stone and\ndarkness, that horrible roof under which your imagination stoops...\nNo; you would not have me do that?\"\n\nA disagreeable doubt had arisen in him. He stopped, and left the thing a\nquestion.\n\n\"I wish,\" she said, \"sometimes----\" She paused.\n\n\"Yes,\" said he, a little apprehensively.\n\n\"I wish sometimes--you would not talk like that.\"\n\n\"Like what?\"\n\n\"I know it's pretty--it's your imagination. I love it, but _now_----\"\n\nHe felt cold. \"_Now_?\" he said faintly.\n\nShe sat quite still.\n\n\"You mean--you think--I should be better, better perhaps-----\"\n\nHe was realising things very swiftly. He felt anger, indeed, anger at the\ndull course of fate, but also sympathy for her lack of understanding--a\nsympathy near akin to pity.\n\n\"_Dear_,\" he said, and he could see by her whiteness how intensely\nher spirit pressed against the things she could not say. He put his arms\nabout her, he kissed her ear, and they sat for a time in silence.\n\n\"If I were to consent to this?\" he said at last, in a voice that was very\ngentle.\n\nShe flung her arms about him, weeping wildly. \"Oh, if you would,\" she\nsobbed, \"if only you would!\"\n\n * * * * *\n\nFor a week before the operation that was to raise him from his servitude\nand inferiority to the level of a blind citizen, Nunez knew nothing of\nsleep, and all through the warm sunlit hours, while the others slumbered\nhappily, he sat brooding or wandered aimlessly, trying to bring his mind\nto bear on his dilemma. He had given his answer, he had given his consent,\nand still he was not sure. And at last work-time was over, the sun rose in\nsplendour over the golden crests, and his last day of vision began for\nhim. He had a few minutes with Medina-saroté before she went apart to\nsleep.\n\n\"To-morrow,\" he said, \"I shall see no more.\"\n\n\"Dear heart!\" she answered, and pressed his hands with all her strength.\n\n\"They will hurt you but little,\" she said; \"and you are going through this\npain--you are going through it, dear lover, for _me_... Dear, if a\nwoman's heart and life can do it, I will repay you. My dearest one, my\ndearest with the tender voice, I will repay.\"\n\nHe was drenched in pity for himself and her.\n\nHe held her in his arms, and pressed his lips to hers, and looked on her\nsweet face for the last time. \"Good-bye!\" he whispered at that dear sight,\n\"good-bye!\"\n\nAnd then in silence he turned away from her.\n\nShe could hear his slow retreating footsteps, and something in the rhythm\nof them threw her into a passion of weeping.\n\nHe had fully meant to go to a lonely place where the meadows were\nbeautiful with white narcissus, and there remain until the hour of his\nsacrifice should come, but as he went he lifted up his eyes and saw the\nmorning, the morning like an angel in golden armour, marching down the\nsteeps...\n\nIt seemed to him that before this splendour he, and this blind world in\nthe valley, and his love, and all, were no more than a pit of sin.\n\nHe did not turn aside as he had meant to do, but went on, and passed\nthrough the wall of the circumference and out upon the rocks, and his eyes\nwere always upon the sunlit ice and snow.\n\nHe saw their infinite beauty, and his imagination soared over them to the\nthings beyond he was now to resign for ever.\n\nHe thought of that great free world he was parted from, the world that was\nhis own, and he had a vision of those further slopes, distance beyond\ndistance, with Bogota, a place of multitudinous stirring beauty, a glory\nby day, a luminous mystery by night, a place of palaces and fountains and\nstatues and white houses, lying beautifully in the middle distance. He\nthought how for a day or so one might come down through passes, drawing\never nearer and nearer to its busy streets and ways. He thought of the\nriver journey, day by day, from great Bogota to the still vaster world\nbeyond, through towns and villages, forest and desert places, the rushing\nriver day by day, until its banks receded and the big steamers came\nsplashing by, and one had reached the sea--the limitless sea, with its\nthousand islands, its thousands of islands, and its ships seen dimly far\naway in their incessant journeyings round and about that greater world.\nAnd there, unpent by mountains, one saw the sky--the sky, not such a disc\nas one saw it here, but an arch of immeasurable blue, a deep of deeps in\nwhich the circling stars were floating...\n\nHis eyes scrutinised the great curtain of the mountains with a keener\ninquiry.\n\nFor example, if one went so, up that gully and to that chimney there, then\none might come out high among those stunted pines that ran round in a sort\nof shelf and rose still higher and higher as it passed above the gorge.\nAnd then? That talus might be managed. Thence perhaps a climb might be\nfound to take him up to the precipice that came below the snow; and if\nthat chimney failed, then another farther to the east might serve his\npurpose better. And then? Then one would be out upon the amber-lit snow\nthere, and half-way up to the crest of those beautiful desolations.\n\nHe glanced back at the village, then turned right round and regarded it\nsteadfastly.\n\nHe thought of Medina-saroté, and she had become small and remote.\n\nHe turned again towards the mountain wall, down which the day had come to\nhim.\n\nThen very circumspectly he began to climb.\n\nWhen sunset came he was no longer climbing, but he was far and high. He\nhad been higher, but he was still very high. His clothes were torn, his\nlimbs were blood-stained, he was bruised in many places, but he lay as if\nhe were at his ease, and there was a smile on his face.\n\nFrom where he rested the valley seemed as if it were in a pit and nearly a\nmile below. Already it was dim with haze and shadow, though the mountain\nsummits around him were things of light and fire. The mountain summits\naround him were things of light and fire, and the little details of the\nrocks near at hand were drenched with subtle beauty--a vein of green\nmineral piercing the grey, the flash of crystal faces here and there, a\nminute, minutely-beautiful orange lichen close beside his face. There were\ndeep mysterious shadows in the gorge, blue deepening into purple, and\npurple into a luminous darkness, and overhead was the illimitable vastness\nof the sky. But he heeded these things no longer, but lay quite inactive\nthere, smiling as if he were satisfied merely to have escaped from the\nvalley of the Blind in which he had thought to be King.\n\nThe glow of the sunset passed, and the night came, and still he lay\npeacefully contented under the cold clear stars.\n\n\n\n\n XXXIII.\n\n THE BEAUTIFUL SUIT.\n\n\nThere was once a little man whose mother made him a beautiful suit of\nclothes. It was green and gold, and woven so that I cannot describe how\ndelicate and fine it was, and there was a tie of orange fluffiness that\ntied up under his chin. And the buttons in their newness shone like stars.\nHe was proud and pleased by his suit beyond measure, and stood before the\nlong looking-glass when first he put it on, so astonished and delighted\nwith it that he could hardly turn himself away. He wanted to wear it\neverywhere, and show it to all sorts of people. He thought over all the\nplaces he had ever visited, and all the scenes he had ever heard\ndescribed, and tried to imagine what the feel of it would be if he were to\ngo now to those scenes and places wearing his shining suit, and he wanted\nto go out forthwith into the long grass and the hot sunshine of the meadow\nwearing it. Just to wear it! But his mother told him \"No.\" She told him he\nmust take great care of his suit, for never would he have another nearly\nso fine; he must save it and save it, and only wear it on rare and great\noccasions. It was his wedding-suit, she said. And she took the buttons and\ntwisted them up with tissue paper for fear their bright newness should be\ntarnished, and she tacked little guards over the cuffs and elbows, and\nwherever the suit was most likely to come to harm. He hated and resisted\nthese things, but what could he do? And at last her warnings and\npersuasions had effect, and he consented to take off his beautiful suit\nand fold it into its proper creases, and put it away. It was almost as\nthough he gave it up again. But he was always thinking of wearing it, and\nof the supreme occasions when some day it might be worn without the\nguards, without the tissue paper on the buttons, utterly and delightfully,\nnever caring, beautiful beyond measure.\n\nOne night, when he was dreaming of it after his habit, he dreamt he took\nthe tissue paper from one of the buttons, and found its brightness a\nlittle faded, and that distressed him mightily in his dream. He polished\nthe poor faded button and polished it, and, if anything, it grew duller.\nHe woke up and lay awake, thinking of the brightness a little dulled, and\nwondering how he would feel if perhaps when the great occasion (whatever\nit might be) should arrive, one button should chance to be ever so little\nshort of its first glittering freshness, and for days and days that\nthought remained with him distressingly. And when next his mother let him\nwear his suit, he was tempted and nearly gave way to the temptation just\nto fumble off one little bit of tissue paper and see if indeed the buttons\nwere keeping as bright as ever.\n\nHe went trimly along on his way to church, full of this wild desire. For\nyou must know his mother did, with repeated and careful warnings, let him\nwear his suit at times, on Sundays, for example, to and fro from church,\nwhen there was no threatening of rain, no dust blowing, nor anything to\ninjure it, with its buttons covered and its protections tacked upon it,\nand a sun-shade in his hand to shadow it if there seemed too strong a\nsunlight for its colours. And always, after such occasions, he brushed it\nover and folded it exquisitely as she had taught him, and put it away\nagain.\n\nNow all these restrictions his mother set to the wearing of his suit he\nobeyed, always he obeyed them, until one strange night he woke up and saw\nthe moonlight shining outside his window. It seemed to him the moonlight\nwas not common moonlight, nor the night a common night, and for awhile he\nlay quite drowsily, with this odd persuasion in his mind. Thought joined\non to thought like things that whisper warmly in the shadows. Then he sat\nup in his little bed suddenly very alert, with his heart beating very\nfast, and a quiver in his body from top to toe. He had made up his mind.\nHe knew that now he was going to wear his suit as it should be worn. He\nhad no doubt in the matter. He was afraid, terribly afraid, but glad,\nglad.\n\nHe got out of his bed and stood for a moment by the window looking at the\nmoonshine-flooded garden, and trembling at the thing he meant to do. The\nair was full of a minute clamour of crickets and murmurings, of the\ninfinitesimal shoutings of little living things. He went very gently\nacross the creaking boards, for fear that he might wake the sleeping\nhouse, to the big dark clothes-press wherein his beautiful suit lay\nfolded, and he took it out garment by garment, and softly and very eagerly\ntore off its tissue-paper covering and its tacked protections until there\nit was, perfect and delightful as he had seen it when first his mother had\ngiven it to him--a long time it seemed ago. Not a button had tarnished,\nnot a thread had faded on this dear suit of his; he was glad enough for\nweeping as in a noiseless hurry he put it on. And then back he went, soft\nand quick, to the window that looked out upon the garden, and stood there\nfor a minute, shining in the moonlight, with his buttons twinkling like\nstars, before he got out on the sill, and, making as little of a rustling\nas he could, clambered down to the garden path below. He stood before his\nmother's house, and it was white and nearly as plain as by day, with every\nwindow-blind but his own shut like an eye that sleeps. The trees cast\nstill shadows like intricate black lace upon the wall.\n\nThe garden in the moonlight was very different from the garden by day;\nmoonshine was tangled in the hedges and stretched in phantom cobwebs from\nspray to spray. Every flower was gleaming white or crimson black, and the\nair was a-quiver with the thridding of small crickets and nightingales\nsinging unseen in the depths of the trees.\n\nThere was no darkness in the world, but only warm, mysterious shadows,\nand all the leaves and spikes were edged and lined with iridescent jewels\nof dew. The night was warmer than any night had ever been, the heavens\nby some miracle at once vaster and nearer, and, spite of the great\nivory-tinted moon that ruled the world, the sky was full of stars.\n\nThe little man did not shout nor sing for all his infinite gladness. He\nstood for a time like one awestricken, and then, with a queer small cry\nand holding out his arms, he ran out as if he would embrace at once the\nwhole round immensity of the world. He did not follow the neat set paths\nthat cut the garden squarely, but thrust across the beds and through the\nwet, tall, scented herbs, through the night-stock and the nicotine and the\nclusters of phantom white mallow flowers and through the thickets of\nsouthernwood and lavender, and knee-deep across a wide space of\nmignonette. He came to the great hedge, and he thrust his way through it;\nand though the thorns of the brambles scored him deeply and tore threads\nfrom his wonderful suit, and though burrs and goose-grass and havers\ncaught and clung to him, he did not care. He did not care, for he knew it\nwas all part of the wearing for which he had longed. \"I am glad I put on\nmy suit,\" he said; \"I am glad I wore my suit.\"\n\nBeyond the hedge he came to the duck-pond, or at least to what was the\nduck-pond by day. But by night it was a great bowl of silver moonshine all\nnoisy with singing frogs, of wonderful silver moonshine twisted and\nclotted with strange patternings, and the little man ran down into its\nwaters between the thin black rushes, knee-deep and waist-deep and to his\nshoulders, smiting the water to black and shining wavelets with either\nhand, swaying and shivering wavelets, amidst which the stars were netted\nin the tangled reflections of the brooding trees upon the bank. He waded\nuntil he swam, and so he crossed the pond and came out upon the other\nside, trailing, as it seemed to him, not duckweed, but very silver in\nlong, clinging, dripping masses. And up he went through the transfigured\ntangles of the willow-herb and the uncut seeding grasses of the farther\nbank. He came glad and breathless into the high-road. \"I am glad,\" he\nsaid, \"beyond measure, that I had clothes that fitted this occasion.\"\n\nThe high-road ran straight as an arrow flies, straight into the deep-blue\npit of sky beneath the moon, a white and shining road between the singing\nnightingales, and along it he went, running now and leaping, and now\nwalking and rejoicing, in the clothes his mother had made for him with\ntireless, loving hands. The road was deep in dust, but that for him was\nonly soft whiteness; and as he went a great dim moth came fluttering round\nhis wet and shimmering and hastening figure. At first he did not heed the\nmoth, and then he waved his hands at it, and made a sort of dance with it\nas it circled round his head. \"Soft moth!\" he cried, \"dear moth! And\nwonderful night, wonderful night of the world! Do you think my clothes are\nbeautiful, dear moth? As beautiful as your scales and all this silver\nvesture of the earth and sky?\"\n\nAnd the moth circled closer and closer until at last its velvet wings just\nbrushed his lips...\n\n * * * * *\n\nAnd next morning they found him dead, with his neck broken, in the bottom\nof the stone pit, with his beautiful clothes a little bloody, and foul and\nstained with the duckweed from the pond. But his face was a face of such\nhappiness that, had you seen it, you would have understood indeed how that\nhe had died happy, never knowing that cool and streaming silver for the\nduckweed in the pond."