Chapter III: Act II: Scene I.--COMEDY

Drink, be merry! Life is mortal, short is the time on earth.--_Amphis_.

It so happened that the exit of Henry Reed made no stir beyond being the wonder of a week in the neighbourhood of Kingsmore. An inquest was held at the Load of Mischief, a wayside beer-house standing before an unworked chalk-pit at the entrance to Thorlund parish; the customary verdict of wilful murder against some person or persons unknown had been returned; and there the matter appeared to end, so far as the inhabitants were concerned. Officials whose duty it became to detect the criminal made a thorough investigation. They searched the house and grounds--the Strath being in its sunniest mood--and the entire district for material upon which to work, but not a particle of success crowned their efforts. The medical evidence clearly showed that the unfortunate man had been strangled by a strong pair of hands; the locals testified that no stranger had entered the valley; the principal witness, Dr. Berry, declared that he was the only resident who had been in the habit of using the garden. He admitted, in answer to a question by the foreman, that he had spent very much of his time beside the lonely house; and so soon as he had spoken the coroner inquired whether he had been upon good terms with the deceased.

“When in his garden we had no difficulty in agreeing,” the scholar replied. “When in mine we differed, but without quarrelling.”

“How do you account for that?”

“I attribute it to the influence of the Strath.”

“The influence of your garden is then less elevating?”

“My garden is in the commonplace world,” said Dr. Berry, speaking what was in his mind, and shrinking when he perceived the half-pitying smile with which his answer was received.

It was not until his housekeeper had given evidence that her master had not left the rectory during the evening that Dr. Berry realised, with a thrill of horror, that distrust had certainly rested, if only for a few moments, upon himself. And yet he was the only man upon whom suspicion could fall. The sensitive scholar was exceedingly pained that he should have been questioned at all. He could not remember ever having purposely deprived a living thing of life; he had refrained from digging in his garden after having inadvertently severed a worm with his spade; and he had passed a troubled week deciding how he might act without cruelty when a lazy cuckoo had deposited her egg in a favourite hedge-sparrow’s nest.

Days passed, and already grass was flourishing upon a fresh mound beside the churchyard wall where rested the shell of the stubborn little man who had fought against the Strath and had died in the attempt. The master of the manor had quitted the scene unmourned. The sun went on shining in the valley, the old house settled back into a triumphant silence, the church bell jangled its summons on Sunday, and the incumbent soared in rhetorical flights above the souls of his tiny congregation. There was no change. Yet it seemed to the rector that his step was not so firm as formerly; and when he glanced into his bedroom glass he detected a whiteness above his brow which had not been obvious before the coming of Henry Reed.

One evening a young man, with dissipation signed upon an otherwise good-looking face, called and introduced himself as the dead man’s heir. He went on to ask for the keys, which his agent had instructed him were deposited for convenience at the rectory. Dr. Berry surrendered his charge with a nervous glance at the new-comer, and after begging to be excused from accompanying him went on to ask permission to retain, as he had always done, the key of the gate in the churchyard wall. The young man’s hearty consent thrilled him gratefully; and though, after his late experience, he dared not invite any relative of Reed to take up his quarters at the rectory, he remarked in his courteous manner that he would be pleased to make the further acquaintance of his new squire. Conway in boisterous slang replied that he would be delighted to have someone to speak to during his visit, and after promising to look in later that evening retired to glance over his property and to engage a room at the Load of Mischief.

That day was made notable by other arrivals. Flora Neill came from her riverside home to pay her annual visit upon her reverend uncle the squire of Kingsmore; and as dusk was settling upon the hills a line of dingy caravans proceeded at a walking pace along the bending road, accompanied by swarthy gipsies and the paraphernalia of the pleasure fair. These nomads invaded Kingsmore that night, and the following day all the village folk were making holiday; it being Mr. Price’s kindly custom to follow a precedent established by his ancestors, and to free his farm hands from their usual duties upon that particular day.

Shooting-booths, swings, and trial of strength machines occupied waste spaces by the roadside, while a merry-go-round discoursed blatant music upon a triangular patch of turf where the parish stocks were still religiously preserved. The Kingsmore fair was as degenerate as it was harmless. There was neither dancing-horse, elephants playing at ball, Italian marionette, nor booth of classical play. But posturising, grinning through horse-collars, eating of hot puddings were to be witnessed, besides such natural monstrosities as a calf with five legs and a lady of prodigious adiposity.

During the afternoon the squarson himself drove into the midst of the animated scene, accompanied by his niece, with a view to discovering whether the pleasures of his people were as innocent as stated, or whether this was to be positively the last occasion on which he could allow the fair to take place. The rustics, who were compelled to give him their allegiance, were not in the least afraid of the old man, whose nature was very nearly as simple as their own. Mr. Price was one of the last of the plain country squires. He permitted his servants to address him with familiarity. From his position in the chancel he would scan his congregation and record the number of heads before commencing service. Should a grey beard nod in the course of his sermon, the vicar would break off his discourse and order that the sinner should be awakened. The tramp on the road he would greet as a worthless rascal and soften the charge with a shilling; and at Christmas he took care that no cottage should be without its beef and beer. As he then glanced at the swarthy faces of the proprietors of booths and stalls he felt certainly “in some doubt whether he should not exert the justice of the peace upon such a band of lawless vagabonds.” But when it came to the test his heart was too kind to deprive anyone of his livelihood, or his own people of their pleasure. He was no new man, anxious to assert himself. Mr. Price knew his power, and therefore had little temptation to use it.

“Uncle!” Flora exclaimed. “Who is that man throwing at the cocoa-nuts? He was my travelling companion yesterday from the junction.”

Mr. Price fumbled in the deep pockets of his disreputable driving coat for his spectacles; and when they were produced, together with a sample of wool and a bunch of twine, he pushed them on his nose. “Where?” he asked. “Do you mean that elderly man in the brown gaiters? He is a sheep-farmer from the other side of Queensmore.”

“No--the young man to his left. There! He’s just going to throw.”

“Why, that is Mr. Conway, the new owner of the Strath, I do declare,” exclaimed Mr. Price, who having been called out on duty the previous evening had looked in at Thorlund rectory on his way home, to condole with his reverend brother upon his recent ordeal at the inquest, and there had made the acquaintance of the young man from town. “I am surprised to find him here, so soon after that terrible affair too. The squire of Thorlund throwing for cocoa-nuts! And not a stitch of mourning for his uncle--and smoking--and shouting! God bless my soul, Flora, the man’s no gentleman!”

“He is young,” said Flora indulgently.

“All the more reason why I should show him his duty,” said the old squire.

He summoned a passing labourer to hold the horse’s head; but as he was about to step down Conway sighted the dog-cart, and hurried across the dusty grass in the happy mood of a schoolboy enjoying a half holiday. Mr. Price sank back to his seat with an exceedingly guilty expression, and caught up the reins.

“So you are taking in the variety show,” the young man cried, with an appalling bonhomie that set the immediate neighbourhood grinning. “I had no idea one could find such sport in a village,” he went on. “I’ve been throwing for an old chap, who came to me with a penny, and said he wanted to take a nut back to his grandson, and couldn’t throw himself, so would I? He kept his penny while I spent a shilling before I knocked down a nut. You seem to breed good business men down here.”

“I am here to satisfy myself that no objectionable features have been introduced to corrupt my people,” said Mr. Price severely. “I hope you will not mind an outspoken remark from an old man, Mr. Conway, but I feel that when one comes to take up a position in the country it is very necessary to keep up appearances. These simple people readily form a wrong estimate of character. Ah, yes! This is my niece, Miss Neill.”

“Do you enjoy this sort of thing?” asked Flora directly she had been introduced.

“It’s something fresh to a Londoner,” the young man replied. “I have been round all the shows, I have smashed bottles, tried my strength and my luck, and found I haven’t much of either, seen the fat woman, pinched her leg--”

“Did you sleep at the Strath last night?” broke in Mr. Price.

“No, I went to the pub. It’s an awful hole,” said Conway. “I started out to call upon you, as you were good enough to ask me to come, but when I got here I yielded to the temptation of the fair. If you are on your way back, I may as well walk on to the house,” he added coolly.

“Mr. Conway might drive back with us,” Flora suggested. “There is plenty of room behind.”

Courtesy hindered the squire from objecting. The young man neither acted nor spoke according to his old-fashioned ideas of a gentleman. He appeared to be neither temperate nor well-bred. And here was Flora making herself agreeable, solely because there did not happen to be another man handy. The smoke from Conway’s cigar passed across his face, and the old gentleman, whose constitution prevented him from appreciating tobacco in any form, coughed disgustedly.

It was a long mile from the centre of the village to the vicarage. As the cart jolted along the road Mr. Price shouted his customary little jokes to the people who passed on pleasure intent; while his niece sustained a running conversation with the new owner of the Strath.

“Uncle has told me all kinds of stories about your house,” Flora was saying. “I have often wanted to see the inside of it. But I should be sorry to have to spend a night there.”

“The parson at Thorlund swears it isn’t haunted,” said Conway eagerly. “I just looked in last night for a few minutes. It did make me feel a bit queer to see all the eighteenth century fixings which haven’t been touched for the Lord knows how long. The old garden by itself is enough to make a fellow imagine all sorts of things.”

“Your poor uncle was not strangled,” said Mr. Price, breaking into the conversation with a note of strong conviction. “That was only doctor’s evidence to give the jury a chance. I shall always maintain that Mr. Reed was killed by fright.”

“I do not believe that fright has ever killed a man,” objected Flora.

“Nonsense, child. What do you know about fear?” said the vicar sharply. “At your time of life you ought to be asking questions, instead of arguing with your betters. If the Strath were mine down it would come,” he went on, turning to Conway. “Of course it is haunted. You remember, Flora, my farmhouse and its spook of an old dame in a poke bonnet? Well, I had the place down, and out went the lady. You can’t strike a bargain with unrepentant souls. You must employ drastic measures, and the only way of getting rid of a spiritual nuisance is by using fresh bricks and mortar.”

Now that Mr. Price was mounted upon his hobby he talked freely, and the young people were compelled to remain tongue-tied until the vicarage was reached. There tea awaited them, a meal which Mr. Price took seriously, and when he was satisfied Flora asked Conway if he would care to see the garden. The townsman rose at once and accompanied the tall girl along the grass paths, above the valley and the stream winding in the distance, while the vicar uprooted plantains from his lawn, with an old table-knife. It was all delightfully old-world and simple. The profligate felt the charm of the soft evening and began to understand the pleasures of country life, as Flora, bare-headed and handsome, talked freely upon his limited subjects and laughed at his somewhat vulgar jokes. It was the sound of this laughter which caused Mr. Price to straighten himself and remember that he was the guardian of his fatherless niece, and that his guest might be able to claim some distant sort of relationship with his head-carter.

“Uncle,” said Flora, who always insisted upon managing the affairs of the house during her stay, as the old gentleman approached them. “Mr. Conway will stop and have supper with us.”

“I really think I ought to go back,” the young man said, conscious that it would not be wise to outstay his welcome.

“What, back to your Load of Mischief? No, you must follow the custom of the country. We will feed you and send you off to Thorlund by a poetic moonlight. Uncle, do go and wash your hands. They look as if you had been making dirt pies.”

“A man has no need to be ashamed of soiled hands,” said Mr. Price somewhat sharply, because he resented any allusion to his peculiarities. “I shall be pleased if you will share our evening meal, Mr. Conway,” he added, turning to the young man. Directly he had spoken he went to his threadbare knees and expelled a huge dandelion from a bed of larkspurs.

“Mr. Conway wants us to go over to Thorlund to-morrow,” Flora went on. “You will take me, won’t you, uncle? I am longing to see the Strath, and he has promised to give us tea.”

“I am not at all sure whether I shall be able to come,” said Mr. Price, approaching Conway, with the dinner-knife in one hand, and the bushy dandelion in the other. “I don’t like leaving Kingsmore while these fair people are about. They are an ungenerous lot, and sometimes repay my kindness by appropriating my chickens. But we will come if I can get away,” he added, because he too was burning with curiosity to see the interior of the house concerning which he had heard so many strange tales.

So Conway stopped to supper, and Flora played hostess; while Mr. Price, his simple face shining from a generous use of soap and hot water, thawed out under the benign influence of a glass of port, and told all his anecdotes for his guest’s benefit, studiously avoiding any reference to the Strath or to the Reed family, until his niece rose and left them. Then he pushed the decanter across the table, and from a dissertation upon the iniquitous corn-laws passed at a bound to the subject of oral tradition, and furtively inquired of his guest whether there were to his knowledge any letters or memoirs appertaining to Sir John Hooper in existence at the Strath. Seeing blank astonishment on Conway’s face he went on to explain his question, by dealing with the known history of the defunct baronet.

“Never heard of the chap,” declared Conway, assisting himself to wine.

“You may possibly find in your house some of those materials which help us to a knowledge of history,” went on the old squire, who was by this time in his most genial mood. “Sir John had a daughter, an only child, who, it is reputed, was very beautiful, and he treated her, ’tis said, with great cruelty. A tradition exists in my family that on a certain winter’s night the girl was discovered crying among the elms in this garden. My ancestor had remarked upon the noise made, as he supposed, by the owls, until a friend declared that the sound was made by human voice. They went out and searching in the snow found the girl. She was huddled against a great dog, and her eyes were fixed with fear. They carried her to the fire, but directly she found her strength she was gone. They say she had a lover, and that her father killed him on the highway.”

“When did this happen?” Conway asked, reaching again for the decanter.

“About the time that Wolfe was chasing Montcalm out of Quebec. Hooper was hanged upon what is still known as Deadman’s Hill. Any villager will point out the spot to you. But I want to know what happened to that poor girl. Tradition in this village suggests that she was often to be seen, walking at night with the dog, always crying, and always dressed in white like a bride. It was considered bad luck to meet, or even to see her, just as it is thought unlucky nowadays to break a mirror or spill the salt.”

“Is she supposed to haunt the Strath?” inquired the owner with more interest.

Mr. Price shook his head in a puzzled fashion, and bent low over the table.

“Your rector, who knows the place better than any man living, declares there is neither figure to be seen, nor sound to be heard, either in house or garden,” he said, fingering the ends of his white tie excitedly. “And I must own that village opinion bears him out to the letter. Now as regards my farm-house, which was undoubtedly possessed--I saw the queer old Georgian woman myself, standing by a hay-rick, one raw winter afternoon--not a labourer would go near the place, and the stories I heard of red and green lights flashing across the windows, groans, and gnashing of teeth, though the poor old dame, I would swear, hadn’t a stump left in her head, made me sympathise with the psalmist who declared, ‘all men are liars.’ Try the Strath for a few days, Mr. Conway. Don’t mistake me. I wouldn’t live there myself. I’m a churchman, but I have a horror of the unseen world. Is that decanter empty? There is another upon the sideboard. Yes, give the Strath a fair test. It has always been a place of mystery, but latterly seems to have broken out, if I may so use the expression. Enter into the mood of the influence and it will treat you well, Berry would say. Only don’t let him get too strong a hold upon you, or he will whisk you back into an atmosphere of prehistoric days.”

Nearly an hour later Flora, weary of her own society and nettled at being isolated, came glimmering round the house in her white dress, and played spy at the dining-room window. She saw the two squires, the old aristocrat and the young plebeian, leaning across the table, slopping wine amicably into each other’s glass, the one talking perpetually, the other laughing in approbation. She heard her uncle announce that his father had died of gout, the blame being on the speaker’s great-grandfather; and she also heard his companion’s assertion that Mr. Price might therefore consider himself insured against the malady. Then she shivered a little at the grotesqueness of the scene, entered the house through the conservatory, and passing into the dining-room broke up the conversation by taking Conway out into the garden.

“If you decide to live in the country,” she told him severely, “you will have to abandon your London habits. Uncle is an old man,” she added reprovingly. “And it is wrong of you to excite him into forgetting himself.”

Conway became penitent and apologetic. “A fellow living alone in diggings hasn’t much chance of doing himself any good, Miss Neill,” he said in deep humility. “It’s too lonely of an evening to stay in, and the means of enjoying yourself are made so jolly convenient. I’m ashamed of myself--I am really, but your old uncle is such a jolly good sort. And, you see, I’m not a clever chap, Miss Neill,” he rambled on. “I haven’t got much learning, and I can’t stand books. I don’t know Shakspere from Robinson Crusoe. Don’t laugh at me, Miss Neill. I can’t help being a silly jackass. Perhaps I had better be going now. But you will come over to-morrow? Do come and see my house.”

Flora was about to deliver one of her plain-spoken remarks, when she was interrupted by a loud summons from the dining-room. Leaving the guest she slipped back into the house, and discovered her uncle, sitting erect and preternaturally stern, beside his hospitable table, which had been influenced that night by some subtle nerve of consciousness deflected from the Strath.

“Flora,” he cried indignantly. “The man’s no gentleman. I forbid you to contaminate yourself by speaking to him. He has drunk more than is good for him. And so have I.”

“I fancy you once told me your great-grandfather never went to bed sober,” said the girl.

“Customs were different then,” snapped the squire. “Send Mr. Reed away, and remember please, he is related to my head-carter.”

“If you mean Mr. Conway he is just going. Had you not better come into the drawing-room? The housemaid will be here presently.”

“I shall remain here until to-morrow morning, if necessary,” said the squire solemnly. “Supper has not agreed with me to-night. The soup was a failure.”

“If my mother could see you, she would take hold of your poor old shoulders and shake you,” cried Flora; and with that she ran out and rejoined the squire of Thorlund, who was standing near the gate, gazing penitently at the solemn stars.

“Miss Neill,” he said tremulously. “There’s nothing like the country. I was ill when I came here, but already, thanks to the beautiful fresh air, I feel a different man. I am going to walk back to Thorlund in this wonderful moonlight, and I shall admire nature all the way.”

After an earnest appeal to Flora “not to forget to-morrow,” the guest started off along the shining road. From a distance came up the mellowed noises of the fair, and the glow of naptha lamps became reflected against the rolling clouds.

Flora stood, smiling a little, in the shadow, flicking away the gnats from her forehead.

“That is one of the weakest men I have ever met,” she said to a moth which hovered for a moment before her. “It would be amusing, and quite easy, to treat him in this fashion.”

She wound her handkerchief tightly round her little finger, and turned with the action towards the house.

Scene II.--MYSTERY

Is it possible then that the soul--which is invisible and proceeding to another place… when it is separated from the body--is at once dissipated and utterly annihilated, as many men say? It is impossible to think so.--_Plato_.

When Conway reached the exposed road, leaving Kingsmore behind, a cool wind sprang up redolent of pines. To feel it the better he took off his hat and leaned against a moss-clad milestone. The unwonted exercise of walking along country roads tired him quickly. He watched the moonbeams playing across the ridges of short grass, and flinging shadows into the ghastly chalk-pits, until the solitude awed him. He found himself in a vastly different world from the noisy town which had surrounded him throughout his life. And yet he found himself longing for the grapes and pomegranites of his Egypt. He was incapable of feeling any true admiration for the splendid silence of the hills. The novelty of the experiment was still upon him; but the artistic temperament was not, and never had been, his.

Across the brow of the chalk a thin thread of road cut the highway at right angles, and here a spectral sign-post pointed with three arms; the fourth had been removed by storm, and its remainder was a sharp finger-like splinter. Reaching this point Conway crossed the patch of grass to make a short cut; but in passing the post his foot struck an obstacle, which proved to be the amputated arm. In idle curiosity he lifted the rotten board, and holding it in the moonlight made out the barely legible inscription, “Queensmore. 1 Mile.”

There was nothing to be seen in the direction pointed at by the splinter, except ragged bushes and white stones, beside a weedy road which descended in graceful curves from the summit and disappeared far down in a clump of larches. There was no indication of a village down beyond; not a voice proceeded from the valley, nor tinkle of sheep-bell, nor snort of cow or horse at pasture. A barn owl slid across the firs and shrieked at the enemy; and silence settled down again.

Presently there sounded a rattle of wheels, a stamp of iron shoes; a stream of lamplight followed; and then a box-shaped cart topped the ridge, and came noisily to the rectangular section of the roads, the horse backing as he felt the decline.

“Like a lift, sir?” inquired a hoarse voice, proceeding from a muffled figure perched high between two goggle lamps.

Conway recognised the mail-cart making its journey towards the distant railway. Glad of the invitation he reached the flat roof, with the driver’s assistance, settled himself upon a bag of newspapers, and, clinging to the iron rail, closed his eyes when the horse was given his head, because it appeared that any moment he might be hurled forward into space. The driver began to chat, and when his head had ceased revolving Conway found himself able to listen.

“I ain’t allowed to take anyone up,” the man explained. “And I ain’t supposed to smoke neither, which is what I call a bit of stupid tyranny. But ’tis lonesome driving along these roads night after night. Would you mind leaning over a bit, and holding the reins, while I strike a light? Are you a stranger in these parts, sir?”

Conway replied, without revealing his identity, and as the cart jolted on he asked the driver to point out the site of Queensmore and the position of Deadman’s Hill. The man immediately swung round, and extended his whip in the direction of the rapidly receding clump of larches.

“Deep down in yonder valley,” he replied. “You ain’t got property there, I hope, sir?”

“I have not,” Conway answered.

“Queensmore is deserted and broke up. A very old village, they tell me, sir, built by these Saxons, and full of their remains, leastways the ground is. Go over and have a look at the place, if so be you can spare the time. It lies just at the foot of Deadman’s Hill. That there is the hill, sir. A bit further back you can see the post which marks where the gallows stood. They do say it ain’t healthy to be along these ways by night; but I’ve crossed this here country for years in all weathers, at Midsummer, Hallow’s E’en, and Christmas, and I’ve seen naught, but only owls and bats and glowworms. Folks let a fancy get into their heads, and keep it there, and let it grow, until they come to believe it’s true.”

“How many people live at Queensmore now?” Conway asked.

“Not one. The last inhabitant--an old man, name of Jabez Tooke--died there five years ago. He wouldn’t leave the place, and having a bit of money of his own he lived there by himself till he was ninety, and then he had to go whether he wanted to or not. They buried him in the old churchyard, and there’s a stone over his grave, saying something this way, ‘Here lies Jabez Tooke, the last resident in Queensmore, who wouldn’t be taken from his native village till death took him.’ Kind of joke on his name, you see, sir. Parson Price was angry when that stone was put up, they tell me. But it don’t matter now. Queensmore has had its day, and now the owls have it to themselves. The wind is pulling it down bit by bit.”

“What made the people leave it?” the townsman asked.

“Well ’tis a bad country for agriculture hereabouts, and when year after year the sheep did no good the farmers began to get out of it. Then, of course, the labourers had to move on, and after that the parish was joined on to Kingsmore, and that was the end of it. It wasn’t ever what you would call healthy down yonder. Too much stagnant water, and they couldn’t afford to drain. Flowers did well, but there’s no money in them. All the village must be just blowing with roses now, sir, and any one as wants can help themselves. But ’tis a sad kind of place, with its tumbling cottages, and ruined church, and nobody seems to care to go near it.”

The driver chatted on, glad of the opportunity to use his tongue, until the mail-cart approached Thorlund, and the great elms which surrounded the Strath could be seen against the sky.

“I don’t carry no weapons,” he said, in response to Conway’s question regarding the dangers of the road. “I wouldn’t know how to handle a pistol--shoot the old horse as likely as not. There ain’t any real danger on the road nowadays. I was held up once, when ’twas thought I was carrying valuables, and I gave my gentleman strong medicine with this here whip. I’m tidy useful with a whip, and when a man gets a clean cut across the eyes he’s had enough. Never got a word of thanks for saving the mail, but if I was seen carrying a gentleman I would be sure of the sack. I mustn’t do less than my duty, sir, but as much over as I like. It’s a hard life, because there’s more foul weather than fair, and never a word of encouragement if I bring in the cart up to time all the year round. Yonder is Thorlund, and the Strath. Now that’s an awful mysterious sort of place, if you like, sir, and it’s a very queer affair about this Mr. Henry Reed.”

“If you don’t mind stopping here, I will get down,” said Conway, when he discovered that the cart was turning away from the valley. “I am going to Thorlund.”

“Are you though?” exclaimed the driver, with a sudden direct interest in his passenger. “Mind that step, sir. It’s dangerous when you don’t know it. Well there, I’ve been real glad to have your company, and I didn’t ought to take anything, but thank you very much all the same, and good-night to you, sir.”

It was not until the ancient yews of the churchyard appeared before him that Conway perceived he had somewhere made a wrong turn. He saw ahead a grey wall partly covered with ivy, and in his pocket he felt a key which would open the hidden door in that wall. A light streamed across the graves; a window beyond was open, and coming near he saw Dr. Berry seated at his table, and when he stopped there came upon the night the scholar’s rich voice chanting a Greek lyric. It was an unknown tongue to the listener, but he was nevertheless fascinated; and as he stood, listening, a strange power fell upon him, his mind succumbed at once, and his feet passed the dark mound which marked the resting-place of his uncle’s body, and entered the shadow. He fitted the key into the lock, turned it, and the door opened at a touch.

For an instant he held back. The wonderful garden spread away before him bathed in moonlight. Then he laughed with a sense of new-found happiness, and moved forward, drawn on by invisible bonds; and the door closed into the wall with a gentle vibration; and a hundred unknown energies made music in his brain. The house called to its new servant, and he went to it; and the guest’s bedroom in the Load of Mischief remained unoccupied that night.

As the Aeolian harp is thrilled by every passing breath of wind, so the consciousness of Dr. Berry responded to every change in the influence of the Strath. He had not perceived the figure of Conway passing before the window, neither had he heard the opening nor the closing of that door in the crumbling wall; and yet he knew a material being had entered the garden, and he felt more strongly than he had ever done a power controlling his human organism, prompting him to take pencil and paper, and write--he knew not what.

The influence of the Strath was again strongly aroused. Since Reed’s tragical fate the old house had remained quiescent. It appeared to have exhausted its power for the time. And now in one moment the scholar’s tongue was silenced as he recited the complaint of Euphron, “God, as thou hast given us only a short life, why dost thou not allow us to pass it without sorrow?” and a cold breath went through the room, and his body began to pass into ecstacy; and he knew by all this that the power had returned, and that it was kindly and wished him well.

The impulse to write became overwhelming. Scarcely knowing what he did, the scholar took a pencil, and immediately the hand supporting it was guided towards a sheet of paper and there reposed with violent twitchings. The upper part of his body turned shudderingly away from the right arm, and settled, a mass of semi-conscious matter, across the high support afforded by the side of his chair; but the arm, and especially the hand which clutched the pencil, were impatient, active, and mobile.

“What is this?” he moaned; for he could feel that his body was in pain, and there was in his mouth a taste exceeding bitter, as though he had swallowed hemlock.

And immediately his unconscious hand moved fiercely and rapidly across the paper, tracing out in ancient Greek the explanation:--

“We cannot command the elements, or would have come near before. Now you shall recognise our power. Give praise to the Supreme, for the permission afforded of proving to you the truth of the endlessness of life.

“We will answer the questions you have written down, though we work with difficulty, being compelled by the immutable law of Nature to communicate through your brain and your mind, feeling again, as we return to earth-state, the pains of our dissolution. The conditions are exceptional to-night. We have awaited such an opportunity for long. But being yourself in the body you will desire some proof of the presence of an objective mind. When you awaken go forth into your garden. Seven white lilies stand in a line beside the gate. The blooms upon the fourth we will remove as we pass from hence, leaving the green stalk bare. We will also read from a book and impress you of a word. Walk, when you are able, across the room, and your hand shall seek out a book, which, as you hold it, shall open at the one hundred and ninetieth page. The last word upon that page is ΚΑΣΣΙΤΕΡΟΙΟ. It is enough. Thus you shall learn our power over matter.

“What is the meaning, you have asked, of this influence at the Strath? You have doubted whether this power could arise from the actions of certain earth-bound spirits. Also you have desired to know how it is that after years of quiescence the spirit of the house, as you have called it, should have become in so short a time thus mightily aroused. We answer you concerning these things. Those spirits, who, because of their grossness, are imprisoned near the earth, are ever struggling to make their presence felt. As the sea-bird flutters towards the light of some lofty tower, so do these discarnate beings struggle towards that incarnate mind, or towards those material objects, through whom, or by which, they may exert their will and proclaim their identity. Some of these spirits are harmless, but many are dangerous and all are undeveloped. There are in the Strath certain material objects by means of which these spirits are allowed great power upon the affairs of mortals who approach the place. You cannot understand, nor may we explain to you further, how this should be. Only beware, for there is peril in seeking out this knowledge, and the body endures not easily nor for long. You know not how the spirit may work, even through a ring, or a lock of hair, or may seek to impress its nearness through the bird or the flower. We say again, beware, for the spirits of the earth-bound, they who in the flesh have done murder, or violence to themselves, or have succumbed to the bodily appetite, are jealous of the happiness of those who have led the spiritual life in your condition. They shall retard your upward progress if they may.

“And now we answer concerning the present great activity of those who control the ancient house. It is your desire to seek into hidden causes which has made it possible for such energies to arise. That power will not be maintained, but while it continues we have fear for you, knowing the frailty of the incarnate mind. These undeveloped spirits have at length become skilled in managing the elements. It is necessary that a certain combination of circumstances should be formed, before such manifestations of spiritual power be possible, and because such a combination is rare you do not often find upon your sphere that influence, as you call it, which is now filling your mind with perplexing doubts. It is possible that the combination, which now exists, may not be made again. We would speak upon other matters, but your brain is unable to express those greater truths, and your mind is incapable of receiving them. Be satisfied now, and rest. You have very much to learn.”

The inert body of the scholar stirred slightly and he groaned deeply in his trance. But, before he could awaken, his vitalised right arm, acting so strongly at variance with the remainder of his system, swept again across the paper, and his hand settled, and his fingers went on to write:

“A spirit lately arrived desires to communicate, and we are commanded to permit him. He will use our power to write in his own language, and will then depart from you, having given the evidence that is required.”

There the sprawling Greek letters ceased, and the pencil went on to write in English, forming in illiterate unshaped handwriting the brief and blasphemous message:

“Damn you, Professor. You were right.”

Some minutes passed before Dr. Berry came to himself and was able to comprehend what the intelligence had wrought through his undiscerning brain. It was close upon midnight before the message was deciphered; for despite his scholarship and skill in reading manuscripts, there were words and symbols in that script which were new to him. The communication was written in Attic Greek by an intelligence which exhibited a perfect command over the finer tones of that perfect language. No living scholar could have penned those lines, and possibly few modern Greeks could have translated them into their own decadent tongue.

Slowly and painfully, for his body was racked and weary, Dr. Berry approached his bookcase, and immediately his arm was raised and his hand guided towards a work near the end of the top shelf, a book bound in drab boards, entitled, “Theatre of the Greeks.” That work was one of a parcel which had come to him during the previous year and so far had not been opened. The boards fell apart, but not the pages which he required, and on bending to discover the cause he found that the leaves had not been cut. Opening the page quickly with a paper-knife, his eye sought the concluding word upon page 190. It was ΚΑΣΣΙΤΕΡΟΙΟ.

Lighting a candle, the scholar walked out into the garden and the still dark night, until he came to a flower-bed, beside the gate which opened upon the graveyard. Six tall Madonna lilies lifted their heads of white bloom before the fence where at sunset seven had stood. Approaching, the scholar raised the candle above his head, and before a moth blundered against the wick and extinguished the flame, he perceived that the central lily, the fourth from whichever side the plants were counted, stood a bare green stalk, denuded of its blooms.

Scene III.--MUSICAL COMEDY

Light quirks of music, broken and uneven.--_Pope_.

When Flora awoke she discovered a pink envelope addressed in Maude’s careless caligraphy, lying beside her morning cup of tea. She hurried over her toilet, made her way into the garden; and seating herself luxuriously in an easy chair beneath an arch of honeysuckle, read and laughed over the selfish sentences inscribed upon two sheets of perfumed paper.

The little lady was very miserable. London was dusty and desolate. She had read the new books, seen the new pictures, and heard the new plays; she had done everything and enjoyed nothing, because she was losing all her prettiness. Lately no one had admired her, at least no one had told her so, and it was because she was growing old. She felt perfectly convinced she would never attract anybody again. What would happen to her if she became a widow she dared not contemplate. As for Herbert, he was always in the city, which was of course the proper place for him, but he was bad-tempered when he did come home, and always declaring money was dreadfully scarce, which she didn’t believe, but he had always been fearfully stingy. And he declared he would not take her into the country, so she had made up her mind to go away by herself, before her health was completely wrecked. And if Flora was staying for any time at Kingsmore, would she look out for a furnished cottage, upon rather high ground, but not in an exposed spot, well away from standing water, with a nice garden, which could be guaranteed free from toads and owls, with plenty of lavender bushes, and green blinds to all the windows, but not Venetians, which always broke directly they were touched…

Then a bell jangled in the house, and Flora rose at once, because she desired to find her uncle in a good humour; and she knew nothing upset the old gentleman more than being kept waiting for his breakfast.

Because it had been the custom of his ancestors, and Mr. Price was an ardent conservative, a service was held for the labourers early every morning in one of the barns. The squire had not only accomplished this duty, but had ridden round the farm and signed the death-warrant of several pigs, before entering the dining-room where his niece immediately joined him. The old gentleman kissed the girl on both cheeks, according to custom, and plunged into discursive talk which had nothing to do with the guest of the previous night, or the empty decanters upon the sideboard; while Flora, so soon as she was allowed the opportunity, told him of Mrs. Juxon’s requirements, and read such extracts from the letter as were fit for publication.

“Bless my soul,” exclaimed the squire, as he dropped a drumstick of cold chicken noisily into his plate. “What more will the woman ask for? Why does she not say at once that she intends to have the entire scheme of nature altered to suit her convenience, and engage angels for landscape gardeners. Lavender bushes and green blinds! I hope she may get them.”

After sundry remarks on Flora’s part Mr. Price stumbled into his niece’s snare, and suggested that she should take the light cart and drive round the neighbourhood, with a view to finding a cottage sufficiently idyllic to suit the spoilt beauty. When this matter had been settled, Flora placed her elbows on the table, rested her chin upon her hands, and introduced a fresh topic with the statement, “I have been thinking, uncle.”

“Have you, my dear?” the squire replied, adding with a chuckle, “You look none the worse for it.”

“I think mother would be willing to let our house this year,” Flora went on. “We have heaps of applications, on account of the river. And then she could come here, and keep house for you all the summer.”

“Before agreeing, I shall require an undertaking that my liberty is not to be interfered with,” answered the squire, who was in very good spirits that morning, despite the excesses of the previous night. As a matter of fact Flora’s suggestion was entirely after his heart, and had been made by himself without success in former years. “You know, child, I will never consent to have my study tidied,” he went on, “and the privilege of the latchkey I must retain. Your dear mother has a weakness for what she calls order, therefore, before admitting her into this house, I shall require a signed agreement granting me full licence to continue in my untidy ways.”

“Oh, you shall have all your old privileges,” said Flora. “I will write to mother at once, and then go cottage-hunting for Maude. Remember,” she added carelessly, as she rose to go, “we are due at Thorlund this afternoon.”

Flora had her way. At half-past-four the Kingsmore carriage entered the valley of Thorlund, bringing the vicar and his niece to visit the Strath. The old gentleman wore his best coat, which had left the tailor’s hands not more than five years back. He had also put on a fresh white tie, which was already showing finger-marks, and had brought out his dusty silk hat, the wearing of which when visiting a neighbouring squire being a point of etiquette upon which he was particular. During the journey across the four miles of chalk hills he talked sheep and turnips, and was continually putting his head out of the window, to examine the state of the road, or to shout a simple joke for the appreciation of some passing son of toil.

As the coachman was unwilling to venture with the carriage through the high grass, which completely obliterated what had been the drive, the visitors alighted at the iron gates, and made their way along a faintly defined path to the house. The front door stood open, but there was no sign of any occupant, and their attempts to ring were frustrated by the corroded bell-knob, which remained immovable. Mr. Price shouted and stamped, and, when no one put in an appearance, stepped into the hall. He was the first squire of Kingsmore to enter the Strath since the beginning of the period styled by historians modern England. At the opposite side of the hall a huge fireplace yawned blackly, its iron dogs red with rust. Some old tables, stiff-back chairs, and sofas of tapestry, with a couple of tarnished sconces holding blackened candles, and a curious clock its dial made of white flowered glass, were the principal articles of furniture. The hall was paved with stone. Above, a rectangular wooden balustrade, sadly in need of repair, went round the building, and a few sombre pictures could be seen against the damp stained walls of the first floor. The frames were as black as dead walnut-leaves.

“It will cost the young man a great deal to restore the place,” Mr. Price whispered.

“But where is he?” returned Flora. “I wonder if he is in here.”

She led the way boldly into the drawing-room or saloon, the walls of which were hung with tattered crimson velvet. This room had been cleaned by the late owner with a good deal of care, until traces of what must formerly have been a richly gilded cornice had become here and there apparent. The extinct Hoopers had furnished their home well. There were tables and chairs made of mahogany, a new and expensive wood in the eighteenth century. Cabinets filled with old china occupied the corners, and grotesque footstools with sprawling legs of acanthus pattern were placed before each chair. Mirrors were greatly in evidence, all handsomely framed, the majority bearing sconces which still contained black sticks of wax. Upon a walnut sideboard a massive candelabrum threw out seven silver arms. Above the fireplace were arranged several bizarre ornaments of Indian make, intermingled with porcelain vases painted with gross designs after Giulio Romano. The pictures, which had evidently been lately rehung after having fallen from their original positions, were numerous, but of little artistic worth. The subjects were generally unpleasant, or suggestive; such as Actaeon watching Diana, the loves of Jupiter and Leda, of Venus and Adonis, of Aaron and Tamora, with coloured copies of Hogarth’s Marriage _à la mode_. Upon a Louis Quinze table a fan was sprawling, the scenes of The Harlot’s Progress painted upon its mounts, and beside it a box containing patches. The escutcheon of the Hoopers, set into the central window, cast a bar of colour across the rotten carpet. The squire gazed upon his surroundings without any sense of amazement, but with a distinct fascination, until he discovered himself putting up a hand to adjust the periwig which was not there. Both uncle and niece had altogether forgotten their absent host.

“It seems to be getting rather dark,” the girl said tremulously.

“The sun has gone behind the trees, and the creepers are thick against the window,” replied the squire with extraordinary light-heartedness. “Look here, Flora! A French horn, such as is used upon our coaches. And here a bent sword, twisted I doubt not by our host when in town while defending himself against the Mohawks, and here one of the furred caps which we old men wear while our wigs are with the barber. And now let me hear you draw some music out of this beautiful harpsichord.”

The girl laughed, waking echoes in that strange place, and saying lightly, “I will endeavour, my respected relative, to give you the gratification which you desire,” drew up a chair, and sat down before the impossible instrument.

“By God! what a place for a dance,” cried the reverend squire, cutting a fantastic caper, then bounding after his hat as it rolled across the room. “Look at these boards, where they show through the carpet. All of oak, a foot and more in width, somewhat worm-eaten, but none the worse for that.” Holding out his coattails, the old gentleman bowed gravely to his niece, and commenced to dance round her.

There came a sound of heels clicking upon the stones of the hall, followed by a rich voice:

“Bravo! bravissimo! That step was worthy of a dancing-master. If I had but a fiddle I would play you a measure which should set you skipping.”

A handsome man strolled into the saloon, an open snuff-box between his finger and thumb, attired in laced coat and embroidered waistcoat, silk knee-breeches and stockings, silver-buckled highlows, and a big white wig. A quantity of lace surrounded his throat, and his smiling face was highly powdered and his chin patched.

“Why, Sir John! my dear Sir John!” exclaimed Mr. Price, ceasing from his gambols, and bowing to the new-comer with his toes turned out in most approved style. “This is a very extraordinary and unexpected pleasure, I do assure you, good Sir John.”

“Nay, but you are mistaken,” came the answer, as the speaker bowed low to the lady at the harpsichord. “The humble personage before you is merely the poor parson of Thorlund parish.”

At that the squire of Kingsmore went very red and awkward; and finally blurted out the remarkable statement:

“I am totally at a loss to explain why we are here in these preposterous garments. Flora, my dear, what could your tiring-woman have been thinking of, to send you out with not an atom of powder to your head, nor a patch to your face. And I believe we are expected to drink a dish of tea. Where is our host that I may apologize in a suitable manner?”

“He has been for some hours in a state of drowsiness,” Dr. Berry explained, with a careless wave of the snuff-box. “I am unable to understand what has come over him. He is dressed ready to receive you, but I cannot keep him awake. I will, however, inform him that you have arrived. As for your clothes that is a matter which can be easily attended to. There are, in the rooms upstairs, presses filled with apparel for both sexes, secure against dust and moth.”

“Pray show me the way,” said the squire with old-fashioned urbanity. “My charming niece, shall we accompany the learned doctor and make ourselves presentable?”

The strange characters passed out, making for the stairway and the unexplored regions above. For them the clock of time had been set back, or rather the hands were continuing to move at the point where their progress had been arrested more than a century back. The drama had been suddenly broken into during the eighteenth century; and now that figures had come again upon the scene the drama went on, as though there had been no interval, and those who were present had to take their cue, and assume the parts of those men and women, Hoopers or Branscombes, long since driven off that stage.

After a short interval of silence a sound of singing filled the long saloon. The vocalist was Dr. Berry, who was drawing an accompaniment of broken music from the harpsichord, while Conway lolled sleepily upon a sofa, costumed as a _beau_ of a past age. To them entered a lady and an old man, the latter exceedingly quaint and undignified, the former tall and handsome; both attired after the best manner of the time in which they dimly believed they were drawing breath and inspiration.

“It is certainly growing very dark,” said the squire of Kingsmore, as he advanced with mincing step into the saloon. “And it is still early in the evening.”

“The clouds are coming up thickly,” replied the musician. “The windows are also obscured by ivy, and trees surround this peaceful retreat upon every side. Our host continues to be drowsy,” he went on, pointing to the sofa and its silk-clad occupant; and having spoken he crossed over, shook the sleeper gently by the shoulder, and called, “Wake, my friend, here are your guests.”

Conway opened his eyes. His face was perfectly pallid, but there were lines of laughter drawn about his mouth which gave him a curious resemblance to the mask of comedy, hanging in the room across the hall. He rose slowly, and with perfect breeding, altogether unlike his usual manner, bowed silently to his guests. Then he seated himself again, and became aesthetically engrossed upon a painted vase.

Flora came forward, and asked, “Are you tired, Mr. Conway?”

“I have still a sleepy humour upon me,” the owner of the Strath replied, passing as he spoke a hand across his forehead.

Dr. Berry was posing before one of the mirrors.

“Shall we play?” Conway suggested, stretching out his arms and smiling vacantly.

“By all means let us play,” assented the old squire, admitting into his nostrils a pinch of dust which had no doubt been choice _rappee_ a hundred years before.

A small sane voice whispered to these mummers that they were playing at folly, just as the drunkard may be conscious that he is making a deplorable exhibition of human frailty, although the knowledge in no way aids him to act like a sober being. They set out a table, old-fashioned cards and markers were produced; and they commenced to play. The silence of the house was only disturbed by a faint moaning of wind in the chimneys.

“Gott in Himmel! as our gracious king would say. I am scarce able to read my cards,” cried Mr. Price, after they had played the first hand.

“It is growing damnably dark,” muttered Conway, not ashamed to swear before the lady because such was the custom of the time. “Set a light to the candles, doctor. There is a tinder-box upon the mantel. The king,” he muttered, turning to Mr. Price, the sane intellect struggling to assert itself. “Who is our king?”

There was a perplexed interval, occupied by a mental conflict between enlightenment and possession, before Mr. Price replied somewhat testily, “Why, George the Second. Though ’tis said he has not long to live. God save our Augustus!”

“Truly the spirit of comedy prevails this evening,” observed the sober voice of the doctor, who was lighting the ancient candles with a modern wax vesta.

“Ha!” exclaimed the old squire, picking at the yellow ruffles upon his wrist. “What is that, doctor? Comedy! Why, to be sure, let us laugh and sing. Where are the servants? Let us have a bowl of punch and a few long pipes.”

He stumbled in his big shoes towards the bell-rope, tugged it, and the cord came away in his hand.

“I have no servants,” said Conway meditatively. “But there is wine in the house. I will bring you some.”

He left the saloon, and they could hear him laughing across the hall. Dr. Berry went on lighting the old candles in the sconces, in the ormolu chandelier, and the candelabrum, until the saloon began to glitter. He closed the decayed shutters and drew the torn folds of the crimson curtains, singing a ballad as he worked. The light revealed a painted ceiling, in the centre of which appeared a nymph entwining the stem of an apple-tree with garlands of flowers.

“A forest of lights!” cried Mr. Price, standing before the chimney-glass and lifting his hands in rapture. “The view of this handsome apartment regarded thus is indeed exquisite. The lights dazzle and shine from one mirror to another in an endless vista. Ha! here comes our wine. What elegant glasses, my dear Sir! What a superb piece of workmanship is this salver!”

They drank, to the health of their dying king, to George William Frederick, Prince of Wales, to a lord admiral, and a great duke, all of whom had left the body many generations back. They drank confusion to the French and prosperity to their country. Then the scholar took Flora by the hand, and leading her out into the centre of the saloon danced with her a minuet.

The prosaic figure of a coachman appeared startlingly at the entrance. Having failed to make himself heard, and finding the front door open, he had taken the liberty to enter, and now stood struggling with amazement and some little fear, and yet without finding anything of an incongruous nature in the scene before him.

“Beg pardon, sir,” he said, addressing the capering little gentleman whom he recognised as his master. “Do you want the horses to stand, sir, or shall I put them up at the Inn?”

Another wave of sanity passed across Mr. Price’s brain. He understood that it was his duty to leave that present company and go into an altogether mysterious world. With many apologies, and much snuff-taking, he approached the master of the house to take his leave.

“I shall see you at Almack’s or White’s, when we are next in town,” he said after a final warm good-night, glibly repeating the words that were forced upon his tongue, although feeling them to be absurd.

There was still daylight upon the village. A couple of labourers, their day’s work done, had proceeded towards the iron gates, attracted by the Kingsmore carriage, and had been summoned by the coachman to hold the horses while he went in search of his master. These men stood craning their necks towards the garden, until they saw in the twilight two figures approaching; an old gentleman in a monstrous periwig, handsomely embroidered sack coat, flowing waistcoat, and gleaming silk stockings, assisting the progress of a young and beautiful lady, with protruding panier and powdered head, a fan swinging from her wrist, and a soiled Pamela hat upon her whitened hair.

ENTR’ACTE

An avowal of poverty is a disgrace to no man; but to make no effort to escape from it is certainly disgraceful.--_Thucydides_.

A fortnight had passed since Conway’s departure from his rooms in town, and still the profligate gave no sign of his existence. Every morning, when the postman’s knock sounded along the street, a weary man crept down a dirty flight of stairs from his attic, praying for a letter which might cheer his heart, but finding none. After a meagre breakfast he would venture out to another house, to inquire if there was anything for Mr. Drayton. The answer was always in the negative.

The hack-writer had been compelled to abandon Conway’s rooms, not so much because the place was being subjected to a thorough cleansing, as owing to the fact that the rent was overdue, and the attentions of the agent had become pressing. Drayton had written several letters to his patron, acquainting him with this fact. As these letters were not returned, he concluded they had been received, and yet nothing came from the distant country to prove that Conway was alive. This continued silence was becoming a serious matter for Drayton, who at that time was in a desperate state of poverty. Younger men were jostling him out of the ranks of an overcrowded profession, his one suit of clothes was more than threadbare, and his health had begun to fail for want of sufficient food. He knew that Conway hated country life, and would never separate himself from the pleasures of town unless compelled to do so. Concluding that the missing man was ill, or had met with an accident, Drayton resolved to go down into the country and find his way to the Strath.

This determination came on a morning when he found himself absolutely penniless.

Leaving the wretched lodging-house, he passed into the street where the sun was showering golden favours upon rich and poor alike, let himself into Conway’s rooms by means of the key which had been left with him, and searching in a cupboard found to his delight a tin of biscuits and some apples. Having breakfasted, he passed into the bedroom and exploited his patron’s wardrobe, remarking as a justification for the act he contemplated, “Conway has always been good-natured, and I don’t think he will mind. Anyhow I will play boldly and take the risk.”

The impecunious writer believed in being thorough in his methods. Having come to a decision, he discarded his own seedy garments in favour of one of Conway’s numerous suits, borrowed a pair of boots, which were not, like his, gaping at the seams, and a change of linen; and presently returned to the sitting-room better dressed than he had ever been in his life. There was a jar of whisky in the cupboard. Drayton helped himself moderately, then sat down to think. As he contemplated a railway journey it was obviously necessary to be provided with cash; and to that end it would be equally necessary to pawn something.

He looked round the room to select a victim. Pictures were too bulky; an inquisitive policeman might meet him at the door and put inconvenient questions. There were, however, numerous small money-bringers, such as a marble clock, a pair of field-glasses, a handsome tantalus, a silver cup, any of which he might very easily hypothecate. He selected the clock, and approaching the chimney-piece had put up his hands to remove it, when the two masks above caught his eye. Straightway his arms dropped at his sides, and his mind became possessed by a new and quaint idea.

Five minutes later he was hurrying down the street towards a familiar pawn-shop, with the pair of grotesque faces wrapped in brown paper beneath his arm. He felt unusually excited, and somewhat conscience-stricken at purloining the heirlooms.

At first sight it seemed as though he was to be sharply disillusioned, for the pawnbroker, who knew Drayton well enough, pushed the parcel back indignantly.

“Having a lark, ain’t you?” he satirically demanded, noting the writer’s unusually well-dressed appearance, and jumping at the conclusion that he had made some money and had spent an undue portion of it in liquor. “There’s a toy-shop round the corner,” he went on, endeavouring to repay insult by insult. “Take ’em there. Maybe they’ll give you a penny for the pair.”

Like many of his profession Drayton was sensitive, and sarcasm hurt him. Muttering an apology, he caught up the masks and slipped out of the shop, hot and awkward, with the idea of returning for the clock that he might convince the pawnbroker of the seriousness of his intentions; but when again upon the street the former influence possessed his mind, and there flashed across his vision the picture of a dusty little shop, a mile westward, beside which he had often lingered, to glance at the fantastic objects exposed for sale, and to wonder how the proprietor made a living, because he had never seen a buyer enter or leave the house. Mechanically he turned his footsteps towards the mean and dirty street, where the little curio-shop survived, while more ornate trading ventures went to the wall.

A swarthy little man advanced from a black recess when the writer entered, and in a guttural voice sought to learn what the gentleman required. Somewhat nervously Drayton explained the object of his visit, and opening his parcel placed the masks side by side upon the counter. The dealer assumed a pair of spectacles, and bent his head to examine the two brown objects; then, with a muttered apology, he lifted the models tenderly and carried them towards the light.

“They are worth very little,” he said deliberately, as he looked back. “I will advance you five shillings upon the pair.”

“That is no good to me,” Drayton replied.

“If you desire to sell I would give you one pound,” the little man said, his foreign accent becoming more pronounced.

“I do not wish to sell,” said the writer. “I want to borrow five pounds.”

The curio-dealer said nothing, but his head inclined slightly. Then he walked away into a back-room and very quickly re-appeared, with five sovereigns and a scrap of pasteboard on his little crooked hand. Drayton confessed that he had not a copper on him to pay for the ticket, whereupon the little man gravely gave him change for one of the sovereigns, bowed him out of the shop without a word, and then scurried back into the dark recess, shouting:

“Jacob! Where is that boy? Jacob! Run, my son--run!”